the people supporting mike brown are out here tutoring and feeding children, holding vigils, making art, and helping out their community while the whites supporting the cops are calling black people niggers and having slumber parties with the kkk

hyrulelibrary said:

Twilight Princess Zelda was very close to her father when she was a kid. He was the one who taught her how to use a bow and arrow and fight with a sword. Zelda's mother was her tutor and taught her the elegance of being a Princess. The King died in a battle, leaving the Queen and Princess by themselves. Zelda's mother was pregnant, but at childbirth, she died along with the baby. Zelda, with only tutors to guide her, was left as the last royal.

why would you come up with this……………………..

Junjou romantica au where Levi is in love with Eren’s older brother, Erwin, and is a famous erotica writer, basing his stories on his own fantasies of him and Erwin. Eren gets tutored by Levi, and learns of his crush on Erwin. However, Levi is forced to face reality because not only is Erwin straight, he’s now also engaged! Eren gets mad on Levi’s behalf (but Erwin doesn’t know about Levi’s feelings for him) and gives Levi a shoulder to cry on-something he rarely needs or gets.

Levi falls for Eren… Awkwardly showing his affection through borderline rape.

Ponyboy Tutors You

I suck at adding, let alone algebra 1. I’m struggling to just get Ds. I’ll study but once I start the test it’ll all leave my brain.

"Shit, not again!" I said as my teacher passed me my test. It got a 64 on it.

"Didn’t pass?" My classmate Ponyboy asked me.

"Obviously," I turned my paper to him. His eyes got wide, he’s probably never seen a grade that low in his life.

"Need some help?" He asked.

"You offering?" I smiled. He was smart, so this could work out.

"Sure, come by my place later?" He smiled. I nodded and he wrote down his address for me.

————

After school I got a ride to his house. I knocked on the door and real good looking guy answered.

"Hey can I help you?" He smiled.

"Yeah Ponyboy’s gonna tutor me," I laughed pointing at my math book.

"I’ll go get him, my names Sodapop," he let me in then disappeared down the hallway.

"Oh hey Y/N," Ponyboy smiled.

"Hey, ready to get learning?" I winked. He laughed.

"Don’t have too much fun kids," Sodapop laughed.

When we got into Ponyboy’s room I asked him who Sodapop was.

"Oh him? That’s my brother," Ponyboy explained.

"He’s cute," I smirked.

His jaw got tight. “He’s not good at math.”

"Jealous?" I laughed. He blushed. For the next hour he broke down every angle of quadratic equations. It took a while but I was finally starting to get it.

"You better do well on that quiz tomorrow!" He called out to me as I left.

The next day in math we were taking our quiz. He smiled at me as our teacher passed them out.

"Okay I’ll have these graded by the end of the period," our teacher announced.

I was stressing, but the tips Ponyboy gave me really helped.

At the end of the period our teacher passed them back.

"Pony look!" I smiled turning my test to him. I got a 97.

before i even enrolled at college a guy threatened me and called me “it”. we were in a room packed full of people - primarily tutors and teaching staff

i reported him to reception and they told me to tell the guy (who was probably twice my height) to “grow up”. that was their response. fucking Fantastic a++ so glad to be a part of the system :-):-):-)

lmao i remember i was so glad my tutor had cancelled my tutorial and made it reading week so i didn’t have the usual weekly essay to pass up, and forcing myself to be awake waiting for the election results. and everybody screaming on facebook and going fuck yeahhhh when obama won re-election even though it was like 4am where we were

#same for my sis who was on the other side of the pond #”all of new haven is screaming”  #like seriously most of us from outside the US were fucking terrified romney would win #because it was so obvious he didn’t know SHIT about the world #didn’t know the difference between sunni and shi’a #didn’t know what it was like to grow up outside america #just a privileged…frat boy hedge fund manager #we were like “shit he’d be the one to start a war with iran or something” # he just wants to be president but doesn’t grasp the huge responsibility

There were a couple of experiences I had early on that made me aware of what it means to bring histories that leave us fragile into the room. One time a student doing an undergraduate degree in English Literature and Women’s Studies came to my room in tears. She said that a lecturer had shown a film that involved a graphic depiction of rape. When she had being upset by this, he had basically said to her that she was “taking it literally” and that the rape was a metaphor. His assumption of the aestheticisation of rape allowed him to show, and to keep showing a film, with a structural indifference to the effects it might have for some students. Hurt was dismissed as literalism. The same year an MA student in Women’s Studies came to my room also visibly upset. A tutor on a feminist theory course had shown some images from nineteenth century science depicting women’s genitals. Apparently she had left these images in the middle of the table throughout the session, mostly uncommented upon. When a student complained about this at the end of the session, the tutor laughed. I did not hear more about this laughter but I learnt from the fact that it was possible to laugh.

The insistence on one’s right to use certain kinds of materials can become a scathing indifference to how these materials affect others. Neither of these students was asking for the removal of these materials from the classroom. But perhaps their expression of hurt is already heard as censoring. And that’s what is at stake here: how hurt is heard as wrong (you are wrong to be hurt) and as an imposition. An imposition here is what is treated as alien (out of place) and, in the academic context, it is something that would get in the way of our freedom, of our freedom to show what we do, to do what we show. No wonder those who ask us to change how we introduce certain materials (as potentially causing harm) have become killjoys: those who get in the way. Hurt itself becomes framed as censoring: as requiring the removal of some offending thing (iiii). But actually the killjoy here is asking for more not less: asking for us to complicate the materials; to situate the materials; to consider how materials can create ripples in how they move us: matter as motion, as deviation. Of course we cannot always anticipate how things affect somebody, but that does not mean we cannot learn about how things are affective by how others are affected. I might be thrown by how you are thrown.

Of course some public expressions of hurt can close spaces down. So too, of course, can public expressions of what some might call reason. It is collective work to keep spaces open especially when we are talking about histories that hurt. No wonder feminist spaces are tense, intense.(iiiii)

Feminist hurt. We might say if hurt brings us to feminism, feminism can also hurt (from feminist hurt to feminism hurts). We might let ourselves be hurt all over again. When I teach, I teach about things that still hurt. I am willing this still. When I write, I stay close to the histories of violence. Sometimes I write with tears, in tears. I read the work that reminds me of this hurt: I read about racism, sexism, injury, injustice. These words become life-lines too, allowing me to live on by going on.

Hurt: still. We are moved because it hurts still.

We are not over it; it is not over.

— 

Feminist Hurt/Feminism Hurts

The desire to get over suffering is of course an understandable desire, one that might express a longing to do more than describe social relations of force and harm. Rosi Braidotti suggests in her work on affirmative ethics that “repugnant and unbearable events do happen” but then concludes that “ethics consists however in reworking those events into positive relations” (13). She argues that “paradoxically, it is those who have already cracked up a bit, those who have suffered pain and injury, who are better placed to take the lead in the process of ethical transformation” (14). Perhaps the relationship between leadership and suffering is only paradoxical if we assume that suffering is stifling. We learn from what Braidotti rightly points out: those who have been undone by suffering can be the agents of political transformation.

We might need to attend to bad feelings not in order to overcome them, but to learn by how we are affected by what comes near, which means achieving a different relationship to all our wanted and unwanted feelings as a political as well as life resource.

I think what can be underestimated even within some feminist work is the difficulty of giving our attention to – and sustaining our attention on – certain forms of suffering. The desire to move beyond suffering in reconciliation, the very will to “get over it” by asking others to “get over it” means those who persist in being hurt become causes of general unhappiness. Their suffering becomes transformed into disappointment that we cannot simply put such histories behind us.

My exploration of the figure of the melancholic migrant in The Promise of Happiness(2010) was also about how some forms of hurt become understood as what stops us from just “getting along.” The melancholic migrant is the one who is too attached to their own injury; who won’t let go. And from the mobility of this figure, we can hear an injunction: let go! Just let go!

The scripts often imply more; they attach the problem of bad feeling to how those who are the problem understand that feeling. The melancholic migrant is the one who won’t let go of the pain of racism by letting go of racism as a way of understanding that pain. It as if the insistence on being hurt by racism is what stops racism from just “going away.”

This is why I think the refusal to let go of an injury might require a certain willfulness. We might have to become stubborn just to hold on.

And I keep wanting to say: slow down. Listen.

Bad feelings are creative responses to histories that are unfinished. They are not the only responses. And we are not finished.

"Blake." Oh no. Here came trouble. Weiss was stomping. "How in the name of Remnant do you explain this?

Blake peered over the edge of her book and frowned. “Is that… my exam? Were you snooping through my things?”

Weiss gasped, utterly affronted that she would be accused of sinking so low. “Of course not. I found this lying around on your desk like some sort of gruesome war trophy,” - Blake squinted loudly - “Since when are your grades better than mine? You have to tutor me!”

"What."

"Tutor me. As in I pay you to help me excel academically." Weiss went so far as to rub her fingers together, hinting at all the lien that could be hers.

"I… don’t take bribes." She turned the page. Weiss continued to hover, not taking the hint. "I’ll do it for free."

Blake yelped as Weiss pulled her book down and away from her face. “A pleasure to be doing business with you, Ms. Belladonna, our future salutatorian!”

ixwantxtoxhelp

Malikai sat impatiently in the library at the school, not only was he failing a class but he had to get tutored by a freshmeat. Tapping his boot against the table leg with his arms folded slouching back in the chair, he wondered where this kid was at.

" He has 3 minutes or I’m out. "

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