lamonja:

I am a Bolivian bodyworker/healer/bruja trying to make it in this world…

I’m still learning what it means to be an ally. Through dialogue, practice, and self-education I aim to be part of a revolutionary movement of collaborative healing. Since first starting my training I have wanted to prioritize serving those who have been excluded and discouraged from seeking any kind of self-care, those who are

Of color,
Queer,
Transgender,
Gender non-conforming,
Of size,
Poor, working class, low-income,
Disabled, Non-neurotypical, and/or
Rehabilitating from trauma that is physical, emotional, or otherwise

I’m currently going through an expensive legal process of trying to ‘legitimize’ myself in the eyes of the capitalist system that makes it so hard for us POC healers to access and practice our ancestral knowledge.

So this is how you can help one Witch…

http://sylviavivianamassage.chipin.com/radical-massage-therapist-needs-certification

Donate and Repost Tumblr friends!

Besos <3

Do this!

ninasafiri:

Göttin der Dummheit: Two Women

arielnietzsche:

I am a woman.
I am a woman.

I am a woman born of a woman whose man owned a factory.
I am a woman born of a woman whose man labored in a factory.

I am a woman whose man wore silk suits, who constantly watched his weight.
I am a woman whose man wore tattered clothing, whose heart was constantly strangled by hunger.

I am a woman who watched two babies grow into beautiful children.
I am a woman who watched two babies die because there was no milk.

I am a woman who watched twins grow into popular college students with summers abroad.
I am a woman who watched three children grow, but with bellies stretched from no food.

But then there was a man;
But then there was a man;

And he talked about the peasants getting richer by my family getting poorer.
And he told me of days that would be better and he made the days better.

We had to eat rice.
We had rice.

We had to eat beans!
We had beans.

My children were no longer given summer visas to Europe.
My children no longer cried themselves to sleep.

And I felt like a peasant.
And I felt like a woman.

A peasant with a dull, hard, unexciting life.
Like a woman with a life that sometimes allowed a song.

And I saw a man.
And I saw a man.

And together we began to plot with the hope of the return to freedom.
I saw his heart begin to beat with hope of freedom, at last.

Someday, the return to freedom.
Someday freedom.

And then,
But then,

One day,
One day,

There were plans overhead and guns firing close by.
There were planes overhead and guns firing in the distance.

I gathered my children and went home.
I gathered my children and ran.

And the guns moved farther and farther away.
But the guns moved closer and closer.

And then, they announced that freedom had been restored!
And then they came, young boys really.

They came into my home along with my man.
They came and found my man.

Those men whose money was almost gone.
They found all of the men whose lives were almost their own.

And we all had drinks to celebrate.
And they shot them all.

The most wonderful martinis.
They shot my man.

And then they asked us to dance.
And they came for me.

Me.
For me, the woman.

And my sisters.
For my sisters.

And then they took us.
Then they took us.

They took us to dinner at a small private club.
They stripped from us the dignity we had gained.

And they treated us to beef.
And then they raped us.

It was one course after another.
One after another they came after us.

We nearly burst we were so full.
Lunging, plunging—sisters bleeding, sisters dying.

It was magnificent to be free again!
It was hardly a relief to have survived.

The beans have almost disappeared now.
The beans have disappeared.

The rice—I’ve replaced it with chicken or steak.
The rice, I cannot find it.

And the parties continue night after night to make up for all the time wasted.
And my silent tears are joined once more by the midnight cries of my children.

This poem was written by a working class Chilean woman in 1973, shortly after Chile’s socialist president, Salvador Allende, was overthrown. A U.S. missionary translated the work and brought it with her when she was forced to leave Chile. This is to be read by two people, one reading the bold-faced type and one reading the regular type.

The period of rice and beans for the poor woman in the poem occurs after the election of the socialist, Salvador Allende, as president of Chile. Allende was elected in 1970. He was overthrown in a military coup in September 1973 after a long period of destabilization launched by the wealthy classes and supported by the US government and US corporations such as International Telephone and Telegraph. Along with thousands of others, Allende was killed by the military. The coup, under the leadership of Gen. Augusto Pinochet, launched a period of severe hardship for the working and peasant classes. Although Chile currently has a civilian government, the military is still the country’s most powerful institution.

(via gadaboutgreen)

banji-realness:

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY

(via amidnightmarauder)

banji-realness:

B.C. - The Melody

The giant golden-crowned flying fox (Acerodon jubatus), also known as the golden-capped fruit bat, is a rare megabat  and one of the largest bats in the world. The species is endangered and is currently facing the possibility of extinction because of poaching and forest destruction. It is endemic to forests in the Philippines.

(via faggot)

daddysboy:

Godney Spears

unaguerita:

The Day after NC’s Amendment One…
OUR WIN IS BIGGER!

“The national dialogue isn’t just about just gay rights, it’s not just about gay marriage, it’s moving towards a national dialogue around what does it mean for people of color, queer people, poor people, people across multiple sectors coming together to give each other support and fight for each others liberation. So when we are talking about queer liberation we are talking about all of our liberation and you know what? this amendment made that possible! Helped that process! So THANK YOU” Kai Barrow

yesyesyes

Her crackling voice, like water on the bottom of a pan on a stove top heating element, I can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying. I don’t try as much anymore. I don’t try to understand, to respond less willfully, I don’t try to speak to children. I give a fuck, but I don’t give much more. When we talk I look around, the siding of the office space across the street, the ashes from my cigarette. I can’t focus on the  words that are coming out, not because they’re not important but because they’re boring. Because I’ve exhausted myself on trying to talk about oakland, salsa, and judas. I wonder if we’re both waiting to be entertained. There’s a brief comment about the dirt on her shirt, and I nod, and try to change the subject. She’s tuned out. It’s suddenly more important to blot the spot than to make this a better situation than it is. She tells me her feet ache. I say good thing we’re sitting down and I sip more on my coffee. I really like hanging out with you, she says, me too. But now I’m confused, because I am having a really bad time and she is still trying to get the spot out of her shirt. 

I went out with her because she asked me out. She doesn’t really have much in common with me but I can dig that sometimes. The hurdle that I had to consciously get over was the fact that she didn’t have style. Yeah, I’m ashamed (kinda)  but she dressed straight out of J Crew hiking section or whatever else it is that reminds me of 1984. I told my self, dude, don’t judge a date by their khakis. Don’t be that guy. But I can’t help but think of her to be among normative folk attempting to access my queerness like it’s some sort of exotic vacation. I think of style not as an asset but a mode of recognition and survival. My style evolves with my gender and sexuality, with me embracing different genetic lines of my mixed blood lines, of innovation on a scant budget. It is a conservative reflection of brutality, machismo, and faggotry of an asian trini boy. My mind, my body, my soul is non normative, addressing my clothing as anything but a reflection of that feels oppressive and depressing. It’s important to me. We seriously have nothing to talk about. I ask her questions and it’s one sentence answers or I don’t knows. The interview is over and she clearly seems to want to know nothing of me. She drops her cellphone and looks at it, as if waiting, and then asks, will you get that for me? I say yes but my tone says no. What is going on? I ask her a final question, why did you ask me out. She speaks honestly, I don’t know. 

I don’t doubt that one bit. 

I don’t want to give the impression that my desire is accentuated by smart accessories. It’s just not. Trust in that. There are so many points of connection to be made and if someone can’t step to a single one it’s just not going to work out. If you determine based on my gender performance that I am eligible as a potential date because my appearance is entertaining, do not expect to be entertained. This body may be a showcase of fake gold, broken ribs, and white cotton but it is not a show. 

nuestrahermana:

foreverliberal:

The article is here.  Sign the petition here.

Don’t Expel Bullied Gay Teen! 

Darnell “Dynasty” Young has been bullied for months — it has sometimes gotten so bad that he has thought about suicide. 

His mother contacted the school but instead of taking appropriate action, asked Darnell to “tone down” his accessories. That is victim blaming. 

Not knowing what to do, his mother sent him to school with a stun gun because he didn’t feel safe. On April 16, 6 students surrounded him threatening violence. He pulled out the stun gun and raised it in the air, setting off an electric charge. He did not use it on anyone — he simply scared them away, protecting himself. 

Young was soon arrested and taken away in handcuffs. He is now facing expulsion from the school.

Please tell Arsenal Technical High School to not expel Young — who hurt no one and was just trying to protect himself — and to change their school’s bullying policy to offer more protection for LGBT youth. No one should feel unsafe at school!

— Brittany 

Please re-blog and actually sign it. There is an option for your name NOT to be displayed online so, your safety is not an issue :) Petitions like this can in fact change the usual course of action…

(via crashntumble)