guilty for being black

We had a interim pastor, and her whole sermon was on Charlottesville. She went on about how painful this all is. How God is in the silence, not in the brutal violence. That we should pray for the victims. Then, all of a sudden, something sparked in her and she called out the congregation saying:

“We are almost all white here, and I know that we are guilty of being silent. Silent when we enslaved. Silent when we destroyed black neighborhoods. Silent when there is police brutality. Silent when our relatives and friends spout bigotry. We cannot be so self righteous. The truth is, we aren’t doing enough. God may love us, but we are not God’s people yet.”

I think I experienced the Holy Spirit through that woman. I need to do more.

12x18 - An episode all about foreshadowing and Dean’s emotional state

So, I have my own POV on season end that I know I talk about a lot, that differs from the, well, proper meta writers, I believe…. so my POV is perhaps slightly different, but for me this episode cements this even further…. and I’ll explain why. 

This whole episode to me is all about misdirection and distraction and has massive foreshadowing for the season finale. It twists and turns through so much misdirection to ultimately lead to Dean being in real danger and Sam killing the monster, twice over, both the human monster and the supernatural being, to hammer the point home. Meanwhile there are a whole lot of references to Cas as well that massively fit with my season conclusion speculation (even though I seem to be relatively in a party of 1 or, well 3 from what I can tell with my chatty buds, but its not universal…).

Originally posted by haidaspicciare

Oh and Dean, wow, well, I’ve seen loads of waitress meta which is all awesome but for me its the comparison of her with the 12x11 waitress that really cements what is going on here in terms of the distraction they bring and Dean’s angst.

Meanwhile this whole episode IS a distraction as Ketch sent them the case to distract them and get them out of the bunker.

There is so much misdirection in this episode.

Under the cut: both waitresses as the exposition for Dean’s sliding scale of emotional angst and how this episode overall foreshadows season end for me.

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jadedbirch  asked:

for the h/c promps, I'm intrigued with what you might do with this: 17. “I don’t know where I am. Help me”

Okay, I haven’t forgotten about these, I swear. I still got one more to do. But here you go @jadedbirch!

I was pissed about this one because it seemed the only way to do it was with a modern AU and i really didn’t want to do that and I mentioned that to El​ and she was just like “Well maybe one of them could say it in a letter.”

“Nah,” said I, “Ima put Flint in a hole.”

note: this is set in the orange universe because i felt guilty about putting canon flint in a hole, he’s been through so much. orange!flint is a loved yet grumpy farmer. in the hole he goes. if you haven’t read that, here’s a summary: they grow oranges, and have sex. 

also happy birthday @ellelan!

17. “I don’t know where I am. Help me”

Flint had never dealt with a hurricane on land. The storms he’d weathered on ships had been frightening, ferocious things, and he’d nearly lost his life on more than one occasion, but it was still preferable to this. At least he’d had things to do.

Sitting in the small cellar beneath his house, ceilings too low to even stand, listening to the storm tearing apart his orange grove with absolutely nothing to stop it – it was a nightmare.

“It’ll be fine,” said Silver. He had yet to let go of Flint’s wrist. “The wind’s just going to knock all the oranges from their branches, and you’ll just have less work to do.”

“That’s the opposite of what I want,” Flint said.

Silver thought about that. “Well, picking them all up off the ground will take a lot of time, most likely.”

Flint did feel better. For a moment.

“I hope the money doesn’t get blown away,” he said idly, listening to the thin wooden door above them rattle with the wind.

Silver said nothing, but it took Flint tugging at his shirt with both hands and the two dozen cats screaming at his foot to get him to sit back down and not go racing into the storm.

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Facts About Myself (After Tucker Bryant)

facts about myself.

some facts about myself:

i’m twenty years old,
i love my middle name,
i don’t eat mustard or sweet peas,
i’m right-handed
and i’ve never met a shrimp that i didn’t like.

i’m from a small town in louisiana, 
population less than 6,000 people.
i’m terrified of getting stung by a bee, i enjoy people watching, long soaks in the tub, laughing for absolutely no reason and spoken word poetry binges on youtube.

i love the color purple, the sounds of nature, gazing up at small town stars. i snort when i laugh and always mix-match my socks.
i’m five-foot-four…
on a really good hair day,
and taking my glasses off turns the world into a vision of bokeh.

i love lists and listening to thunderstorms, good luck getting me out of bed on a rainy morning.
i aggressively do not like one-armed hugs, and always
appreciate a corny joke.
my two left feet are always getting tangled up on nothing,
clumsy would be an understatement.

i can’t sing, but i still do. in the shower, loudly. on my way around campus, to and from class.
sometimes just in my head is enough, so those days I forget 
my headphones at home make riding the bus unbearable.

i have a laugh like rain clap,
a heart that’s wild and untamed. 
i am a sentimental, unusual, 
norm-defying, weird rule breaker 
who questions everything, including myself.
more myself than anything else. i’m still learning not to put too much stock in first impressions.
i’m still unlearning, still uninternalizing.
working on myself without any interruptions from misogynoir, not being ashamed of the double negatives 
in my ebonics or my black and womyn.

i stopped having guilty pleasures.
stopped being ashamed of the things that bring me joy. reminding myself, always that 
what i think is important. 
what i believe is vital.
that it’s okay to erase, 
always okay to change,
to endlessly create myself,
to always be who i want to be.

i’m all one dimpled smiles and social justice rants, sunflower fields
and purple sunsets. 
i’m a huge book nerd, so if you ever ask me if I feel like going to the bookstore … the answer will always be yes.

i used to be unsaid words and bitten tongues, clipped wings and burnt edges. i’m still unlearning what i need to let myself fly.
i am a good book and a warm cup of tea while the rain pours.
cupping myself in my palms,
cradling who i was always meant to be.

i am pressed flowers and lost trains of thought, chipped nail polish and unfinished poetry.
i am unapologetic laughter, crumpled bits and picked scabs, quirky sarcasm and unrequited crushes.
i am a puzzle piece of oxymorons.

i am a quilt of wild tenderness, 
broken taboos and the ocean’s mystery, all stitched together 
with good intentions and contradictions. i know that if your feminism isn’t intersectional, it’s bullshit.
and that most times, 
you have to be the womyn of your own dreams, have to be your own standard of beauty.

i know that it takes strength 
to stay soft and vulnerable 
in the face of this world’s flames,
and that you have to learn 
to use your heart like a seatbelt 
in this twisted road trip life.

i am the chewed fingernails 
that this thing called anxiety
has spent years gnawing on,
i’m still learning how to untie the knotted rope it sometimes turns my stomach into, how to stop it when it fishes for and reels my tongue back into itself.

i know that the world is a recycling bin. there’s nothing new under the sun, but that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t tell your story anyway.
i’m spilling my secrets like constellations, connecting parts of me together and spilling them on pages.
i know that my second heart lives in my pen, transliterating my thoughts into poetry, writing out loud until my breaking becomes a metaphor.
i’ve been a writer for as long as i can remember, but i only recently began the radical act of self love that is stepping on stage, feeding the garden sprouting in the pit of my stomach,
these succulents and sunflowers,
the sunsets resting in the apples of my cheeks,
violets blooming from my eyes.

somedays i feel more like a pen running out of ink, left with only the spaces of myself.
i’m still learning self love like a broken mirror, like a training wheel tricycle, stumbling and spilling into myself.

despite everything this world throws at my hopeless romantic heart,
i still believe in happy endings.

i just want to make my ten year old self proud.

anonymous asked:

As a black person it just sucks how little you're acknowledged if you're not attractive in the typical way. All groups of people are guilty of that but being called weird by fellow black ppl particularly hurts. I'm never going to look like them and the way we treat the "other" hurts so much

I’m so sorry sweetie. I know what you mean about it being a special type of hurt when other Black folks go out of their way to hurt you.

The Bell and the Abyss

So we always kind of assumed the Bell of Awakening woke up Frampt. He was very sleepy after all. But now I’m starting to think that isn’t true after all, and it actually resurrected Gwyn.

The large sepulcher of Gwyn that his son tended to for so long was always odd. It wasn’t there to fake his death; such an artifice would have been more public. I always pictured Gwyn down there, burning in perpetuity until someone mercy killed him, but now I think that’s not the case.

Gwyn linked the fire and the knights AND Gwyn turned to ash, and he was interred in the sepulcher in Anor Londo (the knights turning to ash was unambiguously canon, but we always just assumed Gwyn would have been different and resisted it). Then, the Bell of Awakening reconstituted him and woke his ass up and he either crawled out of his tomb in his madness and warped into the Kiln or reappeared at the bonfire where he linked the flame.

I guess summoning sickness really gets to you when you’re resurrected by the Bell, because Gwyn came back diminished and mad - not hollow, no, only humans and dogs for some reason seem to go hollow, but he was a mad lord of cinder by that time.

It seems that linking the fire is, as one would expect, a terribly traumatic experience that even the bravest heroes would never want to undergo again.

Which raises the question of why Ludleth of Courland did not go mad.

Ludleth came across the Untended Graves long ago, after the failure of Champion Gundyr to link the fire - it had already gone out long before.

There, Ludleth found his firekeeper dead without a purpose, her soul abandoned in the tower. And there, in that world of Dark, lie the eyes of the first firekeeper. Ludleth explains that one can use these to restore the sight of a firekeeper, but it would be more merciful to protect her from the truth. After all, all firekeepers since the beginning have been blind.

Except that cannot possibly be true. We have met several firekeepers in DSI and DSII, and the only one that was confirmed to be blind was a sickly, poisoned daughter of Izaleth, blinded by different factors that her binding to the flame. One of them was even a skilled swordswoman capable of recognizing you on sight.

Ludleth wants to conceal the Darkness-shrouded nature of the Shrine from the Firekeeper. Because the Untended Graves is essentially another extention of the Abyss, devoid of Fire. “A barren plane of endless darkness. A place born of betrayal.” So Ludleth willed himself a lord to link the fire. To paint a new picture.

Ludleth speaks, off-handedly, of betrayal, and claiming the eyes would cause the Firekeeper to invision “scenes of betrayal,” one reason why she should not be given the eyes (indeed, the eyes allow you to perform the “Betrayal” ending). He is wracked by guilt, and even apologizes to you after his resurrection if you kill him, similar to the Maiden in Black. The Maiden, in turn, felt guilty for being, in some way, the “mother” of the Old One, the root of the Earth’s ills.

So why was Ludleth of Courland so wracked with guilt upon seeing the failed champion and the endless darkness? How could such a small man hold himself responsible? Why does he feel guilty over the fate of not just the lost firekeeper, but our Firekeeper?

And who could such a seemingly sweet little man have betrayed?

And why does the failed Champion Gundyr reside in the still Fire-touched present, dutifully testing potential Unkindled who can claim the souls of the Lords, all the while tainted and controlled by the Abyss? Why would an Abyss creature seemingly aid in the endurance of its rival force?

Unless this shell does so at the command of another being.

One who has been in Firelink Shrine for some time.

A being who knows to sit out the fight. A being who knows how to be overlooked. A being who knows how to play the long game. A being whose legacy, the Church of Londor (likely the descent of the Culture of New Londo, and all the Abyssal goodness that entails), is carrying out a grand plot to reawaken the Dark sign of the Unkindled, and synthesize Fire and Dark in a new Age of Man…or perhaps a new Primordial Age without disparity, which is why the dragons are returning and people are turning into (arch?)trees.

Manus, the Primordial Man, did not drop “the Dark Soul,” in the same way his Lord Soul bearing counterparts did, only a warm soul darkened by humanity. It was a fairly mundane boss soul, all things considered. We always assumed that Manus was the Furtive Pygmy, rather than just an ancient human whose Humanity “went wild” …but Manus was a loud, giant, world-corrupting “father of the Abyss” who was obsessed with reaching out for his pendant, and did so by reaching through time itself to grab who ever held it. As seen by the Children of Dark spawned from him, he had aspects of desire, longing, spite, and even fear. Not mastery over fear, but the simple human fear that gave rise to Alsanna. And, as Nadalia proved, he can even become associated with fire and ash.

However, nothing about him, in hindsight, was furtive, or pygmy like.

Furtive: adj. Attempting to avoid notice or attention, typically because of guilt or a belief that discovery would lead to trouble. Secretive.

Manus, in his horrible lonliness in the abyss, tormented by the magics of the long lost land of Oolicile, reached through time to seize the Chosen Undead, who took the place of the would-have-been hero, Artorias.

Ludleth, alone in the darkness of the Untended Graves, allegedly from a long lost land whose honor was tainted by the art of soul transpotion (via kilns, mind you), took the place of the would-have-been champion, Gundyr. By reaching through time and linking the fire. This act somehow involved shunting the Dark Age of the Untended Graves into this pocket world under the castle of Lothric, behind an illusory wall, an awesome display of power.

Ludleth, who wears a ring transposed from the Soulfeeder, a being who consumed countless souls in Courland. A being, perhaps like Aldrich, who could have been used to link the flame, not for virtue, but for raw power.

Ludleth, who speaks of his ancient age in archaic dialect. Ancient, even in an age where everything is incalculably old.

Ludleth, of “Courland,” a land that was lost to time, even though every other lost land of the Lords of Cinder returned and fused with Lothric in a “transitory” and seemingly anachronistic manner. Though Ludleth is an outcast…‘The Exile.’ The one that never quite fit.

Ludleth, a man who feels responsible for a great deal of pain and suffering.

Ludleth, the Furtive Pygmy.

anonymous asked:

i've never read harry potter but i thought james was white? i'm genuinely curious and i don't mean to be rude.

It’s okay! You aren’t being rude :) 

So in the books, James’ race is never actually specified. However, because we live in a society that automatically imagines the default race as white when characters don’t have a specified skin color, we tend to imagine them as white. I myself am incredibly guilty of this because, despite being a mixed black person, I was raised in a society that privileges whiteness and so I work really hard not to automatically imagine characters as white when their skin color isn’t specifically stated. 

The only physical characteristics that J.K. Rowling writes about James is that he has jet black, wild, unruly hair and he’s lanky and a bit awkward. I choose to read James as black for several reasons. 1.) There is not an incredible amount of racial diversity in the Harry Potter novels and since James’ race is never specified I am actively choosing to put black representation in one of my favorite series’. 2.) The few physical characteristics Rowling does write about James actually fit much better for a black person than a white person. Jet black hair: there are very, very few people who are born with truly black hair and hardly any of them are white. People with natural, truly black hair far more often than not are people of Asian descent, Native American descent, or African descent. And then there’s the description of it’s untamability. That is almost always how black people’s hair is described; wild, unkempt, unruly; especially by white people and other non-black people. 3.) One of the first descriptions of James we actually get come from Harry’s Uncle Vernon who describes him as a layabout with no job. That is absolutely the language that is so, so often used to describe black men by middle class and upper middle class white people to justify their racist attitudes about black people and work. It is one of the enduring stereotypes about black people from before slavery; that black people are lazy and therefore must be enslaved and punished in order to get them to do any work at all. 4.) My last reason for believing James Potter is black is because of the descriptions of his son. Harry is also never specifically described as being white. He has his father’s quote on quote unruly hair, his mother’s green eyes, and he too is skinny and awkward. None of this however, means that Harry was white. Because of racial mixing, black people who themselves have dark eyes (which is more common) can absolutely have recessive genetics for lighter colored eyes (there are very few black Americans who are not mixed in some way) and so the children of a black parent and a white parent can certainly have light eyes. So it is genetically possible for Harry to be a mixed kid and have his mother’s green eyes. 

J.K Rowling had a great opportunity to make James Potter canonically black and even though she did not, many of the ways he is described make it quite possible he could indeed be black. I choose to read him in that way because it’s incredibly important for me to have representation in one of my absolute favorite books and in one of my favorite characters. And as a mixed black person, reading Harry as mixed as well is amazing, even though I’m an adult, to see that someone like me can be the hero when so often heroes or heroines are white. 

That was probably a far longer explanation than you expected but I have a lot of feelings about James Potter being black and it’s very important to me. 

Unpopular Opinion

So  I recently watched Suicide Squad for the first time (Extended Cut) and I have to say that the way they depict Harley and the Joker’s relationship seems a lot more amiable than previous storylines.  Every scene they are in together is full of passion and desire and while admittedly at first, the affections are one sided, through the course of the film we see the relationship evolve.  I picked my top 3 favorite instances of this as examples and I know I missed a lot and I know this post is long af.  Sorry.

Yes, an unpopular opinion because of the animated series and comics wherein Harley is blatantly a victim of domestic abuse.  However, in Suicide Squad it is shown that not only is Harley obsessively in love with the Joker, but that the Joker is at least as obsessed with her as she is with him.  

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C: Im feeling a bit emotional but yet numb. My mom just told me a friend of hers son attending college in Orlando this year was shot down by police who suspect him of shoplifting. He was 18 same age as my little brother. We graduated at the same time and saw each other at church and community events. I didn’t really know him. He wasn’t guilty of shoplifting but of being black. Now im left wondering why that is a deaf sentence. Why is that we are seen as evil. Did we commit the largest genocide known to men. Did we enslave millions of people for generations. Did we invade countries and rob them of everything. Did we divide the world into races and create racism. How did white people became the innocent ones and us the victims of their cruelty the guilty. Before today black lives matter was just a hashtag.

And "American privilege" seems to strangely be directed at black Americans and no one else. Just admit you use American privilege to get out of admitting your ingrained ethnocentrism and anti-blackness of African-Americans. Instead of just acknowledging your dehumanizing and deculturalizing us, you try to make us feel guilty for being the type of black people you hate.
Every Sister Has a Story to Tell

written by Jayshana Roper

FUZEDmagazine is proud to introduce writer, spoken word artist, musician and movie maker: Monica Sekhmet Grant. This black queer woman, and Michigan native, redefines the saying “The sky’s the limit,” and shoots for the stars in all that she does. Her most recent endeavor, an interview-style documentary addressing the intricacies of black womanhood, aired May 30th on the Manhattan Neighborhood Network (MNN), and we were lucky enough to speak with the artist exclusively.


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n Ms. Grant’s own words: “Every Sister Has a Story to Tell is my answer to the Black Woman’s call to see more women like themselves on television and film.[…] It was not my goal to create a fairy tale nor a story of victimization, but one simply of truth, which is ultimately the most powerful.”

Every Sister Has a Story to Tell presents seven black women of various backgrounds and representations. The women give their experience with growing up and romance, along with their opinions on success and the state of Black America. Included in the discussion are the effects of the 80s crack era, navigating lesbianism in a heterosexual world, and the changes the ladies feel must come to improve our society.

Tevina, from Brooklyn, leaves a strong mark with her calm demeanor as she discusses the way the neighborhood’s crack use shaped her personhood. Even her own father fell subject to the drug’s pull. However, she grows up to understand that no one is “just a crack head”. As many people who struggle with their own addictions, or loved ones’, she reminds us that addicts are sick, but they are people. These sort of powerful lessons remain constant throughout from all the women.

One of the most impactful quotes comes from Ede Fox in the opening:


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“[Black women] are called on to do so much… and at the same time be so many things to different people, and not really given the freedom to be ourselves.”

Every black woman; from the inner city to suburbia, and on any part of the sexuality spectrum; can relate to those words. In America, since slavery, black women were forced to be caretakers and sacrifice their individuality for domestic servitude. Nowadays, the black man is just as guilty of being underappreciative and toxic towards the black woman as every other person. Songs about “bad redbones” and “unloyal hoes” paint incomplete pictures of the complexities of black womanhood. However, women such as Ms. Grant and her revolutionary predecessors continue to try and paint the true picture.

“Because they were willing to be open, intimate and vulnerable, Every Sister Has a Story to Tell exposes the raw beauty of Black Women rarely seen in popular culture. I am very proud of this project, and every sister that had the guts to sit in the hot seat because she trusted my vision.”

Thank you, Monica, for sharing your vision with us.


anonymous asked:

Music taste headcanons?

Enjolras: Punk rock but not of the pop rock posing as punk. Suggest Green Day and Enjolras will roll his eyes. The Clash. The Dead Kennedys. The Ramones. NOFX. The Offspring’s debut album and nothing after. No Sex Pistols because Sid Vicious was a total ass-hat. On the flip side, folk. Woody Guthrie. Bob Dylan. His playlists are organized by political issue—the abortion songs, the anti-war songs, the anti-authority songs, critical of the government songs, anti-consumerism songs. You name it. And they span across all genres. He got teary once over Billie Holliday’s “Strange Fruit” but blamed it on hay fever.

Combeferre: Has little patience for dissonance. Prefers classical but is very picky about his composers. Beethoven over Handel. Mozart over Bach. Rachmaninoff over Stravinsky. He’s undecided about Gershwin. No Puccini. Will chuck you out a window if you even think about playing Madame Butterfly. Buys soundtracks to films he likes—Clint Mansell being his favorite composer. He saw the Chronos Quartet once but couldn’t enjoy it because Courfeyrac kept falling asleep.

Courfeyrac: Smooth is the operative word. Jazz, R&B, some Motown too—anything with a buttery vocals and a toe-tappin’ beat. Marvin Gaye. John Legend. Otis Redding. Some Beyonce and Whitney. Anything that’ll set the mood. 

Feuilly: The Polka. He is also inordinately fond of Euro Pop. He once played Dragostea din tei 40 times in a row until Grantaire threw his radio out the window. Is a big fan of Conchita Wurst’s Rise Like a Phoenix.

Jehan: The Smiths. “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out” was the definitive anthem of Jehan’s adolescence. Just don’t ask Jehan to choose between Johnny Fucking Marr and Morrissey. This is a question that can’t be answered. 

Joly: It’s hard being pleasant all the time. So when no one’s looking Joly takes time for himself. Connects with his inner diva. On tough days, he has been caught in the call room shaking it to Aretha Franklin’s RESPECT, Adele’s Rolling in the Deep, and Donna Summer’s Hot Stuff. The last one may or may not have been filmed by Bahorel for posterity and blackmail purposes.

Bossuet: When your luck is as crappy as Bossuet’s is, you might as well dance (even if your limbs flailing about causes bodily injury, breaks valuables, or otherwise causes a chain of unpredictable events one has no control over). That time he boogied down to Pharrell’s “Happy”, he somehow set his kitchen on fire. That time he shook his moneymaker to Gangnam Style ended up in a mirror breaking and a twisted ankle. And ironically, his rendition of Men Without Hats’ “The Safety Dance” was extremely unsafe, resulting in a broken nose for Grantaire, a shiner for Courfeyrac and a pair of broken glasses for Combeferre. In a rare bout of sass, Enjolras declared Bossuet’s moves “dangerous, quite literally.”

Bahorel: Classic Rock and 80s hair metal/power metal. He struts down the street to Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” and Kansas’ “Carry on My Wayward Son” is his karaoke go-to. To pump himself up, it’s gotta be Europe’s “The Final Countdown”, complete with ridiculous poses, and Iron Maiden’s “Two Minutes to Midnight.” On the road he’s blasting Guns N Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle” and his idea of serenading a lady is howling a horribly off-key “Sweet Child O Mine.”

Grantaire: Somebody in this group had to bite the bullet and listen to Macklemore. He tried showing Enjolras the “Thrift Store” video but the chief just walked off rolling his eyes and told him to “grow up”, whatever that means. But the truth is Grantaire is a musical wanderer. He likes a little bit of everything and everything in between. That being said, he is the guilty indie hipster. Mumford & Sons. Black Keys. Avett Brothers. Arcade Fire and that band you’ve definitely never heard of. Also that band that everyone’s heard of, but Grantaire totally liked them before they were popular. 

Bonus:

Marius: Somebody in this group of friends had to like Taylor Swift. And gangsta rap. There’s more to Marius than meets the eye. 

There is a conversation to be had about casual misogyny, colorism, and internalized racism in hip-hop that is being held back by people who don’t also want to have similar conversations about rock music. The people pushing the narrative of hip-hop as being the sole source of misogynistic music while ignoring the misogyny in their own chosen genres put hip-hop fans on the defensive, especially because of how transparently about race their grievances are. It’s like, why would I want to have a conversation about the issues in a genre I love that comes from a place of racism and condescension from people who hate it? I don’t want to talk about people who want to shit on Kanye or Drake or Lil Wayne for misogyny or drug use or general “bad behavior” but don’t want to talk about the Beatles or the Who or Guns ‘n’ Roses or the Sex Pistols or Black Sabbath all being guilty of the same. That’s why I’m only comfortable having those discussions with people who love and understand the genre, because painting misogyny as an element exclusive to black music is racist and gross.

There are some things that are black and white good and evil.

There are some that are kinda gray or that sound good but the unintended consequences actually hurt people.

The world often is guilty of being neutral on the black and white.

Tumblr is often guilty of seeing the gray as black and white.

I will probably lose followers for this and that kinda proves my point. We have established such of a hero villain dichotomy that getting criticism terrifies us.