soul: clap her hands

rachel. walter/godoy/johnson/diaz/chisom/morelo. mixed. latina. afrodescendiente. texan. descendiente de la raza zenu. latina. colombian. latina. texan. border-born-and-raised. mixed. student. writer. mixed. thirsty for community. mixed.

lindsaur-gor:

There needs to be a code word or something that means “my brain is fighting me every step of the way today and I feel like I’m going to vibrate out of my skin, so I need you to forgive everything and go slowly and speak softly and lower your expectations.” And then we could all just be like, “I know I said we could go to a movie tonight but… tangerines.” And the other person would nod and squeeze your elbow or rub your head and you wouldn’t feel like a failure.

(Source: krissybear1894, via browngirlinterrupted)

The police can go to downtown Harlem and pick up a kid with a joint in the streets. But they can’t go into the elegant apartments and get a stockbroker who’s sniffing cocaine.

Noam Chomsky

I’ve seen more drugs behind the brick walls of my private college than I have ever even heard of back home in my hood.

(via newwavefeminism)

(Source: thoughtcatalog.com, via pobredreamer)

How do we forgive our fathers? Maybe in a dream. Do we forgive our fathers for leaving us too often, or forever, when we were little? Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage, or making us nervous because there never seemed to be any rage there at all? Do we forgive our fathers for marrying, or not marrying, our mothers? Or divorcing, or not divorcing, our mothers? And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or coldness? Shall we forgive them for pushing, or leaning? For shutting doors or speaking through walls? For never speaking, or never being silent? Do we forgive our fathers in our age, or in theirs? Or in their deaths, saying it to them or not saying it. If we forgive our fathers, what is left?

—Thomas Builds-the-Fire from the film Smoke Signals (via yesixicana)

(via pobredreamer)