Salute to the Mothers of our conscious struggle who sacrificed much, so that we could have a tomorrow and to all the courageous Sisters who just weren’t having any of it…

1.   Angela Davis
2.   Assata Shakur
3.   Kathleen Cleaver
4.   Sojourner Truth
5.   Harriet Tubman
6.   Rosa Parks
7.   Fannie Lou Hamer
8.   Shirley Chisolm 
9.   Sis. Minister Ava Muhammad
10. Two Sisters who weren’t having it!



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50 Black Gay Men You Should Know

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Angela Y. Davis at the University of Chicago - May 2013

worth watching every moment

Angela Davis on how the prison system promotes transmisogyny, the gender binary, and normativity, as well as racism.

(via whitegirlsaintshit)

“Recently an Instagram video circulated of a Ferguson protester discussing the looting and burning of the QuikTrip convenience store. He retorts the all too common accusation thrown at rioters: “People wanna say we destroying our own neighborhoods. We don’t own nothing out here!” This is the crux of the matter, and could be said of most majority black neighborhoods in America, which have much higher concentrations of chain stores and fast food restaurants than non-black neighborhoods. The average per capita income in Ferguson, MO is less than $21,000, and that number almost certainly gets lower if you remove the 35% white population of Ferguson from the equation. How could the average Ferguson resident really say it’s “our QuikTrip”? Indeed, although you might hang out in it, how can a chain convenience store or corporate restaurant earnestly be part of anyone’s neighborhood? The same white liberals who inveigh against corporations for destroying local communities are aghast when rioters take their critique to its actual material conclusion.”

—   Willie Osterweil, “In Defense of Looting” (x), The New Inquiry . 8/21/14 (via desdeotromar)

(via rococobutter)

“Forgive me father for I have sinned,
I have loved a woman more desperately than I have loved God. I have looked to a woman more reverently than I have the sky. There, in the sulk of her bottom lip, I find myself talking about a heaven that only exists when she is looking at me,
father she has not been forged between the dip of my teeth, she is not my rib, or my left side, she is my entire stomach, she is my spine.
I have been searching for prayer, father but I have found that I can only say her name
Dear God, let me have her
Dear God, let her rest with me
Dear God, let the sky turn red from how we burn
The plum tree in our back garden has withered because I have not seen the sun for five days. I have been worshipping at the cradle of her hips
father, she has cleansed me with those hands and those eyes, I do not know how to turn unless it is towards her, I do not know where to go except in her direction.”

—   Azra.T “Take Me to Church” (via 5000letters)

(via beaucoupshade)


(Source: Spotify)


“Where the hell is Teni”

Leon questions at a quarter to 9am when he first notices the sound of shuffling footsteps from guests being escorted into the multi-purposed reception hall where their wedding ceremony is to take place. Allowing him twenty more minutes to slowly implode in hopeful reservation that his partner was only running late, his usual fashion. Along with the proscecco and a bowel of kush encouraged to ingest before stumbling into eternity together.

Leon mentally checks off each item that was essential to this performance, exuding his willingness to be prone. The aroma of exotics assisting in unclenching….well everything, he begins to map out contingencies and fatalities on the road to what was supposed to be purest expression of fidelity, the big fuck you to a world that would gladly stay complicit in disavowing the second class status of its denizens.

“He better show up!” was the one verbal exclamation Leon allowed, up the deepening doubt that this day would work out as plan. Besides, he argued “T was the one who needed this; I would’ve been fine with a domestic partnership.” A usual comfort in moments of panic in the year of planning it took to get to this point, him steadily self medicating on one side of the door, as friends and family bare witness to a necessitated ceremony.

Careful not to stain his lips with the red wine, but needing the dry, bitter taste to replace the more intimate soar place in his throat that’s still hoarse from his and Tenir fight this morning.

“Leon, what do you think about domestic partnerships?”

I cough on my drink, briefly marking all clues that the guy in front of me was in fact the same one I’ve been sleeping with for the past six months.
“In general, they’re fine, I hope to be in one eventually.” I state, already scripting the narrative of this conversation for when I retell the story to my sister and close friends tomorrow morning online, when I get in to the office. “What about you?”

“Well I’m trying to get my life together…” Shawn begins, regretfully I’ve already began detaching myself from this scenario, become all too common since same-sex marriage became legal in New York. I have nothing against legal recognizing a relationship, but I’ve never seen a marriage I would be in. “…you know what I mean?” I nod, hoping to convey empathy. I suddenly remember a line from one of the liberal arts courses I took “Freedom vs. Obligation” and can’t be sure if I was intentionally cornered on the night that I intended to be our last.

With the finality of an open casket funeral, we finish drinks. We leave separately, both of us finding reasons to wake up early in the morning: agreeing to meet tomorrow night.

The conversation at G lounge with Shawn leaves me feeling anxious. Over the past couple of months since I ended my last failed relationship, it seems like every guy I met has either been completed void of emotion or frantically looking for someone to claim as their better half. Maybe the scene has changed more than I thought. Still feeling restless I send a quick text to friends that may still be in the city. Chelsea long considered the gay ghetto of Manhattan didn’t necessarily cater to its darker hues of the gay rainbow, but some of us still came here occasionally, like tourist in a foreign land vaguely remembering that a close relative first ventured here.

Even for a Thursday night, I’m surprised no one responds. I need something. I need a pre-emptive measure to prevent the impending feelings of doom, which drove me to my current therapist, after that last night with Keavin. So I go to rawhide the older, liberated cousin to G Lounge and only a few blocks down, I would prefer to find some weed and go home but the odds of finding any in this area are slim. Not because it’s not sold, I just wouldn’t know how to access it. I quit smoking marijuana years ago when Keavin gave me an ultimatum – the first of many.

I show my id to the bouncer, order a rum in coke; although I hate the taste them. I make my way to the intersection between the pool table and small circular stage. In gay bars there is usually a space to observe without being observed back, generally on the fringes of areas intended to show case sexuality in one form or another. It is temporary though changing positions throughout the night as flirting becomes more frantic.
Leave in an hour, I repeat, the onset of a depressive state and early morning meetings already compel me to keep drinking until I’m numb enough to submit to the lingering hours before the weekend finally begins. To past the time I exchange eye contact with those that linger close enough to me, strangers furtively trying to get my attention, convinced that my lack of access is what would drive me to them. I feel sorry for any black nerd that doesn’t eventually learn that their perceived weakness is their strength.

My favorite game, anyone worth challenging has to know how to be both and accommodating enough to allow me a chance to be both preyed and predator. In this jungle, the odds are you’ve learned to do all but play with your meals.


and y’all shocked?

(Source: ms---jane, via abluesforbrklyn)

“Sometimes you have to give up on people - not because you don’t care, but because they don’t care.”

—   Unknown (via beautiful-ambition)

(Source: onlinecounsellingcollege, via beaucoupshade)

“All the grass cut in Florida in one month could feed all the animals on the planet for a year. We just don’t use it. And these assholes tell you that you live in scarcity? You don’t live in scarcity, you live in a poorly designed and poorly managed system.”

—   Jacque Fresco (via sarcasticvegan)

(via tiarasofspanishmoss)