“If I could take all my parts with me when I go somewhere, and not have to say to one of them, ‘No, you stay home tonight, you won’t be welcome,’ because I’m going to an all-white party where I can be gay, but not Black. Or I’m going to a Black poetry reading, and half the poets are anti-homosexual, or thousands of situations where something of what I am cannot come with me. The day all the different parts of me can come along, we would have what I would call a revolution.”—
In my experience, on tumblr, and in brief instances in real life…
Has only gone far enough to get the fat white body to be seen as desirable, acceptable and worthy. I see the same perpetuation of white privilege play out in the following ways:
-Even though I follow tons of fats and many of these are of color (its probably half) white fat people only reblog fat white people. Almost exclusively. -White women get tons of love from other white women and lots of support. If we’re going to be superficial (for the sake of comparison) a shit quality photo of a fat white girl will get more weblogs then a fierce fat woc. You want proof? Compare any of the post on fatpeopleofcolor to any on one like chubby bunnies. There are few fat woc who get lots of love from everyone. Like people are only capable of loving one of color body at once. -in real life, fat spaces have been white as fucking hell and while white folx enbrased each other and complimented each other the few I felt uneasy as fuck, excluded and not until another woc an I started talking did another person acknowledge our presence in the space.
So this is kinda a call out to white folks in the following ways: -how are you perpetuating systems of oppression even with tumblr and through your blog -if you run a blog that’s community based, why are you excluding people of color?
Fat folx of color: Are you perpetuating fucked up ideals of beauty by constantly focusing on white folx! -we build community different than white folx, how can we do that within the context of being fat?
I kinda feel like for poc being fat is problem low on the list of ways we feel oppressed. So I’m trying to figure out how my fat body intersects with the my other identities and how I can use my fatness as a way to address white supremacy in other spaces.
So ultimately what I’m saying is I’m sick of seeing fat acceptance have the face of a “pretty” white women and I don’t plan on participating in it but instead dismantling it if it continues.
PS: Allow this post to serve as an example…
This is why I do my damnedest to find, post, & reblog photos of “non-tumblr famous” plus sized Black women that I find on the interwebs. Obviously it has worked because Linda and Amber are constantly being reblogged positively by all groups of people which I love.
You believed in the Tooth Fairy once, and Santa. You believed that your parents weren’t people, they were parents, and regular-person rules didn’t apply to them. You believed your heart was shattered for good, and you’d never love again. But you learned, you grew, you changed, and your beliefs changed with you.
It’s time to outgrow the belief that we are somehow inferior because we don’t look a certain way, wear certain things, live certain lives. It’s time to laugh it off when a magazine tells us we need to firm up and slim down, no matter how firm or slim we might already be. It’s time to focus on ourselves, as we are, instead of the selves that somebody else thinks we should be.
Because the secret is out: There is nothing wrong with us. Not a single, solitary thing.
any man who says this to me better be talking about a literal tamale & it better be fucking ginormous or there will be issues
also they better be Latino or I will have definite questions as to why they think I’m interested in tamales. I mean, I am, but c’mon now… I’m also interested in sushi, bun (Vietnamese noodles), Pho, curry & just about every damn other tasty foodstuff.
when a white woman decides to kill her kids, does she say a gay man did it? Do the police then round up a bunch of gay men who ‘fit the description’? Does your resume go in the trash because your name sounds gay?
I don’t appreciate the African American struggle being used as a rhetorical device. We are REAL people living with REAL ramifications from the crimes committed against us, and I don’t like it when anybody reduces us to a talking point, the group whose story and struggle you compare yours to.
And it’s mostly white LGBT individuals who do this shit. “Gay is the New Black?” And Dan Savage with his racist bullshit attacking the black community after Prop 8 passed, trying to make it seem that the black community is more homophobic than anyone else.
Coming to Tumblr was probably one of the best things for me. It was like seeing a whole new group of people that have the same state of mind as you. And that's why I appreciate all of the people I'm following, and all of my followers. Thank you.
Like any woman of color, I can’t simply give in to feminism completely. It is a Western ideology that does not mesh well with mine. It has its roots embedded in a history that not only had White men oppressing their own women but their women were equally involved in oppressing my indigenous people - men and women together. I refuse to obediently follow every postulate stated by Western, Eurocentric feminists. Does that make me an incompetent supporter of women’s rights? Does that render me unsuccessful in this march against oppression and malevolent patriarchy? Does that invalidate my opinion on how to bring gender egalitarianism about? Does that make me an adversary in this struggle? Does that make me a bad person?
My questioning of agendas should be taken as positive criticism for change. When a white feminist conducts a conference on gender equality, I want her to introduce me as a Human Being, not an example for her friends and sponsors to examine and exhibit and capitalize on. I want her to ask me what my thoughts are concerning feminism in academia. I want her to understand that there are compartments to my feminist movement; that feminism in my society in the professional realm is far different than feminism in the domestic dimension. I want her to understand that things are not simple. I want her to know that enforcing her idea of success, happiness and liberation on women alienated by her very own culture does not help. I want her to talk to my sisters, cousins, friends, teachers, activists, women from the village, women from the city, women from every corner of my country, my culture, my history before she even thinks of concluding her thoughts on how to define feminism around the world. I want her to open her mind.
I want her to know that the conference she conducted on academic discussions on women’s rights, while poorly-paid migrant workers - my brothers and sisters - are preparing lunch for their lofty thinkers only to get deported the next day, is no good when she can’t acknowledge her own participation in silencing the rights of those around her. I don’t want to be invited to seminars where someone indirectly hints at me wearing my “cultural attire” to show diversity. What am I? A mannequin for the lot? I want her to know that it is not necessary for anyone to have a post doctoral degree in women’s studies to speak about her own experience and to be regarded by the ones listening and reading. I want her to get rid of her own privilege before she goes on to highlight that of others. I am tired but undefeated of the constant sight of colored students who are expected and sometimes demanded to learn languages, theories, -isms that erase and appropriate but, worse, further colonize their history, heritage, culture and identity. Because recognition and validation in this world is otherwise nearly impossible.
I want the West to understand that my women and men and I will not adhere to every single idea stated from that corner of the world concerning emancipation and progress. I know the men of my culture have committed extreme acts of brutality against their women but it makes you no good when your ancestry points to lineages and more lineages of colonizers who tortured and enslaved both men and women of my culture. I am a feminist but consider the ineffectiveness of a title when sub-titles are added for further clarification, explanation and validation. When I speak on public radio or show up on TV, I have to explain my identity: A multi-cultural, anti-racist, Muslim feminist. Sub-titles are created when the primary title fails to encompass other identities, other voices. This is also why I have no issue with women of color creating their own movements like South Asian Women Equality, Womanism, Muslim Gender Equality, Racial and Gender Liberation, so on and so forth.
So stop forcing me to believe you have purged yourself of racism, of cashing in on my experience and history. Stop telling me feminism is “perfect.” Stop telling me you’re here to “help” and “save” me and my sisters. The only person you need to save is yourself before you turn into a subtle instance of yet another colonizer.
Loteria is a game played by Mexico’s lower class. The game is similar to bingo in that you have a card and you place beans on the spaces along the card as they are called. The difference is that these spaces are characters rather than numbers. These characters range from roses to drunks and often times are stated instead by riddles or stories to add an element of savvy to the game. Correctly matching the character to the riddle will lead to a proper victory.
Dad started out his years in this part of California as one of the Vatos who rode around Salinas on Motos. Before Chavez came around he was just an other street tough hustling for people’s pocket change. He was a bad mother fucker with tattoos and discounted leather vests who drank whiskey in bars and gave other men that look that says “y tu que buey?” Somewhere in all that he met a young migrant girl with hair so thick even a pony tail couldn’t hold it down. Margarita. Our mother. She introduced him to red flags that only braceros bore. He met Chavez on a lettuce patch and he spoke about rights, about the rights to water and the rights to a bathroom, the rights that now leak blueshit all over highway 152.
He became a part of the movement, so to speak. He was one of the men who’d go around to local buisnesses on days when Chavez told our people to go on strike. He made sure they were closed by any means nessesary. He’d threaten restaurant owners with violence and tell store workers that latinos would boycott their store if they stayed open those days, what ever would be left of the stroes anyway.
Somewhere in there he settled down, as did the movement, and raised a family like an asshole. He cleaned up, became a pastor and last november his liver started failing. The doctors put him on antibiotics to keep him alive while we waited for a transplant. They turned his skin the color of ash and his calves the color of roses. He was forced in to physical therapy, not because he needed it, but the stength that the act of walking down the hall and back gave him the will to stay strong. He’d buckled his knees on the walker and mom would cheer him on in her broken english and he would push up on the stretcher and keep pushing up that body of his that had grown soft in all these years. He looked like atlas trying to keep our world up; trying to keep everything around him from falling down. You’d know this if you stayed.
The stars bounce off the hood of your truck as you drive down 156 in that beat up Chevy. It’s reminicent of a time when you were young and liked to test the city limits just to see what you’d find outside of the few streetlights in this town. You’d go out all night with your girls and with those boys who knew nothing else but trouble in the backwoods. You’d come home smelling of pot and like you’d had probably one too many drinks to be able to drive home safe. You liked it that way though. Dad would warn you and call you out on your bullshit and you’d say that he pulled the same bullshit when he was young so it was about time you had yours. Some nights he’d call and you wouldn’t answer all the way out there so he just told you not to come home and one day you didn’t.
You drove from gas station to gas station, turning dials on the radio to to hear a new song blast through those torn up speakers. You kept us in the rear view, but after a while you just stopped checking, maybe because you assumed we’d never move anywhere in that backwoods town.
El Valiente (guesses mom.) El Boracho (says me.)
You parked your car on the edge of the city and let the exhaust pipe rust by the side of the sea. You said your restlessness would never hold you down, but San Francisco had so much of it around you that you felt you couldn’t leave until after the bars closed and after the homeless on the street stopped yelling about the post future. You braved your way in the “big city” and slid your way along orange light bulbs and neon signs like it made you better. There were still too many boys trapped in the lettuce fields and cherry orchards that dot California’s central coast, but you were better because you were getting drunk somewhere else. You’d call mom every few weeks to let her know you were doing fine and to let her know you were out of cash. Dad never knew. You told her you were finding your place in God’s plan, but your twitter feed told me you were finding your place in between some girl’s thighs. She knew about the drinking, a little about the pot, but you told her that even the prodigal son had to find his way in sin before he found out what it meant to be part of the family of god.
You let your cigarette burn at the end of your finger tips on those long walks home. You let the ember grow so close to your finger tips that it might burn you in your drunk ass wasn’t careful enough. You liked smoking them to the end though. The fantasy of minute calimities was that they could only do enough damage to piss you off for the day. That’s all you thought that was going on this side of San Jose, minute calimity, but then mother calls.
El Nopal (you guess.) El Corazon (is where you’re wrong.)
You pull into the the drive way like you pulled out of the driveway so many years ago, in early morning. I didn’t hear you were coming because mom kept all your bullshit quiet, but your friends asked me about if for a week until I knew you were coming to see dad die. The nopal cactus dries in the back yard but you spot enough fresh flats to knife the needles off of. You chop them up and fry them on the comal alongside some tortillas while you heat up some beans and tell mom how much you missed her. She is silent even though you’ve been speaking for months. She was always silent around me. We the tacos for breakfast and you tell us all about the wonder that is San Francisco, all about how you’ve found yourself.
I went into the study dad made in your room after you left. He had me preaching while he was still in the hospital and most of my sermons had been about hope. They say pastors should preach from what they know, but all my sermons were coming off timid and I shook a lot while turning bible pages and even tore a few with my sweaty fingers so I guess I didn’t know much about hope then. Dad did. He kept the hope that his son would come back pinned to the wall in a flurry of pictures of a younger and less anxty you. There was my Brother Elis, you, my brother the football star, my brother the christmas tree decorator, my brother ever obiedient son at age 8 when he wanted to be a pastor to impress his dad and even wore a shirt and tie to church every sunday and carried a bible along his side the whole time. I simply knew you as the brother who’d been celebrated for his ability to stand in front of a camera and look normal for five minutes.
You walked around the house, but spent most of time time smoking cigarettes in front of the nopal and tossing them over the hedge so mom wouldn’t come home and find them beside her rosales. The nopal had been planted in the house when we moved in and now was the color of dry olive green as it spudded rose buds and new flats. You tried to pick new ones off because you still wanted another taste of home, but I told you that for the cactus to taste good you had to sit and wait for a while.
El Diablo (some might say it’s me.)
After the band played I walked up from the front pew and set down my lesson plan and bible. You sat in the back and the late congregation members greated you like you’d never gone and deserted us all here. Dad was in the hospital, but wanted to see his son, me, preach so we set up a camcorder next to the stain glass and Felipe, and old paisa who wore his raiders jersey to church taped the thing.
I coughed a lot before I got started. I talked around the issue of you coming home and tried not to draw too much attention to how I felt about it and it seemed to work since most of the congregation was happy to have you and so seemed I. Luke 15:31
“My son’ the father said. ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and now is found.”
“Who are we in the faith though. Many of us have been the prodigal son at times and strayed from our loving father’s embrace. We have taken the good graces god has bestowed up us and used their talents and riches only to please ourselves. It’s nice to think that when we squander all that the father has given us in our disbelief that we will be welcomed back in open arms. But when we return do we realize that what we are given is not ours, but from the brothers who stayed. That the hope and the embrace belong the other brother and that his ability to stand by his father’s side is wasted to on ourselves. Now, often times preachers will say that the brother who stayed owned nothing because it was never his in the first place, niether was it the other brothers. We wonder though, if all this faithfulnes is for granted if we can just pick up and leave and come back in the few minutes before god says no more. What good is our father’s, our god’s love, to us if it is easily given back to the meek, to those who though they knew better what to do with it? The story is often told about the one who left and how we as believers are always welcome back to the faith even in our weakest moments, but what are we to feel when we take our brothers right? Who are we when we’re the son who stayed. Are we to forgive the brother as well? They say god loves all regardless of where they came from and what they’ve done him, but I wonder how loving can a father be if he can take all the devotion and all the love the brother who stayed gave him, and pass if back off the brother who left without even a second thought?”
We drive to the hospital and say nothing in the car, you and I. Mother is already there and I told her to go ahead because I had to clean up the church and lock it up before I could leave. I told her I wanted to do it alone while you stood beside me, but you stayed. Your boots click on the linolium floor as you make your way down the hall and I can already hear dad’s weak and rapsy voice calling for his son “El Gallo” as his cheeks flutter with excitement. Our aunts are in there too and I know this because their kids are our in the hall playing with their toys and my tios are talking progress with the doctors.
Our aunt steps out of the waiting room after seeingt you in dark clothes and a leather jacket even though it’s may. I’d come in with you, but I don’t think I could stand to watch our father welcome you back so I just sit on the floor with my younger cousins and slide hotwheels cars between the doctors’ crocs.
Mother steps our and and taps me on the head, my hair still sticky from using dad’s murray’s can to slick it back like a pastor and any respecatable latino man should.
“Mijo” she says in that gentle voice that has never left or stopped supporting either of us. “I know it’s tough for you to see your father like this. I know it’s even tougher to see your father get excited over having Elis in the same room as him, the room you’ve only left to prepare sermons at home for, but it’s your father’s wish to have both of you by his side before he tells us all this new news. Go in there, but on a brave face like you do every Sunday for the congregation, for the faith.”
“Son mira, aren’t you glad to have your brother back? No nodding say it, hug him, tell him how much we’ve missed him, tell him how welcome he is back home. Did the congregation get excited when he walked in. We have to do something about that hair, but I want you to pull out la parilla first and grill up some chicken and carne asada for us when we all get home. The doctors said they found a liver for me and it should be here later this afternoon? Isn’t that good news? Good news right? I’ll be home within the week and the whole family will be together! I don’t want anyone saying bad things about your brother? You make sure everyone is just glad have him back ok? Make everyone does that? Elis isn’t it good to be home again? Say it!”
You exclaim as we sit in a circle around the livingroom, around a jar of nickles that we’ve all tossed our pockets into. Dad calls for a recount as a joke from the couch with a blanket still over him. Mom pats him on the back and says “queito viejo.” You slid them all into your pocket and dad shook his head, but we all smiled and laughed because our brother was back and he brought good luck with him. I was just left a few spaces short of victory, and a bean on a drunk where the valient should be.
(Newser) – For a number of cities across the US, troubled local economies have led to dark times—literally. From Oregon to Illinois to California, struggling towns have found themselves forced to turn off, and often completely remove, local streetlights. And with winter shortening daylight hours, citizens are none too pleased by the change. “I don’t go out to get gas at night. I don’t run to any stores. I try to do everything in the daytime and to be back before night falls,” says a woman in Highland Park, Mich.
Just 500 of 1,600 streetlights remain shining in the town, which sits next to Detroit. The result: “It’s just too dark,” says a minister. And while other budget cuts may fly under the radar for many, a lack of light is something everyone notices, the New York Times notes. Officials say it can’t be helped. “It’s like your own budget at home—we can’t afford this anymore,” says an Illinois town’s public works chief. Locals are turning to their own outdoor lamps, from porch lights to Christmas lights. “What happened to our streetlights is what happens when politicians lose hope,” adds the minister. “All kinds of crazy decisions get made, and citizens lose faith in the process.”