This is one of the most adorable comics I’ve ever read
Such a simple explanation
(via fatbodypolitics)Source: officialannakendrick
I hate lotteries so much, and I hate that states have been so successful in misleading people about them.
A Voice For Men, one of the most prominent men’s rights websites out there, advocates for women who are being sexually harassed to “envision the person talking to [them] as human” and to thank them.
The new civil rights movement has truly arrived.
Men’s Rights activists: Just want women to be nicer to the men who sexually harass them. Is that so much to ask?
Oh god this is so fucking disgusting
lord oh lord oh lord oh lord
Or, envisioning them as human I could say, “fuck off”, which I am assured is universally understood. Or “Thanks, asshole”, if I wanted to get fancy.
Let’s not link to those men’s rights any more than necessary.
(via fatbodypolitics)Source: mensrightsactivism
It’s true what he says though - there is no subject position from which it’s ok to talk about inequality - if you’re poor you are doing it out of jealously, if you’re not poor you’re doing it out of guilt/saviour complex, if you are young it’s just a phase, if you’re old you are hankering for times long gone and trying to recapture your youth, if you’re not well educated you just don’t understand the complexity of the situation, if you are well educated you’re in an academic bubble divorced from reality, if your politically apathetic you’re not allowed to complain, if you’re politically active you’re just trying to push your own sectarian agenda…
For every possible type of person there’s an established reason why your opinions on inequality are invalid. That’s not an accident.
Re blogging cuz hell yeah!
(via wilwheaton)Source: socialismartnature
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."