HAPPY INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S DAY!
pretty tired of people equating a lot of the names Black Americans give their kids, with being ghetto or ratchet. And really, it all seems to be targeted at Black girls and women. All of those names have roots spanning across various parts of Africa, Asia, and the Arab nations.
Since I obviously have to school the Original Poster, and the 90+ people who liked and reblogged this before me (including the person I’m reblogging this from); get out ya pens n notepads, kids..class is in session:
Laquisha is merely one of a handful of derivatives of the name LAKEISHA.
La - being just a prefix
Keisha - being the root name (and spelling) of Queisha. Ergo the name La-Queisha/Quisha
It’s a peculiar name overall, in that it bears multiple origins; African (Bangi/Bobangi and Swahili), Arabic, and Hebrew.
• In Bangi, Queisha means - ‘favourite’
• In Swahili, Lakeisha means - ‘favourite one’
• In Hebrew, Queisha is most likely the variant of KEZIA, meaning - ‘cassia tree’ CASSIA is the generic name for a variety of trees and shrubs, one of which produces cinnamon. So Queisha is often interpreted as meaning ‘cinnamon’, too.
Further still, it being Hebrew, affords it some Biblical roots. Kezia/Keziah was the name given to Job’s second daughter, who was born after his sufferings (Job 42:14). Interestingly, her name has been seen to symbolise female equality; since Job’s three daughters shared equally with their brothers, in their father’s inheritance (Job 42:15). This was against the custom of things back then. Women did not receive an inheritance, nor could widows claim their deceased husband’s assets. In short, Keziah and her two sisters represented freedom and equality for women, in a time when such a thing was unheard of.
• And in Arabic, Lakeisha means - ‘alive’ or ‘she who lives’
so before you dummies look down on us for our names, keep in mind that their roots date back further than where majority of your great-great-great grandparents can trace their lineage.
We are not jokes. We are not cognitively deficient. And we are certainly not here to appease your ridiculous standards and expectations for what a child’s name ‘should’ be. We are not ghetto, and our names are not rachet. Our names have meaning, and they have soul.
Perhaps next time you feel to make a joke at the expense of our culture, just keep in mind that you’re a lowkey racist for playing on racial stereotypes..and we ain’t really smiling bout’ that.
Jesus, the commentary. READ THE COMMENTARY AND LEARN.
Written by an 8th grader
WHAT THE FUCK THIS IS AMAZINGI’m blown away, wow.
hats off to Jordan motherfucking Nichols Grade 8
When you are hurting, there will always be people who find a way to make it about themselves. If you break your wrist, they’ll complain about a sprained ankle. If you are sad, they’re sadder. If you’re asking for help, they’ll demand more attention.
Here is a fact: I was in a hospital and sobbing into my palms when a woman approached me and asked why I was making so much noise and I managed to stutter that my best friend shot himself in the head and now he was 100% certified dead and she made this little grunt and had the nerve to tell me, “Well now you made me sad.”
When you get angry, there are going to be people who ask you to shut up and sit down, and they’re not going to do it nicely. Theirs are the faces that turn bright red before you have a chance to finish your sentence. They won’t ask you to explain yourself. They’ll be mad that you’re mad and that will be their whole reason alone.
Here is a fact: I was in an alleyway a few weeks ago, stroking my friend’s back as she vomited fourteen tequila shots. “I hate men,” she wheezed as her sides heaved, “I hate all of them.”
I braided her hair so it wouldn’t get caught in the mess. I didn’t correct her and reply that she does in fact love her father and her little brother too, that there are strangers she has yet to meet that will be better for her than any of her shitty ex-boyfriends, that half of our group of friends identifies as male - I could hear each of her bruises in those words and I didn’t ask her to soften the blow when she was trying to buff them out of her skin. She doesn’t hate all men. She never did.
She had the misfortune to be overheard by a drunk guy in an ill-fitting suit, a boy trying to look like a man and leering down my dress as he stormed towards us. “Fuck you, lady,” he said, “Fuck you. Not all men are evil, you know.”
“Thanks,” I told him dryly, pulling on her hand, trying to get her inside again, “See you.”
He followed us. Wouldn’t stop shouting. How dare she get mad. How dare she was hurting. “It’s hard for me too!” he yowled after us. “With fuckers like you, how’s a guy supposed to live?”
Here’s a fact: my father is Cuban and my genes repeat his. Once one of my teachers looked at my heritage and said, “Your skin doesn’t look dirty enough to be a Mexican.”
When my cheeks grew pink and my tongue dried up, someone else in the classroom stood up. “You can’t say that,” he said, “That’s fucking racist. We could report you for that.”
Our teacher turned vicious. “You wanna fail this class? Go ahead. Report me. I was joking. It’s my word against yours. I hate kids like you. You think you’ve got all the power - you don’t. I do.”
Later that kid and I became close friends and we skipped class to do anything else and the two of us were lying on our backs staring up at the sky and as we talked about that moment, he sighed, “I hate white people.” His girlfriend is white and so is his mom. I reached out until my fingers were resting in the warmth of his palm.
He spoke up each time our teacher said something shitty. He failed the class. I stayed silent. I got the A but I wish that I didn’t.
Here is a fact: I think gender is a social construct and people that want to tell others what defines it just haven’t done their homework. I personally happen to have the luck of the draw and am the same gender as my sex, which basically just means society leaves me alone about this one particular thing.
Until I met Alex, who said he hated cis people. My throat closed up. I’m not good at confrontation. I avoided him because I didn’t want to bother him.
One day I was going on a walk and I found him behind our school, bleeding out of the side of his mouth. The only thing I really know is how to patch people up. He winced when the antibacterial cream went across his new wounds. “I hate cis people,” he said weakly.
I looked at him and pushed his hair back from his head. “I understand why you do.”
Here is a fact: anger is a secondary emotion. Anger is how people stop themselves from hurting. Anger is how people stop themselves by empathizing.
It is easy for the drunken man to be mad at my friend. If he says “Hey, fuck you, lady,” he doesn’t have to worry about what’s so wrong about men.
It’s easy for my teacher to fail the kids who speak up. If we’re just smart-ass students, it’s not his fault we fuck up.
It’s easy for me to hate Alex for labeling me as dangerous when I’ve never hurt someone a day in my life. But I’m safe in my skin and his life is at risk just by going to the bathroom. I understand why he says things like that. I finally do.
There’s a difference between the spread of hatred and the frustration of people who are hurting. The thing is, when you are broken, there will always be someone who says “I’m worse, stop talking.” There will always be people who are mad you’re trying to steal the attention. There will always be people who get mad at the same time as you do - they hate being challenged. It changes the rules.
I say I hate all Mondays but my sister was born on one and she’s the greatest joy I have ever known. I say I hate brown but it’s really just the word and how it turns your mouth down - the colour is my hair and my eyes and my favorite sweater. I say I hate pineapple but I still try it again every Easter, just to see if it stings less this year. It’s okay to be sad when you hear someone generalize a group you’re in. But instead of assuming they’re evil and filled with hatred, maybe ask them why they think that way - who knows, you might just end up with a new and kind friend.
By telling the oppressed that their anger is unjustified, you allow the oppression to continue. I know it’s hard to stay calm. I know it’s scary. But you’re coming from the safe place and they aren’t. Just please … Try to be more understanding. /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)
Don’t forget the fear. Anger is easier than fear.
Why are period calendar apps all pink with flowers and “cute” icons? And horoscopes, for goodness’ sake! The interfaces all seem to be designed for children. I don’t want to be patronised by the app that’s calculating when one of my internal organs is next going to disintegrate. If I’m irritable and tired and have period pain, a “cute” little angry face is not going to make it any better.
I feel like there’s a serious gap in the market here…
I want a mildly sinister app that reminds me, “Disintegration due.”
I want to log my pms on a graph of, “Likelihood of murdering a hapless stranger,” and, “Urge to curl up into the foetal position and sleep,” against time.
I want advice on washing blood out of fabric that is, “Also applicable to serial killers.”
Pretending everything’s fine and pretty and lovely is ridiculous, so can we please not do that. Let’s laugh instead. That’s far better, and might actually help in some small way.
WHOOP! SCOTLAND PASSED THE EQUAL MARRIAGE BILL!
I want you to know that you’re alive. I want to tell you that you’re beautiful and have you believe it. I want to tell you that you have to grasp your fate in your hands and run and fight and push with all your might until you die or you win and have you realise the truth of my words and implement it. I want to give you the drive to carry yourself through, and the courage to ask for help when you can’t. I want to give you all the love and hope and strength that you can ever ask for, and for you to never again ask “why?”. I want you to see that you are in control and that nothing matters except filling your life and the lives of all those who surround you with love and respect and a complete refusal to accept discrimination and oppression. I want you to know that you matter. And you will always matter. I want you to see that we can always run and we can always stay and that we always, always have choices. There is a way. I promise. It may be hard, and it may be terrifying, but it exists. And if you can’t find that way by yourself, I want you to understand that you are never, ever, ever, alone. There is always someone who is willing to help. Keep strong, you incredible person.
I’ve now watched the entirety of Orphan Black. I feel so lost without it….
So there are groups that do this, they stay in highly policed areas on shifts and bring cameras and such, and record to make sure police brutality doesn’t escalate, and when it happens there’s evidence against it.
But that’s not the only way it can happen.
Every single person is entitled to watch an arrest go down as long as they are not obstructing or interfering. That means, if you see cops bumrush someone, even if that person is waving a gun, you are allowed, even legally permitted and encouraged to watch the events occur.
This is important white folks, because the cops work inyourservice. Oh sure, they’re supposedly in the service of “the common good” but we all know that means protecting white people.
And now a story, when I was in high school, and my mom was working under a horrific principal, she was late to work one day because there was something going on in our neighborhood. Cops were gathered near our pharmacy and a guy was on the roof (it’s a little over one story, so he wasn’t a jumper or anything) and she stayed as long as she could and watched the scenario go down for a while. Not because she’s trifling. not because she’s nosy. But because she saw a POC and cops gathered and said to herself “I want to make sure this goes by the book.”
And that’s all it takes to be a cop watcher.
You acknowledge that you, as a white person, are in a relative position of safety and you watch. You bear witness, because your voice, unfortunately, carries more weight than ours in the criminal justice system.
Justice is not blind, nor should you be.
If there are cops, and they outnumber an individual, shit, even if it’s 1:1, it is your responsibility to keep an eye on the scenario and take down whatever information you can. And if it looks like something shady is going on, you areobligatedto call in to your local precinct and say “Listen, I saw X happen on Y, and it looked questionable.” And if you get a negative response, well, y’know what? You find out if there’s a civilian oversight committee. In NYC we have one, but they’re underfunded and continually being legislated against (currently there’s a statute of 18 months from the time of the event within which you have to file charges).
If the prospect of keeping vigilant about cops scares you, imagine being a POC, and knowing that no matter what you do, you could be railroaded by a system that wants to not only disenfranchise you, but has no intentions of treating you as a human being.
Take your fears and shove ‘em down, because they’ll never be anything when compared to what we face on a daily basis.
AND YOU KNOW WHAT IS SO FUNNY??? THIS POST HAS SEVEN FUCKING NOTES. BECAUSE GIVING WHITE PEOPLE SOME INFORMATION AND TOOLS THAT THEY CAN ACTUALLY USE TO TAKE ACTION AS ALLIES IS NOT WORTH THEM LIKING OR REBLOGGING AND SHARING WITH EACH OTHER. IT’S NOT LIKE THEY ARE ACTUALLY GOING TO DO ANYTHING WITH IT! RIGHT? RIGHT? IT’S “FUNNY” CUZ IT’S JUST BLACK AND BROWN LIVES ON THE LINE ANYWAY.
word. we ALL have white followers. but they prefer to reblog jokes or pretty pictures or “universal” (read: non-racial shit) things. let it be a good, useful critique on them and their structures and their fucking bullshit. let it be a word of advice so they can stop being oppressive dicks and *crickets*
we all see you.
But seriously if y’all see some fishy arrests of PoC (or otherwise, for that matter) going down, it’d be great if you could help out as a witness. ’Cause I can vouch personally for the fact that when PoC speak in each others’ favor, it is immediately disregarded as “helping a brother out”.
I have 2,433 followers. The very least you could do is stop and read this.
Watching the police has become such a habit, that I was sort of taken by surprise when my daughters asked me what I was doing the first time they were with me. Why are we still, we should go? They asked. I said…sometimes the police need to know that people are watching them.
We’d been walking down Sherbrooke, and what the hell, I’d forgotten it was May Day. So there was a march, and the riot cops were out in all their insane scary bug-like armour. And you could see them pushing the people in the march who were straggling. My daughters asked why, and I couldn’t help it…the cops were already in earshot, but I said, “Some people feel good when they push other people around I guess.”
It made my daughters really nervous and when I thought about it, I was nervous too. No, I don’t trust that the cops aren’t going to do something that is going to end up with me and my kids getting hurt. I’ve been ‘rounded up’ before, and had the police driver of the van slam on the breaks every couple of seconds so those of us seated in the back would go flying all over the place. I got a nice bruise on the side of my face before they finally stopped and kicked us out because they needed the space for ‘worse rioters’.
But whatever. Watching ‘regular’ police action is more important. When a car screeches up, and two cops get out and they start getting physical with the three boys sitting on a bench, yes, you need to stop and stand there. And yes, it’s scary. Because the ability of police officers to use force and pretty much get away with whatever they want to do IS SCARY. They have that power because it doesn’t get questioned enough.
I sincerely hope you personally have never experienced police brutality. But you can watch it happen pretty much any hour of the day if you open your eyes.
I can`t count the number of times I’ve heard of the police abusing their power, and you know what the number one deterrent is to ever holding them accountable?
Lack of witnesses.
The funny thing is…there are almost always witnesses. Just not ones willing to give witness.
FKA twigs- Papi Pacify