newbie blogger, candy addict, shopaholic, ohio to oklahoma.

the college application process is really something


the college application process is really something


All The Time


All The Time

If you’re a teen you must follow this blog.

If you’re a teen you must follow this blog.

“When people say ‘This is my baby,’ they don’t always mean a baby. Sometimes they mean a dog.”

– A Somali student, on what has surprised her most about the United States (via 391705)

As women, when we’re children we’re taught to enter the world with big hearts. Blooming hearts. Hearts bigger than our damn fists. We are taught to forgive - constantly - as opposed to what young boys are taught: Revenge, to get ‘even.’ Our empathy is constantly made appeals to, often demanded for. If we refuse to show kindness, we are reprimanded. We are not good women if we do not crush our bones to make more space for the world, if we do not spread our entire skin over rocks for others to tread on, if we do not kill ourselves in every meaning of the word in the process of making it cozy for everyone else. It is the heat generated by the burning of our bodies with which the world keeps warm. We are taught to sacrifice so much for so little. This is the general principle all over the world.

By the time we are young women, we are tired. Most of us are drained. Some of us enter a lock of silence because of that lethargy. Some of us lash out. When I think of that big, blooming heart we once had, it looks shriveled and worn out now. When I was teaching, I had a young student named Mariam. She was only 11 years old. Some boy pushed her around in class, called her names, broke her spirit for the day. We were sitting under a chestnut tree on a field trip and she asked me if a boy ever hurt me. I told her many did and I destroyed them one by one. I think that’s the first time she ever heard the word ‘destroyed.’ We rarely teach our girls to fight back for the right reasons.

Take up more space as a woman. Take up more time. Take your time. You are taught to hide, censor, move about without messing up decorum for a man’s comfort. Whether it’s said or not, you’re taught balance. Forget that. Displease. Disappoint. Destroy. Be loud, be righteous, be messy. Mess up and it’s fine – you are learning to unlearn. Do not see yourself like glass. Like you could get dirty and clean. You are flesh. You are not constant. You change. Society teaches women to maintain balance and that robs us of our volatility. Our mercurial hearts. Calm and chaos. Love only when needed; preserve otherwise.

Do not be a moth near the light; be the light itself. Do not let a man’s ocean-big ego swallow you up. Know what you want. Ask yourself first. Decide your own pace. Decide your own path. Be cruel when needed. Be gentle only when needed. Collapse and then re-construct. When someone says you are being obscene, say yes I am. When they say you are being wrong, say yes I am. When they say you are being selfish, say yes I am. Why shouldn’t I be? How do you expect a woman to stand on her two feet if you keep striking her at the ankles.

There are multiple lessons we must teach our young girls so that they render themselves their own pillars instead of keeping male approval as the focal point of their lives. It is so important to state your feelings of inconvenience as a woman. We are instructed to tailor ourselves and our discomfort - constantly told that we are ‘whining’ and ‘nagging’ and ‘complaining too much.’ That kind of silence is horribly violent, that kind of insistence upon uniformly nodding in agreement to your own despair, and smiling emptily so no man is ever uncomfortable around us. Male-entitlement dictates a woman’s silence. If we could see the mimetic model of the erasure of a woman’s voice, it would be an incredibly bloody sight.

On a breezy July night, my mother and I were sleeping under the open sky. Before dozing off, I told her that I think there is a special place in heaven where all wounded women bury their broken hearts and their hearts grow into trees that only give fruit to the good and poison to the bad. She smiled and said Ameen. Then she closed her eyes.

A Woman of War by Mehreen Kasana (via pbnpineapples)

You are loving and grieving
over a foundation of flesh you’ve yet to meet.

It is through death that we become aware we exist;
how flimsy existence ties its promises.

You worried the potential of loss would be cradled in your arms,
but you found it vulnerably looped in your womb.

You’ve spent the past few weeks cursing the hens,
and the back pains that numbed your legs, the cramps that formed your guilt.

“I am sorry I failed to birth our merged reflections.”
You weep over a given that you could not give.

And he says, “It’s okay” and, “You are never to blame”
and, “We can try again when you’re ready.”

But will you ever be ready to hear the mockingbird of your body;
to ask your womb for the strength to carry what it couldn’t before?

You would never have imagined living in such a world
where death happens inside of you, but you’ve been living in it your entire life.

You share the world with the women who are unaware of the pregnancy and the loss,
the women who put scrapbooks together for her belly and her baby

and when she asks about the heartbeat she hides the scrapbook in a box
hoping to never come across it again.

Everything you have hoped for has been taken away by a pulse;
give yourself the time to grieve.

Your body is not meaningless; a gentle reminder will do —
The hands can carry, the feet can carry, the womb will carry too.

– Alessia Di Cesare, The Womb Can Carry Too (via featherumbrellas)

“When I first started running, I was so embarassed I’d walk when cars passed me. I’d pretend I was looking at the flowers.”

– Joan Benoit-Samuelson, won the first-ever women’s marathon at the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics (via run-inthe-sun)


Never gets old by jayalvarrez


Never gets old by jayalvarrez


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