godiswoman:

Ray Otero, 1961

(via thisiselliz)

thememedaddy:

(via tobesaurus)

afrafemme:

A friend and I were out with our kids when another family’s two-year-old came up. She began hugging my friend’s 18-month-old, following her around and smiling at her. My friend’s little girl looked like she wasn’t so sure she liked this, and at that moment the other little girl’s mom came up and got down on her little girl’s level to talk to her.

“Honey, can you listen to me for a moment? I’m glad you’ve found a new friend, but you need to make sure to look at her face to see if she likes it when you hug her. And if she doesn’t like it, you need to give her space. Okay?”

Two years old, and already her mother was teaching her about consent.

My daughter Sally likes to color on herself with markers. I tell her it’s her body, so it’s her choice. Sometimes she writes her name, sometimes she draws flowers or patterns. The other day I heard her talking to her brother, a marker in her hand.

“Bobby, do you mind if I color on your leg?”

Bobby smiled and moved himself closer to his sister. She began drawing a pattern on his leg with a marker while he watched, fascinated. Later, she began coloring on the sole of his foot. After each stoke, he pulled his foot back, laughing. I looked over to see what was causing the commotion, and Sally turned to me.

“He doesn’t mind if I do this,” she explained, “he is only moving his foot because it tickles. He thinks its funny.” And she was right. Already Bobby had extended his foot to her again, smiling as he did so.

What I find really fascinating about these two anecdotes is that they both deal with the consent of children not yet old enough to communicate verbally. In both stories, the older child must read the consent of the younger child through nonverbal cues. And even then, consent is not this ambiguous thing that is difficult to understand.

Teaching consent is ongoing, but it starts when children are very young. It involves both teaching children to pay attention to and respect others’ consent (or lack thereof) and teaching children that they should expect their own bodies and their own space to be respected—even by their parents and other relatives.

And if children of two or four can be expected to read the nonverbal cues and expressions of children not yet old enough to talk in order to assess whether there is consent, what excuse do full grown adults have?

(via loukarr)

etherea1ity:

so many worlds to see through the window

(via)

(via sulfur)

you-are-another-me:

(via blk-hippie)

inkskinned:

the heart opens and closes. sometimes i go hours without thinking of you, and i find myself absolutely stunned with that fact - it’s been whole hours! good days feel like a knot in me is slowly remembering how to release. bad days feel like every muscle in my body is imploding. i don’t know i ever feel good. but it’s starting to be better-than-just-surviving.

for a while, anything i did just sang of distraction. i couldn’t enjoy movies or eating or sleeping since it was all just waiting-to-remember-you. i knew when i finished the book or art project that i’d return to the pain of it, and it flooded every moment with your hair and your laughter. it’s been a long spring. more and more i find myself actually-living. not stealing moments away from the grief, but growing them in joy.

i can’t stop feeling guilty and fucked up and brutal. on good days, i know i shouldn’t want you back. on bad days, i would cut my hand off to feed you an apology. it slams into me randomly, full of roadrash. the endless loop. i still love you/actually fuck you.

i have a really beautiful life i feel immensely grateful for. i hate that i want to show it to you. i have so many opportunities that i’ve agreed to, so many windows and doors open. they still feel like they belong to you, somehow - like i only did this stuff to avoid you, so it of course is-still-about-you. every poem that’s not about you just has your lipstick in the underscore - my words know i’m tiptoeing around your name, and that makes it kind of hurt more.

i’m at the halfway: it’s not that i think i’ll never be okay. it’s that i hate the okay i will be is an okay without you. i hate knowing i’m cultivating an entire garden you’ll never see bear fruit.

in and out and in and out of loving you.

heavensghost:

(via blk-hippie)