Police pick people out of the crowd, then rush forward. Frightening.
Rev Sekou kneeled between protesters and police and prayed, then was thrown into a police vehicle with blood smears all inside of it.
Today in Solidarity (9.27.14): The Lost Voices campground since Mike Brown’s murder was ransacked by police… so petty. #staywoke #farfromover
Don’t know who the Lost Voices are yet? They’re the youth brigade on the frontlines of Ferguson, leading the fight for justice for Mike Brown. (Many of those tweets you see on my posts are from LV.) Yesterday, their campsite was raided without notice. These young leaders have been under constant attack from police since protests began, but yesterday was a clear intimidation move. Well guess what— Lost Voices will not be intimidated or stopped. Please make sure you’re showing them your love and support. Consider donating to their efforts today.
The fact that the ALA shared this link is so gloriously bitter and angry and I love it.
Is there a portmanteau for that? Angritter? Bangry?
My library card already gets me multiple “real” books, e-books, audiobooks, magazines and movies per month. For free.
Kindle Unlimited offers nothing from big presses, and no guarantee the authors will get paid fairly for their work. Libraries buy the book up front for a higher price (and a better binding). Kindle Unlimited offers the authors a variable percentage of a as-yet-undetermined-and-unannounced amount of money.
While Amazon touts Kindle Unlimited at “Netflix For Books!” the reality is Netflix signed contracts with everyone whose work they offer so that actors, screen writers, best boys, and the rest of those people get paid for the shows and movies you watch. Amazon does not.
That means your favorite author isn’t being compensated for their time or work. If you love a book series and want to see the next one get published: buy the book or hit the library. Starving authors quit writing because they like eating.
I couldn’t hit the reblog button fast enough.
So much reblog.
Touts…as “Netflix For Books!”
…you mean…A LIBRARY?
This makes me sick.
Signal boosting this in the hopes that someone decides to join their local library instead of supporting selfish, money-grubbing companies with no regard for a community. Please join me, this is important for our future.
Imagine if we had no libraries, and this $150 a month was your only choice.
That’s where we’re headed. Support your local library, not greedy corporate monsters.
JOIN YOUR LOCAL LIBRARY, USE YOUR LOCAL LIBRARY, THERE IS SO MUCH COOL SHIT IN LIBRARIES ours has an electric piano and language lessons and an art gallery and fucking cafe run by a pirate.
Truly, go and use your local library. Not only is it paid for by your local and state taxes, costing you nothing out of pocket, but your library is helped by circulation stats that justify its existence and budget. And those stats come from people USING IT. Go check stuff out! Even books you already own, just so that they’re circulated and therefore more likely to stay in the library’s collection.
Sometimes he’ll tell me about his college days, about an Afghanistan I have never known and very few people would believe ever existed.
"In the College of Engineering, there was this lecture hall, with seats for 1,000 students," his says as eyes begin to get bigger. "At the end of the lecture, the seats would move. The whole auditorium would shift as you spun along the diameter. The engineering of the building itself was very interesting." He continues to describe the construction details, then sighs. "I wonder if it’s still around?"
There is a pause. For 25 years I have tried to fill that silence, but I have never quite figured out what to say. I guess silence goes best there. He is the next one to speak. “You see, even your old-aged father was once part of something important.”
When he says things like that I want to scream. I don’t want to believe that the years can beat away at you like that. I don’t want to know that if enough time passes, you begin to question what was real or who you are. I am unconcerned with what the world thinks of him, but it is devastating to know that he at times thinks less of himself.
We are the same, but we are separated. People don’t see him in me. I wish they would. I walk in with a doctor’s white coat or a suit or my Berkeley sweatshirt and jeans. High heels or sneakers, it doesn’t matter, people always seem impressed with me. “Pediatrician, eh?” they say. “Well, good for you.”
I wonder what people see when they look at him. They don’t see what I see in his smile. Perhaps they see a brown man with a thick accent; perhaps they think, another immigrant cabdriver. Or perhaps it is much worse: Maybe he is a profile-matched terrorist, aligned with some axis of evil. “Another Abd-ool f——-g foreigner,” I once heard someone say.
Sometimes the worst things are not what people say to your face or what they say at all, it is the things that are assumed. I am in line at the grocery store, studying at a cafe, on a plane flying somewhere.
"Her English is excellent; she must have grown up here," I hear a lady whisper. "But why on earth does she wear that thing on her head?"
"Oh, that’s not her fault," someone replies. "Her father probably forces her to wear that."
I am still searching for a quick, biting response to comments like that. The trouble is that things I’d like to say aren’t quick. So I say nothing. I want to take their hands and pull them home with me. Come, meet my father. Don’t look at the wrinkles; don’t look at the scars; don’t mind the hearing aid, or the thick accent. Don’t look at the world’s effect on him; look at his effect on the world. Come into my childhood and hear the lullabies, the warm hand on your shoulder on the worst of days, the silly jokes on mundane afternoons. Come meet the woman he has loved and respected his whole life; witness the confidence he has nurtured in his three daughters. Stay the night; hear his footsteps come in at midnight after a long day’s work. That sound in the middle of the night is his head bowing in prayer although he is exhausted. Granted, the wealth is gone and the legacy unknown, but look at what the bombs did not destroy. Now tell me, am I really oppressed? The question makes me want to laugh. Now tell me, is he really the oppressor? The question makes me want to cry.
At times, I want to throw it all away: the education, the opportunities, the potential. I want to slip into the passenger seat of his cab and say: This is who I am. If he is going to be labeled, then give me those labels too. If you are going to look down on him, than you might as well peer down on me as well. Close this gap. Erase this line. There is no differentiation here. Of all the things I am, of all the things I could ever be, I will never be prouder than to say that I am of him.
I am this cabdriver’s daughter."
It’s been four years and this piece still moves me to tears every time.
When you discuss the wage gap, here are a few things to keep in mind:
- Only white women make $0.77 to a man’s dollar.
- Black women make about $0.68 to a man’s dollar.
- Latina women make about $0.58 to a man’s dollar.
"to a man’s dollar"
You mean to a white man’s dollar.
Ron Weasley gives free ice cream to kids. Harry Potter talks about the importance of feminism and gay rights. Hermione Granger is a UN Goodwill Ambassador for Women.
The heroes of my childhood became the heroes of my adulthood.