Unapologetic

No longer sorry about not being sorry

3 notes

Haikus Descarados

Haiku Rebelde

Se me olvidaron
las reglas.
Ni modo.

 

Haiku Bocón

La tuya.

 

Haiku de mi madre
… inspirado por sus coloridos dichos.

Vete mucho a
la tisnada. Hija de
la canción.

 

Haiku Cabrón

Nunca le dijeron
que calladito se ve
más bonito.

 

Haiku Amable

No habla desde
que el ratón le mordió
la lengua.

 

Haiku Inocente

Nunca conoció
a Pepito, ni a la
dulce Paquita.

1,061 notes

sinidentidades:

Undocumented Youth Pay Tribute to the Original DREAMers

As a member of the Arizona Dream Act Coalition and a self-taught photographer, Carla Chavarria, 20, has been capturing images of fellow undocumented youth for about three years. Her parents, who are currently undocumented, brought her to the United States from Mexico City when she was 7. As a kid, she didn’t understand the concept of immigration status. “I grew up in Arizona in a predominantly white neighborhood. I didn’t really know what it meant to be undocumented because I just went to school,” says Chavarria, who received temporary status through President Obama’s Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) program in February. 

But when the federal DREAM Act failed in 2010, Chavarria says she started taking pictures in protest. “Art has always been my passion, and I wanted to do something that could help the movement even though I’m not that into the politics and policy side. That’s why I started the iDREAM campaign—photographing DREAMers and telling their stories. .”

The photos below are from “Por Ella,” (For Her) a series Chavarria created this month to highlight the Arizona immigrant youth movement as the so-called Gang of Eight senators hammer out the terms of a comprehensive reform bill. Chavarria says the photos represent a more expansive message: “We may have DACA now, but our parents are still waiting. They were the ones who have been pushing for reform all along. So this is us saying, ‘It’s [our] turn to take care of you.’

Here are some new faces of the immigrant movement, through Chavarria’s eyes:

(Top photo) 

Mom: Carmen Irene, 56, stay-at-home mom
Daughters: Asuzena Castro, 12, student; Maria Castro, 19, Arizona Dream Act Coalition treasurer and Arizona State engineering student  Says Chavarria: “Maria [isn’t] undocumented but she’s a great leader in the Arizona immigrant movement; her little sister is as well. [I] shot them sort of standing behind their mom, like, ‘I have your back. You’ve always raised me and had my back. … So now it’s time for me to stand behind you.’ Their mom is undocumented but not them. So them holding hands is representing the bond they all have. It looks so much stronger that way.”

(Bottom left photo)

Mom: Rosa Maria Soto, 59, undocumented
Daughter: Dulce Matuz, 28, legal resident, former undocumented DREAMer, Arizona Dream Act Coalition co-founder
Says Chavarria: “Dulce is always talking about her mom, Maria, who is trying to learn English and go back for GED classes aside from being a mother, grandmother and being involved in the movement. I’ve seen Maria involved and at protests; she’s always there. In the photo Dulce is just admiring her.”

(Bottom right photo)

Mom: Olga De la Rosa, 43, undocumented, part-time caregiver and housekeeper
Daughter: Ileana Salinas, 23, Arizona Dream Act Coalition co-founder and Arizona Worker’s Rights Center co-director
Chavarria says: “Iliana is in the process of receiving her deferred action but she’s still going to fight for her mom, who is undocumented. So she’s standing behind her with the other hand holding her shoulder. You know [that phrase], ‘I had a shoulder to cry on?’ That was the inspiration for this picture.”

(via the-uncensored-she)

3 notes

On Street Harrassment

I am tired. I am angry. And quite honestly, I’m done. I’m tired of staying quiet. I am tired of being the “better” person. I am damn tired of being denied the right to walk down the street as I please. Tired of being robbed of the opportunity to claim my space.

I have the right to walk to work, walk home, walk to school without feeling uncomfortable, without feeling harassed. Without being treated like an object, a worthless toy, a dispensable, disposable piece of nothing.  

I am done. I cannot do it. I can no longer allow it to happen because I deserve more than that and because my future daughters, my sisters, my friends, my mother and every woman that has ever felt objectified deserves more than that.

In this ever sexually violent society, I do not have that luxury. I can not and will not look down as I walk down the street and a passerby crafts me and weaves me into every imaginable sexual fantasy he or she has ever desired.

I do not want to feel scared, helpless. I no longer want to hope that I am left alone, that they disappear and I am left unharmed, clothed, unraped.

I will not. Because I have felt afraid. Because for too long I have feared rape. I have feared the day when I would be raped and any action action that could lead up to that, that could end in that.

I have feared the day when the catcalls would not simply be catcalls or whistles or kisses blown into the air. The day when that would no longer satisfy them and instead they would come get me.

And perhaps more than that, I feared that when this day came, I would be “caught off guard,” “unprepared,” unable to react, to escape, to run, to fight, to bite, to flee, to scream, to cry, to do whatever would be needed to get the perpetrator off me. To keep my vagina safe, to protect her and myself, to keep us both from harm’s way.

And that is bullshit. That is outrageous. Street harassment is not funny, it is not a compliment, it is not casual, ordinary, normal, irrevocable. And the feelings I get from it are not trivial or exaggerations of an overly sensitive woman.

If ever my younger sisters told me they felt and believed what I do, what I did, I would be infuriated. I would be livid. But I will not wait until that day to act because there is plenty of reason to be mad now.

And so, I am livid, I am mad because I am sure I am not the only one who feels or has felt this way before, as crazy or unimaginable as it may sound.

Ya. Me cansé. Estoy harta, enfadada y no puedo más. Ya basta.

Déjenme en paz. Déjennos en paz.

Filed under street harrassment take action ya basta

330 notes

The “What Is Patriarchy?” Project

This project is about individuals sharing their experiences living in a world where gender roles, gender stereotypes and sexists, unattainable standards of gender performativity still exist. It’s about defining patriarchy in accordance to our direct experiences in a world shaped by its principles.

You can submit as many signs related to the topic as you want, as well as with a descriptive post attached to it.

[The last ‘What Is Patriarchy’ photoset]

(via the-uncensored-she)

654 notes

jakigriot:

One of the scariest things I can do is tell someone I care about that they are being problematic. By problematic, I mean things like: racist, transphobic, homophobic, ableist, sexist, fatphobic, etc. 
When I have to come to someone, I rehearse my words. I try to find the most polite way to bring it up. And it doesn’t matter how much I practice, it almost always ends the same. It’s me “overreacting”. It’s me being racist against THEM. It’s me not being colorblind enough. And on and on and on.
People, this isn’t fun for me. This doesn’t make me feel special. No one congratulates me. In fact, I lose more friends by speaking up than I would by suffering in silence. I don’t get a kick out of this. Maybe because I’m laughing, people think this is my hobby or something. I laugh because I’m just tired of crying over it. I’m tired of screaming. Laughter helps numb the pain of being bombarded with bigotry. I’m just want the people around me to care about my mental health and physical safety.
Because asking me not to talk about my experiences is silencing. Asking me to talk about my abuse ONLY in ways that make THEM feel good… is silencing. And telling me to be quiet hurts. IT HURTS ME. How can you really be MY friend when there are pieces of my life that make you uncomfortable? Pieces of my life that are intricately tied to my identity? That’s like being my friend but wanting to ignore my right arm. 
If you have a Black friend who never discusses Blackness with you… ya’ll ain’t friends. Real talk. Because that is the lens of my entire life experience. I see you through those glasses. And whether you admit it or not, you see me as a Black person first. I have NEVER in my ENTIRE LIFE met someone who I felt was actually colorblind in terms of racial issues. IT DOES NOT EXIST. Stop saying it.
Especially when most of the problematic things could be broken down to, “It hurts my feelings when you say/do this. Please use another word.” For someone to say, “No, I’ll do what I want.”
Word?
Damn.
How am I supposed to feel about where I stand in the scheme of things? Saying a word means more than hurting my feelings? I’m not allowed to be offended but YOU are allowed be offended THAT I was offended? How did this get to be about YOUR feelings? What about me?
You can’t JUMP to the kumbayah part of the race conversation if you refuse to get your hands dirty. If you refuse to consider what you may/may not do to perpetuate the problem. And if I say something you are doing is wrong (no matter WHAT it is) and you won’t pause for one beat and think about it… then what good are you to me?

jakigriot:

One of the scariest things I can do is tell someone I care about that they are being problematic. By problematic, I mean things like: racist, transphobic, homophobic, ableist, sexist, fatphobic, etc. 

When I have to come to someone, I rehearse my words. I try to find the most polite way to bring it up. And it doesn’t matter how much I practice, it almost always ends the same. It’s me “overreacting”. It’s me being racist against THEM. It’s me not being colorblind enough. And on and on and on.

People, this isn’t fun for me. This doesn’t make me feel special. No one congratulates me. In fact, I lose more friends by speaking up than I would by suffering in silence. I don’t get a kick out of this. Maybe because I’m laughing, people think this is my hobby or something. I laugh because I’m just tired of crying over it. I’m tired of screaming. Laughter helps numb the pain of being bombarded with bigotry. I’m just want the people around me to care about my mental health and physical safety.

Because asking me not to talk about my experiences is silencing. Asking me to talk about my abuse ONLY in ways that make THEM feel good… is silencing. And telling me to be quiet hurts. IT HURTS ME. How can you really be MY friend when there are pieces of my life that make you uncomfortable? Pieces of my life that are intricately tied to my identity? That’s like being my friend but wanting to ignore my right arm. 

If you have a Black friend who never discusses Blackness with you… ya’ll ain’t friends. Real talk. Because that is the lens of my entire life experience. I see you through those glasses. And whether you admit it or not, you see me as a Black person first. I have NEVER in my ENTIRE LIFE met someone who I felt was actually colorblind in terms of racial issues. IT DOES NOT EXIST. Stop saying it.

Especially when most of the problematic things could be broken down to, “It hurts my feelings when you say/do this. Please use another word.” For someone to say, “No, I’ll do what I want.”

Word?

Damn.

How am I supposed to feel about where I stand in the scheme of things? Saying a word means more than hurting my feelings? I’m not allowed to be offended but YOU are allowed be offended THAT I was offended? How did this get to be about YOUR feelings? What about me?

You can’t JUMP to the kumbayah part of the race conversation if you refuse to get your hands dirty. If you refuse to consider what you may/may not do to perpetuate the problem. And if I say something you are doing is wrong (no matter WHAT it is) and you won’t pause for one beat and think about it… then what good are you to me?

(via ethiopienne)