(Source: georginakincaid, via miarific)
(via l0stinstars)
I try to not be scared, you know. But I still ruin everything. I still fuck up.
—John Green (via never—the—cool—kid)
I went to a concert where Ntozake Shange was reading. There, everything exploded for me. She was speaking a language that I knew — in the deepest parts of me — existed, and that I had ignored in my own feminist studies and even in my own writing. What Ntosake caught in me is the realization that in my development as a poet, I have, in many ways, denied the voice of my brown mother— the brown in me. I have acclimated to the sound of a white language which, as my father represents it, does not speak to the emotions in my poems — emotions which stem from the love of my mother.
The reading was agitating. Made me uncomfortable. Threw me into a week-long terror of how deeply I was affected. I felt that I had to start all over again. That I turned only to the perceptions of
white middle-class women to speak for me and all women. I am shocked by my own ignorance.
—Cherríe Moraga, La Güera (x)
(Source: anotherfeminist, via the-uncensored-she)
(Source: free-your-mind, via erratic-icarus)
(Source: seetheworldellie, via keddyson)
(via itsgoodtoseayou)
(Source: graveyardguts, via dafsux)
