I don’t understand american school years what the fuck is a freshman or a sophomore why do you have these words instead of the numbers
what why would you use numbers
so IT FUCKING MAKES SENSE WHAT THE HELL IS A SOFT MOORE OR A FRESH MAN WHY ARE THE MEN FRESH
America makes no sense, as usual.
bless the person that actually made the chart
laughter from France
France what the fuck
- Sirius putting his hair in a messy bun when it gets too hot at Hogwarts.
- McGonagall getting mad when he won’t take it down, but she can never really stay mad at him.
- Remus playing with Sirius’s hair as they sit by the lake.
- Remus braiding little daisies into Sirius’s hair.
- Sirius forgetting about the daisies and leaving them in for the rest of the day.
"Haha! Americans don’t have free healthcare!"
Yeah it’s actually a serious problem people are literally dying can this stop being a silly nationalistic insult?
- Don’t be angry at yourself when anxiety/depression flares up. It isn’t your fault and no one blames you and if they do they’re pieces of shit.
- Don’t orbit around your perceived value so much. You’re not the sum total of what you produce.
- Don’t let yourself wonder why people love you. That’s not how it works. There are not stark, individual reasons that a person can enumerate about why they love you. It’s the entire, unique combination of what and who you are.
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.
Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be. (via oliviacirce)
When I lose hope in the world, I remember this poem.
I’m really glad I read that.