March 20, 2013

sigfodrA version for tumblr that can be read without opening a new tab, since plenty of people would scroll past this story otherwise.

Malala Yousafzai (Pashtoملاله یوسفزۍ‎; Urduملالہ یوسف زئی‎ Malālah Yūsafzay, born 12 July 1997)[2][4] is a Pakistani school pupil and education activist from the town of Mingora in the Swat District of Pakistan’s Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province, and the youngest nominee for the Nobel Peace Prize in history.[10] She is known for her education and women’s rights activism in the Swat Valley, where the Taliban had at times banned girls from attending school.[4][5] In early 2009, at the age of 11/12, Yousafzai wrote a blog under a pseudonym for the BBC detailing her life under Taliban rule, their attempts to take control of the valley, and her views on promoting education for girls

On 9 October 2012, Yousafzai was shot in the head and neck in an assassination attempt by Taliban gunmen while returning home on a school bus.[17] In the days immediately following the attack, she remained unconscious and in critical condition,[18] but later her condition improved enough for her to be sent to a hospital in the United Kingdom for intensive rehabilitation.

/

She’s fifteen. Incredible.

March 20, 2013
In America by Carrie Rudzinski

*I wasn’t planning on posting this poem until it was published in the upcoming collection “Best Poems of WOWPS” that it was selected for - but in light of the recent Steubenville verdict and CNN coverage, I could not stay silent.*


The first hitchhiker
I ever picked up
I dropped off in the wrong place.
We were both backpackers –
young, dirty, and foreign.
I was so excited to help,
I didn’t even realize my mistake
until I was too far
to turn around.
I’d left him on a busy overpass –
gray eyes and tired hands
to search for another way out.
 
The first time I hitchhiked
I kept my three inch knife
clutched in a fist
inside my bag the whole time.
They were the only ones who stopped:
thick set country boys,
dogs barking in the bed
of their black pick up truck.
I was suddenly so grateful
for my baggy clothes –
my unwashed hair –
their harmless questions –
but I never shook the doubt in my gut –
and I didn’t look back when I finally got out.
 
You could not pay me enough money
to hitchhike in America.
 
In America, no one looks at you
and everyone stares.
In America, fear is a gender
I am too familiar with.
In America, the street is a river
and all of the men are drowning.
All of the men need you to save them.
All of the men need you.
All of the men have been raised to believe
women are supposed to fuck them.
All of the men expect you to fuck them.
In America, she was asking for it.
In America, I walk with my keys shoved between my knuckles.
All of my retorts burn in the wildfire of my throat.
My eyes are sidewalks.
My body: a used noose.
Every voice is a corner –
a dog fight –
a humiliation.
 
America says, “That poor girl in India –
only in the Third World –
how could six men rape her
and no one do anything?”
 
In America, I walk down the street
and a boy leans out of his car
to scream “Yo Slut! Pull down your hood!”
In America, I am with my boyfriend
when a man hisses in my ear
“Hey sexy”
so that he and I have a secret.
So that he and I are he and I.
So that I will flinch when the next man
stares for too long.
In America, a man pretended to masturbate on me
during a poetry show
because I was too much talk
and not enough take.
Because my mouth was a siren –
A hive –
Because no one called him
a misogynist after the show but me.
 
In America, we are taught
to scream the word “FIRE”
if being assaulted because no one
will help us if we yell “RAPE.”
 
In America, six members
of the high school football team
can show photos of the girl
they pissed on
and raped
and no one will do anything.
Their male authority figures will condone it.
Rape is an American Past Time: A National Sport.
In America, she shouldn’t have gotten so sloppy.
In America, boys will be boys.
In America, twenty two elected Senators can oppose
The Violence Against Women Act.
In America, when you type the word “rape”
into Google the first option to pop up
is RAPE JOKES.
 
In America, my body belongs
to the first person who demeaned it:
the boy who broke up with me
because I wouldn’t have sex with him.
The one who taught me to find something
to burn. To mold. To shrink. To hate –
My worth stolen like a bicycle in the night –
a yellow blur in the dark.
 
In America, I am always searching
for another way out.
In America, I am always on fire.
I am always on fire.
 
 

© Carrie Rudzinski 2013 carrierudzinski:

(via kathleenjoy)

March 19, 2013
theparisreview:

A Woody Guthrie notebook page, Coney Island, 1947. Guthrie had drawn and painted for nearly as long as he’d been writing and singing songs, a kind of lifelong visual diary. His works are full of freewheeling, hot-blooded, irreverent wit and big-hearted intelligence. As the man himself suggested, nobody could illustrate Guthrie better than Guthrie.
From issue 177, Summer 2006.

theparisreview:

A Woody Guthrie notebook page, Coney Island, 1947. Guthrie had drawn and painted for nearly as long as he’d been writing and singing songs, a kind of lifelong visual diary. His works are full of freewheeling, hot-blooded, irreverent wit and big-hearted intelligence. As the man himself suggested, nobody could illustrate Guthrie better than Guthrie.

From issue 177, Summer 2006.

March 19, 2013

Before I die…  New Orleans  (5623)

via claytoncubitt 

Before I die…  New Orleans  (5623)

via claytoncubitt 

(via kathleenjoy)

March 15, 2013
For two months
I have not writtena word.My voice, a lowgrumble, disturbsour quarterlike the rumbleof the millstonewhich having nothing to grindgrinds itself.
—Gevorg Emin, “The Block” (translated from the Armenian by Diana Der Hovanessian). theparisreview
Photography Credit Fred Herzog (via)

For two months

I have not written
a word.

My voice, a low
grumble, disturbs
our quarter

like the rumble
of the millstone
which having nothing to grind
grinds itself.

Gevorg Emin, “The Block” (translated from the Armenian by Diana Der Hovanessian). theparisreview

Photography Credit Fred Herzog (via)

March 13, 2013

Hope For The Best… Prepare For The Worst

via anoncentral

Hope For The Best… Prepare For The Worst

via anoncentral

(Source: basedinternet, via justwakethefuckup)

March 11, 2013
The food you eat or brush you’re using may have been made by a worker earning less than a dollar an hour — not in the developing world, but in the invisible workforce inside America’s prisons. Share this if you oppose prison labor for profit. 
 Source: http://ow.ly/iwTlY
When I was in prison I worked 3 shifts a day, 5 days a week, starting at 5 AM and ending at 8 PM. I was paid $5.25 a month. Pay for the inmates who facilitate UNICOR workers (by making their food, washing their laundry, etc,) is even lower than the wages cited in the above graphics. The prison industry is also a slave industry, and it isn’t just corporations who benefit. All the furniture you see in federal buildings, post offices, DMVs, etc, where do you think it comes from? Prison labor. I think a lot of people know about states that use prison labor for license plates, but fewer people know that the plaques on doors at city halls, and sometimes the doors themselves, come from prison labor. The incarcerated are a hyper-exploited class unto themselves, and almost no one seems to be helping them to organize.
93 cents is a little on the high side. In NYC’s Rikers Island, the largest prison in the world with 11,000 prisoners, raised their prisoners wage to 39 cents per hour during the Sandy recover. 
Of the estimated 11,000 inmates, 92 to 95 percent of the Rikers population is black or Latino. Yet whites make up the majority (44%) of NYC’s population.
via anarcho-queer

The food you eat or brush you’re using may have been made by a worker earning less than a dollar an hour — not in the developing world, but in the invisible workforce inside America’s prisons. Share this if you oppose prison labor for profit. 


Source: http://ow.ly/iwTlY

When I was in prison I worked 3 shifts a day, 5 days a week, starting at 5 AM and ending at 8 PM. I was paid $5.25 a month. Pay for the inmates who facilitate UNICOR workers (by making their food, washing their laundry, etc,) is even lower than the wages cited in the above graphics. The prison industry is also a slave industry, and it isn’t just corporations who benefit. All the furniture you see in federal buildings, post offices, DMVs, etc, where do you think it comes from? Prison labor. I think a lot of people know about states that use prison labor for license plates, but fewer people know that the plaques on doors at city halls, and sometimes the doors themselves, come from prison labor. The incarcerated are a hyper-exploited class unto themselves, and almost no one seems to be helping them to organize.

93 cents is a little on the high side. In NYC’s Rikers Island, the largest prison in the world with 11,000 prisoners, raised their prisoners wage to 39 cents per hour during the Sandy recover

Of the estimated 11,000 inmates, 92 to 95 percent of the Rikers population is black or Latino. Yet whites make up the majority (44%) of NYC’s population.

via anarcho-queer

(Source: socialismartnature, via justwakethefuckup)

March 10, 2013

By turn hilarious and haunting, poet Shane Koyczan puts his finger on the pulse of what it’s like to be young and … different. “To This Day,” his spoken-word poem about bullying, captivated millions as a viral video (created, crowd-source style, by 80 animators). Here, he gives a glorious, live reprise with backstory and violin accompaniment by Hannah Epperson.
Please watch…it’s 12 minutes of your life,

March 6, 2013
"

There isn’t a word for walking out of the grocery store
with a gallon jug of milk in a plastic sack
that should have been bagged in double layers

—so that before you are even out the door
you feel the weight of the jug dragging
the bag down, stretching the thin

plastic handles longer and longer
and you know it’s only a matter of time until
bottom suddenly splits.

There is no single, unimpeachable word
for that vague sensation of something
moving away from you

as it exceeds its elastic capacity
—which is too bad, because that is the word
I would like to use to describe standing on the street

chatting with an old friend
as the awareness grows in me that he is
no longer a friend, but only an acquaintance,

a person with whom I never made the effort—
until this moment, when as we say goodbye
I think we share a feeling of relief,

a recognition that we have reached
the end of a pretense,
though to tell the truth

what I already am thinking about
is my gratitude for language—
how it will stretch just so much and no farther;

how there are some holes it will not cover up;
how it will move, if not inside, then
around the circumference of almost anything—

how, over the years, it has given me
back all the hours and days, all the
plodding love and faith, all the

misunderstandings and secrets
I have willingly poured into it.

"

“There Is No Word,” Tony Hoagland (via commovente)

(via notsoterriblymisanthropic)

March 5, 2013

15-year-old Fabienne Cherisma, who was shot and killed by police in Haiti after stealing two two plastic chairs and three framed pictures.

At the Swedish Picture of the Year Awards, photojournalist Paul Hansen was recognised as International News Photographer and won the International News Image for his image of Fabienne.

The second photo is by Nathan Weber.