the funeral of facebook

@funereal-disease​ asked some people on Facebook what kind of environment they needed from a safe space. I thought the responses were really interesting. It seems like you could break down needs from a safe space into a couple categories:

tone: “I need a space where I won’t be scolded for my anger”/”I need a space where people aren’t acting angrily”; “I need a space where you’re expected to communicate compassionately and patiently”/“I need a space where I won’t be punished for being bitter or impatient or unable to extend the benefit of the doubt”; “I need a space where jokes and flippancy are encouraged”/”I need a space where people take the things we’re discussing seriously”.

content: “I need a space where I don’t have to debate whether I deserve to exist”/”I need a space where I can try to explain and empathize with and inhabit the opinions of my political opponents, even where their beliefs are abhorrent and scary”; “I need a space where people like me are not discussed as scary violent abusers”; “I need a space where I can talk about my scary violent abusers”; “I need a space where my religious beliefs will be respected”/”I need a space where I can complain about the religious beliefs that harmed me without worrying about being respectful”. 

social rules: “I need it to be easy to leave”; “I need it to be easy to change your mind”; “I need to know that if I make a mistake someone will talk to me in private instead of calling me out in public”; “I need transparency about moderation and what people get banned or excluded for”; “I need to know that if someone harasses me they will get excluded”. 

In other words, needs about how to communicate, what to communicate, and how to handle transgressions. 

I would be so delighted if instead of ‘this is a safe space’ posters on doors it became conventional to have signs that said “this is a safe space for emotional expression and venting” or “this is a space where harassment procedures have been refined a lot and work really well” or “this is a space where you can express hurtful and wrong ideas and expect people will try to argue with you but not shame you or attack you or exclude you, with an expectation of confidentiality, and with really emphatic moderation on the ‘not attacking people’ rule”.

I guess it’s a little too big to fit on a sign.

Things I haven't said out loud

Five days before my law school finals my mother called me at 8 a.m.

She told me my two younger cousins, my father’s nephews, my uncle’s two sons, the two younger kiddos always running after us the big kids, had been shot and killed in Ciudad Juarez. I spent that night sleeping in the library because I didn’t want to go home. I knew I would never come back if I did.

Three days before finals I walked into my carrels, had a panic attack, held on to my law school friend as I wept, and watched their funeral on Facebook. I wasn’t there.

That night I wrote my statutory interpretation law final through tears and gasps and guilt. I wasn’t there.

I took five finals. After the last one I went out to a very public basketball game because I needed an excuse to keep pushing the pain back and when I was finally home I wailed.

Why am I telling you?? Because I almost gave up. I almost said that this wasn’t as important. This year I made two A’s, a B+, and some B’s. But this year I didn’t care HOW I made it through…. I just wanted to MAKE it through.

Success looks different for everyone. Behind every cute picture and funny post there is a real life. But, I didn’t stop. I didn’t give up. I let it hurt and I stood up and kept walking and reading and typing because that’s what you do… you keep going. Sometimes you fall, either into someone’s arms or into empty space at 3 a.m in the library on top of a computer keyboard and a million practice tests, but what matters is if you get up, if you crawl your way out…

What matters is that you WANT to crawl out of pain and keep living. That’s why I’m telling you this, because I need you to WANT to crawl out of it. Thank you for being my support through this without knowing it. Thank you.

Jesus is a black man
and Bethlehem lives
in a convenient store parking lot,
at a traffic stop,
on any street in America
Jesus tucks his hoodie up
over his ears
and the heavenly hosts whisper through earbuds

Jesus is a black man
and God tells him how to behave around cops
yanks down his hoodie and teaches him
how to look a man in the eyes
God teaches him how to feel equal
in a world that wants to shove him to the floor

Jesus is a black man
and Pontius Pilate is a thick necked police chief
scared of men like him
tall men
loud men
men with heart and soul and a voice
black men

Jesus is a black man
and Peter gets him trending on twitter
shaky video recording the moment the bullets pierced his chest
CNN ponders his criminal record
Fox News calls him a thug
the world wonders if Pilate really meant to kill

Jesus is a black man
and Mary weeps at his funeral
another black mother faced with her child’s corpse
broadcasted on Facebook, on Twitter, on every news network
Mary speaks strongly
Mary’s voice doesn’t shake

Jesus is a black man
one of many
and he’s gunned down,
he’s shot,
he’s murdered in a town square,
on the street,
in his car,

—  #jesuschrist

just realised im avoidin jades facebook cs there’s yet another funeral we didn’t have the courage to go to today. i guess i kno what will be the topic of conversation at therapy/assessment thingy today now. n tht would also explain y i’ve been thinkin of someone else from our past a lot recently too. n y jam has been very distant. i both love n hate when suddenly things click n u realise y everythin is happenin.


Sometimes when I’m lying in bed, and I catch myself dwelling on the mistakes of my past, or the promises of my future, I do this thing where I pretend to die. I just lie there really still, and I imagine that I’m sleeping—except in this strange fantasy of mine, I don’t wake up the next day. Usually the thought that follows is sympathy for my roommate or whoever it is that finds me. Then I think about the news getting out to my friends and family. I wonder how long it will take for word to get out, and I try and guess at whether the majority of people will find out about my death from conversations in person, on the telephone, or facebook. Next comes the funeral. This is where I try and guess who would show up to say goodbye. I think a lot about what people might say too.

Then before I even see them coming, the regrets start flooding in. I start thinking about all the things I never did. I think about the places I never got to see, the people I didn’t spend enough time with, the things I never said. Usually I’m crying when I do this. Sometimes I’m not. Then, though it takes a while, eventually I fall asleep with my thoughts. 


But then something strange happens. The sun comes up, and my alarm goes off, and I get to be here again. And sometimes the first thing I think about—even before my coffee—is the life I lost the night before. Usually on those days I make phone calls, and I put some money away to visit people I love, and sometimes I learn from my mistakes. I think my biggest mistake is not realizing what I love until it’s gone.

And one day I’m going to love it all. 

josb  asked:

Ox Baker's in bad shape. His daughter set up a gofundme page for medical/funeral expenses.

I had not heard. The gofundme is here. His Facebook, which confirms that he’s needed hospitalization recently and is low on funds, is here

Ox, if it’s your time to go, know that you struck terror into the heart of a young boy who loved to get that fear from TV villains doing their depths-of-evil schtick: which is to say, you inspired me. 

And if it’s not your time yet, all that’s still true. Thanks Ox Baker. You brought a vision to life.
Macaronic language - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

“Occasionally language is unintentionally macaronic. One particularly famed piece of schoolyard Greek in France is Xenophon’s line “they did not take the city; but in fact they had no hope of taking it” (οὐκ ἔλαβον πόλιν· άλλα γὰρ ἐλπὶς ἔφη κακά, ouk élabon pólin; álla gàr elpìs éphē kaká). Read in the French manner, this becomes “Où qu'est la bonne Pauline? A la gare. Elle pisse et fait caca.” (“Where is young Pauline? At the [train] station. She’s pissing and taking a shit.”)”

(Thanks to funereal-disease for linking this article on Facebook.)


Hope and dreams built up: ✔
Chance of MCR coming back: ✔
MCReunion: ✔
MCR tour: check check ✔
Break up tweet deleted: ✔

Still happy because-*checks facebook*…. 😅🔫
Hopes and dreams shattered: ✔
Planning funeral: ✔
MCR is never coming back: ✔
They fucking planned this and knew this would happen those little shits (but i still love them): ✔