anonymous asked:

Susan B Anthony was black, how could she be racist?

susan b anthony was a white woman and one of the most well known figures of the women’s suffrage movement in the US.

here are some quotes:

“I will cut off this right arm of mine before I will ever work or demand the ballot for the Negro and not the woman.”

“What words can express her (the white woman’s) humiliation when, at the close of this long conflict, the government which she had served so faithfully held her unworthy of a voice in its councils, while it recognized as the political superiors of all the noble women of the nation the negro men just emerged from slavery, and not only totally illiterate, but also densely ignorant of every public question.”

“The old anti-slavery school says women must stand back and wait until the negroes shall be recognized. But we say, if you will not give the whole loaf of suffrage to the entire people, give it to the most intelligent first. If intelligence, justice, and morality are to have precedence in the government, let the question of the woman be brought up first and that of the negro last.”

and here are some articles, with different takes:





you decide.

Guitars and Scarred Hearts, Chapter 7/?

A CS Rockstar AU
Rated: Explicit
Also on Ao3

You know that gif of the old lady from Titanic saying, “It’s been 84 years?” I feel that on a spiritual level. Much love and thanks to those who were excited to see an update last night. xoxo

Emma slipped into the bar an hour before its two o’clock closing. Despite the lateness, it was packed; word of Killian Jones playing local haunts after a few years out of the spotlight had gotten around in the month since a single rose, a note and a sobriety chip had shown up at her office late at night. It hadn’t taken much detective work or any significant stretch of time on her part to figure out what he was doing and where. Two days after her birthday, Emma knew where to find him.

What had taken time was growing some balls.

She didn’t know what to expect going into the bar. Actually, that wasn’t entirely accurate. She thought she knew what to expect; a shock of purple hair, eyeliner, some sass and more sex than she honestly knew what to do with but fuck, she’d still try. A brunette on each arm, a half-empty bottle of rum in whichever hand wasn’t wildly gesticulating as he held court at a VIP table – if they even had those in dive bars - surrounded by groupies.

What Emma wasn’t prepared for was being almost unable to find Killian in the crowd because it wasn’t surrounding him. Her eyes raked over screaming bachelorette parties, dudebros playing darts while loudly pronouncing the superiority of their own home-brewed IPA over the bar’s draft beer, and a few barflies ignoring it all on their stools. One barfly, when he raked his beanie off and ran a hand through his hair, suddenly transformed into the Killian Jones she’d known in high school and her breath caught.

The purple hair was gone and so was the eyeliner. Instead of flashy leather and copious amounts of man titty on display, he was wearing a plaid shirt with a depressingly modest amount of chest hair peeking out of a V-neck tee shirt she was sure she’d seen more than a decade before. Definitely more starving artist than world-renowned, multi-millionaire rock star and she briefly wondered if his tailspin back into drugs had taken his wealth and privilege with it.

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Honestly, Peer Gynt is such a good comparison to the Changelings because when Peer is in the Mountain the Old Man says that the Dovre-King’s gate doesn’t open outward. Once the Changelings go into the human world there is no going back, despite realizing, like Peer Gynt did, that it’s a world they will struggle to live in. They’re just trapped between two worlds.

anonymous asked:

who are the anon blogs? and how come the other anon said they were bad, you said they were nice :^(

The anon blogs are literally the sweetest and most respectful people ever. They write for certain musical fandoms and people hate on them for so many dumb reasons— such as they hide their identity (like they don’t post face pics, give away their real names or say how old they are,etc.) and people hate that, they also write for certain characters that are canonly bad people, they also don’t like them cause they write smut?? People send them hate, death threats AND rape threats which is fucking ridiculous. None of those are reasons to send any of that shit and label them as horrible people that. They’re so supportive and have your back regardless of how much they know you— just as long as you show them kindness. I love them all and am basically one of them (✨) and it hurts to see people WHO DONT KNOW THEM share dumbass posts saying “if your an anon blog don’t interact” like?? I don’t go around posting “straight cis white people don’t interact”?? Anyway, yeah. Sorry for going off.

Just witnessed a 60 year old man say to another 60 year old man, “thank you very much YOUNG MAN” and I snorted out loud. That’s the kind of fence between denial and self love that I wanna walk

anonymous asked:

Holy shit these kids are aging so fast, like I know that happens to children but damn they were so small in season 1 and seeing them now is crazy. Now I finally understand all those old people who say "look how big you've gotten " to kids.

I KNOW RIGHT!!! the amount they’re growing is crazy!! finn is as tall as me and is gonna keep growing and im just like stop u beanstalk

it was me she wanted to touch.
she believed i could feel what she felt, you see.
i was just a motherless child my own self.
only way i knew how to be.
only life i knew was me and papa and saturday mass before her.
and you know, daughter,
it’s true what they say:
a womanchild without her mother journeys a far piece of road.
the old folk say it
and i tell you it is true.
—  Brenda Marie Osbey, Faubourg Study No. 3: The Seven Sisters of New Orleans

anonymous asked:

SUPRISE game’s gonna end with her walking towards a tunnel of light and it’s Lee waiting for her and she’s in her S1 old sprite and he says welcome home sweetpea

Okay it’s not like i needed my heart…..

he writes her poems about her eyes and the sum of her, like her parts are books in a library he’s just getting around to. 

i call her to me over a mirror my grandmother made me. she and i are naked in candlelight and dancing. when she laughs, the room echoes slightly. our witchy fingers loop around each other’s knuckles, form holes to see the faeries through. we lie awake in satin robes reading each other byron, laughing, doing shots whenever we fall in love with words.

he says she makes him feel like johnny cash. he acts as if she is an empty vault, already stolen from. he’s coming to save her from herself, fill up the lockboxes of her with his secrets so she can carry them safely. 

she comes to me in a cricket. tells me a secret so that it can unwind in the air, in the way of cotton. it shifts into a sunbeam and is no more. together we sit in a comfortable silence and observe the rest of forgiveness. i hold her hand while she buries her nightmares. i understand why she cries when the mug drops. she knows how come a loud noise makes me flinch. we do not navigate around each other’s sore parts. we tend to them eagerly. hopefully. knowing a scorched ground can still bear fruit. we say: this is but a thumbprint to the rest of you, and i love all of you, and i will consume the darkness with my own teeth if it means helping you tear it out by the roots.

he says he loves her, he loves her, that she is a reborn star, or his galaxy, he has me read his work where she is a mountain that his thirsty palms go navigating. i blush at my own cliches in his handwriting. i can’t help it. when someone makes you wordless, you rely on old words. he tells me that she is his muse, he says i am too trusting of sappho, that the sun eats hearts like mine. she is a flower and i am a blush. he is a bold color. he says he’ll call her and she’ll come, the way that all dogs do when they’ve learned to trust.

and i kiss her and i say nothing. call her no angel or snowfall or winter rose, just by her name in the night when we are both alight and living, just by a single noise in the whiteness of breaking. i kiss her and i write her poetry about how she makes me feel like johnny cash, how i feel like a spirit, how i feel like a space station, how she is my star and my galaxy and i say sorry and she says that there are no new ideas under the sun, but they become new because they’re new ways to witness me. we lie awake and i say poetry is an old magic. she says, good. she says: well the spell is working. she says: let me prove to you that you’ve won. and she calls me and i come.