I was speaking to a friend in Gaza and he told me that his little cousin is writing her name all over her body with her markers, just in case she gets blown up and no one can identify her. She is 11 years old. 11. The psychological pain and trauma the Palestinian children go through is absolutely repulsive.
in our effort to finds ways to make the work more accessible to our communities, along with the .99 kindle edition sale that began today, yrsa and i have now made bone, salt. and nejma a part of kindle select.
kindle select allows our titles to be added to the kindle unlimited library where customers who own kindles can borrow titles for free as a part of amazon prime.
and… the best part of joining kindle select is that we will be able to offer our titles for !!! free download !!! through the kindle bookstore, which we are so excited to be utilizing in the near future.
* and remember loves, the kindle app is available on most mobile/smart devices.
“Get someone else to read your story to you. Many say read your work out loud and this does help but I believe you still hear in your head what you wanted to write. When someone else reads it you stop hearing what you wanted to say and hear exactly what you’ve written.”—Paul McVeigh (via austinkleon)
“I tell my students, ‘When you get these jobs that you have been so brilliantly trained for, just remember that your real job is that if you are free, you need to free somebody else. If you have some power, then your job is to empower somebody else. This is not just a grab-bag candy game.’”—Toni Morrison (via thisislove)
"Slavery was bad!!" "White privilege is real!" "fuck the police!" "did you know that white people don’t get in trouble as much as the coloreds" "I’m really mad about how blacks are treated!" "#ifiwereblack"
*screencaps and posts to tumblr* sorry i went on a little rant :)
um white people should not be using the “if they gunned me down” tag at all even to make a point about their privilege. other poc should be using that tag either unless they’re reposting or retweeting or reblogging a post from that tag. make your own tag make you own posts leave the hashtag out of it ??? literally we have every other way to make our points. getting murdered in cold blood for your skin is not a poc problem. getting gunned down for being a “thug” terrorises black communities, not every single shade of the oppression rainbow. cut that shit out as other poc and cut that shit out without a damned doubt if youre white
White tumblr can understand that wearing a short skirt and high heels doesn't mean you were asking for it, but they can't understand that sagging your pants and saying nigga doesn't mean you deserved to be killed.
“I don’t insist on contemporary artists being politically active but they ought to be politically conscious. And if I could be that blunt, I think the art market has been the biggest factor in determining art movements for the past decade or so; and the money involved has seduced galleries, collectors and artists to becoming super rich and very, very distanced from sociopolitical issues; art has basically become a commodity and about entertainment.”—Shirin Neshat
I had planned to leave the house a disaster, dishes in the copper sink, the almond bed unmade, garbage not taken out. I could just see him angrily cleaning. He would curse me, twirling a mop, picking up old newspapers. I changed my mind. I did the usual chores, except, I mopped with plain water and wiped everything down with a damp sponge, careful not to leave a cleaning smell to hit him. I imagined him coming home to the silent house, eyes dancing over the vacancy, walls where my Klimt and Kandinsky hung, squares of space where my cherry desk, red leather sofa and chessboard end tables had lived. I removed the pillows from their gray eyelet cases and spurted them with a microscopic hint of my perfume. Spreading myself out on the comforter, I made myself perspire. I smile just thinking of such perfect haunting Almost imperceptible, my skin, my sweat, my sex, my arms, my lips, my hair fingering his dreams with unbearable restraint.
Another young black man has been gunned down. His name was Mike Brown. He was unarmed.
My [redacted] e-mailed me because she knew I would be upset about this story, because she knows all of my heart, and all I could say in response was, “I am numb.”
I don’t care if Mike Brown was going to college soon. This should not matter. We should not have to prove Mike Brown was worthy of living. We should not have to account for the ways in which he is suitably respectable. We should not have to prove that his body did not deserve to be riddled with bullets. His community should not have to silence their anger so they won’t be accused of rioting, so they won’t become targets too.
It should not matter if Mike Brown was a good boy but I have no doubt that he was. His life mattered, no matter how he chose to live it. He had family and friends who must mourn him and who must now worry about who will be murdered next. Every life matters. There are few things I believe more passionately. Unfortunately, we live in a country where your worth and safety are largely determined by the color of your skin.
Yesterday, a young black man was murdered in Ferguson, Missouri. Every day, this happens. This is the value of black life. We are targets. Our children are targets. This is the scarred reality in which we must raise our children.
The media, as usual, has no idea how to talk about Mike Brown’s murder ethically. They do not know how to talk about his community’s grief and anger ethically. They do not know how to overcome the profound cultural biases that have shaped how they understand the value of black lives or the tenor of black anger and grief.
Yesterday, NASCAR driver Tony Stewart hit and killed Kevin Ward Jr. with his car during a sprint race on a dirt track. Not much of that sentence makes sense to me because I don’t really follow car racing but I have been struck by the story and how clearly the proper language has been used to describe what took place. One man killed another with his car. It is a tragedy. Did Kevin Ward Jr. go to college? That will never be part of his narrative because we inherently assume his life matters. He is white.
There is no comparing Mike Brown and Kevin Ward Jr. not really, but I am still keenly aware of the differences in how their deaths have been reported. I am keenly aware of how deftly responsibility has been placed squarely on the responsible party in Kevin Ward Jr.’s death. The police officer who murdered Mike Brown is on “paid administrative leave,” while an investigation is conducted. This is what always happens. An unarmed young black man is shot multiple times and his murderer is given the compensated benefit of the doubt.
As we try to make sense of this latest tragedy and as we try to prepare for the next one, and there will, certainly be a next one and one after that for the whole of our lives, I think about how we rally and how we try to express our solidarity. We are. We are. We are.
We are not Mike Brown. We are not Eric Garner. We are not Renisha McBride. We are not Trayvon Martin. I understand the sentiment behind these cries of solidarity but we are not these men and women who have been murdered in different but similar ways for the exact same reason. I worry that we diminish their lives, their deaths, and the grief of those who loved them when we think we can simply say we are those who have been so cruelly lost.
We are not these people.
Maybe it is better for those of us with brown skin to say we might someday endure a fate like the one suffered by Mike Brown, Renisha McBride, Eric Garner, Trayvon Martin, and countless others. Maybe it is better for those of us who could never possibly endure such a fate to say, “We will never know what it is like to live with such danger in a seemingly safe place.” These statements aren’t as catchy as “We are,” but they are more accurate.
What on earth is there to say at this point? Outrage has done nothing. Protest has done nothing. Grief has done nothing. Doing or saying nothing is not an option, and yet.
“Poor Robin Williams, briefly enduring that lonely moment of morbid certainty where it didn’t matter how funny he was or who loved him or how many lachrymose obituaries would be written … He obviously dealt with a pain that was impossible to render and ultimately insurmountable, the sentimentality perhaps an accompaniment to his childlike brilliance … Robin Williams could have tapped anyone in the western world on the shoulder and told them he felt down and they would have told him not to worry, that he was great, that they loved him. He must have known that. He must have known his wife and kids loved him, that his mates all thought he was great, that millions of strangers the world over held him in their hearts, a hilarious stranger that we could rely on to anarchically interrupt, the all-encompassing sadness of the world. Today Robin Williams is part of the sad narrative that we used to turn to him to disrupt.”—Russel Brand (via fasterfit)