Why does it matter what race the people are? Shouldn't the only thing that matters is people are dying by the hands of the police and nothing is being done about it? Why does everything have to be about race?

lordbape:

Reread your own message. Who is dying by the hands of the police? Black people.. on purpose.. Black people are intentionally being killed by the police… Not “people”.. because this is happening at an institutional level in which specifically Black people are purposefully being killed, arrested and dehumanized by the police because they are Black. It’s really fucking simple, actually.  There’s a pattern— that’s why race matters. We— Black people— are all as en entire race in fucking danger that’s why race matters. Because it ISN’T just happening to “people”… it’s happening to Black people BECAUSE THEY ARE BLACK. It’s not a coincidence.

Why would it not matter that one group of people is intentionally being killed..? They’re being killed by the police BECAUSE THEY ARE BLACK.. LITERALLY. Why would it not be about race if Black people are specifically being targeted to be killed like why wouldn’t that be important… Why do you not want to involve race? Tell me if you see a pattern that would help you understand why it’s about race

It is about race, I’m not “making it about race”. Why don’t you want it to be about race when it already is…?


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I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

♡ Slyvia Plath, The Bell Jar (via coffeewars)