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8 Times the U.S. Government Gave White People Handouts to Get Ahead

The 1830 Indian Removal Act

With the help of the U.S. Army, Cherokee, Creek and other eastern Native American tribes were forced to relocate west of the Mississippi River to make room for white settlers.

The 1862 Homestead Act

This act gave away an overwhelming number of acreage to white settlers out west — land that had been previously settled by Native Americans. According to California News Reel, nearly 270 million acres of Indian Territory was converted to private property for white settlers.

The 1790 Naturalization Act

Under this legislation, only “free whites” were allowed to become naturalized citizens of the United States. Thus the doors were opened for European immigrants — but not anyone else. The right to vote, serve on juries and hold office was exclusively reserved for American citizens.

The Social Security Act of 1935

Enacted under President Roosevelt’s New Deal, the Social Security Act provided a financial safety net for millions of workers and guaranteed that they would continue to be paid after retirement. But this luxury didn’t extend to everyone, however. The act excluded agricultural and domestic laborers, many of whom were Black, Mexican and Asian.

The G.I. Education Bill, Veteran Administration Housing Authority, and Health Care System

Because of these government programs, (mostly white) members of the armed forces were able to continue their education, guaranteed private housing, and granted access to a public health care system. Many of these benefits were reserved for white veterans, however. For the handful of Black veterans who could participate in these programs, their benefits were still fewer than those of their white counterparts.

The Wagner Act of 1935

Also known as the National Labor Relations act, this legislation gave labor unions the power of collective bargaining, defined unfair work practices, and established consequences if those rules were broken. As unions excluded non-white workers from better paying jobs and benefits like health care, pension, and job security, millions of white workers were able to work their way into the middle class.

Federal Housing Administration

Under this bill, white families were granted home loans, making it possible for them to purchase their very first humble abode. Unfortunately, mortgage eligibility was often tied to race while those living in integrated neighborhoods were deemed a “flight risk” and denied loans.

1960s Jim Crow Laws

These outwardly discriminatory laws not only barred African-Americans from drinking at the same water fountain as whites, but also reserved the best jobs, schools, neighborhoods and hospitals for white people.
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Day One Hundred and Nine

-A young boy yielding a pool noodle thrice his height shouted the word “penis.” He may be only three, but he is well on his way to becoming as mature a man as any.

-A child passing by Starbucks remarked, “Hot chocolate? Like in Polar Express?” I hope that their innocence and enthusiasm are never dampened and that their exposure to liquid goodness goes beyond disturbingly-animated movies.

-I have become something of an attraction to possessed children today. Throughout my shift, upwards of two infants have twisted themselves around 270 degrees in their seat to maintain eye contact with me. I am unsure how best to utilize my legion of demonic toddlers, but I am certain they will come in handy.

-Four twelve year-old girls spent the better part of an hour sprinting throughout the store, and the better part of another hour sitting in a single cart at the front. This gaggle of gals had a large bag of water and a complete lack of supervision. This has potential to be a devastating combination as any of us have seen.

-A nine year-old busted out a surprisingly sick drum solo. With nothing more than a plastic stick, she gave my life a sense of drama which I can only hope to live up to.

-A man left his bag behind. I began to shout after him. A woman behind me chimed in, echoing my calls in a soft whisper. My attempts were not enough. Thankfully, the sound level it took to get his attention was precisely one whisper above a shout, so once again partner and I have triumphed.

-A clean-shaven neckbeard spent his evening compulsively and sporadically dabbing to entertain his friends. Sadly, his attempts at being impressive were entirely in vain, as he was behind them the entire time, and he was dabbing.

Bodhi Rook - Imperial Defector

Just a quick face sketch of Bodhi, he’s my fave of the Rogue One team! I do wish we get at some future point any additional materials about his connection towards Galen Erso, I feel this has potential for exploring good surrogate family topics. :’)

Request: Sharp Objects

Request: HI I love your fics!! could you do a deanxreader where dean broke his right hand on a hunt and can’t shave himself so the reader, with hidden feelings for dean, does it for him with lots of fluff please

Word Count: 1,270

Thank you<3

“Ouch! Jesus Christ, that’s a bitch.” The muffled cursing comes from behind the bathroom door, then followed by the clinking sound of something falling into the ceramic sink, and finally a, “Son of a bitch!”

Despite the laundry pile you’re carrying, you swerve across towards the door and knock a couple of times with your free hand, “Dean? Everything alright in there?”

There’s a moment of silence, and then a short reply, “Fine.”

He’s obviously frustrated – a tone you’ve quickly become accustomed to hearing after dragging him home from the hospital a few days ago. He’d landed badly after being catapulted across the room by an overzealous ghost and broken a hand, whereas Sam had gotten off with a concussion and you’d somehow managed to slip away injury-free – which had inevitably resulted in you skivvying around to cater to their every whim.

While Sam had managed to get over himself somewhat and take it easy while the hellish egg on his head goes down, Dean has been trying to do everything as normal. He hates being laid up like this, and trying to get everything done for himself has just resulted in more hurt and hindrance than help.

You still linger outside the door for a few moments, “Can I help at all?”

He hesitates, and for a long moment you wonder if he’s actually going to accept, “I could use a clean towel.”

“Got one here. Mind opening the door?” You ask, after trying to get in and finding the door locked. Again, a hesitation, but then the door opens, Dean fumbling with his good hand for a few moments to get it undone.

You pride yourself on being able to keep a poker face. Sometimes giving the enemy no indication of your emotions could mean the difference between life and death – sometimes it’s imperative that a victim doesn’t know what you’re thinking. But this time, when it’s important that you don’t make a sound so Dean doesn’t slam the door in your face, you just can’t seem to freaking manage it.

“I know, alright?” He huffs as you sidle into the bathroom and begin draping the towels from the pile over the towel rack, trying desperately not to laugh. It’s not your fault – he’s covered in shaving cream – it’s smudged over his nose and there are even splatters in his eyebrows. It’s all white, apart from a trail of crimson blood slipping down the side of his face.

“You can’t shave left-handed?” You guess, taking note of the razor left in the sink and the cast immobilising his right hand. He sighs wearily, and then nods.

“Nope. I’ve never had to try before, and I was starting to look even more homeless than Sam.” He complains, taking a towel from you when you offer one to him.

“Dean, for crying out loud, you shattered your hand. I think you’re allowed to look homeless for a little while.” You reassure him, balancing the rest of the laundry – mostly jeans and a handful of flannels – on the countertop, “If you really want it sorted, I’ll do it for you.”

As soon as the offer has left your mouth, you regret it – the very idea of managing to get so close to him without blushing like a five year old, or completely losing your breath… impossible. And yet, he nods, smiling ruefully.

“Would you mind? I just… can’t.” He shrugs, and you smile back, nodding and shooing him off towards the closed toilet seat.

“Go on then, sit down.” You instruct, picking up the razor and running the warm tap to clear it off. You let the tap run for a little while, filling the basin, and then approach Dean carefully, “You have to promise to stay still. Usually when I’m so close to someone with something this sharp it doesn’t end very well for them.”

He laughs, leaning back with the force of it, “That’s not encouraging, Y/N.”

“I said I’d do it. I never said I’d do it well.” You remind him with a smile – humour: humour is how you get through this without making a complete idiot of yourself.

“Much appreciated, beautiful.” He winks, and it’s all you can do to force out a snort and place your fingers beneath his chin to tilt his head up a little.

“Mm, whatever you say,” Sometimes it’s difficult not to take his words too seriously, and you have to remind yourself that Dean Winchester can and will flirt with anything that moves – you’re not special to him beyond being good friends and hunting buddies.

“Well, the closer you get, the more I’m thinking it.” He mumbles, remaining still as stone as you skin the razor over his skin smoothly – you’re painstakingly careful, starting on the opposite side to the cut on his lower cheek. He chuckles when you lean back to dunk the razor in the sink, then move back over to him.

“I’ll stay well back, then.” You wink in response, but contradict your own statement by leaning close enough to him that his breath ghosts over your face. His eyes remain trained on your face, watching every movement as you press your lips together, squinting in concentration. You try your best to ignore it, being as careful and steady as your humanly can manage while you get to work.

His eyes don’t leave you until you’re finished, patting down his face with a towel and then handing it to him – only then does he force himself to look away, watching as you clear up and set everything back in its place.

When he finally manages to open his mouth, he’s expecting the words that come out to be ‘thanks, Y/N’ – instead, they’re, “When you’re concentrating, your nose does this funny little thing.”

You turn slowly, quirking an eyebrow in a manner he can only describe as adorable, “Excuse me?”

“It kinda… wrinkles. But just at the tip. Right here.” He taps his own nose, a small smile playing on his lips, “And you blink a lot. I just… never noticed before.” Dean confesses, giving a nonchalant shrug and trying to ask as if he isn’t mortified by the words.

Rather than make a comment, you give a smile, wiping your hands off and stepping back, “I suppose I’m not the kind of person people pay a whole lot of attention to.” It’s not meant to be self-deprecating, but Dean takes it that way nonetheless.

“You have got to be kidding me.” He rolls his eyes, standing up and poking at the cast as if his hand would be magically healed, “Y/N, you turn heads everywhere you go.”

“Yeah, right, of course.”

“Hey, look at me,” He takes your wrist in his hand, turning you to face him properly, “You’re beautiful. Really, truly beautiful. And smart, and kind, and funny. And people notice that. I notice that.”

That’s when your heart really does skip a beat – his eyes are on yours, emeralds glinting in the harsh white light of the bunker’s main bathroom.

“Dean, I-“

“You don’t need to reply to that. Didn’t mean to back you into a corner. Sorry.” Dean smiles sheepishly, scratching at the back of his neck with his good hand – but you shake your head, stepping forward with all of the boldness you can muster.

“I want to.” You assure him, taking his good hand and squeezing it gently, “I don’t care about anyone else noticing. Just you.”

He hesitates, then glances sideways, at the door, “Can I kiss you?” He blurts, flushing red like an embarrassed teenager.

“I’d be offended if you didn’t.”