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i cant overstate how important this panel is to me, how important this line is to me, how important it is that takeda is saying it and that he's saying it to hinata.

takeda famously does not know much about volleyball as a game. he saw a group of boys who loved a sport and wanted to support them as much as he could. he organized practice matches and buses and tournaments, but he didn't know the plays or the techniques or the positions, and he knew he couldn't coach them. that's why he asked ukai to coach. takeda learned, of course, but still--he couldn't know as much as ukai, whose grandfather was a famous coach, who raised the little giant. takeda doesn't know volleyball, and next to ukai, he especially doesn't know volleyball.

but this line. takeda confidently, firmly, matter-of-factly, tells hinata what volleyball is. takeda DOES know volleyball. he knows it better than anyone, better than any of the players, better than ukai, because he has seen it as a complete outsider. he was there for every practice game, (almost) every argument, every injury, every bus ride--not as a coach or a player, but as their mentor, as something completely detached from the game. first and foremost, takeda is a teacher at karasuno. he has seen every player outside of the volleyball court. he has seen them as students, as mentees, as boys. takeda has seen first hand how volleyball, how this sport, how their team, follows every player outside of the gym. his lack of volleyball experience is what allows him to see so clearly the impact that volleyball has on each player, especially hinata-- takeda sees firsthand that none of karasuno, HINATA ESPECIALLY, ever really stops playing volleyball. ever.

it's with this knowledge that he tells hinata what volleyball is. THIS IS STILL VOLLEYBALL. this: hinata, sitting on the bench, so feverish he can barely stand. that is still volleyball. volleyball is not just the game on the court. volleyball is the injuries and the training and the practice and the food and the effort and the people and the friends and the rivals and the family.

haikyuu translates to volleyball, but volleyball is not just volleyball. haikyuu is not just volleyball. it is a manga about growing up, about finding something you love to do, about meeting people who push you to be better, about discipline and hard work and also rest. it is about defeat and acceptance and triumph and friendship and love and failure and success. it is about the stages of life that make you who you are, even if you never return to the people, to the sport, to the place--they will always be a part of you. it is about a culmination of moments like these--moments that force you to be present, to accept, to appreciate the happiness and the pain, and to move on. haikyuu is volleyball and this is still volleyball!!!!!

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letter to theo by vincent van gogh

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some gravity falls doodles .. dipper & mabel + waddles . they are literally my kids I birthed them

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class divide & struggle in haikyuu

haikyuu twitter has brought up the theme of class struggle in hq and it really got me thinking just how subtle and effective furudate is in portraying class divide throughout the story.

hinata is introduced riding a bike, seeing volleyball through a store TV (not his own like Hoshiumi, Ushijima, Kageyama), and years later he's still riding a bike up and down a mountain every day for an hour to get to school and practice. how the gyms in the public schools like nekoma and karasuno have stages because they're multipurpose, as opposed to the specific volleyball facilities that shiratorizawa and other private schools have. the bond that nekoma and karasuno have as being the public schools in their prefectures, being known as "scavengers", taking what they can get and fighting tooth and nail for it. THE DUMPSTER BATTLE.

Shiratorizawa Academy vs. Karasuno High. almost every other school (aoba johsai, shiratorizawa, kamomedai) having non-volleyball team-specific tracksuits and merch, while karasuno wears the generic "ics" athletic wear. star players like ushijima and hirugami having family that played pro-volleyball and got them started from a young age in professional spaces.

daichi's nightmare about the basketball team overtaking their gym and not letting them practice. kageyama noticing right away that the floors in the all-japan youth camp weren't wooden. takeda working overtime to try to get gyms reserved, practice matches organized, buses rented out. ukai still working at his grocery store his entire first year coaching karasuno (suggesting that karasuno couldn't afford to pay him enough).

karasuno having to adjust to the lights and the height of the ceiling at nationals, when all the other teams were used to it. karasuno renting out that little old inn for nationals, right next to the giant, 25-floor hotel that other teams were staying in. inarizaki intimidating their opponents with their huge student section, affording to literally transfer an entire student BAND from hyogo to tokyo.

it's the reason that there's something specifically annoying about ushijima when we first meet him, something off-putting as we see hinata and kageyama watching shiratorizawa practicing for the first time in their fancy gym at their huge school. something infuriating about hearing ushijima talk down to hinata and basically dismiss karasuno as a threat entirely. when ushijima says aoba johsai is "infertile soil", hinata thinks, if they are infertile soil, then I Am Hinata Shoyo from the Concrete. and our concrete school, despite all odds, despite lack of resources and funding and reputation, will still beat you. i don't have what you have and yet i will still make it to the top!!!!!!!

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“My husband, photographer Michael Nye, once photographed in a West Bank Palestinian refugee camp for days, and was followed around by a little girl who wanted him to photograph her. Finally, he did — and she held up a stone with a poem etched into it. (This picture appears on the cover of my collection of poems, 19 Varieties of Gazelle — Poems of the Middle East). Through a translator, Michael understood that the poem was ‘her poem’ — that’s what she called it. We urged my dad to translate the verse, which sounded vaguely familiar, but without checking roundly enough, we quoted the translation on the book flap and said she had written the verse. Quickly, angry scholars wrote to me pointing out that the verse was from a famous Darwish poem. I felt terrible. I was meeting him for the first and last time the next week. Handing over the copy of the book sheepishly, I said: ‘Please forgive our mistake. If this book ever gets reprinted, I promise we will give the proper credit for the verse.’ He stared closely at the picture. Tears ran down his cheeks. ‘Don’t correct it,’ he said. ‘It is the goal of my life to write poems that are claimed by children.’”

— Naomi Shihab Nye, from her essay “Remembering Mahmoud Darwish”  

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this ramadan we pray for peace and aid for the people of palestine. this ramadan we remember the previous ramadans, where thousands of palestinians were massacred. this ramadan we honour palestine, and may we see a free palestine next ramadan

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avatar aang

redraw of this which was a redraw of this

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“They call us now, before they drop the bombs. The phone rings and someone who knows my first name calls and says in perfect Arabic “This is David.” And in my stupor of sonic booms and glass-shattering symphonies still smashing around in my head I think, Do I know any Davids in Gaza? They call us now to say Run. You have 58 seconds from the end of this message. Your house is next. They think of it as some kind of war-time courtesy. It doesn’t matter that there is nowhere to run to. It means nothing that the borders are closed and your papers are worthless and mark you only for a life sentence in this prison by the sea and the alleyways are narrow and there are more human lives packed one against the other more than any other place on earth Just run. We aren’t trying to kill you. It doesn’t matter that you can’t call us back to tell us the people we claim to want aren’t in your house that there’s no one here except you and your children who were cheering for Argentina sharing the last loaf of bread for this week counting candles left in case the power goes out. It doesn’t matter that you have children. You live in the wrong place and now is your chance to run to nowhere. It doesn’t matter that 58 seconds isn’t long enough to find your wedding album or your son’s favorite blanket or your daughter’s almost completed college application or your shoes or to gather everyone in the house. It doesn’t matter what you had planned. It doesn’t matter who you are. Prove you’re human. Prove you stand on two legs. Run.”

—

Lena Khalaf Tuffaha, Running Orders                                            

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/143255/running-orders

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jesse. jesse, making meth is not giving enough money as it used to, so we need to immerse in the booktok market. help me write my new novel that’s a modern retelling of the hades and persephone myth focused on two young scientists in the chemistry field where-

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"Knowledge is Israel's worst enemy. Awareness is Israel's most hated and feared foe. That's why Israel bombs a university: it wants to kill openness and determination to refuse living under injustice and racism." -Refaat Alareer

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Naomi Shihab Nye, "No Explosions", The Tiny Journalist: Poems [ID'd]

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Support for Palestine should be unconditional by the way. Stop looking for the ways they're just like you (ex: gay, trans, neurodivergent, etc) and support them for the sole reason that theyre literally facing a genocide right now. This is what solidarity is.

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Naji Al-Ali wrote: “The child Handala is my signature, everyone asks me about him wherever I go. I gave birth to this child in the Gulf and I presented him to the people. His name is Handala and he has promised the people that he will remain true to himself. I drew him as a child who is not beautiful; his hair is like the hair of a hedgehog who uses his thorns as a weapon. Handala is not a fat, happy, relaxed, or pampered child. He is barefooted like the refugee camp children, and he is an icon that protects me from making mistakes. Even though he is rough, he smells of amber. His hands are clasped behind his back as a sign of rejection at a time when solutions are presented to us the American way.“

Handala was born ten years old, and he will always be ten years old. At that age, I left my homeland, and when he returns, Handala will still be ten, and then he will start growing up. The laws of nature do not apply to him. He is unique. Things will become normal again when the homeland returns.

I presented him to the poor and named him Handala as a symbol of bitterness. At first, he was a Palestinian child, but his consciousness developed to have a national and then a global and human horizon. He is a simple yet tough child, and this is why people adopted him and felt that he represents their consciousness.”

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Dreams of Palestinian children