Notes from The Classroom Starter

zackisontumblr:

i have 3 moods:

  • skips every song on my ipod
  • lets the music play without interruption
  • plays the same song on repeat for days
onedropmove:

James Nares - In Real Life, 2009

onedropmove:

James Nares - In Real Life, 2009

I spent so many years as the smelly African kid. I was brown-noser, whose hand was always raised, with a book glued to my hands. My glasses always slipped off my wide nose during P.E. and the new food I ate settled comfortably on my round mid-tire—a perfect target for dodgeball.

Being brown, round, and foreign was the equivalent of being a nerd with a pocket protector. My name gave classmates a chance to rhyme with bodily discharge and we-we was an early nickname.

My torment at the hand of young children in my new home was the first reason I learned to love my heritage. The idealized image of a country where everyone shared foundation in brown, where noses were variations of round, and there was a love for every size gave me hope when I had no more tears to cry, and my throat hoarse from my sobs.

This nostalgia continued throughout my education. Whenever I was asked why I worked so hard, I would respond that all Nigerians work hard. When someone commented on my excellent command of language, I would credit the imaginative way in which my countrymen speak English. When asked where my imagination came from, I would point to the generation of storytellers from which I descend.

For me my heritage was both the question and the answer, and I didn’t let the contradictions bother me. Living abroad for over two decades, all I knew about my country was that it was large, with one of the largest populations of Black people in the word, extremely rich in resources, full of corruption and potential, and currently stunted in social growth.

Despite my limited knowledge I loved Nigeria with all my heart. I couldn’t bear to hear an unkind word spoken about it, or my fellow Nigerians. For me, that identity was all that I had left. In a country that refused to claim me, that branded me foul, unintelligent, ugly, promiscuous, loud, and irate, I clung to my identity because, as a Nigerian woman, I could be something else—I could be something more. As an African, a Nigerian woman, I could define, for myself, who I was, and what I wanted to be.

Chinwe Ohanale; My Rock (via africaisdonesuffering)

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(via ethiopienne)
sir-afropunk:

I’m not gonna let y’all sleep on this

sir-afropunk:

I’m not gonna let y’all sleep on this

souljunkee:

When Im with you, I fall deeper in love… SWANGING! Love this hook! I wait for the daaaaaaaay. I sweet gentle swaaaaaaaay. Something something something my waaaaaaay.

kingjaffejoffer:

Salute a real nigga when you see one

souljunkee:

I always said when I turned 30 I was going to pull up to my girls house in a all white lexus and a white linen suit and sunglasses after work. Like… where in the hell is my dream. I need to get on this :( #ruffendz #ruffendz #goodmusic #nowplaying

"Like so many other “zombie ideas” in our current moment, the culture of poverty narrative persists not because of its success in explaining reality, but in spite of it. What it does succeed in doing is providing an explanation of reality that salves the consciences of the powerful and their supporters. Unfortunately, in an era when collective action by the oppressed is still far too sporadic and ephemeral, these kinds of explanations have sunk deep roots, into both layers of left-liberal opinion and oppressed groups themselves.

Yet what the social science literature demonstrates is that however secure the culture of poverty seems as a hegemonic explanation for racial inequality, it ultimately rests on what are, at the end of the day, nothing more than lies. As the uprising in Ferguson has highlighted the connection between American imperialism and militarism on the home front, it is worth remembering that cultural explanations of structural processes have never been a purely domestic affair.

Commenting on the horrific death toll of the Vietnamese during the American war on Vietnam, William Westmoreland infamously explained to an interviewer that “the Oriental doesn’t put the same high price on life as does a Westerner. Life is plentiful. Life is cheap in the Orient.” For a long time, this remark epitomized the racism of the war. We should view cultural explanations of inequality with the same contempt.”

souljunkee:

If you dont live for singing Ralph Tresvants falsettos in a really squeeky voice, we probably cant vibe together @new edition #nowplaying #souljunkee #ralph tresvant

souljunkee:

Babyface really cant sang, but the brother can write a SONG. He’s not on the same level of not sanging as Keith Sweat, I think he respects his limitations. I can rock with him. #babyface #keith sweat #nowplaying

If white American entitlement meant anything, it meant that no matter how patronizing, unashamed, deliberate, unintentional, poor, rich, rural, urban, ignorant, and destructive white Americans were, black Americans were still encouraged to work for them, write to them, listen to them, talk to them, run from them, emulate them, teach them, dodge them, and ultimately thank them for not being as fucked up as they could be.

From “Our Kind of Ridiculous” in How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America by Kiese Laymon (via wheretruthechoes)

Gawker link

(via ethiopienne)