If they can learn to say Tchaikovsky and Michelangelo and Dostoyevsky, they can learn to say Uzoamaka.”
— Uzo Aduba’s mother proving that the idea of not being able to pronounce a POC’s name because it’s “too hard” or “too complicated” is complete bullshit and actually just laziness. (via cosmicspread)
I don’t think I could love you so much if you had nothing to complain of and nothing to regret. I don’t like people who have never fallen or stumbled. Their virtue is lifeless and of little value. Life hasn’t revealed its beauty to them.”
The realest people don’t have a lot of friends.”
Tupac (via paris—couture)
I’m Tired: A Black Woman’s Thoughts on Community by Ali Barthwell ‘10 (@wtflanksteak)
The use of the term “Community” in this piece is in reference to a Wellesley Alumnae Facebook group.
During my time at Wellesley, I gained and maintained a certain level of notoriety for my involvement in the improv group and shutting it down on the reg on First Class. I was witness to many epic First Class threads. I took on Wellesley’s defenders and deniers of white privilege and people who said incomprehensible things like “I don’t even see race.” I gave advice to my struggling peers about their boyfriends who didn’t know where their clitoris was. My private inbox would flood with messages of encouragement and further criticism. As the forums of First Class moved onto Facebook and other platforms after my graduation, these threads began to reappear and my participation continued.
As Wellesley alumnae, we are constantly striving to forge connections with our Wellesley siblings and support their lives, projects, and passions. Unfortunately, when it comes to discussions about race, that all goes out the window.
And I’m tired.
Shukor and spice: a love letter to Ethiopian & Eritrean weirdos, troublemakers, and timid rebels
You, with the tongue that glues itself to the roof of your mouth when the whole family gathers and asks what you want to do with your life. You, who cannot bring yourself to force the words “artist, dreamer, anything but doctor or lawyer” out from the back of your throat. You, who hide your drawings, your quirks, your quiet rebellion.
I see you. I see your weird radiance, your strange brilliance. I see you shrink yourself to fit the standards of communities adjusting to a country that does not know what to make of us. I see you pull away from eyes struggling to make sense of you from across the dinner table, across the group of aunties with backs turned away from your growth.
There are no words for this—this moment when you feel continents apart from the people who share your blood but don’t understand the way your heart beats differently from their own. There are no roadmaps to make sense of a path we do not know exists until we stumble upon it.
But you are not alone. Your shy, your strange, your troubled—they walked alongside your ancestors, too. Fear stood alongside them through every battle, self-doubt became their bedfellow. Your art is not without precedent. Your heart is not without match in our legacies. You are not the first to waver, to wander, to wonder.