“When I was growing up, my parents spoke to each other in Spanish, but they didn’t speak to us in Spanish because they were told not to. In school we weren’t allowed to speak it.”
and also???
“… But America is the only country that promotes monolingualism. Here it’s English, English, English. Every other country makes their children learn a second language very early on. So as my political and social activism grew, I was like, ‘I really need to learn Spanish.’ So I did.“
idk how many people i’ve known growing up in texas whose parents speak fluent spanish but they don’t speak a lick solely because their parents were afraid or told not to teach their children. it’s unspeakably common and doesn’t in any way shape or form diminish someone’s claim to or pride in their heritage.
fuck that guy. you go eva.
lack of intergenerational language exchange is one of the leading causes of language death for endangered and indigenous languages because of this culture of shame attached to “lesser” coded languages so frankly if yr mocking people for not speaking their mother tongue without taking the colonial reasons for this into account, you’re an ignorant prick and you can go fuck yourself like
My dad was beaten by the teachers whenever he spoke Chinese in class as a child. He refused to teach me because he figured it would only bring me more of the same. And, being Toisanese, it’s not a dialect you can just go pick up a book or CD lesson plan and go learn.
It wasn’t a lack of pride in my family, it was white supremacy and white pride that beat the words out of a child and scarred them for life, that’s what got us here.
I can speak some Spanish learned in the home and in school. Spanish is my mother’s first language and my grandparents etc speak/spoke Spanish fluently My mom forgot a lot of her Spanish because my grandma wanted her kids to speak English to help my grandpa learn so as to not face as much discrimination at work with white bosses. My grandpa was an immigrant from a small town in northern Mexico who came here during the war. My grandma was born here but just barely. My youngest uncle doesn’t speak or understand Spanish at all. At that time, being English-only was thought to give the kids better chances and face less stigma, etc. It was a compliment for the lighter-skinned family members if somebody thought you were Italian rather than Mexican, for example. (Although certainly there are Mexicans of Italian descent.) Speaking Spanish just came with the shame of being the wrong kind of “other.” Pride in speaking Spanish is a good thing, but it’s kind of newer thing, IMO.
Let’s say your matrilineal line is fairly consistent and everyone has their daughter at 25. So four women in your matrilineal line are born every hundred years. In a thousand years, that’s only 40 women. Like the math is so simple and yet ? You don’t think about it. So in 2000 years, 80 women. So basically, 0 AD started roughly about 80 mothers ago. That’s it.
I’m……… i’m a little drunk n cannot deal with this right now
Yep
The advent of agriculture around 9500BC was about 450 mothers ago
you can’t just say shit like that without a warning
Because I am feeling ridiculously fannish about Wonder Woman at the moment, and because I am a nerd with too much time on her hands on a Sunday evening, here are a few interesting tidbits for you taken from the Wonder Woman IMDB page (with a little help from Wikipedia).
There are 17 named Amazons in the credits (plus 15 actresses listed as guards, warriors, or townspeople.) 11 of the 17 named characters have their ages listed.
Average age = 41.4 years
Oldest Amazon = 57 years
Youngest Amazon = 26 years
7 Amazons played by actresses 40 or older
Connie Nielsen (Hippolyta) and Robin Wright (Antiope) are both 51 years old.
Of the 32 women listed as playing Amazons in the credits, half if not more are women of color (not all the actresses had photos on their page).
These women are of all shapes and sizes. There are stuntwomen, personal trainers and at least one boxer.
tl;dr = when you put women in charge of making a movie about a female superhero and the culture in which she is raised, you get something more realistic than 85% of the movies out there – superhero related or not.
I KNEW THERE WAS A LOT OF AMAZON WOC BUT SOMEONE TOOK THE TIME TO LOOK AT THE CREDITS AND COUNT!! Thanks!
It was very noticeable to me that a lot of the Amazons were older women, and it made me very very very happy.
So apparently in my sister’s class, there was a trans girl that had been on the cheerleading squad for a while. When she came out, the other girls on the squad made the agreement that whatever boy made fun of her would never get a date. And if you think that’s not the most metal girl alliance ever, you can sit down.
Cheesy is one of the words banned in my world. I’m tired of sincerity being something we have to be afraid of doing. It’s been like that for 20 years, that the entertainment and art world has shied away from sincerity, real sincerity, because they feel they have to wink at the audience because that’s what the kids like. We have to do the real stories now. The world is in crisis.
I wanted to tell a story about a hero who believes in love, who is filled with love, who believes in change and the betterment of mankind. I believe in it. It’s terrible when it makes so many artists afraid to be sincere and truthful and emotional, and relegates them to the too-cool-for-school department. Art is supposed to bring beauty to the world.
im bi but I tend to get crushes on fictional male characters more that real men and real women more than fictional female characters
so I guess I like to concept of men
i think this is a common feeling because men are written with such depth and complexity, whereas fictional women are not only few and far between, but are written half-assedly and from a place of little understanding of a woman’s standpoint.
meanwhile, real women are lovely and complex people, and real men are mostly just potatoes.
Jen Richards really living up to that twitter handle SmartAssJen
when i was five, and romance didn’t exist for boys, it did exist for me. “she’s going to break hearts one day,” people said, speaking about me over my head. i smiled, because that is something little girls are supposed to be pleased to hear.
when i was six i was supposed to kiss my best friend because he was a boy, and when i wouldn’t, he pushed me down hard enough that my palms bled. he said if i told a teacher, he’d tell everyone i kissed him and i was bad at it. i washed off in the school’s bathroom sink and cried about it all through recess.
at eight, i stopped wearing dresses because i couldn’t turn cartwheels in them. “a tomboy,” somebody said about me, over my head, as if i couldn’t hear them. i said, “i don’t want to be a boy,” and they laughed. “we know, sweetness.” i said, “i’m not sweet, i’m serious,” and they laughed again. “you’re cute,” they said. i smiled at that, because that’s something little girls are supposed to be pleased to hear.
at nine, i had too many friends that were boys. “i don’t like it,” my father said, standing in the kitchen. i didn’t understand it. “your body is going to start changing soon, and i don’t want those boys looking at you. i don’t like it,” he’d repeat. we moved away that summer. i lost everybody.
when i was eleven, my teacher took me out of the classroom and asked me to put on another layer because even though it was hot in there, all of the boys were staring at the little forming bumps on my chest. i remember embarrassment spiking down my spine like lightning. i begged my mother to take me bra shopping. it was terrible there, in those bright stores with bright lights and beautiful women with tight thighs. it was terrible and embarrassing to touch or look at or even think about these things.
at thirteen, my best guy friend wrestled me to the ground and covered me in kisses no matter how much i asked him to stop it. “it’s supposed to be like this,” he kept repeating, “just stop struggling.” he told me i was pretty and lovely and that boys and girls can’t be friends. he told me to stop being so mad at him, that little girls are supposed to be pleased about these things.
the same winter, i was catcalled for the first time in my whole life. i jumped when the car pulled up by my side. they said “baby” over my head as if i wasn’t who they were discussing. i didn’t smile about it. i had to sit down to stop myself from vomiting.
when i was fifteen, half of my friends were boys. my best friend was in love with me. he told me i was breaking his heart. he said that if i didn’t love him back, he’d have nothing to live for anymore. the story with the rest of them is all the same. either they left me or they thought they fell in love with the idea of somebody i wasn’t.
that summer when i was sad – and i was sad categorically, always – i tried reaching out. when i turned to the boys, all i heard was, “don’t cut, you’re beautiful,” “don’t kill yourself, you’re so pretty,” “think of the scars, sweetie,” “when you cut yourself, i’m the one who starts bleeding.” i didn’t smile, although i think girls are supposed to be pleased to hear these things. i didn’t know how to say: i don’t feel beautiful, and even if i did, what i’m doing to myself has nothing to do with you, or what i look like, or how fuckable i am to you. instead i told them i was fine, and fixed, and nothing bad was happening.
when he broke my heart, it was because i told him no. when he left, i cried because it hurt to watch my best friend go. when he left, he said that he’d never liked me for my soul: only for my curves, the only real way to measure worth in a girl.
at sixteen, i had only girl friends. they were gentle, and different, and walked me through things. they held my hand when classes got too loud for me, and it meant friendship. they kissed me on the cheeks when i was crying, and it meant friendship. they slept next to me and it was friendship in the way i wasn’t used to. i was used to “stop being a tease,” to “why are you doing this to me.” it was just friendship, and it was excellent.
i was called a dyke, a lesbian, a man-hater. i thought of the men who had hurt me, who had spoken over my head, who had given me their full opinion even though i never asked for it. i was hated by basically everyone. i was sad and lonely so often that i often thought i’d never feel happy again.
at nineteen, in college, i had friends who were boys again, because college boys are supposed to be old enough to see you as a person. they all called me Steve, short for Steven. at first i thought it was some kind of inside joke, that it was cute, that it meant they loved me the way i loved them all. one day while we were both drunk, i asked one of them why they wouldn’t just say my name. he laughed. he said, “god, you’re going to hate me when i explain.” he said that they’d all formed an agreement behind my back that none of them would fuck me, that if i was going to be one of the bros, i couldn’t be a girl to them. i could only be seen as a boy if i wanted to be their friend. he said this all while staring at a point over my head, and tried to kiss me at the end. when i pushed him away, he said, “sorry, steve,” took a breath, “but if i start seeing you as a girl, i’m gonna try to kiss you again.”
i said, “i don’t want to be a boy, though,” and he laughed again.
he said, “i know, sweetie.”
at twenty-two, i am sick of boys who are “nice,” who are “not like other boys,” who are offended when i don’t immediately trust their intentions. i have been hurt over and over and over again. i only talk to about three of my boy friends and the rest i lost because i dared not to fuck them.
at the same time, i kept most of my girl friends. i have had crushes on most of them. it never impacted our relationships. even girls who are gay like i am know that being friends doesn’t mean i owe them. they hold my eyes when i talk to them.
i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry. i love so many people, and many boys are wonderful and charming and excellent. i’m sorry i flinch away from a friendship. i’m sorry i will be cold and unaffectionate and scared of getting too close
it’s just that, since i was five, i was told i break hearts.
girls don’t owe you shit, dude: a polite reply to a post which inadvertently blames girls for distrusting the affections of a guy friend // r.i.d (via inkskinned)
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