act of resistance

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#DefendDACA: Donald Trump announced that he is repealing the program known as Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA), which allows immigrants who entered the country as minors to receive a renewable two-year period of deferred action from deportation and eligibility for a work permit. Many undocumented minors will be at risk of being deported to a country they know nothing about. New York, a city of immigrants, showed up at Foley Square to stand with immigrants and defend DACA. 

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If you are like me and don’t like talking on the phone, here’s a really easy way to get a message to your members of Congress! It’s called ResistBot. Text ‘Resist’ to 50409 and follow the instructions. It’s really simple, and quick! I did it in about 10 minutes, but it could take 5 for some people. I sent a fax to each of my Senators, and tomorrow ResistBot is going to text me a reminder to send a fax to my Representatives!

21 things black men don’t hear often enough

1. I love you bro. We don’t tell each other as men how much we mean to each other. There is no weakness in that. Only strength, solidarity, and power.

2. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to commit to getting better.

3. Someone is depending on you, to be exactly who you are.

4. Read more. You have time to read 12 books a year (which is more than the average American). We also aren’t average.

5. Showing and sharing your emotions isn’t a sign of weakness. Paying attention to how we feel helps us become more in tune with what’s actually going on.

6. Your mental health matters. You can’t “work yourself” out of your mind. Emotional trauma is very real and worthy of our time. We’ve been through a lot recently.

7. Living is an act of resistance. You are going to live, get out all these dreams, and thrive – despite the odds.

8. You are a descendent of kings. Seriously, don’t bow your head to life. You were built for this.

9. Their opinion won’t pay your bills, or build your dreams. They won’t always see your vision. Not everyone is supposed to.

10. Failure isn’t a tattoo. Learn how to take the Ls and move on. Adapt and overcome.

11. Getting this money, and doing good, aren’t mutually exclusive. You just have to be clear on your non-negotiables and stand by them.

12. You don’t have to ask for permission to be excellent. Go for it.

13. “Everybody eat’s b” – Ace Boogie. Seriously, we can all get what we want to out here. Helping people doesn’t make you a sucker. Do have boundaries though.

14. There is absolutely nothing wrong with working for someone else (even if you’re from Harlem), but it pays to think like an owner. Signing the front of a check is very different than the back.

15. #BLACKLIVESMATTER

16. If someone knocks you for your 9-5, they (1) aren’t your friends and (2) they don’t know about your 6-10. Keep going.

17. Start owning when you can. Pay yourself first. These loans ain’t loyal.

18. We don’t need to prove anything to anyone. You’re excellent and it’s perfectly okay to still be warming up.

19. Try to take care of yourself. I love Popeyes, but what we put in ourselves can actually kill us. Exercise, eat well, and get active. Put some $$ on your jumper, and invite your team out!

20. Learning how to cook is a great look. Seriously. Watch a couple Youtube videos, hit Home Goods, and start cheffing.

21. “Someday” is never going to show up on the calendar. Write that book, send that tweet, record podcast. Don’t opt out, especially not right now.

16 May, Romani Day of Resistance.

Romani are usually excluded whenever the topic of the Holocaust/WW2 comes up, so it’s not all too surprising that the Romani Day of Resistance is very unknown to the majority. But it should be celebrated and embraced since it represents a change in the way Romani culture and identity appear in public space - where a history of resistance replaces a history of oppression:

  • On 15 May 1944, the underground resistance movement in the Auschwitz, Birkenau concentration camp BIIe warned the Roma that the SS guards were planning to round up the nearly 6,000 Roma and Sinti prisoners and send them to the gas chambers. 
  • On the morning of 16 May, the Romani prisoners did not show up for the usual morning roll call and ceased cooperating with the SS guards.
  • The Roma barricaded themselves into their shanties. They had broken into an equipment warehouse and armed themselves with hammers, pickaxes and shovels, taking apart the wooden sections of the bunks they slept on to make wooden stakes. 
  • When the SS guards approached the area, they were met with armed resistance from the inmates. 
  • The prisoners forced the guards into retreat, and though some prisoners were shot that night, the act of resistance allowed the Roma and Sinti prisoners to put off execution for several more months.
  • The SS were in shock because they had completely failed to anticipate this resistance. Concerned they might lose more men and that the uprising might spread to other parts of Auschwitz, they retreated from camp BIIe.
  • No Roma died in the gas chambers that day. The Nazis subsequently put the prisoners of BIIe on a starvation diet.
  • Later, on 23 May 1944 the Nazis moved 1,500 of the strongest Romani prisoners to Auschwitz I, many of whom were then sent to Buchenwald concentration camp.
  • On 25 May 1944, 82 Romani men were transported to the Flossenburg concentration camp and 144 young Romani women were sent to the Ravensbrück concentration camp.  
  • Less than 3,000 Romani prisoners remained in the family camp at BIIe, most of them children.
  • On 2 August 1944, the Nazis gassed all the remaining Romani prisoners to death in gas chamber V, although the Roma fought back on that dark night as well.

In Hungary the 2nd of August was designated in 2005 by the Parliament as “Roma and Sinti Genocide Remembrance Day”, yet most European countries make no or insufficient mention of the Roma victims in their official position regarding the Holocaust. 

Roma are still misrepresented by stereotypes that overshadow our culture and real identity and it should be needless to say that Europe should put some effort on making the Roma genocide widely known and recognized, to serve as a counter force to the increasingly violent rhetoric and action against the Roma because and through them. Yet it does not seem like anything like that will happen any time soon. 

& Yes, please reblog this to make at least some of our history known.

For those wanting to help – text “resist” to 50409. The bot will ask your name and zip code to find the officials in your area. It will then send a fax to each official for you.

Sample script:

“Hello, my name is Jane Smith. I’m a constituent from New York, zip code 10001. I don’t need a response. I am opposed to the repeal of the Affordable Care Act and I strongly encourage the Senator to please oppose any type of repeal. Thank you for your hard work!”

anonymous asked:

You always seem to have all the answers. What do we do to stop Trump? I feel helpless. I know of the elections in November for Senate, Congress, etc. what can we do in the meantime?

I took this question really seriously, so I asked my parents to help me answer this. Here is what my dad said: 

Here is what my mom said: 

Here is what I say: 

First of all, I am sorry for referring to you as “kid” to my folks. It was just a shorthand I used for them to understand in a simple way that I think you are someone younger than they are. They are professors/teachers, and are often tasked with communicating effectively with young people. (also, sorry if my dad misgendered you? I guess kid = boy in his head)

Next: Yes. To what my parents said. When I feel helpless I often turn to them because they are so blisteringly smart and compassionate, and if I seem strong and like I have all the answers, it’s because I come from an incredibly supportive family. I wanted to share that with you. 

  1. Furthermore, staying informed in the time of “alternative facts” is an act of resistance. Knowing is half the battle. There’s an app called Countable that will keep you informed of the latest developments in your local government and issues you care about. 
  2. Because our representatives are firmly planted in the last century, online activism doesn’t cut through the noise to them—but phone calls do. Here is a website called 5calls.org that helps you make those calls with a script, and is especially effective if you (like me) have social anxiety. 
  3. Here is a great “Stop Trump” reading list that @batlordart compiled. 
  4. Don’t focus on a mountainous goal like “stopping Trump” and instead expend your energy on things that will make you happier and healthier.
  5. Thriving is our first act of resistance.
  6. Don’t despair. I could vibrate with the conviction of how fiercely I believe it: we will get through this.

The Resistance, or protests against Trump beginning since November 8th of 2016, fights for peace and justice for all people. However, Pepsi recently decided that they want to fight for peace and justice for all people…while selling cans of their soda for loads of money.

In the recent 2-minute commercial, Kendall Jenner is modeling in front of photographers while a demonstration is taking place outside the modeling studio. The commercial features small clips of couples kissing, a hijabi Muslim taking pictures, among Trump opposers protesting in the streets. Later, Kendall removes herself from the studio and joins in on the demonstration by giving one police officer a Pepsi; as a result of her valiant act, the Resistance cheers, and multiple people begin drinking Pepsi.

This is problematic in so many ways, so let’s break it down:

1. Kendall Jenner is obtaining fame through a political commercial, yet she has never been political before this.

Besides mentioning her approval and support for then-candidate Hillary Clinton, Kendall has absolutely done no protesting of Trump and his radical policies. In an Instagram post, Jenner announced her support of Clinton, captioning one of her photos as “Shirt by @themarcjacobs. History by @hillaryclinton.” Despite being a female member of one of the most outspoken families in the country, Kendall Jenner has failed to attend little to any protests. But some protests weren’t in her area, so we’ll just let that slide… wrong. Kendall Jenner failed to attend the Women’s March, a series of protests held around the entire globe, even in remote places with small populations.

2. Pepsi is appropriating the Resistance for money.

Pepsi also, as a company, has never taken a stance on politics. Similar to Kendall’s issue, Pepsi is using their platform not to provoke change, but to make money off of the suffering of others.

3. Kendall Jenner wasn’t arrested, but Ieshia Evans was.

In 2016, Ieshia Evans was arrested by the police for protesting the death of Alton Sterling in Baton Rouge. The photo sparked controversy, but a similar set-up occurred in this Pepsi video. Kendall came face to face with the police, but instead of receiving handcuffs, she gave them a Pepsi and receive cheers and applause. The Huffington Post says:

The image of Jenner approaching the police line is all too similar to the widely shared photo of Black Lives Matter protester Ieshia Evans in Baton Rogue in 2016, as Elle notes. Unlike Jenner, however, Evans was arrested. If only she had a Pepsi in hand.

This is just one of the countless examples of when celebrities use their fame to exploit national crises and obtain money. Like Gigi Hadid embracing her Palestinian side, the rest of Taylor Swift’s white girl squad is appropriating the struggles of millions of Americans.

  • mfw i realize i wasted my day: 😧
  • mfw i realize that the concept of wasting my day comes from the flawed capitalistic concept that "time is money" meaning every moment not spent/invested in producing does not have value. but there's no need to view time through such a rigidly financial lens, and not only is it not possible to "waste" my day, but doing so is an act of resistance and self-assertion against a system designed to injure and exploit those it dominates: 😎
What I want Daddy to do to me

I want him to push me up against the wall, my cheekbones and breasts pressed into said wall painfully from the force of his body. I want him to grab a fistful of my hair and yank my head to the side and expose the soft flesh where my shoulder meets my neck and I want him to sink his teeth into my flesh with such force that he draws blood and the imprint is left there for days.

I want him to spit into his hand and stroke the tight little hole no one has ever touched before, using his saliva to make fucking my ass easier for him. I want him to start pushing his cock in with no warning, and to meet any act of resistance from me with roughness, sharp words, name calling, things that tell me my full and complete surrender to whatever he wants to do to me is my only option. I want him to remind me of the advantage his size gives him, that he’s both bigger and stronger than me and can make me do whatever he wants and make me fully awareI have no say in what he does to me.

I want him to call me a little slut when he buries the full length of his cock in my ass, and to laugh at whatever cries of pain that come from me when he starts to fuck me. I want him to yank my hair so hard while he does this that tears come to my eyes. If I cry out that he’s hurting me, I want him to say “good” and do whatever he’s doing to me harder, more roughly. I want him to use the hand that isn’t tangled in my hair and wrap it around my neck, squeezing so tightly I can’t breathe, ignoring any plea for him to stop. I want him to choke me until I’m on the verge of blacking out, and then I want him to suddenly let go.

I don’t want him to wait for me to be able to breathe again. I want him to force me down onto my knees as soon as he releases my neck, and I want him to ram his cock into the back of my throat. I know I won’t be able to take the whole thing, not even close. I know I’ll choke, I know I’ll gag, I know I’ll inevitably throw up. And every time I do, I want him to slap me and tell me I need to learn to take all of him, and slap me again each time I choke. I want him to keep fucking my throat as hard as he can, both hands in my hair, holding my head captive to whatever he wants to do to my mouth, I want him to command me to look at him so he can see the tears in my eyes. I want him to call me a dirty little whore and mock me for not being able to take the entirety of his cock, and for him to spit on me in disgust at my inability.

I want him to pull me up and tell me because I can’t take it, he has to finish some other way. And I want him to push me back up against the wall, drive his cock back into my ass, hard, and laugh when I start to sob at how much pain it causes me. I want him to fuck me as hard as he can, one hand on my throat and the other holding my hip to steady my body so he can fuck my hole while he calls me dirty names and tells me he owns me and all I am is something for him to use as he pleases, until he finishes in my ass. And after, I want him to grab my hair, yank my head around and force me to look him in the eyes. I want him to ask me, “What do you say?”

I’ll tell him, “Thank you, Daddy.” in a voice made hoarse by pain and tears.

And after I tell him that I want him to lean in and whisper, “That’s my good girl.” in my ear.

Thank you, Frederick

It’s World Diabetes Day, the anniversary of Frederick Banting’s birth. Banting discovered insulin, and without his discovery, I’d have died at the age of twelve. In the wake of the election my diabetes and chronic illness advocacy has been neglected to the point where I am only addressing Diabetes Day now, at ten at night. A weird part of me – the part that has normalized an existence wherein I am always one tiny miscalculation, one computer error, one missed test, or forgotten alarm clock setting away from death – has felt like this wasn’t as important anymore. In the face of Trump’s election, I felt compelled to tackle every social injustice I could find. Suddenly it was as if all I’d done for education, science literacy, women’s rights, and diabetes awareness weren’t enough. Why had I not also been more involved in politics? In racial justice? In environmental protection? I felt ineffectual. Flaccid.

But I’m not a super woman, and I don’t know how to fight every injustice (at least not yet!), and I can’t give up fighting the battles I’ve been fighting so long. And after all, my diabetes advocacy does intersect: for with Trump and his team’s threats to the ACA and the heath care social safety net in general, people like me are at very real risk. 

Advocacy requires education, but don’t worry, if you don’t know the story of Banting’s discovery of insulin, it is anything but dull!

You must first imagine a time when diabetes wasn’t a punchline about fat, lazy Americans. Before it was a hashtag accompanying photos of greasy and sugar-filled treats. Before it was something anyone laughed about. It was 1920, and diabetes was a universally feared death sentence that almost always befell children. 

Type 1 diabetes, the type I have, is an autoimmune disease. There is no prevention and there is no cure. It is not caused by diet or “lifestyle”, and it does not discriminate; it can emerge in anyone, from infancy through adulthood, of any level of physical fitness. A full understanding of the disease has not yet been reached, but what is known is that it is at least in part genetic, and is likely triggered by environmental factors such as viral infection. A person develops type 1 when their immune system starts attacking their body’s own insulin-producing beta cells. Without insulin, energy from food consumed cannot enter cells. Before the discovery of insulin, this meant certain death.

In the early 20th century, large hospitals would have entire diabetes death wards, usually filled with children, all slowly succumbing to the disease while their grieving families sat by, waiting for them to die. I can imagine what it would have been like to be a child in such a ward. I can tell you exactly what it feels like to die from diabetes, because I almost did. Twice. 

The first time was when I was twelve. It started as malaise. I was a bit more tired than usual. I was somewhat nauseated a lot of the time. I started to become emotionally depressed. As the month preceding my diagnosis progressed, I became weaker. I did not know that my body was cannibalizing my fat and muscles for energy, that my blood was slowly turning acidic, and that my organs were beginning to fail. My weight dropped rapidly. I was winded walking up a flight of stairs. My vision got a bit blurry and my thinking muddled. And I was so, so, so thirsty. Like, unless you’ve spent three days in the Sahara with absolutely no water, you cannot imagine how thirsty.

Had I not been diagnosed I would have starved to death. The inability of my body to convert food into energy causing me to waste away, and eventually to die from heart attack, stroke, or systemic organ failure as a result of Diabetic Ketoacidocis (acidic blood), slipping mercifully into a coma first…maybe lingering for a few days. And so was the fate of every child before a young Canadian doctor, Frederick Banting, discovered insulin. 

Now picture this in your head: the year is 1922. In a diabetes death ward in a children’s hospital in Toronto, a couple hundred children lie in metal-framed hospital beds. Their bodies are emaciated, some are in comas, all suffered as I suffered. The air is sweet with the smell of their breath and urine, for a diabetic’s breath is like fruit and their urine like honey. Their Gibson Girl mothers weeping, their besuited fathers trying to uphold the emotionless masculinity of their age, their siblings in petticoats and newsboy caps kneeling at their sides. Then a dashing young doctor, Banting, and his partner, Best, enter the ward, insulin syringes in hand. One by one, they begin injecting the children, and by the time they get to the last child, the first have already begun reviving from their comas. 

Suddenly, diabetes is no longer a death sentence. It is a disease that could be managed. Children who were skeletal and comatose become plump and active once more. It is the epitome of the inspirational tale. But this is not a story of hope, because that is not where the story ends.

Managing type 1 is both difficult and expensive. Although insulin is nearly 100 years old, patent-loopholes allow drug companies to keep tight proprietary control over the most effective formulae. A lack of regulation of the pharmaceutical industry in the United States means that US patients often pay more than ten times the price for a bottle of insulin than our fellow diabetics in other countries. The insulin that keeps me alive, Apidra, costs between $280-$480 a vial depending on which US state you buy it in – and bear in mind, depending on the patient one month’s supply can be anywhere from 2 to 10 vials. In Canada, the country of insulin’s discovery, the same vial is about $30. Further, effective type1 management means testing one’s blood sugar 8-20 times daily (each of my test strips costs $2, so that’s up to $40 a day), delivering insulin via syringe or pump (a pump runs between three and seven thousand dollars), using a few other medical odds and ends like sterilization alcohol, medical adhesives, etc., and regular doctor visits. The total annual cost of my diabetes medication and supplies, without which I will die, is about $26,000 before insurance.

That cost is not prohibitive, it is impossible. And because of that, I almost died of diabetes a second time.

Before the ACA, I was uninsurable. My type 1 considered a pre-existing condition. After I was dropped from my dad’s insurance, I had to pay for everything out of pocket because of my uninsurable status. Even re-using single-use only insulin syringes to the point where each injection left a massive bruise on my abdomen, even reusing finger-prick lancets until they were literally too blunt to work anymore, even fasting every other day to take less insulin, I couldn’t afford the cost of my disease. In my mid-twenties I began insulin rationing. I would test my sugar only once a day and take the bare minimum of insulin to keep me alive, keep me working my three jobs.

Then one morning when I was 26, it caught up with me. I’d lost 20 pounds in a month – I woke up vomiting that morning: the Diabetic Ketoacidosis from not getting enough insulin was so extreme that I lost seven more pounds in one day. My roommate drove me to the emergency room where I had five IV lines put in, was put on oxygen, intravenous potassium, and spent three days in Intensive Care. 

President-elect Trump is already waffling on his stance on the ACA, but that doesn’t stave off the real fear of me, other diabetics, and others who have pre-existing conditions for our lives. Literally, we fear for our lives because we know that people like us were left to die before the ACA. We are hoarding our medications and supplies and taking every step we can to hedge against loss of insurance.

I said this was not a story of hope, but neither is it a story of despair. For, like I said, there is a part of me that has normalized fighting for my life. I have done it, in a very literal sense, every minute of every day since I was twelve and a half years old. And so too have other type 1s fought. And so too have type2s fought. And so too have all those with chronic illness and disability fought. We fight because our lives are worth fighting for. Because an enlightened society recognizes our intrinsic value as human beings, despite the flukes in our physiology. We fight because we know that, despite the misconceptions and stereotypes society has about us, we have something to offer humanity: something immense, something those who’ve never had to fight for there lives cannot understand.

Our bodies may be damaged and weak, but we are strong. And we will take our fight to the steps of the White House, to the feet of the men who want to strip us of our means of survival. Who want to strip us of our Right to Life. We will use our damaged, sick, and broken bodies as blockade. We will use our clever and quick thinking minds. For if anyone knows how to fight, it is us. 

Type 1 children, before and after insulin treatment: 

Dr. Frederick Banting, Nobel Laureate for the discovery of insulin: 

Banting and Best, with one of the diabetic dogs they successfully treated:

Thank you, Frederick. 

I’ve been slowly rewatching Supergirl s1, and the most recent episode was ‘Manhunter’  now I really want a fic where Kara and Lucy weren’t able to save Alex.

For, whatever reason, Alex and J’onn were being transported separately.  Maybe it’s protocol to keep alien and human prisoners apart, maybe they wanted a stronger transport for J’onn.  Whatever.

Either way, when Kara and Lucy stop the transport, only J’onn is inside, and they have no idea where Alex is.

Well, they know she’s at Cadmus, but they now have no way to rescue her.

When J’onn goes on the run as a fugitive, it’s to find Alex, not Jeremiah.

Only, if he had succeed he would have found both, because as soon as Jeremiah learnt that Alex was being brought to Cadmus, he made sure she was working with him.

Maybe Jeremiah lies to Alex at first, letting her believe that he is still truly a prisoner, being forced to work.  Maybe he’s upfront and tells her that the work is for good and everything.

It doesn’t really matter which, because Alex refuses to work for Cadmus either way.

Until Jeremiah is convinced that Alex may need to be ‘persuaded’.

And Alex is brainwashed.

Alex is programmed to be a sleeper agent and sent back to the DEO.

Jeremiah pushes her - passed out, beat up, and emaciated - into Kara’s arms when he lets her and Mon-El go.

Keep reading

I’m Jewish and I do not agree with the American Health Care Act (AHCA) that the Republicans are about to put into law.  Not only will it take healthcare away from 24,000,000 Americans, but it does not recognize preexisting conditions such as pregnancy, rape, depression, anxiety, autism, high cholesterol, ulcers, migraines, ADD, addiction, Bipolar Disorder, Cancer, Diabetes, Crohn’s Disease, diabetes, OCD, Tourette’s Syndrome, Kidney Stones, Leukemia, Parkinson’s Disease, Stroke,Sleep Disorders, Sickle Cell Disease, Eating Disorders, Blood Clot, Tuberculosis, Heart Disease, Muscular Dystrophy, Sleep Apnea….

As a Jew, I believe that to “save a life, is to save the world” because all human beings are created “in the Image of God” (Gn. 1:27).

#resist

dear journalists who are tempted to criticize Beyoncé's Grammy performance:

Before you start ranting about how her performance was centered on narcissism and comparing herself to God, here’s a little lesson on the symbolism you missed:

1. Beyonce has already put to rest the notion that she thinks of herself as God. If you watched Lemonade, you’d know this. (This is from the VMAs, I’m aware.)

2. Beyonce has been pictured many times in honey mustard colored clothing. This color symbolizes the Goddess Oshun. Oshun is the African Goddess of love and sweet water. Hence the background dancers moving as waves during Love Drought. Oshun is also known as the “mother of orphans.” Self explanatory.

3. During Love Drought, you see the dancers take each other’s hands and lift them up. This was a reference to the Igbo Landing. Igbo Landing is the location of a mass suicide of Igbo Slaves that took place in 1803. A group of Igbo slaves revolted and took control of their slave ship, grounded it on an island, and as an act of mass resistance, marched into the water singing and drowned themselves rather than submit to slavery.

4. Beyonce also referenced Venus, the Roman goddess of romantic love, beauty, sex, and fertility through her breathtaking gown with sea foam patterns. She also references the Virgin Mary with her headpiece that consisted of a halo that is usually painted around the Virgin Mary to represent purity and tenderness. There were so many more references, but these are just a few.