iwriteaboutfeminism:

Protesters occupy St. Louis University.

Early morning, Monday, October 13th

(via latinegro)

actjustly:

Powerful video that I captured last night. Signal boost this!

(via gelopanda)

I’m currently working on an interactive project on memory and narrative and the research is making me really appreciate the immigrant experience.

wifipasswords:

Let’s play a fun game called “we’re just friends but I’d fuck you if you asked”

(via jeddcetera)

Some people educate themselves right into ignorance.

Amos Wilson (via fohatapparel)

prosetitute:

brandon this was the night i realized that if you ever turned gay even for a brief moment i would sit on your face……. no homo

prosetitute:

I add onto it every year! Ten years, baby. Be proud of your journey, simply because it’s yours.

prosetitute:

i unravel myself at the seams
hide from monsters who have long since outgrown
closets and quiet bedroom corners
and holidays at my father’s estate

i only create when i feel destroyed
thus i’m only an artist half the time

(who knew turpentine would erase the soul
out of me)

the other half i’m a graveyard of potential
where american dreams go to die

i don’t remember the last time touch excited me
maybe it was the last time i loved
but i don’t know what the word means anymore
all i understand is fuck me and fuck you
and cigarette butts
but i still want them to want me

the mornings are ghosts at the foot of my bed
the nights are hauntings
firefly phantoms humming down my throat
bed sores and migranes
my life consists of pretty pink pills and whiskey

i climb garrett mountain and look over all of paterson
the preschool, the old church,
my uncle in prison, the old chicken supreme he & i used to visit,
and i look over route 19 and wish i could jump and fly

or not

prosetitute:

I missed out on a lot because I grew up on the island.  When I’m in a crowd full of Americans, whether they be Cuban-American, Korean-American, or good ol’ African-American, I feel out of place.  I feel like my clothes smell like burning garbage on the street, like I have mango flesh between my teeth, like my tongue is too thick to pronounce words with a perfect New Jersey accent.

I had to cram an American childhood into a head already filled with one.  

Who is Christopher Wallace, and why did he and Mr. Shakur not get along? What is Nickelodeon? Spice Girls bubblegum? I don’t understand the lyrics to this 80s song, but I guess I should know them by heart since everyone else does. We drank Tang on the island, but I guess I’ll drink Kool-Aid from now on. Lauryn Hill?  She’s no Celia Cruz, no La Lupe, no Millie Quezada, but her hair is pretty and she likes to laugh so I guess I’ll listen to her kill me softly. No, we don’t have cookouts in El Congo, we just have nights where we all sit on the street eating rice and fish out of a pot and laugh and tell stories and wonder what poor hood the cops are going to kill tonight. You reminisce playing hopscotch during recess, but I remember running home from school every day because the riots didn’t care if you were six or sixteen or sixty. No, I’m sorry, I don’t know about Prophet Jones, Mokenstef, or Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam. But, I can tell you stories about hurricanes ripping plantain trees by the roots and poison frogs croaking at your bedside and dengue fever ripping you apart from your bones. I can paint you pictures of illegal Haitians squatting next door, your grandmother bleaching your skin because black is everything but beautiful on this island, and learning English in school just so the consulate takes a second look at your request for a visa.

No, I never got a chance to listen to Liz Phair or watch Harriet the Spy. I can’t sing you a few bars from my favorite Maxwell song, or talk about my favorite Spike Lee movie. But, honest to God, I wanted to replace everything in me with your beautiful American childhood. But just like accent marks and words and thoughts and ideas and me, these things got lost in translation.