The Anti-Racist Collective on my campus decided to put together a zine that delves into how we can come together during these next years. Even though many marginalized groups are being attacked, there are still those who sulk in their privileges and do not speak up for others.
At an advance screening of “I Am Not Your Negro,” I thought deeply about the broken record of oppression that has a hold over black life in America. Racism is not over. James Baldwin knew it, modern black people know it and it is likely that those after us will know it.
Hearing that refugees fleeing terrorism will be denied entry to the United States because they call themselves Muslim, angers me — to say the least. If racism and xenophobia are unfounded weapons President Trump plans to use to bat away terrorism, or at the very least people’s fear of the Other, then we will respond with protest and resistance, with colorful hijabs and Arabic that rolls off the tongue.
“It’s a great shock to realize you’re black” in America. And me being raised in white suburbia, that line is all too true.
My family and I began the 10-hour drive to attend the Women’s March on Washington at 2 a.m. The day we arrived in Washington D.C. was the same day Donald Trump was sworn into office.
I asked young people holding pro-LGBTQ signs or chanting the LGBTQ slogans “What do you think Donald Trump will do for LGBTQ rights in America?” Here’s what they had to say.
I was supposed to be a fly on the wall
Just an unbiased observer
But when the chants turn gospels
And the streets of Atlanta turn to holy
You must become congregation…
Protesters’ signs shouted what it seemed they could not say enough times. These were the messages they plastered onto cardboard boxes and poster board so the world would see what they meant — so the world could see how much they meant it.
I like to compare Obama’s presidency with how my mom takes care of me and my siblings. Theoretically, the rest of the nation would be my siblings. Obama nurtured and looked after America, just as my mom nurtures and looks after me.
My skin is darker and my hair is unrulier. But just because my reality isn’t being reblogged on Instagram doesn’t mean it’s not good enough. … I don’t need a hashtag to tell me my worth and nor do you, dear friends.