I was watching this documentary on the history of black street gangs in LA and it turns out that in the 40's black families started moving into white neighborhoods and since it wasn't segregated by law like in the south the kids went to school with the white kids. The white kids started attacking the black kids so the black kids started coming together after school to protect each other from getting their asses kicked. Eventually the black kids started kicking ass and so the white families started moving out. It occurred to me that if white families across the U.S. had treated the blacks as equal human beings we could all be singing Kumbaya with each other today but they chose to hate instead. They gave black people no choice but to fight. How backwards?
The funniest part of the entire Gangnam Style phenomenon was when people discovered that Psy also raps about social issues (including anti-war songs) and were either bewildered or outraged over it. lmfao
I don’t often consider what it means to be able to say that one of my closest friends is a white girl. And our relationship is particularly special and interesting since it developed when we were 7 years old.
I think it’s easy (or easier) for women to have friendships that…
African women—women from Africa, women expected to speak for and as Africa, women invited to events to be African—face the daunting burden of speaking, but not too well; understanding, but not too fluently; responding, but not too abrasively; knowing, but not too comprehensively. And always, always, upholding their dignity as African women. U.S.-based institutions invite African women to be African women: we want colorful head dressings so we can ooh and aah, appropriately chunky jewelry that socially conscious students can emulate, and down-home wisdom rendered in proverbs and riddles, references to ancient wisdom and secret knowledge.
Chimamanda Adichie visited the University of Maryland to participate in the Dean’s Lecture Series, and she said “fuck, fuck.”
It happened early during her session. And here’s the context. She described walking near her ancestral home, on the way to visit a favorite uncle. A woman who was walking ahead of her slipped and fell and said, “fuck, fuck.” And so Chimamanda repeated, “fuck, fuck,” several times as she told the story. In fact, the story became the words, “fuck, fuck.”
I loved this moment of her session. It was perfectly pitched. Calibrated to manage our expectations of Africanité. With this one gesture, Chimamanda refused to assume the mantle of the sage-like African woman who knows a lot, but not enough to ever intimidate U.S. hosts, who are all too willing to explain local customs.