street beggar

Rromani FAQ

What’s up, fam? For International Rromani Day this year, I thought it would be a good idea to maybe post some basic info. So here is your IRrD cultural crash-course cheat sheet:

  • The word “G*psy” is an ethnic slur. It comes from the misconception that we originated in Egypt (hint: we did not). Basically, white Europeans were like “hey those guys are brown. They must be Egyptians. lol ‘Gyptians. lol ~G*PSIES~”. AKA, they couldn’t be bothered to ask where we actually came from. Some Rroma have opted to reclaim this word and may use it to refer to themselves. That does not mean that it’s okay for just anybody to use it. Friendly tip: do not use this word unless you are actually Rromani.
  • Rromani people trace their roots back to India and some parts of Pakistan (but mostly India?). While many don’t necessarily consider themselves Indian or even South-Asian, we are also not white.
  • We are a diaspora group. That means we were expelled from the country/left nationless.
  • Rroma come in all colours. Some of us are dark-skinned and some are light-skinned. We are all POC. There are certain physical traits that are common in our ethnic group, but that does not mean that we all have these traits. In fact, many of these traits have been used to stereotype us, which isn’t cool.
  • Our culture involves a lot of dancing and music. And food. And our food is generally pretty spicy.
  • We are not Esmeralda (The Hunchback of Notre Dame). In fact, that book is hella racist and the movie isn’t really much better. In the book, Esmeralda was a gadje (non-Rromani) girl who was kidnapped by Rroma (stereotype) and raised in their community (stereotype). As you will know from the movie, she dressed provocatively (stereotype) and danced for coins (stereotype). Rroma women are often portrayed as sexual objects, which is really gross tbh. Although the cute lil’ goat friend is 110% factual. I mean, not really. But I had a goat friend. Her name was Rochelle. More on that later.
  • Rroma men are often stereotyped as lazy.
  • Other stereotypes include fortune tellers, witches, thieves, beggars, and street performers. I am here to tell you that we are honestly no more likely to do these things than any other cultural group so… yeah? And those that do are often forced into these positions by laws and discrimination in their home countries.
  • Speaking of which, forced eviction, mass deportation, sterilisation, systematic impoverishment and oppression, workplace discrimination, segregated education, and TAKING CHILDREN AWAY FROM THEIR FAMILIES are problems that Rroma are still facing TODAY.
  • Rroma are sometimes known as Travellers because we have historically been a fairly nomadic group (by necessity). Rromani people would (and many still do) travel from place to place, looking for work, only to be chased away by prejudiced locals. Think old man on a porch shouting “Get off my lawn!” at the paper boy. Dumb, right? Right.
  • We do not want your children. For some reason, gadje think we want to steal their children? Some even think we eat them??? We do not do this.
  • Gadje is not a bad word. It literally means “non-Rromani person”.
  • Our language is called Rromanes or Rromani Chib. There are like a gajillion different dialects. Those of us who actually speak our chib might not be able to understand another Rrom because of dialectical differences. It’s complicated.
  • We are not a costume. A G*psy is not something you can just become. You can’t convert. You either are or you are not. Wearing long skirts does not make you a ~*G*pSy*~. Being a hippie does not make you a ~*G*pSy*~. Pracitising witchcraft does not make you a ~*G*pSy*~. We are not mythical creatures. You cannot become Rromani any more than you can become Black or Asian or Hispanic. It is especially concerning when people act like we are a style instead of an ethnicity because a) it makes a mockery of our culture, and b) makes it seem like we do not actually exist.
  • Bread.

slubbycottonrocks  asked:

I've been a fan of your books since I was nine. I have a question about Aly and Nawat's kids. With their father originally being a crow, do the triplets retain any bird features? Can they morph, like Daine's daughter?

Ochobai can’t. The things that make her a little person prevent her. She can speak a rough crow dialect, but she can’t shapeshift at all. Junim and Ulasu can, which causes no small amount of stress for the family. Ochobai can’t help feeling like an outsider watching the two of them take off, even though her sibs adore her. Her parents work with her to find ways to deal with her physical differences, so she can deal with the world on her terms. 

When she feels impaired in any way, she’s getting really good at finding ways around it. She has a good friend in a street beggar who she hangs out with. He gives her good advice and conversation, she sneaks food to him. They do all right.

I Can’t Help But Think Of Romania

I can’t help but think of Romania.

I lived in Romania for two years as a missionary, from 2004-06. I grew to love that country deeply. It’s been long-burdened by its communist past; it wasn’t just a form of government, but rather a mindset that was fused into the fibers of the country. There’s no more stark a symbol of that than the block apartment buildings that fill the cities. They’re concrete from skin to marrow and each one seems intent on keeping the populace in its place.

There’s a city in the west called Hunedoara. The countryside leading to it is out of some fairy tale. There’s even a storybook castle on one side of the city. But surrounding the city is a ring of abandoned, crumbling industrial wasteland.

I remember the train rides that lead from city to city. Some of the trains were more advanced than any train I’ve seen in the United States. Others were rickety steel boxes on wheels, the floors covered in sunflower seeds and spittle. Train rides ranged from a couple hours to 8 and 13 hour train rides. As often as I rode the trains, and even for that long, I was glued to the windows, watching the country go past. It’s beautiful.

The people were warm, always – always – offering more, even when they’d already given. Especially when it came to food. They offered, sometimes, what seemed to be just about all they had. They are a generous people. I even miss the times when we were shouted at, kicked out, threatened, chocked, and spat on. I walked the streets in the fall in Sibiu, an old fortress city. I trudged through Bucharest in the winter, where the streets go unpaved. I ran down steps, two at a time, to catch the subway more times than I can count. I ran through rainstorms on the way home, soaked to the bone. I miss it all.

Some of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen, and some of the most incredible experiences I’ve ever had, I saw and I had there.
Some of the worst things I’ve ever seen happened there, too. It wasn’t uncommon to see a child wandering the streets. Some were beggars, whose first words taught by their parents were asking for money. For some kids, it was literally all they knew how to say, and they didn’t even know what it meant. I once saw a kid, no more than 8, huffing silver paint out of a plastic bag because it took his mind off of being so hungry all the time.

The weight of communism, even decades removed, still smothered this whole place. It hung around the necks of everyone there, even those who hadn’t yet been born. Everywhere I went, people told me stories of where they were during the Christmas Revolution of 1989. 

Nicolae Ceausescu was the dictator of Romania at the time. He was vain, and cruel, and petty. Run of the mill communist dictator in the Stalin mold. Starvation and scarcity were the norm. Children, even those with parents, went hungry. To make a political point, Ceausescu cut off supplies from an entire city in the west, Timisoara. Of course, this caused more unrest than order. In a speech in what is now called Revolution Square, he spoke from a municipal building’s balcony, and tried to placate the people. But they shouted him down. Even Ceausescu loyalists (paid plants, mostly) were overpowered by the crowd’s chants. It was deafening. They stormed the building and the revolution began.

Ceausescu and his Deputy Prime Minister wife, Elena, fled, but were soon caught and convicted. The military who had served Ceausescu, and usually acted on his command, knew which way the wind was blowing, and they held a tribunal. It was quick and unanimous, and the Ceausescus were found guilty of, among other things, genocide.

Nicolae and Elena Ceausescu were executed by firing squad at a secret military installation. On Christmas day, on live television. They filmed their dead faces so that the people could know that they were really dead and gone.

A beautiful country was ransacked and oppressed by its leaders. For power, for profit, for ego. The country suffered, and eventually revolted. Romania still bears the weight of that suffering, deep in its mind and soul. Just like the concrete block apartments: skin to marrow. When last I saw the building from which Ceausescu spoke in Revolution Square, there were still bullet holes in the walls, far above reach.

Romania is a beautiful country, because of its land and its people, and despite its authoritarian past. Though knives may be removed easily enough, wounds are often stubborn to heal.


As Donald Trump, a man-child who is as vain as he is insecure, and as vengeful as he is delusional, seeks to establish himself as an infallible leader… as he orders scientific data be deleted… as he calls facts fake, and propaganda real… as he flippantly talks about committing war crimes in Iraq… as he seeks to defund arts programs and social safety nets… as he makes his press secretary tell flagrant lies about petty, obvious things like the size of his inauguration crowd… as he seeks to exhaust our capacity to think critically, and speak truth to power… as he seeks to dismantle constitutional rights, and strip the country itself in order to make money… as he continually displays signs of serious mental illness… as he proves to be not just a buffoon, but a real lunatic… I can’t help but think of Romania.

And as I think of all the inevitable harm that will come to people as a direct result of Trump’s actions, and the people that will most likely die from his orders – or possibly die in defiance of his orders – I can’t help but think of Romania.

I can’t help but think of Romania because what happened there, and in countless countries around the world and throughout history, can happen here. It is happening here, right now.

Literature, scripture, and history itself have all warned us about a guy like this. And here he is.

If you don’t like political posts, I understand. I don’t like them. Who does? But I will not be shy about this guy. Not to you, not to my representatives, and not to any Congressman/woman who seems to have dropped their spine on the way to work. 

I’m mad and I’ll stay mad until this guy is no longer in charge of the nuclear codes. What happened in Romania can happen here. Serious damage was done by a two-bit dictator from eastern Europe, and Romania hasn’t yet healed in full. Imagine how long it’ll take for the United States to heal from its own president, whose capabilities far surpass Ceausescu’s. Imagine the damage Trump can inflict, the damage he seeks to inflict. 

Tell me I’m wrong.

We’re only six days into the Trump presidency. This is an American Dictatorship unfolding in real time.

Yo dawgs, I’m a huge fucking dweebus and I’ve written a backstory for a character I’m gonna be using in a DnD campaign in the near future.

I’ve never really written a backstory before, so could anyone who knows how to write stuff give this a once-over? It’s not important that it’s the most incredible and perfect backstory in the world, but inconsistencies and things that are superfluous need to be spotted.

Plus I wanted to share it cuz I think it’s kinda cool.

I’m off to school, so I’ll be able to respond to any messages when I get back in a few hours. Thanks!

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Water Under the Bridge 01 - M

There’s a story about a woman who lingers around town, snatching up children and sending them off to foreign countries for profit. She’s like the wicked witch of the west from The Wizard of Oz, except no one thinks she’s real. Instead, she’s a figment of imagination, a story to scare children into sticking to their parent’s side and to never stray off too far alone. Too bad she’s only fake until she comes and grabs your baby right from under your fingers, picks them up as you turn away, grabbing your stroller when you look off for just a moment.

They call her Mama, but she’s not as bad as they think. She scours the streets and takes the homeless babies from the underground train stations and bridges drug addicted feigns hide under for seclusion. She’s the fairy god mother no one wants to visit them, she’s the snake that tells Eve to eat from the forbidden tree, she’s the one in the dark alley way luring addicts in with bags of fine white powder.

Mama loves children, that’s why she does it, and she doesn’t sell them off. Instead, she puts them to work, sending them to the trains with opened palms, glossy eyes, and quivering lips—turning them into beggars.

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Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017 - Day Four

A/N : Sorry this is so late, had some Real Life Stuff come up (which meant going out to eat dinner because I’m not gonna eat Hamburger Helper at home when I’m dealing with drama, you know?).  Might not/probably won’t post this on or Ao3 until tomorrow because I need a nap and some chocolate. Unbeta’d, as per. 

OH, before I forget - this one is probably a hard PG 13/light M for a tiny mention of wanking.  Sorry.

Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017 – Day Four (Non-Canon – First Sleepover/Sleep Together)

Who’s Been Sleeping in My Bed?

The first (and last) time Sherlock sleeps on Molly’s sofa was the night he jumps from the roof of Barts.  The horrid piece of furniture is far too short for him, and not nearly as comfortable as the one he’d been forced to abandon at Baker Street. Beggars can’t be choosers, unfortunately; and he was lucky that Molly was willing to put him up for the night at all. If anyone knew he was in her home after he was supposed to have plummeted to his death, she would be in serious danger.

She shuffles past him at half seven, clearly on her way to the kitchen and the coffee maker.  “You kept waking me up all night, I could hear you tossing and turning. Next time just take my bed.”

They both freeze.  They had never discussed the possibility of a ‘next time’.  He doesn’t know what to say; so he simply says, “All right.”

Molly nods and continues her barely-awake shuffle toward the coffee maker.

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NSFW Following on to this little drabble oops . And it contains smut so definitely not safe for any kind of work.

Elicia had stumbled from her bedroom in search of water around midnight but instead, she found herself confronted with her memories.

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Pairing: Taehyung x Reader
◊ Summary: He never felt that he would enjoy living again, until he met you.
◊ Genre: angst/fluff
◊ Word Count: 1,205  

A/N: So this was supposed to be a drabble, but it turned out a little too long. I have zero idea where this came from, but I wrote it in an hour, and plus it’s not Jungkook! Finally a little variety to my masterlist.

Vision: an enormous part of almost every person’s life. Without it, everyone you meet is faceless, every sound you hear lacks a source, and every day that goes by only seems to become darker.

Taehyung lost his dignity the day he lost his eye.

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anonymous asked:

I'm a songwriter. I wrote songs that are about: drug dealing, travelling the world, being in love with a stripper (from a male perspective), a street beggar, not wanting to but being corrupt and many many more. I am a 22 year old female who has never experienced any of those things. He said himself that sign of the times is the most literal and yet its still so ambiguous and to conclude that it's all about HIS life is kind of missing the point. This whole exaggerating things tendancy is stupid.

like yeah, i’m sure quite a bit of the album is based on his own experiences, but he’s not the only one who wrote on it, and so those experiences will also be intermingled with others.

Love or Hate (Part 2 of 13)

Summary: AU. When the reader’s shot at a better life is stolen from her, she continues to see the person responsible all over town. After a series of unfortunate events, will she learn that there’s a fine line between love and hate?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 1,759

Warnings: language, excessive snark, childish behavior

A/N: Part two of my third drabble series. Bucky has most definitely been showing his inner dbag lately, hasn’t he?

Part 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 -

Originally posted by likemadeofstarlight

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went to see/hear Kismet last night - 4 those not familiar - a story about a street poet and his daughter - opening scene the street beggars  of baghdad r setting up in the morning to ply their trade - one spots said poet “therz the poet - hide ur money” - yah - poets r 1 step b low beggars - oh but do not despair my brethren on tumblr - said poet makes it up as he goes along - spins lines of bullshit - and its mistaken for magic - and ends up rich and semi powerful - yah it could happen 


♔ CLASSIC LITERATURE MEETS LGBT+ ♔ → The Prince and the Pauper

The lives of two boys born in London on the same day: Edward, Prince of Wales and Tom Canty, a street beggar. During a chance encounter, the two realize they are identical and, as a lark, decide to exchange clothes and roles–a situation that briefly, but drastically, alters the lives of both youngsters. The Prince, dressed in rags, wanders about the city’s boisterous neighborhoods among the lower classes and endures a series of hardships; meanwhile, poor Tom, now living with the royals, is constantly filled with the dread of being discovered for who and what he really is.

What I learned living in a third world country

1. People are the same, they all joke around, they all want to love and be loved the only difference is geographical.

2. People don’t care about what your role is.
People could care less about your degree or what your job is. They only care about what kind of person you are.

3. You don’t need anything that you own to be happy. Happiness comes from yourself,
And sometimes you have to let it all go to learn this

4. An old man smoking a joint on the side of the road can teach you more then a 4 yr college degree.

5. Your parents tried their best, And in the end they are all just scared kids trying to do it right.

6. You can be anyone you want to be, you can be sad, you can be mad, you can be happy, and you can be glad.

7. You can literally do anything that makes you happy for your whole life.
You can wake up every morning happy, you don’t have to get that degree or chase that job just because you parents or peers think it’s a good choice.

8. You are enough, Just you, Standing on a street corner wearing only your outfit, Just your personality, is all you need.

9. Sometimes you do have to run away to see that you were held captive.

10. People aren’t lesser anywhere else in the world, people love the same, people get angry over the same things. People are just as equally beautiful and talented.
It just takes an open heart to see that, everybody needs love. From the single mother, to the father struggling to make ends meet, to the street beggar, to the rich business man. Life isn’t what it seems.