Don’t you dare
Shrink yourself
For someone else’s comfort -
Do not become small
For people who refuse to grow.

brujabitch:

if a black girl talks to you on facetime/skype/snapchat after her hair is already wrapped for the night, either she really love your ass or she ont give a fuck bout you. there’s no in between. 

When your husband returns
soaking of her
do not question him
when his lies fill the room
soaking up the air,
his easy smile painting his face,
you gather yourself with a smile.


you prepare his favorite meal
you oil your skin
you lower the light from the oil lamp
you let him enter you
as you watch his shadow shake
but,
remember not to scream
his brother’s name.

positivelyaustentatious:

"I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding—certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of other so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.” - Fitzwilliam Darcy, Pride and Prejudice, Ch 11 (Images BBC 1995; 2005; 1980)

this is the part i hate.

dopegirlfresh:

dopegirlfresh:

the part where i only get half a paycheck & i’m already behind.
the part where there’s an echo in my fridge.
the part where every hustle i can hustle is somehow miraculously inaccessible to me for some reason or another.
& it’s the part where i ask ppl to put me in contact with folks who might want me to babysit or clean their house, because my food stamp application got denied again, unemployment has run out, & there are no extra shifts to pick up at work.
it’s also the part where i just say it: i need money to live off of. groceries. phone bill. funny how critical of capitalism one becomes when they don’t really have capital all like that.
& there’s no shame in needing, we always tell each other.
there’s a unique embarrassment in asking tumblr for paypal donations, though.
sparklebuckwild at gmail dot com, if you are so inclined.

ADDENDUM: if i’m being honest, i gotta make rent next week and don’t exactly have that, either. so. raising $800 in a week and a half is what i’m doing. any contribution is deeply appreciated.

an update: $350 to go.

lots of awesome people are reblogging (thank you!) and giving (thank you!). rent is due tuesday, and it’s my deepest hope to make this happen for myself. keep boosting, please!

historical-nonfiction:

Seoul, South Korea. The West Gate, which no longer stands, in 1904.

Wow. Amazing how much has changed in 100 years.

historical-nonfiction:

Seoul, South Korea. The West Gate, which no longer stands, in 1904.

Wow. Amazing how much has changed in 100 years.

portraitsofboston:

     ”In Nigerian culture, the most important things are God, education, and family—in that order. There are very high expectations, especially from the children of immigrants, to get a college degree—even an advanced degree—and become something very prestigious, such as a doctor. If you become something else, you never really live up to that standard, and if you don’t have a college degree, then you’re nothing. For example, my passion is in design, drawing, buildings, and architecture, but no one really saw a job opportunity with that. If I am an architect or a teacher, which I am now, people would say, ‘Oh, that’s nice, but you could’ve been a doctor.’     “As women, we also face a timetable of expectations at certain stages in our lives: When we are in our early twenties, we should be working on our master’s degrees or doctorates. In our mid- to late twenties, we should be working on getting a husband, and so on. Right now, I should be working on getting a husband.”

Hmm. I would have said “God, family, education,” but otherwise, true to my experience in my family.

portraitsofboston:

     ”In Nigerian culture, the most important things are God, education, and family—in that order. There are very high expectations, especially from the children of immigrants, to get a college degree—even an advanced degree—and become something very prestigious, such as a doctor. If you become something else, you never really live up to that standard, and if you don’t have a college degree, then you’re nothing. For example, my passion is in design, drawing, buildings, and architecture, but no one really saw a job opportunity with that. If I am an architect or a teacher, which I am now, people would say, ‘Oh, that’s nice, but you could’ve been a doctor.’
     “As women, we also face a timetable of expectations at certain stages in our lives: When we are in our early twenties, we should be working on our master’s degrees or doctorates. In our mid- to late twenties, we should be working on getting a husband, and so on. Right now, I should be working on getting a husband.”

Hmm. I would have said “God, family, education,” but otherwise, true to my experience in my family.

You alone are enough. You have nothing to prove to anybody.
You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may tread me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?  Why are you beset with gloom?  ‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I’ll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?  Bowed head and lowered eyes?  Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?  Don’t you take it awful hard ‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines Diggin’ in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?  Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I’ve got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame I rise Up from a past that’s rooted in pain I rise I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.
- “Still I Rise,” Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

- “Still I Rise,” Maya Angelou

onlyblackgirl:

The history of film in one scene

(Source: frankoceanvevo)