Official Protest Thread...
- Thread starter Camille
- Start date
You know I have realized from the LA riots BLM to Kaepernick...
They have systematically neutered our ability to protest.
They created this narrative where if the protest isn't appropriate to THEM...the OFFENDERS?
Then it's somehow now WORSE then the original offense.
Whether we boycott sit in march go on social media write letters/emails or get violent?
It's all the same.
And somehow THEIR mere criticism is sufficient to quell any and all opposition.
They have systematically neutered our ability to protest.
They created this narrative where if the protest isn't appropriate to THEM...the OFFENDERS?
Then it's somehow now WORSE then the original offense.
Whether we boycott sit in march go on social media write letters/emails or get violent?
It's all the same.
And somehow THEIR mere criticism is sufficient to quell any and all opposition.
Yeah that Maxine interview I just posted touches on that. She said a lot of black folks got into politics and then started doing things like white people do it, not rocking the boat, etc. She said this is why its important to have young people involved in changing the system. That was a really good interview, I recommend reading it.
Wtf
My dad was telling me,how white folks was throwing a fit about the Browns drafting Caleb Brantley,He was saying that this caller was saying he will not watch Browns game again.I was like...wtf....
You have an owner that was in a rebate fraud controversy,right after he purchased the Browns at the end of 2012 and yet you have a problem with a player,who is trying to get a second chance.
http://www.ohio.com/sports/browns/r...f-fraud-probe-prompts-shift-in-power-1.418811
It's okay for white people to get 'x ' amount of chances,but black people have to be perfect.....
They never say anything about riots that go on after a team wins a championship,but want to tell people protesting isn't allowed.....even though protesting is a constitutional right.Then again,the constitution was never for black people in the first place...
The cop was drunk and refused to take a breath test....And on 30 day suspension.....only in Amerikkka
https://audioboom.com/channel/undisclosed
http://undisclosed-podcast.com/
http://undisclosed-podcast.com/episodes/miniseries-2/
http://undisclosed-podcast.com/episodes/miniseries-2-addenda/
http://undisclosed-podcast.com/documents/miniseries-2/
http://undisclosed-podcast.com/episodes/miniseries-2-addenda/addendum-8.html
http://thetimbre.com/the-undisclosed-podcast-is-not-the-new-serial/
https://twitter.com/Undisclosedpod/media
https://twitter.com/Undisclosedpod/
http://www.salon.com/2017/04/24/watch-what-really-happened-to-freddie-gray/
http://www.uptownmagazine.com/2017/03/undisclosed-re-investigates-killing-freddie-gray/
http://www.rollingstone.com/culture/features/death-of-freddie-gray-5-things-you-didnt-know-w476107
http://www.library.georgetown.edu/gelardin/showcase/entries/undisclosed-killing-freddie-gray
http://undisclosed-podcast.com/
http://undisclosed-podcast.com/episodes/miniseries-2/
http://undisclosed-podcast.com/episodes/miniseries-2-addenda/
http://undisclosed-podcast.com/documents/miniseries-2/
http://undisclosed-podcast.com/episodes/miniseries-2-addenda/addendum-8.html
http://thetimbre.com/the-undisclosed-podcast-is-not-the-new-serial/
https://twitter.com/Undisclosedpod/media
https://twitter.com/Undisclosedpod/
http://www.salon.com/2017/04/24/watch-what-really-happened-to-freddie-gray/
http://www.uptownmagazine.com/2017/03/undisclosed-re-investigates-killing-freddie-gray/
http://www.rollingstone.com/culture/features/death-of-freddie-gray-5-things-you-didnt-know-w476107
http://www.library.georgetown.edu/gelardin/showcase/entries/undisclosed-killing-freddie-gray
omg nooooo, rest in peace to this beautiful black woman.
No clever title. He was somebody’s baby and he didn’t deserve to die.
Old southern black women are poets. The way they turn a phrase might make you cringe, groan, or laugh—but you never forget. Phrases like "knee-high to a grasshopper" or "high as giraffe coochie" just stick with you forever and you laugh and can't wait for when you are old enough to get away with saying anything. Old southern black women have that power to be unflinching in their observations and words.
I hope to be old some day, but I rarely imagine the end of my life being like my great-aunt's: 96 years old, lying in bed, surrounded by family, love, and prayer. A peaceful transition. Instead, I have often imagined my life coming to an abrupt and violent end.
Maybe it's at a traffic stop, which is why my body goes tense and rigid whenever I see a squad car traveling near me. Maybe it's at an action, which is why I have about four different ways of keeping in touch with loved ones when I'm at a protest. Maybe I'm walking down the street minding my own business but stop to observe cops questioning young men and they turn their ire toward me.
Or maybe I live to be 100. Who knows? But the fact that in every encounter with police I start calculating the likelihood of my death points to a truth that I, and black people, have known forever: We are living under a terrorist regime.
I was 11 years old when Los Angeles police brutally beat Rodney King. I was 11 when I saw this man, terrified and cowering on the ground, be struck again and again. There were four of them, the boys in blue, and one of him, the man wrapped in black. Though he was powerless to resist, they kept on pounding him and it looked like a lot of fun for them.
My memory of it is horrifying, but I honestly don't remember being horrified when I was 11. I was already desensitized to the terror, no longer shocked that something like this would happen, only that someone had filmed the whole thing. This time the bastards would get theirs.
We all thought so.
1992 was a huge year for my blackness. I'd been educated in the Ways of White Folks my whole young life. My blackness was never devoid of a power analysis, never empty of a politic. But 1992 was when I first grappled with the overwhelming scope of white supremacist terror in our institutions.
The Rodney King trial in 1992 was the first that I watched with the full consciousness of my race, with the understanding that what happened here would mean something for all of us. True to the Ways of White Folks, his character was assassinated. He shouldn't have resisted. He shouldn't have been driving drunk—he could have KILLED someone. He was high on PCP.
He wasn't on PCP, but the speculation had already become more powerful than the fact.
At 12 years old, my education in the Ways of White Folks was deepening. I was now learning that you could be two kinds of ******—a Good ****** or a Bad ******—but you would always be a ******. No one used those particular words around me, yet the message was clear. Rodney King had been A Bad ******, so was what happened to him really all that bad?
A jury of 12 people decided it was not. The four officers who accosted and brutalized him past any reasonable need were found not guilty and were free to return to their families and to their duty.
And Los Angeles mourned and Los Angeles went up in flames.
Later that year, the gubernatorial race in Louisiana was the first race I followed incessantly. It was the first election that I watched as part of a collective black body, such that when other black folks groaned, I felt their pain. David Duke, notorious white supremacist and former high-ranking officer in the Ku Klux Klan, advanced to the runoff election. That year two bright and brilliant black men were eliminated from the field in the primary. That year our choices for governor of Louisiana were either Edwin Edwards, well-known white embezzler, or David Duke. And we celebrated that the crook won. That was at least a small comfort.
I kept learning. White people never needed to be Good White People to win or to have power, let alone live free of state violence. They just needed not to be ******* at all.
My grandmama might have said Jordan Edwards wasn't even a twitch in his daddy's thigh when those cops were acquitted for beating Rodney King. And I would squirm with discomfort at the way she reminded us of the very particular biological impulses that created us. And I would feel incredible conflict in my gut when I found her words funny even as they were about a horrible tragedy. But I wouldn't dare suggest she should use different language because where I'm from, old age grants you certain freedoms.
Freedoms that Jordan Edwards will never know. Freedoms I fear I will never know, because of this police terrorism.
Almost 25 years to the date after four cops were acquitted for brutalizing Rodney King's body, despite the entire ordeal being captured on camera, I breathe and sigh and feel the tension rise once again in the collective black body.
So far media reports focus on Jordan Edwards' Goodness. He was an honor student. He never caused any trouble. He was leaving a party with his friends because it looked like it was going to turn bad. They are laying the groundwork for you to care about Jordan Edwards because he was not A Thug. See, the Ways of White Folks have evolved and so has the coded language that indicts the dead of their own murders.
Jordan's Goodness and the narrative surrounding it are of little comfort to the collective black body because he is still someone's baby whose life was stolen by a terrorist agent of the state.
Jordan Edwards was somebody's baby when a terrorist agent of the state indiscriminately fired an assault rifle into a car full of children. Jordan was somebody's baby when that terrorist agent lied about Jordan's friends aggressively reversing their vehicle toward him, as though they would mow him down. Jordan was somebody's baby when his violent death was caught on camera.
His death will certainly add fuel to the movement fire, but his life deserved so much more than this. And not because he was brilliant, because by all accounts he was. Not because he was sweet and kind, though by all accounts he was. Not because of who he might have been, but because of who he is: somebody's baby.
In moments like these Jordan and the other kids we lose to state terrorism feel like all of our babies, like we all suffered the birth pains that brought them here. Like we all feel the anguish because with his death, another part of the collective body falls away and dies senselessly. But he's not just ours to grieve and mourn and build revolution with. He's somebody's baby.
This baby's death was caught on camera, but when I was 12 I learned that doesn't mean a damn thing for justice unless it emotionally stirs the Right White People. When Tamir Rice was 12, he learned being killed on camera doesn't mean a damn thing unless it stirs the Right White People.
Today my fingers tremble with pent-up sadness of the collective body trying to move through the day(s). My chest constricts with the anger of the collective. My breath quickens and shortens with the anxiety of the collective. My jaw clenches with the resolve of the collective to survive for the babies who remain.
My grandmama would probably say, "Ain't no use crying over white folks acting like white folks." She was a poet, hardened by the things she'd seen and survived. And I wouldn't fight her, as much as my tender heart would want to challenge her. But I'd go into another room and scream into a pillow, because my callouses aren't that thick yet.
Don't skip the comments @ the sourcelink....
http://www.dailykos.com/story/2017/...-somebody-s-baby-and-he-didn-t-deserve-to-die
Old southern black women are poets. The way they turn a phrase might make you cringe, groan, or laugh—but you never forget. Phrases like "knee-high to a grasshopper" or "high as giraffe coochie" just stick with you forever and you laugh and can't wait for when you are old enough to get away with saying anything. Old southern black women have that power to be unflinching in their observations and words.
I hope to be old some day, but I rarely imagine the end of my life being like my great-aunt's: 96 years old, lying in bed, surrounded by family, love, and prayer. A peaceful transition. Instead, I have often imagined my life coming to an abrupt and violent end.
Maybe it's at a traffic stop, which is why my body goes tense and rigid whenever I see a squad car traveling near me. Maybe it's at an action, which is why I have about four different ways of keeping in touch with loved ones when I'm at a protest. Maybe I'm walking down the street minding my own business but stop to observe cops questioning young men and they turn their ire toward me.
Or maybe I live to be 100. Who knows? But the fact that in every encounter with police I start calculating the likelihood of my death points to a truth that I, and black people, have known forever: We are living under a terrorist regime.
I was 11 years old when Los Angeles police brutally beat Rodney King. I was 11 when I saw this man, terrified and cowering on the ground, be struck again and again. There were four of them, the boys in blue, and one of him, the man wrapped in black. Though he was powerless to resist, they kept on pounding him and it looked like a lot of fun for them.
My memory of it is horrifying, but I honestly don't remember being horrified when I was 11. I was already desensitized to the terror, no longer shocked that something like this would happen, only that someone had filmed the whole thing. This time the bastards would get theirs.
We all thought so.
1992 was a huge year for my blackness. I'd been educated in the Ways of White Folks my whole young life. My blackness was never devoid of a power analysis, never empty of a politic. But 1992 was when I first grappled with the overwhelming scope of white supremacist terror in our institutions.
The Rodney King trial in 1992 was the first that I watched with the full consciousness of my race, with the understanding that what happened here would mean something for all of us. True to the Ways of White Folks, his character was assassinated. He shouldn't have resisted. He shouldn't have been driving drunk—he could have KILLED someone. He was high on PCP.
He wasn't on PCP, but the speculation had already become more powerful than the fact.
At 12 years old, my education in the Ways of White Folks was deepening. I was now learning that you could be two kinds of ******—a Good ****** or a Bad ******—but you would always be a ******. No one used those particular words around me, yet the message was clear. Rodney King had been A Bad ******, so was what happened to him really all that bad?
A jury of 12 people decided it was not. The four officers who accosted and brutalized him past any reasonable need were found not guilty and were free to return to their families and to their duty.
And Los Angeles mourned and Los Angeles went up in flames.
Later that year, the gubernatorial race in Louisiana was the first race I followed incessantly. It was the first election that I watched as part of a collective black body, such that when other black folks groaned, I felt their pain. David Duke, notorious white supremacist and former high-ranking officer in the Ku Klux Klan, advanced to the runoff election. That year two bright and brilliant black men were eliminated from the field in the primary. That year our choices for governor of Louisiana were either Edwin Edwards, well-known white embezzler, or David Duke. And we celebrated that the crook won. That was at least a small comfort.
I kept learning. White people never needed to be Good White People to win or to have power, let alone live free of state violence. They just needed not to be ******* at all.
My grandmama might have said Jordan Edwards wasn't even a twitch in his daddy's thigh when those cops were acquitted for beating Rodney King. And I would squirm with discomfort at the way she reminded us of the very particular biological impulses that created us. And I would feel incredible conflict in my gut when I found her words funny even as they were about a horrible tragedy. But I wouldn't dare suggest she should use different language because where I'm from, old age grants you certain freedoms.
Freedoms that Jordan Edwards will never know. Freedoms I fear I will never know, because of this police terrorism.
Almost 25 years to the date after four cops were acquitted for brutalizing Rodney King's body, despite the entire ordeal being captured on camera, I breathe and sigh and feel the tension rise once again in the collective black body.
So far media reports focus on Jordan Edwards' Goodness. He was an honor student. He never caused any trouble. He was leaving a party with his friends because it looked like it was going to turn bad. They are laying the groundwork for you to care about Jordan Edwards because he was not A Thug. See, the Ways of White Folks have evolved and so has the coded language that indicts the dead of their own murders.
Jordan's Goodness and the narrative surrounding it are of little comfort to the collective black body because he is still someone's baby whose life was stolen by a terrorist agent of the state.
Jordan Edwards was somebody's baby when a terrorist agent of the state indiscriminately fired an assault rifle into a car full of children. Jordan was somebody's baby when that terrorist agent lied about Jordan's friends aggressively reversing their vehicle toward him, as though they would mow him down. Jordan was somebody's baby when his violent death was caught on camera.
His death will certainly add fuel to the movement fire, but his life deserved so much more than this. And not because he was brilliant, because by all accounts he was. Not because he was sweet and kind, though by all accounts he was. Not because of who he might have been, but because of who he is: somebody's baby.
In moments like these Jordan and the other kids we lose to state terrorism feel like all of our babies, like we all suffered the birth pains that brought them here. Like we all feel the anguish because with his death, another part of the collective body falls away and dies senselessly. But he's not just ours to grieve and mourn and build revolution with. He's somebody's baby.
This baby's death was caught on camera, but when I was 12 I learned that doesn't mean a damn thing for justice unless it emotionally stirs the Right White People. When Tamir Rice was 12, he learned being killed on camera doesn't mean a damn thing unless it stirs the Right White People.
Today my fingers tremble with pent-up sadness of the collective body trying to move through the day(s). My chest constricts with the anger of the collective. My breath quickens and shortens with the anxiety of the collective. My jaw clenches with the resolve of the collective to survive for the babies who remain.
My grandmama would probably say, "Ain't no use crying over white folks acting like white folks." She was a poet, hardened by the things she'd seen and survived. And I wouldn't fight her, as much as my tender heart would want to challenge her. But I'd go into another room and scream into a pillow, because my callouses aren't that thick yet.
Don't skip the comments @ the sourcelink....
http://www.dailykos.com/story/2017/...-somebody-s-baby-and-he-didn-t-deserve-to-die
this is not the 1960's the black people back then were more realer and down for whatever. fast forward to now the black people are more scared and afraid to piss off the oppresors.
this is nice to see.
yes I did, I was just speaking in general.
She was speaking in part of the ones from the 60's who got into politics and stopped speaking truth to power. People see the unapologetic, unafraid and bold stances that activists such as BLM take, and they act as though their being bold in fighting for black folks is more offensive than the oppression and racism that is being fought. Young people are attracted to the boldness, black people for far too long have been adopted the stance that you don't risk offending white folks so they will be nice enough to give or allow freedoms that should be ours by right of birth as citizens of this country: "Be nice or they won't let you x,y,z.... Work in the background in stealth mode so the white folks at large don't feel threatened and have a backlash against us." It's placating and coddling white folks.
I don’t sense much fear in you either. You’re definitely not afraid to speak your mind.
We still have the interest in young people today, but I think what happened is after black officials began to get elected into office, we started to adopt ways of white elected officials. They basically talked a certain language. They were fake in the way they talked about bills and public policy. They did not want to alienate any segment of their constituencies and so the conversations, the discussion and the work kind of turned inward. You know, I advise my staff sometimes, because we legislate inside these buildings and talk to each other—but how do you develop the language and the communications where you’re connecting? And I think somewhere along the lines that connection was lost.
I have another theory that we send our kids off to college, and we’re anxious for them to have a better quality of life, and we work real hard for that. And of course what are you taught? How are you socialized? You’re socialized to be nice! You’re socialized to not make waves. You’re socialized to be acceptable, to get the right job, and to have your eye on how you can move upward. And this upward mobility that you’re seeking does not allow you to step outside of the box. Meanwhile the division between the haves and the have nots has grown. And all of a sudden nobody is talking anymore. Nobody’s challenging the system anymore. I think that’s why Bernie Sanders and even myself became relevant. We became interesting because young people started to hear things they had not heard before!
The millennials missed the Civil Rights movement. They were too young. They were not born during the Civil Rights movement. [In my youth] I really witnessed leadership that challenged in such a strong and aggressive way. So when [millennials] see it, it’s exciting! It speaks to them because they have thoughts about some things that are not right. Maybe there’s segregation at your job, and they tell you to go file with the Justice Department. They tell you to fill out some papers and you don’t hear from anybody anymore. But they’re out there fighting and saying, “Look! Here’s what’s happening.” And they’re beginning to confront public policy makers. So I believe young people are interested, and they do want to be involved. They respond when they think they hear someone speaking truth to power. It’s up to us who they adopt to make it happen.