- Straight White Guys: It's not racist. The reason why most characters are straight white guys is it's a business. They just want to do what makes the most money. No one's being racist or sexist. It's just smart business.
- Straight White Guys: Having a Black Captain America or Pakistani Ms. Marvel or female Thor is PANDERING. All they're trying to do is get MONEY from you. It's just a marketing ploy! This is horrible!
A letter to my mother.
We are playing connect the dots
with our headlights.
My hair is a tangled mess,
your knuckles drag through it as if
trying to shift me,
I do not remember if it was raining,
or if the air smelled like old fire,
or if the blood is yours or mine.
These are the traffic rules we always broke:
an ugly word too truthful
to be spoken
there’s a crunching gear,
metal that never should have twisted like that,
and I am pounding the pavement
with blood on my lips
too afraid to look behind.
It’s getting late.
The sound beneath the brown line
all hiss and roar,
reminds me of your voice
and the yell of a car alarm is me.
We’ve been chasing the hearse back to our homes
since day one
wandering to train tracks waiting to be hit
fear is a collision,
none of the EMTs could fix us.
I’m sorry we keep meeting in collision.
is not a prayer mat.
I’ve been fighting the antifreeze
with my body bent in supplication
curled into the space between the glove box
and your touch
I keep trying to find god
praying to the windshield
for a way out of this,
a way to feign apathy
for the blood I lost
and the fights I never win
I do not know how to admit defeat.
This is the crash.
How the screech of tires against
has become our blood
how the gasoline fires could never warm us,
how you ignored all the stop signs,
this time even the seatbelts left bruises.
I’m just tired.
I am leaking exhaustion fumes
my chest is a shattered steering column
This is enough.
I am learning how to admit defeat.
We are not playing connect the dots
with our headlights.
I do not have an exhaustion pipe.
It was never raining in the memories.
In the end
It’s all a metaphor
for the crash.
The twisted metal, the silence of assessing the damage,
the stoppleasejuststop signs—
I still get nervous
when I sit in the car with you.
It’s all a metaphor
For the time I made you bleed on the car seats
For the time you came away with a handful of my hair
For the time I admitted you were right
and felt sick for it.
I still get nervous when I sit in the car
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost."
Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be. (via oliviacirce)
When I lose hope in the world, I remember this poem.
So, if you’ve been following me for the past year, my mom lost her job and couldn’t get another one until almost 9 months after unemployment benefits crumbled in December. Two days ago, (8/24) she got hired as a cashier for the gas station down the street. It’s a basic $7.25 job and I found out through some of the employees there that no matter how long you work, they don’t give raises unless you move up to management. My brother’s working for the same wage at mcdonald’s and my job completely wiped itself off the BK website so I have no idea when they’re reopening…
I’m sorry to keep asking for help, but our primary issue at the moment is the rent. We’re about to be two months behind ($1200) and since the sheriff knows our situation, we think he may give us some leeway but it’s always good to try to keep on top of these things. If you could reblog this post and spread it, my mom’s paypal email is: firstname.lastname@example.org and I have a donation link on my page. I’m replacing the old post with this one in my description, as well.
Thank you guys so much !
This is super short-notice but I just got a call from work about coming back on Monday, but the same day, our car renter wants her to pay the $125 for this week. She and my brother only get paid every two weeks, which is news to me because I thought only full-time jobs worked like that… If we could iron out that problem, we’d all be working and be able to (finally) pay for everything in a timely manner… thank you guys!!!