No one gets rich by working really hard. They get rich by convincing others to work really hard for them. That’s why the rich tell us that to get rich you need to work really hard.
just shower thoughts is gaining class consciousness
I’m not a Texan, but this just gives me hope. Wow is right.
That was far more impressive than I thought it would be. I can see why so many people are excited about Beto ORourke, I hope he pans out well. Fingers crossed!
this poem is amazing. I loved every second of this. thank you for showing this to me. the amount of té in this is incredible. I wish I could wear this performance as part of my outfit every single day and show everyone who says something ignorant about Hispanics and Latines.
& I think all of my followers should take the time to watch this. this poem will teach you in 3 minutes what I’ve been trying to teach for months on this site.
here’s the poem:
“After the show she asks me,
‘Carlos…Andreas Gomez… is your stage name, right? I mean, I’ve never met a Hispanic who looks like you – so, what’s your real name?’
To which I reply,
‘…Zach, actually…Zach Morris. But I thought it would be a lot cooler to use a Spanish name. It’s a pretty smooth stage persona, though, isn’t it? And I’ll let you in on a little secret: I have much better luck with the ladies using it.’
She doesn’t laugh, maybe detects sarcasm, sucks her teeth and leaves, offended.
I’ve got a question for you, Princess Anonymous: What exactly does a ‘Hispanic’ look like?
Do I need to look like Juan Valdez and sell Folgers in a T.V. commercial, sift my fingers through Colombian coffee beans I picked myself, sitting on the back of my reliable mule, Conchita, next to a broken-down Chiva in an oversized sombrero, for me to ‘look’ Latino?
Or look like ‘a Hispanic’ as you say?
And what is ‘a Hispanic’ exactly?
I could guess what you mean and assume that it’s a low-priced gardening tool like the one buried in a shed behind your Victorian summer home or that invisible harvesting instrument that picks all of your grapes for you and has to survive on slave-wage plantations without unions, bathroom breaks, or vacation.
Or maybe when you say ‘a Hispanic’ you mean your stand-in parent? That person who raises your kids for you when you’re tired of being a mom? That mouthless set of infinite hands and knees that scrubs the shit from you toilets and throws away the used condoms when you forget to hide them.
And I don’t have a backyard, or a lover on the side, or kids for that matter so maybe I just haven’t had the need yet but I haven’t come across ‘a Hispanic’ thus far in my life nor have I met ‘a black,’ ‘a Chinaman,’ or ‘a towel-headed Arab’ anytime recently either.
But I have met Latinos
Proud of the vibrant quilt we’ve had to weave over centuries across an endless cemetery that cradles our past, a swollen dust underneath our soles – wherever we stand – that we nickname home twisting roots at war, looking for nothing else but to be held.
You know ‘held’?
Like a family grasping onto each other because they’ve left behind everything and only have each other left arriving on Mars without a guidebook or a map.
I have met Latinos
who people think are Aboriginal in Patagonia, east Asian in Chile, west African in La República Dominicana, Scandinavian in Argentina, and Native American in Colombia.
I have met Latinos
who look like Juan Valdez and can’t speak a word of Spanish, others who look like Hillary Duff with a mother who looks like Hillary Clinton that are from Paraguay and teach Spanish grammar in Puerto Rico.
Latinos who speak Quechua and nothing else, dance cumbia like the horizon is on fire because of them and now they’re trying to burn tomorrow to the ground.
I have met Latinos
who cook like their broken English moms and mispronounce their own last names, Colombians who don’t know who Gabriel García Márquez is, dark-skinned Dominicans who hate Haitians because they remind them that they’re African, blue-eyed Cubans who spit poetry about !Revolución! and mean it – living with two parents in Miami who lost their mansions in the 1950s to it.
I don’t tattoo my body because my veins are already too full with ink, passion-rich pigments that can’t help but pulse and flow.
Look at my heart, you short-sighted fool.
I mean really look at it, cut open my chest and stare at that proud glow
His back doesn’t hurt him all the time, but it aches now, aches from the cold. Some injuries heal with a scar, some are deep wounds in your soul, but his back… His knee is good with a brace, his shoulder just needs lotion after a shower, but his back… It aches, and he’s useless with it. He wants off this planet, stupidly hopes that the Empire will discover Hoth before the month is out, but until then, he feels utterly useless.
“Relax,” she whispers into his ear, and he’s trying to, he really is, but it’s hard to relax when everything just hurts. Jyn had done this, so long ago, when he was first released from medical. They had both rubbed the soothing balms laced with bacta into the other’s skin, but Jyn’s skin had healed. His issues were deeper, all the way to the bone.
And she had learned. He had never asked, but she had learned, had studied old texts, had asked questions, had gone to every appointment. She had spent time, so much time, learning his back, his muscles… He never had to ask. She would just give him a look, like she knew, because she did know. She knew when his back ached, knew just where to push, just how hard and how long, and without fail, he felt like a new man.
We are multiple generations now with no experience with strikes, and I see a lot of confused, well meaning people who want to help but don’t know strike etiquette.
1. Never cross a picket line of striking workers.
2. Never purchase or take free goods from a company who’s workers are striking
3. Honk to support strikers if you drive by a picket line.
4. Join strikers on the picket line even if it’s not your strike, but follow their directions and defer to them while there.
5. Say “that’s great, the strike is working, the company should negotiate with their workers” whenever someone complains about profits lost, inconveniences or other worker-phobic rhetoric. Always turn it back on the company, who has all the power and money.
In the eyes of the British government, the U.S. may now be a risky destination for LGBT travelers. The British Foreign Office posted a travel advisory update to its website Tuesday warning members of the lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender communities about anti-LGBT laws passed recently in North Carolina and Mississippi. “The U.S. is an extremely diverse society and attitudes towards LGBT people differ hugely across the country,” the advisory reads. “LGBT travelers may be affected by legislation passed recently in the states of North Carolina and Mississippi.”
The advisory also provides a map that marks countries around the world — including Turkmenistan, Pakistan, Nicaragua, as well as much of northern Africa and the Middle East — that also have anti-LGBT laws, and includes a few more pieces of travel advice. “Some hotels, especially in rural areas, won’t accept bookings from same-sex couples — check before you go,” the British government warns, noting that LGBT travelers should also “exercise discretion” in rural areas and avoid “excessive physical shows of affection” when in public.
This is the type of thing that I think would come as a shock to some Americans, as to how SCARY their country appears to many of us in the rest of the world. (And that’s allowing for the fact that many of our countries can be scary in their own ways.)
Zuko’s scar is different than the typical villain’s scar bc it’s not an ambiguous sign of past violence but an explicit symbol of his father’s abuse – rather than making him seem tougher for no reason it shows that at his heart he’s just a traumatized child and not a villain at all. In this essay I will
Rebellions are built on hope 