#protect black kids

[daughterofdessalines]

I can’t help but think of stories like these when I hear yet another Black man rambling about the misogynistic agenda on a podcast or social media. White supremacists are far too comfortable attacking our sons for me to take you seriously. A Brotha that distracted by the patriarchy & desensitized to the massacre of our youth doesn’t deserve to lead.

[paisholotus]

I actually have no words on this. I'm speechless fr, the passion that's spoken with this is sickening. "Black Women needs to be MURDERED!" As if that doesn't happen EVERY DAY!

This man has a black wife and a black daughter. If I were them, I would fear for my life. Because when he goes off the deep end, it's not going to be safe for them.

[uninterruptedafricans]

I am the mother of a 14-year-old son, and I constantly send him out to take out the trash.

No one talks about how terrifying it is to be a Black mother.. to constantly have to worry about your child being traumatized, harmed, killed or incarcerated just for knocking on someone’s door, taking out the trash….. etc.. etc..

[underfiends]

They Upon Their Thrones

I am afraid. I stare at my feet as I walk, looking up through the strands of my hair at the people who pass me by. I am on alert, always ready for the danger that lurks in every living, breathing thing. Someone looks at me, and I dare not catch their eye. I am small, I am meek, I am not a concern.

The fear is choking me. Someone is screaming at me; mouth right next to my ear or a mile away, it doesn’t matter. The words are the same, scathing and threatening. They sear into my flesh. They carve into my bones. They are built to hurt, to shatter me and break me apart. I can feel something crack in my chest.

I am in danger. A gun is pointed at my head; at the heads of those around me; at people so far from me I could never hope to reach them; at the world itself. The gun is wielded by someone who wants only violence. It was given to them by those who swore to protect me.

There are chains around my wrists, around my ankles, around my throat. They have bound me to a fate that was never meant for me. A leash is clipped to one of the links, tugging harshly until I choke. I stumble forward, trying to ease the tension, but I am never quick enough to satisfy the one leading me. A tight fist pulling me along, faster and faster until I am sprinting to a place I am not supposed to be.

A scalpel, glinting dangerously in the light, is ready for surgery. The person holding it is smiling down at me, whispering comforts as they slice a line across my forehead. A saw whirs, cutting in a circle around my skull. The top lifts off, revealing my brain. They poke and jab, cutting out all the bits that do not conform to what they want me to be. They are tearing me apart and stitching me back together. I am a puppet filled with rotting organs.

I look around me, and I see people who are different from me. I weep for them, knowing that they will be culled down like the rest. Everyone who is different will be sliced open, bits and pieces replaced until they are the exact same as everyone else. This is what they want.

They. Them. Sitting on thrones of red. They stare down at us, smiling, laughing. They open their mouths and spew poison and vitriol. They hold billions of strings, playing with us as though we are their puppets. This is their game, and they grin with lips stretched far too wide as we destroy ourselves trying to untangle from the wires that have come alive to strangle us.

The sky is pink and blue, white clouds drifting by lazily. A mist is in the air, refracting every beam of light to paint streaks of colour above our heads. The buildings are brown, colours warm and glowing. The ground is old, has been here since the beginning, is what first welcomed the settlers. The air is warm, far too warm, boiling hot. There are people walking around, age having barely touched them, hands grasping straps that are slung over their shoulders.

A woman walks down the street, towards a building so white it is blinding. When she enters, she is greeted by a ring of people. Them. They. Upon their thrones. She stands before them, and she begs. She pleads until her voice is hoarse.

They vomit on the ground in front of her. Monsters crawl up from the bile. Their claws rip into her stomach, opening her up. Red spills out, soaking the ground and covering up the tears on her cheeks. An egg is placed in the open wound, and then she is stitched up.

Up on their thrones, they laugh once again as the woman is dragged up to her feet and forced to walk back onto the street. She collapses to her knees, screaming. She tears into her own belly, spilling her guts onto the pavement. The egg will grow inside of her, entrapping her, and she will watch it hatch. It will join the world and become one of the people that age has barely touched, grasping straps that are slung over its shoulders. It is not one of those people yet, it could never become one, and yet they upon their thrones will force it to be.

They grin and tell her that she should be grateful, she’s been given a gift. She will get to watch this egg hatch, watch it join the world. Will watch it walk into squat buildings and cower in fear as a gun is pressed to its skull. A gun in the hand of a person who wants only violence, given to them by they upon their thrones.

I choke on my fear, grasping it in my hands to try and release the pressure. I can’t breathe, watching everything unfold before me. The woman with her guts on the pavement, forced to birth something given to her by they upon their thrones; the people far too young for the world being littered across the ground, filled with holes and eyes staring blankly upward, killed by they upon their thrones; machines tear into the earth, into that which was here before us, taking all of the pieces that make it what it is, forcing it to mold to what they upon their thrones wish; a wrecking ball swings through the streets, toppling the buildings coloured in brown, rendering them nothing more than rubble to be stepped over and built into something that they upon their thrones desire; the air is captured in giant jars, filled with acid and set ablaze until the sparkling rainbows within are rent to ash, leaving only the air that they upon their thrones want to breathe; the sky is torn to shreds by giant red hands, fingers tipped with claws to peel the sky back and reveal a blank white canvas, just like they upon their thrones. They upon their thrones, who toss oil and garbage into the ocean and light matches next to the dry grass, who crank up the heat until the dome around the world wears thin.

They upon their thrones, who look at all they have done and smile and laugh and spit their vitriol. They who tell us we must thank them for their services, for all they have done, for all they have wrecked and ruined and torn asunder.

The fear is there. It is persistent. It chokes me. I spit and cough, brought to my knees as I try to breathe. I stare at all that has been done, all that have been killed and ruined and destroyed. I stare, and stare.

Something boils within me, burning my stomach. It pushes up through my throat, tearing it raw. It spills from my lips, vicious and hot. It drips to the ground, black as tar. I stare down at it, watching this vicious thing drip from me and spread. It reaches the sky, the air, the ground, the buildings, the children, the woman, the earth. It covers them, this vicious tar. It wraps around them and they take it and make it their own.

They are all people. They are all broken, ruined, destroyed, torn apart by they upon their thrones. They are covered in vicious, boiling tar. They stand tall, stand proud, as white and red monsters crash around them.

There is screaming and shouting. A ferocious thing, congealing together into one. We march, we scream, we show what has been done to us. We burst into that white building and face they upon their thrones. They laugh down at us, and we scream up at them.

The black tar spread, reaching their podium, crawling up their seats, covering their hands and eyes and mouths. We scream, and we show them what they have done to us. We show them the world they have broken at every turn, at the people they have betrayed and killed. They do not care, and we scream louder.

I am full of rage, and I will show them with my teeth and fists.

[msssayana]

[liquoricebxxxh]

Bow Wow not exactly/no longer hating Jermaine Dupri, saying he “wishes him the best” while at the same time kinda don’t want nothing to do with him sounds a lot like Chris Brown and how he pretty much feels about his ex-manager Tina Davis. You know, the woman who allegedly groomed him from age 15 (actually maybe younger)? :/

[protoslacker]

Defund Police

Project NIA

Project NIA  website.

[contenthause]

Photos Captured by Damany Campbell at Barclays Center Protest of the Lynching of black people. May 29th 2020

// Art: “Incendie du château d’eau, place du Palais-Royal, le 24 février 1848” by Eugène Henri Adolphe Hagnauer

“It is dangerous to be right in matters where established men are wrong.”

— Voltaire, “The Age of Louis XIV”

[myheartticks]

these are for my school projects, it would help me out a lot if anyone could fill these out!

[infinitemonkeytheory]

Three customers, together weighing 550 pounds, wrestled the 135-pound teen to the floor of the West Allis, Wisconsin, store. They pinned him in a seated position, “his body compressed downward,” according to a police account. One of the men put Stingley in a chokehold, witnesses would later tell investigators.

“Get up, you punk!” that man, a former Marine, reportedly told Stingley when an officer from the police department finally arrived. But the teen didn’t move. He was foaming at the mouth, and his pants and shoes were soaked in urine.

He’d suffered a traumatic brain injury from a loss of oxygen and never regained consciousness. His parents took him off life support two weeks later. The medical examiner ruled Stingley’s death a homicide following his restraint in “a violent struggle with multiple individuals.”

That was more than 10 years ago.

None of the men, all of whom were white, were criminally charged in the incident that killed Stingley, a Black youth.

[jimjamjomjum]

The parallels between these two haunt me.

[cyarsk52-20]

Ralph Yarl, 16, was shot twice by a white man in Kansas City after accidentally ringing the doorbell of the wrong home. The man shot Ralph in the head through his glass door, and then when Yarl was already bleeding out on the ground, shot him again tw/cw: for upsetting images

Update: Ralph Yarl has been released from the hospital and is recovering at home in Kansas City, his father says.

“He continues to improve. He’s responsive and he’s making good progress.”

Oh and here’s the information on the information on the person who shot him

https://twitter.com/Weirdberto/status/1647775575849705473?s=20

If Andrew Lester is 80+ & that fuckin racist, bet money he's killed before.

In Missouri?

I bet He probably been part of a few lynchings including attempted lynchings .

Make him famous and ruin his life (or what’s left of his life)

Black children should be able to make it home without fear of death especially when it comes in the form of a white racist attempting to hunt them down like wild animals for trophies

[daughterofdessalines]

A Black couple living in Dallas say their 2-week-old daughter was taken from them because they decided to have a home birth with a midwife.

Home-births and midwifery services are increasingly sought out by Black pregnant people and families over traditional hospital settings amid a mounting maternal mortality crisis exacerbated by systemic medical racism. Black pregnant people are three to four times more likely than white pregnant people to die from pregnancy-related causes, per the CDC.

When Black pregnant people and families can’t feel safe seeking pregnancy and birth-related services from the hospital, and can’t feel safe choosing home births and home care options that draw police attention.

[limerence-leftovers]

I voted. I tried. I love you.

— Millions of Americans for Kamala Harris

[alicentflorent]

Imagine if Alicent had used her position as queen call struggling smallfolk bastards who are living in poverty and starving (a fact she is fully aware of) into her castle where she will give them food and comfort if they are willing make life threatening attempts to claim a dragon and if the two “winners” survive the war, they’ll be given a better life. All of this is done because her faction need more dragonriders to fight in the war for her families claim to the throne, strengthen their chances of winning the war and in attempt to avoid putting her son directly in the firing line. Then she watches on from a safe position as most of them attempt to flee, get burned or eaten alive. You’d be crucifying her and rooting for them to betray her and destroy her family instead of viewing it as a righteous desperate act or necessary power move.