voidbuddy:

someone: you forgot to eat? how?? aren’t you starving?

me: I don’t know I can’t feel anything

inkskinned:

there’s a myth that teachers work seven hours a day, nine months a year. there’s this joke: name three reasons to become a teacher - june, july, august. 

if you’re worth your salt, you know better. you know the day usually is at least nine hours long, if not twelve (thanks, staff meeting that ran late again), you know that you spend your summers locked in small rooms learning and re-learning the smallest tactic that might help your students; endlessly on Pintrest because oh my gosh, isn’t that just the best idea for a sensory table. or a new name board. or this would really help them understand the activity; yes it’s going to cost me but gosh, isn’t it lovely. you know that being a teacher also sometimes means being a parent, kind of, and being a jailer, kind of, and being a hardass, kind of, and being the kindest person in their life. you know sometimes your role is “you gave me the hope i needed to keep studying” and sometimes it’s “you showed me i needed to work harder.”  being a teacher is watching the entire series of my little pony just because it’s what’s cool with the kids and you think you could make a curriculum from it and it’s also deliberately pretending you don’t understand cultural references just because it makes kids squirm. it’s giving “a little extra” all the time, every day, a little extra points for that one student who needs it, a little extra hug, a little extra thought, and time, and emotional labor, and heart, and heart, and heart.

the interesting thing about being both a student and teacher at certain points in my life means that i came face-to-face with the idea i was going to lay down my life for a student before i’d even hit 21. at 19, taking lessons on how to distract a shooter should-it-ever-occur; a cop looked me in the face. “are you ready?” he asked. “will you die for them?” he had a gun on his hip. i hadn’t even met my class yet.

sometimes, i don’t match perfectly with my students. i mean, you always like them, a little, even if they drive you nuts, but some kids just won’t click with you. it’s kind of a hard thing to learn; you assume it’s because of you, and your failure to become some movie-star teacher who touches the life of every bill and sally. but the truth is, kids got stuff going on at home and in their bodies and in their friends and they don’t always have time or energy to be patient and listen or whatever you need from them. but you try, you know. and then you’re asked. hey, this kid that won’t listen, that hits other kids, that uses slurs. you’ll die for him, right? you’ll give up that big beautiful future you got, that family that loves you, that home and that slice of cake. you’ll give up that summer cruise you’ve saved up for since july and your brother’s wedding. for this kid? 

i do have, like. a gauge about things. sometimes, and i mean this truly and deeply, i am simply not paid enough for certain nonsense. no, no, who cares i’m not paid enough for crayons or markers or books or literally half the supplies i have in my classroom (i’ll find a way, in my budget, to provide, always, every time, no matter what it takes out of my mouth). usually it’s inter-community drama or parents who are somehow standing in the way of their student’s education or administration yet again slashing an important lesson/curriculum/whatever-they-get-their-hands-on. i’m not paid enough for a lot of things, but i still do them. i’m not paid enough to make your children extra food or be sure they get their vitamins. i’m certainly not paid enough to die for them.

often the argument “just bring a gun” comes up. how silly to anyone who has worked with children. there’s safety risks, huge safety risks, and then there’s anything in a classroom. if you think something is safe, it is not. kids will find a way to hurt themselves on nothing but an empty floor if you give them the time. i wonder if this what they tell police officers who were shot in the line of duty - well, it sucks but you should have had some type of superhuman reflex and simply not been shot. after all, you had a gun. this personal gun somehow cancels out the bigger automatic gun. two wrongs make a right. my personal gun would somehow empower me in such a way that i could not only predict the movements of a shooter but also have the aim, calm, and consideration to shoot him before he shot me. my teaching degree did not come with a CIA training course. i have bad vision. i know, faithfully, in the pit of my stomach, where the tiny terrors are that, should i even have a gun, i would not shoot it. i wonder, always. what would that look like. the police don’t know who is the hero when they break down doors. and, should i die in that classroom, my death will have a whisper: don’t politicize it. let it, the others say, remain meaningless.

sometimes a cop will look at you and ask, are you ready? are you willing? are you comfortable knowing that this humble job, this often-thankless, often-joyful job: it has a policy expecting you to face a man armed to the teeth. and die for each child in that classroom, even the child who drives you nuts, even when you aren’t paid enough, even when you’re giving up your family and your love, even when people will blame you for not having a gun. and you know, somehow, the minute you step into a classroom. you know the minute you see them. it rings in your chest like a second heartbeat: yes, yes, yes, i would gladly do it, i would die twice if i was allowed to do it, if i could save one, if i could save any, yes, of course, unhesitatingly. because you love them, even when you hate your job, and you love them in a way that means you know would stretch out your body at 19 years old and give it up, because, somehow, you understand “protect and serve” in the core of your bones, in the grit of you, that these children are yours, are an extension of your twelve-hour days and hungry belly and endless working, and that the love you have will make that choice effortless, easy, a promise you make even if nobody ever asks for it.

okay. 

three days ago, my second graders came in from the cold when i got the first question. a tug on my sleeve. “miss raquel?” her eyes are dry. she’s just thinking. “when a shooter comes, are we ready?”

and i realized: we’re asking them to die, too.

galileggo:

“I. You love him from across the room, you love him from the other end of the yard. You love him for how he looks and what might be beneath and he doesnt know, you dont think he ever will know and you dont want him to know. II. He loves you from the locker across from yours. He loves you on the day his friends dared him to ask you out. You loved him from his awkward stance in front of you, as he fumbled with his fingers and asked you and assured you it was a dare. And you loved him when he begged you to say yes, and he loved you more when you did. III. You love him on the first date, at a small pizza place next to school. You love him when he generously tips the waiter and when he demands to pay for your meal. He loves you as your cheeks flush when he hands over three dollars and fifty cents for your plain cheese slice. IV. You love him as he holds up his diploma, the sign he’s done at this school. He loves you as you brandish yours. But you know after this day, you may never see him again. He loves you more, he loves you more as he realizes that maybe you can see eachother again. But you love him for hoping in what can never happen. V. He loves you as he holds you closer, as you both cry because you love him and you’ll never see eachother again. You love him when he wraps his arms around you and holds you closer closer closer, his warmth overbearing but comfortably and lovingly so. You cry and soon the front of his shirt is soaked and stained from your tears and dripping mascara. And you love him, painfully so, when you notice he does not ask you to stop. VI. You loved him for years and years at university, loving the ghost of a memory of his body against yours, as you sobbed your love into the collar of his shirt. You love him while you work at your new firm, when you realized he probably moved on and found someone else. You convince yourself it was only a high school fling, and he’ll never think of you again. VII. He loves you when he sees you, typing away at your computer in the office, doing whatever it is you do while he leans against the doorframe, waiting for someone. He is sad when you look at him but don’t show anything on your face. You love him when you see him, love boiling inside you and the pull to go and kiss him is too strong (he’s probably found someone else, anyway), but you keep your face blank save for a small welcoming smile and you stand up to grab more coffee. VIII. You love him when he grabs your arm midstride as you pass, whispers ‘Do you remember me?’ You nod frantically, your eyes fill with tears. He loves you when you throw your arms around him, hold him like you never will again. The love that boiled in you is now let out pure and unstoppable, in a stream of tears and kisses and wild grins in the entrance to the office. People are staring but you dont care you dont care you love him. IX. You love him when he says ‘I do’, and he loves you when the justice of the peace lets you kiss. You love him as his lips come down on yours, full of all the years lost. He loves you when you fight with the man at the law office because you will not change your surname. You love him as your first child stares in awe at her baby brother. X. He loves you as you grasp his hand, as hard as you can in your failing strength. He loves you as you whisper, ‘I love you,’. He loves you as the light fades from your eyes, stolen by sickness. He loves you as he cries in your wake, as your children come to help him ease into life without you. He loves you as your children move out and into the world. He loves you with the flowers on your gravestone, he loves you with tears at night until he too is taken from this world.”

— Ten ways to love | vika. (via aikelos)

etrogim:

i like to pretend i’m a heartless apathetic b*tch but in reality i’m a baby who cares a fucking lot and emotionally invests myself in everything and is hurt 98.3% of the time

itsladykit:

theangriestlittleunicorn:

the-real-seebs:

the-rain-monster:

shrineart:

vampireapologist:

Honestly something that bothers me more than most things is having my compassion mistaken for naivety.

I know that another fish might eat this bullfrog right after I spend months rehabilitating it.

I know that turning a beetle back onto its legs won’t save it from falling over again when I walk away.

I know that there is no cosmic reward waiting for my soul based on how many worms I pick off a hot sidewalk to put into the mud, or how many times I’ve helped a a raccoon climb out of a too-deep trashcan. 

I know things suffer, and things struggle, and things die uselessly all day long. I’m young and idealistic, but I’m not literally a child. I would never judge another person for walking by an injured bird, for ignoring a worm, or for not really caring about the fate of a frog in a pond full of, y’know, plenty of other frogs.

There is nothing wrong with that.

But I cannot cannot cannot look at something struggling and ignore it if I may have the power to help.

There is so much bad stuff in this world so far beyond my control, that I take comfort in the smallest, most thankless tasks. It’s a relief to say “I can help you in this moment,” even though they don’t understand.

I don’t need a devil’s advocate to tell me another fish probably ate that frog when I let it go, or that the raccoon probably ended up trapped in another dumpster the next night.

I know!!!! I know!!!!!!! But today I had the power to help! So I did! And it made me happy!

So just leave me alone alright thank u!!!!

THIS.

I heard a story about this, a parable I guess.

There was a big storm and a ton of starfish were washed onto the beach, stranded much further up than they could get back and beginning to bake in the post-storm sunshine. A little girl was walking down the beach, picking up starfish and throwing them back into the sea. Some guy comes up and asks her what she’s doing. “Saving the starfish,” she says.

He looks around at the huge beach and the hundreds of starfish, and says “You can’t possibly save them all. I’m afraid you’re not gonna make much of a difference.”

She throws another starfish back into the ocean, and replies “It made a difference to that one.”

Yeah, I mean, we know we can’t change all the things. But have you ever noticed how much better life is when you’re around people who change things when they can?

Kindness is a choice. Even if it’s small, it’s worth it.

This is what I’m talking about, when I say that kindness and compassion do not equate with ignorance, stupidity, or naivety. Being cynical does not make someone more intelligent or more worldly. 

Kindness is not weakness.

Kindness is brave. Especially when you also know that your kindness might not be returned, may even be met with anger or cruelty. It’s reaching out with an open hand, knowing that it’s just as likely to be bitten as it is to be held. 

Kindness is hard. If you can’t find it in yourself to be kind, then fine. But don’t make it more difficult for those that can.

theonlybkaye:

meatfighter:

What’s the hardest part about dating you?

I’m the most emotional unemotional person you’ll ever meet

yourbigsisnissi:

A part of being an adult is living with regret and not allowing it to consume you. The older you get, the more mistakes you’ve made, opportunities you’ve missed, people you’ve disappointed. And every day you have to remind yourself to be kind and forgiving of yourself. You accept and love the you from the past and understand that it’s all a part of the process. Then you move on and live your best life, knowing now as old as you feel today, you’ll never be this young again.

imransuleiman:

all it takes is a brief smell, or an old picture, or meeting an old friend for me to fall into inescapable lapses of nostalgia and wondering why the present isn’t as great as the past

thatpettyblackgirl:

can we dead the idea “no one will love you until you love yourself” when it’s more like if you don’t recognize your own value you’re more likely to endure mistreatment that you don’t deserve.

likeful:

treat yourself like a good friend…be kind to yourself… yes, u can critique your behavior but don’t be ruthlessly mean…don’t say what you wouldn’t say to a close friend…cherish yourself and cut yourself some slack…it’s gonna be ok

soft-likethesunslove:

heartwarming resolutions to have not only for the new year, but for every day

• tell the people you love that you love them
• tell yourself that the people you don’t love or necessarily like are still vaild to someone in some way. no, you don’t have to tell them that too
• allow yourself to live in the moment
• keep working towards self-love
• now spread that self-love to those around you
• get involved with movements that you stand behind
• educate yourself fully on the movements that you stand behind
• open your eyes, really open your eyes to nature/ it’s a beautiful place
• give more
• give to yourself too
• practice breathing exercises when you feel anxious
• allow yourself to feel pain and grief and anger
• now force yourself to think positively and move forward
• spend more time doing the things you love
• spend time doing the things you always said you’d love to do
• practice coexisting and understanding
• open your heart to the expression of others
• love love love

rendzina:

over coffee with my mom this morning: “sometimes we hesitate to invite people into our life because we feel like our space isn’t good enough yet. things are a little messy, or our place settings don’t match, or our situation isn’t quite what we want it to be. don’t let that stop you. invite people in anyway.”

oau:

validate me