Long long way to go

I hate writing Description in Chinese. Hate it even more in English. So just let the blog speaks itself. :P
~ Saturday, April 12 ~
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onceapunatwistedfairytale:

humansofnewyork:

"I teach fourth grade in Harlem.""What’s your greatest struggle as a teacher?""I worry a lot about the kids.""Why’s that?""Not all the kids. Just the ones that aren’t on the ‘college track.’ Many of them just don’t have a culture of expectation at home, and it’s hard work to lift yourself out of an underprivileged situation. I actually just finished going to a trombone recital for a former student of mine. I used to coach him in hockey on weekends. He’d practice with me from 4 AM to 6 AM. Then he’d go practice trombone from 8 to 10. He did all this just so he could get into a good high school. That’s what it takes, really. Hard to do without a culture of expectation."

This bothers me…
It is hard work to lift yourself out of an underprivileged situation.
The ones who aren’t on a college track in the fourth grade  isn’t necessarily indicative of a “culture” of a lack of expectation within the home…
But making that assumption because of kids not being on that track in elementary school….and being proud of attending recitals does contribute to the culture of the great white hope.
I work with underprivileged kids within Washington, DC and some of them don’t discuss college, or seem to be on that track. Most of them focus on WWE, instagram, the latest shoes, gossip in school…etc. School work just seems like a means to an end for SOME of them. At the same time, others do think about the future and obsess about getting one bad grade. However, it was a similar situation when I worked within the second best private school in Washington, DC.
I do agree, kids in a less than privileged situation have to work harder than others. However, to say there’s a lack of expectation within the homes, I think, is an inaccurate assumption. With ALL kids, some focus on academics/college, some focus on sports, some focus on the arts and some seem to have no focus at all, this including the fact that their parents are vocal about their academic expectations.
Its absolutely normal.
Not all kids, privileged; underprivileged; white; black; Asian; feet; no feet; half a finger; whatever, go to college…some make it some don’t. Some go to college, some drop out. Some graduate and do nothing more, some graduate and excel. Some don’t graduate and work for/run fortune 100 companies, some become bums.
The expectation is for your kids to do great things and excel in life, the reality is some will and some won’t …with or WITHOUT a college education. One isn’t indicative of the other.
In the end, in my personal opinion, going to college is such a litmus test of the privileged.
This coming from a young Afro-Caribbean American female college graduate from Brooklyn.
From my experience, I don’t know if passing that test proves anything but nothing at all.

onceapunatwistedfairytale:

humansofnewyork:

"I teach fourth grade in Harlem."
"What’s your greatest struggle as a teacher?"
"I worry a lot about the kids."
"Why’s that?"
"Not all the kids. Just the ones that aren’t on the ‘college track.’ Many of them just don’t have a culture of expectation at home, and it’s hard work to lift yourself out of an underprivileged situation. I actually just finished going to a trombone recital for a former student of mine. I used to coach him in hockey on weekends. He’d practice with me from 4 AM to 6 AM. Then he’d go practice trombone from 8 to 10. He did all this just so he could get into a good high school. That’s what it takes, really. Hard to do without a culture of expectation."

This bothers me…

It is hard work to lift yourself out of an underprivileged situation.

The ones who aren’t on a college track in the fourth grade  isn’t necessarily indicative of a “culture” of a lack of expectation within the home…

But making that assumption because of kids not being on that track in elementary school….and being proud of attending recitals does contribute to the culture of the great white hope.

I work with underprivileged kids within Washington, DC and some of them don’t discuss college, or seem to be on that track. Most of them focus on WWE, instagram, the latest shoes, gossip in school…etc. School work just seems like a means to an end for SOME of them. At the same time, others do think about the future and obsess about getting one bad grade. However, it was a similar situation when I worked within the second best private school in Washington, DC.

I do agree, kids in a less than privileged situation have to work harder than others. However, to say there’s a lack of expectation within the homes, I think, is an inaccurate assumption. With ALL kids, some focus on academics/college, some focus on sports, some focus on the arts and some seem to have no focus at all, this including the fact that their parents are vocal about their academic expectations.

Its absolutely normal.

Not all kids, privileged; underprivileged; white; black; Asian; feet; no feet; half a finger; whatever, go to college…some make it some don’t. Some go to college, some drop out. Some graduate and do nothing more, some graduate and excel. Some don’t graduate and work for/run fortune 100 companies, some become bums.

The expectation is for your kids to do great things and excel in life, the reality is some will and some won’t …with or WITHOUT a college education. One isn’t indicative of the other.

In the end, in my personal opinion, going to college is such a litmus test of the privileged.

This coming from a young Afro-Caribbean American female college graduate from Brooklyn.

From my experience, I don’t know if passing that test proves anything but nothing at all.


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~ Friday, April 4 ~
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theotakupen:

NEED

I have a set. 

(Source: pulmonaire)


144,437 notes
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~ Tuesday, April 1 ~
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kierongillen:

lockrocksandcoke:

131-di:

veggiebaker:

therunscape:

Heart attacks symptoms are different for women. I recently learned this. 

Everyone should know these things.

thanks to mainstream media and being unable to show breasts on TV, way too few people know about female signs of cardiac distress, and impending heart attacks. they only know about the “pain in the left arm” male symptom.

i had all these symptoms once and they sent me right to hospital
it was scary bc i didnt know these were the symptoms for female heart issues

I didn’t know this, and immediately sends me down a “WHY?” hole.

kierongillen:

lockrocksandcoke:

131-di:

veggiebaker:

therunscape:

Heart attacks symptoms are different for women. I recently learned this. 

Everyone should know these things.

thanks to mainstream media and being unable to show breasts on TV, way too few people know about female signs of cardiac distress, and impending heart attacks. they only know about the “pain in the left arm” male symptom.

i had all these symptoms once and they sent me right to hospital

it was scary bc i didnt know these were the symptoms for female heart issues

I didn’t know this, and immediately sends me down a “WHY?” hole.


140,019 notes
reblogged via kierongillen
~ Saturday, March 22 ~
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seikuya:

Mmmm omurice!

I posted the first one last year. Today someone replied : Damian looks like omurice. It’s actually quite funny because Damian sounds like rice in Chinese, so I drew it out. XD


532 notes
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~ Friday, March 21 ~
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seikuya:

A Dog’s Dream
You know in our hearts, you never left, not even for one day.

seikuya:

A Dog’s Dream

You know in our hearts, you never left, not even for one day.


633 notes
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~ Sunday, March 16 ~
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~ Friday, March 7 ~
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beanclam:

This is the first time I’ve actually finished a Thor pic.

… my hundreds of messy sketches don’t count ^^; Very pleased with this one, prints incoming! I’m uploading it to my Society6 store right now.


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~ Sunday, March 2 ~
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Sketchbook Assignment 1: Me vs. Me

image

1. For me, art is a permanent effort of exploration. 

Watch, listen, smell, taste, touch, feel, dream, ponder, question, analyze, wonder. 

Always curious of the objective world and the subjective mind; always push at their boundary to see if I could go further or deeper, or wonder if the boundary never actually exists at all. 

And then communicate with others and myself, see how much I can express it to them, or how much I actually understanding. 

How much more I can do. 

It’s the Tao of my life. 

image

2. What’s interesting is that no one really tell me what art should be. 

Or at least no one really work on giving me some convincing or authoritative answer. 

My parents let me experiment; my summer school art teacher only taught a few basic skills, gave a topic, and let kids draw whatever they wanted; my friend happily accepted my housewarming gift (above). 

So in the end it becomes Me vs. Me. No one really gives me any direction or instruction. I’m my own direction and instruction. I’m my own boundary. And I will always love a new adventure. 

Tags: MOOC Live!: A History of Art for Artists Animators and Gamers
~ Thursday, February 27 ~
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humansofnewyork:

"I’m trying to find money for African start-ups. But I’m much too African for this cold weather.""What sort of start-ups?""Most of them combine agriculture and mobile technology.""How do those two things go together?""Africa is is an interesting case because it skipped the PC age and went straight to mobile. The economy is still largely based on agriculture, and farmers are beginning to use mobile technology to keep track of weather updates, market prices, and improved farming techniques."

humansofnewyork:

"I’m trying to find money for African start-ups. But I’m much too African for this cold weather."
"What sort of start-ups?"
"Most of them combine agriculture and mobile technology."
"How do those two things go together?"
"Africa is is an interesting case because it skipped the PC age and went straight to mobile. The economy is still largely based on agriculture, and farmers are beginning to use mobile technology to keep track of weather updates, market prices, and improved farming techniques."


4,159 notes
reblogged via humansofnewyork
~ Wednesday, February 26 ~
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~ Saturday, February 15 ~
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giannameola:

Last valentines thing I promise, but here’s the master post of gifs (I omitted the cecils because I don’t like them haha) you can see the nonmoving version here

happy February! 


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When you are hurting, there will always be people who find a way to make it about themselves. If you break your wrist, they’ll complain about a sprained ankle. If you are sad, they’re sadder. If you’re asking for help, they’ll demand more attention.

Here is a fact: I was in a hospital and sobbing into my palms when a woman approached me and asked why I was making so much noise and I managed to stutter that my best friend shot himself in the head and now he was 100% certified dead and she made this little grunt and had the nerve to tell me, “Well now you made me sad.”

When you get angry, there are going to be people who ask you to shut up and sit down, and they’re not going to do it nicely. Theirs are the faces that turn bright red before you have a chance to finish your sentence. They won’t ask you to explain yourself. They’ll be mad that you’re mad and that will be their whole reason alone.

Here is a fact: I was in an alleyway a few weeks ago, stroking my friend’s back as she vomited fourteen tequila shots. “I hate men,” she wheezed as her sides heaved, “I hate all of them.”

I braided her hair so it wouldn’t get caught in the mess. I didn’t correct her and reply that she does in fact love her father and her little brother too, that there are strangers she has yet to meet that will be better for her than any of her shitty ex-boyfriends, that half of our group of friends identifies as male - I could hear each of her bruises in those words and I didn’t ask her to soften the blow when she was trying to buff them out of her skin. She doesn’t hate all men. She never did.

She had the misfortune to be overheard by a drunk guy in an ill-fitting suit, a boy trying to look like a man and leering down my dress as he stormed towards us. “Fuck you, lady,” he said, “Fuck you. Not all men are evil, you know.”

“Thanks,” I told him dryly, pulling on her hand, trying to get her inside again, “See you.”

He followed us. Wouldn’t stop shouting. How dare she get mad. How dare she was hurting. “It’s hard for me too!” he yowled after us. “With fuckers like you, how’s a guy supposed to live?”

Here’s a fact: my father is Cuban and my genes repeat his. Once one of my teachers looked at my heritage and said, “Your skin doesn’t look dirty enough to be a Mexican.”

When my cheeks grew pink and my tongue dried up, someone else in the classroom stood up. “You can’t say that,” he said, “That’s fucking racist. We could report you for that.”

Our teacher turned vicious. “You wanna fail this class? Go ahead. Report me. I was joking. It’s my word against yours. I hate kids like you. You think you’ve got all the power - you don’t. I do.”

Later that kid and I became close friends and we skipped class to do anything else and the two of us were lying on our backs staring up at the sky and as we talked about that moment, he sighed, “I hate white people.” His girlfriend is white and so is his mom. I reached out until my fingers were resting in the warmth of his palm.

He spoke up each time our teacher said something shitty. He failed the class. I stayed silent. I got the A but I wish that I didn’t.

Here is a fact: I think gender is a difficult and personal topic and people that want to tell others what defines it just haven’t done their homework. I personally happen to have the luck of the draw and identify as female in a female body, which basically just means society leaves me alone about this one particular thing.

Until I met Alex, who said he hated cis people. My throat closed up. I’m not good at confrontation. I avoided him because I didn’t want to bother him.

One day I was going on a walk and I found him behind our school, bleeding out of the side of his mouth. The only thing I really know is how to patch people up. He winced when the antibacterial cream went across his new wounds. “I hate cis people,” he said weakly.

I looked at him and pushed his hair back from his head. “I understand why you do.”

Here is a fact: anger is a secondary emotion. Anger is how people stop themselves from hurting. Anger is how people stop themselves by empathizing.

It is easy for the drunken man to be mad at my friend. If he says “Hey, fuck you, lady,” he doesn’t have to worry about what’s so wrong about men.

It’s easy for my teacher to fail the kids who speak up. If we’re just smart-ass students, it’s not his fault we fuck up.

It’s easy for me to hate Alex for labeling me as dangerous when I’ve never hurt someone a day in my life. But I’m safe in my skin and his life is at risk just by going to the bathroom. I understand why he says things like that. I finally do.

There’s a difference between the spread of hatred and the frustration of people who are hurting. The thing is, when you are broken, there will always be someone who says “I’m worse, stop talking.” There will always be people who are mad you’re trying to steal the attention. There will always be people who get mad at the same time as you do - they hate being challenged. It changes the rules.

I say I hate all Mondays but my sister was born on one and she’s the greatest joy I have ever known. I say I hate brown but it’s really just the word and how it turns your mouth down - the colour is my hair and my eyes and my favorite sweater. I say I hate pineapple but I still try it again every Easter, just to see if it stings less this year. It’s okay to be sad when you hear someone generalize a group you’re in. But instead of assuming they’re evil and filled with hatred, maybe ask them why they think that way - who knows, you might just end up with a new and kind friend.

By telling the oppressed that their anger is unjustified, you allow the oppression to continue. I know it’s hard to stay calm. I know it’s scary. But you’re coming from the safe place and they aren’t. Just please … Try to be more understanding. /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

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~ Sunday, February 9 ~
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septemberpoems:

ecarian:

Pals, friends, comrades, I not only need a fic where Derek and Stiles speak Polish at each other to the annoyance slash liminal fondness of the pack but I also require a fic where Stiles DOES NOT speak Polish due to reason a) his mom did not teach him (who perhaps did not know herself! And Stiles’ Gramma lived too far away!) reason b) it fell into disuse! Taught at an early age and then forgotten in the aftermath of tragic loss! and reason c) he’s selected for a student trip to Poland! Won through hard work and a tearful personal essay on family history! 

THE POINT BEING Stiles does not know how to speak Polish and it is NOT, in fact, a class taught either at the honourable Bee Aytch Aytch Ess and also! The library is tragically bereft of Rosetta Stones. Fast forward to Stiles’ earnest but unfruitful attempts at Internet Language Acquisition and enter Derek from stage left cued to the exact moment Stiles proclaims—

"I can’t even say my name!"

—in heartbroken frustration. Stiles, who in a moment of despair shoves his birth certificate, in its little plastic sleeve, the paper worn and wrinkled, fuzzy on the edges, at Derek chest. “See!” he announces.

Derek is silent. He handles the certificate carefully, reverently, holds it between his palms like a little book, thumbs bookending, turns in different direction under the lamp, studying.

With annoyed triumph, Stiles crows, “It’s impossible.”

"Zdzisław," Derek says, calling upon six years and a masters degree in Comparative Linguistics and Semiotics. "It means uh, create glory."

AND THEN! Obviously after Stiles says, “What, you’re kidding, are you serious, no way,” demands lessons. “My heritage!” he explains. “My mom!” and Derek, knowing a thing or two about moms, says, “Okay.”

And then they fall in love obviously.

So I thought I put this up two weeks ago, but apparently I didn’t. Sorry.

***

When the principal announces that BHHS along with two other schools in the area are to hold a writing contest and sending the winners to Poland for a tour of a whole list of WWII sites and Holocaust museeums, Stiles knows he’s not turning it in. Even if he only has to write a motivation as to why he should be allowed to go.

Stiles writes the letter, has to, writes about his grandma’s journey to the US and how she met Stiles’ grandpa in a support group for Holocaust survivors, his mother’s illness and how she promised she’d take him once she got well again. He writes, because Coach brings it up Scott looks at him with his puppy eyes and looks so happy and excited about sending Stiles to a country he’ll most probably get lost in.

”You could go!” he says. ”They let you bring someone else, too.”

”I guess,” Stiles mutters, and writes, cries over it and writes some more. Then he crumples it up in a little ball and throws it in the bin, ignoring it and most definitely not turning it in.

Stiles doesn’t turn it in, but Scott does.

Read More


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~ Monday, February 3 ~
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60 notes
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