What the Mexican media is doing is taking something Lupita Nyong’o worked very hard for and making it about Mexico… knowing fully well that, had Lupita tried to start a career in Mexico, she wouldn’t have been able to.
This is an opportunity she wouldn’t have been able to get and a success she would have more than likely never have achieved in Mexico.
It’s height of hypocrisy to try and talk about how Lupita Nyong’o is a Mexican success when Mexico usually can’t be bothered to acknowledge that there are black people (and not just the rare walking stereotype) currently existing in Mexico.
How many afro-mexicanas with dreams of being actresses have been denied their dreams because theirs wasn’t the right look (they weren’t proper mexicanas) by the same media that now wants to lay a claim on Lupita Nyong’o and her talent?
It’s sooooo many folks who need to have a damn SEAT when it comes to Lupita.
When I was seventeen and preparing to leave for university, my mother’s only brother saw fit to give me some advice.
“Just don’t be an idiot, kid,” he told me, “and don’t ever forget that boys and girls can never just be friends.”
I laughed and answered, “I’m not too worried. And I don’t really think all guys are like that.”
When I was eighteen and the third annual advent of the common cold was rolling through residence like a pestilent fog, a friend texted me asking if there was anything he could do to help.
I told him that if he could bring me up some vitamin water that would be great, if it wasn’t too much trouble.
That semester I learned that human skin cells replace themselves every three to five weeks. I hoped that in a month, maybe I’d stop feeling the echoes of his touch; maybe my new skin would feel cleaner.
It didn’t. But I stood by what I said. Not all guys are like that.
When I was nineteen and my roommate decided the only way to celebrate the end of midterms was to get wasted at a club, I humoured her.
Four drinks, countless leers and five hands up my skirt later, I informed her I was ready to leave.
“I get why you’re upset,” she told me on the walk home, “but you have to tolerate that sort of thing if you want to have any fun. And really, not all guys are like that.”
(Age nineteen also saw me propositioned for casual sex by no fewer than three different male friends, and while I still believe that guys and girls can indeed be just friends, I was beginning to see my uncle’s point.)
When I was twenty and a stranger that started chatting to me in my usual cafe asked if he could walk with me (since we were going the same way and all), I accepted.
Before we’d even made it three blocks he was pulling me into an alleyway and trying to put his hands up my shirt. “You were staring,” he laughed when I asked what the fuck he was doing (I wasn’t), “I’m just taking pity.”
But not all guys are like that.
I am twenty one and a few days ago a friend and I were walking down the street. A car drove by with the windows down, and a young man stuck his head out and whistled as they passed. I ignored it, carrying on with the conversation.
My friend did not. “Did you know those people?” He asked.
“Not at all,” I answered.
Later when we sat down to eat he got this thoughtful look on his face. When I asked what was wrong he said, “You know not all guys do that kind of thing, right? We’re not all like that.”
As if he were imparting some great profound truth I’d never realized before. My entire life has been turned around, because now I’ve been enlightened: not all guys are like that.
No. Not all guys are. But enough are. Enough that I am uncomfortable when a man sits next to me on the bus. Enough that I will cross to the other side of the street if I see a pack of guys coming my way. Enough that even fleeting eye contact with a male stranger makes my insides crawl with unease. Enough that I cannot feel safe alone in a room with some of my male friends, even ones I’ve known for years. Enough that when I go out past dark for chips or milk or toilet paper, I carry a knife, I wear a coat that obscures my figure, I mimic a man’s gait. Enough that three years later I keep the story of that day to myself, when the only thing that saved me from being raped was a right hook to the jaw and a threat to scream in a crowded dorm, because I know what the response will be.
I live my life with the everburning anxiety that someone is going to put their hands on me regardless of my feelings on the matter, and I’m not going to be able to stop them. I live with the knowledge that statistically one in three women have experienced a sexual assault, but even a number like that can’t be trusted when we are harassed into silence. I live with the learned instinct, the ingrained compulsion to keep my mouth shut to jeers and catcalls, to swallow my anger at lewd suggestions and crude gestures, to put up my walls against insults and threats. I live in an environment that necessitates armouring myself against it just to get through a day peacefully, and I now view that as normal. I have adapted to extreme circumstances and am told to treat it as baseline. I carry this fear close to my heart, rooted into my bones, and I do so to keep myself unharmed.
So you can tell me that not all guys are like that, and you’d even be right, but that isn’t the issue anymore. My problem is not that I’m unaware of the fact that some guys are perfectly civil, decent, kind—my problem is simply this:
In a world where this cynical overcaution is the only thing that ensures my safety, I’m no longer willing to take the risk.
if you think this is a game about who is "more oppressed" you're a dumb piece of shit. it's about how bi women are oppressed in different ways to lesbians or straight women, and how hardly any of the LG community will acknowledge that
Earlier today i took a trip of whims with a dear friend of mine. IT was magical and unexpected, we just kinda did what we felt we wanted to. Yet as the night progressed we found ourselves within the castor in SF. For those of you who don’t know I had an incident that happened there earlier this year, thanks to nuestra hermana ( look her up, she’s the shit) I was able to somewhat process what happened to me.
I feel that as this year goes by i slowly become more unstable of mind and what is able to keep me right. I didn’t know that being near the area would bring like the swelling of tides emotions that I had thought had passed. I didn’t know that the next morning would replay in my mind until it was, and i had nothing but feelings of worries and distress.
My friend kept asking me if I was alright, asking me if I was stress. I thought she meant perhaps in the issue of driving in the city. How could i explain to her that i was reliving the moments that had passed and all I desired was getting as far away from there. I wasn’t able to breath until the distance from that place was great with miles, mountains, and water distancing us. It saddens me that a mecca of queerdom might be forever out of my reach because of my history with it, and more than anything that if it continues i might never be able to reclaim it.
I’m real tired of seeing skinny white kids painted as THE AVERAGE QUEER. Like please show me a curvy Indian agender kid from Brooklyn, a hispanic lesbian and her black girlfriend. A trans demisexual dude from Korea. GIVE ME SOMETHING OTHER THAN LANKY PALE PEOPLE WITH COLORFUL HAIR PLEASE GOD.
Hello fellow people of tumblr, i’m currently working a a project about poc using tumblr as a process of healing through interaction with tumblr and creating testimonios -testimonies-. I would really like to conduct some interviews with those willing to help me out. The interviews will be considered anonymous, and participants would be presented under a pseudonym unless asked otherwise. No original work will be published unless allowed so by the interviewee as well. Hit me up on my ask if you’d be down so we can set up things. I only ask that you identify as a person of color, if you do contact me.
DAY 1: this prompt comes from slam poet Rachel Mckibbens.
I’m writing this in Duane Reade. Someone just said, “I hope she understands what I’m willing to give up to be with her. She is the god of my heart.”
Just when I think I’ve heard it all…Oh New York city, you can be so sweet sometimes. Write a poem about the god of your heart. If you want, choose a different organ or body part. Or an emotion. Or the best or worst year of your life.
So I decided to loosely write about the best year of my life.
I’m not a romantic,
I’ve never bought a girl flowers,
I’ve never been rich enough for a shopping spree,
But when she looks at me,
I see kisding her crows feet when we get old,
I see running my hand through her gray hairs someday,
I look at her and see every time
she tried to get the rice and peas just right,
Every time hasn’t killed me because I snore too loud,
Every time she took me to a movie she hated just to see me smile.
I’m not a romantic,
I mean I’ve tried,
My walk is too awkward,
My eyes too sad,
I try to be smooth but my head becomes a mosaic spelling out “what do you see in me?”
Instead I try to say it with each mildly funny text message,
By watching the DVD’s she loves, that make me hide behind my pillow,
By getting rid of that spider like a noble saint slaying a dragon,