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Advice, Anna, and Dad: You're the mother, he's That's not what l've been told but... the father. He has as much right to take that child as you do. ns Well, if you've gotten different advice, you Okay. were mistaken. ..including judges and probation officers, who still don't get that message... In this country, fathers are not second-class citizens. I know there are a lot of people out there... ...but fathers are not Not always. Sometimes second-class citizens. it's 50-50 but it's a Sometimes they're actually better parents. case-by-case basis. But anybody that says.it's not yours. It's both to me 'he can't take my of yours. You made her daughter with him... together. gaylibertariansc: queer-anna: matriarchyforeveryone: michaelam1978: I love this! Judge Judy schools a naïve and obviously disappointed mom who thinks dad doesn’t have any right to their child. The mother carried that girl nine months in her stomach and then pushed her out of her body. No, the father does NOT have even remotely the same rights to the child as the mother! My mother carried me for nine months in her stomach and then pushed me out of her body. My mother also got drunk and refused to feed me or my three siblings and forced my oldest brother to cook for us while she was passed-out drunk on the couch. My father has fought for us for as long as I can remember, while my mother was busy getting drinking straight-vodka and brainwashing us to think my father was the evil one. I nearly starved at age 6 because my mother was too drunk to cook half of the time. I had to dress my 4 year old sister for school, at age six. I had to walk in heavy snow at age 6 with my 4 year old sister to a bus stop to ride to school. My father has fought a long, long time to get custody of us. He deeply loves us. My mother has never, ever done anything like that. She has never nursed me when I had the flu, or kissed me goodnight, or told me she loved me. She has never taught me how to tie my shoes, or how to brush my hair, or how to take care of myself. Yes, my mother carried me, and three other kids, to term and successfully gave birth, but only has my father put 100% of his life into something that should require two people to do. Still a good one
Advice, Anna, and Dad: You're the mother, he's
 That's not what l've
 been told but...
 the father. He has as
 much right to take that
 child as you do.
 ns

 Well, if you've gotten
 different advice, you
 Okay.
 were mistaken.

 ..including judges and
 probation officers, who
 still don't get that
 message...
 In this country, fathers
 are not second-class
 citizens. I know there
 are a lot of people out
 there...

 ...but fathers are not
 Not always. Sometimes
 second-class citizens.
 it's 50-50 but it's a
 Sometimes they're
 actually better parents.
 case-by-case basis.

 But anybody that says.it's not yours. It's both
 to me 'he can't take my of yours. You made her
 daughter with him...
 together.
gaylibertariansc:
queer-anna:

matriarchyforeveryone:


michaelam1978:
I love this! Judge Judy schools a naïve

 and obviously disappointed mom who thinks dad doesn’t have any right to their child.
The mother carried that girl nine months in her stomach and then pushed her out of her body. No, the father does NOT have even remotely the same rights to the child as the mother!


My mother carried me for nine months in her stomach and then pushed me out of her body. 
My mother also got drunk and refused to feed me or my three siblings and forced my oldest brother to cook for us while she was passed-out drunk on the couch. 
My father has fought for us for as long as I can remember, while my mother was busy getting drinking straight-vodka and brainwashing us to think my father was the evil one. 
I nearly starved at age 6 because my mother was too drunk to cook half of the time. I had to dress my 4 year old sister for school, at age six. I had to walk in heavy snow at age 6 with my 4 year old sister to a bus stop to ride to school. 
My father has fought a long, long time to get custody of us. He deeply loves us. My mother has never, ever done anything like that. She has never nursed me when I had the flu, or kissed me goodnight, or told me she loved me. She has never taught me how to tie my shoes, or how to brush my hair, or how to take care of myself. 
Yes, my mother carried me, and three other kids, to term and successfully gave birth, but only has my father put 100% of his life into something that should require two people to do. 


Still a good one

gaylibertariansc: queer-anna: matriarchyforeveryone: michaelam1978: I love this! Judge Judy schools a naïve and obviously disappointed ...

Hair, Real, and Quick: ena hasanpe Almost ready to go..? “I’m just going to do my hair real quick..” 1hr later:
Hair, Real, and Quick: ena hasanpe
Almost ready to go..? “I’m just going to do my hair real quick..” 1hr later:

Almost ready to go..? “I’m just going to do my hair real quick..” 1hr later:

Hair, Real, and Quick: ena hasanpe Almost ready to go..? “I’m just going to do my hair real quick..” *1hr later:*
Hair, Real, and Quick: ena hasanpe
Almost ready to go..? “I’m just going to do my hair real quick..” *1hr later:*

Almost ready to go..? “I’m just going to do my hair real quick..” *1hr later:*

Being Alone, Crying, and Dude: thejorie: xilast-zurvifferman: thejorie: jackbecq: thejorie: 19leahjade96: thejorie: madamekagamine: thejorie: gccgrimm: thejorie: gucciballs: thejorie: peble: thejorie: My three girlfriends.And yes, they smoke weed. do they smoke weed? Yes, actually. you mean she isnt just smoking a cigarette? but a weed cigarette? It’s called a bunt…. Not weed cigarette… And yes, it is a weed bunt. They all smoke weed bunts before we kiss. (They are my girlfriends,) They don’t look like they smoke weed. Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.I’m so angry you are so lucky my three weed smorking girlfriends are rubbing my shoulders to calm me down I’m so mad. Your “weed smoking girlfriend” has a Hello Kitty tattoo on her belly. The one in the middle. I printed out a photo of your avatar and taped it to my punching bag that I punch and I mutter your URL with every strong punch I punch you twerp…. Don’t ever Talk about Blaiz or the wicked Tat(tattoo) I drew on her ever again I Don’t wanna see you standing outside my home at 3 am holding your weird dripping brown bags ever again ok leave us alone this is the FINAL FUCKING WARNING  Well that escalated quickly…… What, was that? Hmm? Come again. *Blaiz grabs my shoulder* Come on Jory, they aren’t worth it, please. * I jerk my shoulder shaking her hand off* NO! NOOOOO!!! *starts to just pummel you with my big fucking fists. With each blow I let out a furious yell. The blows come quicker and harder and the yells get louder. I’m yelling so loud and now I’m crying. BREAKING POINT. The week was hard and I can’t take anymore. I’m opening sobbing at this point while you blood gurgle. All three of my girlfriends struggle to pull me off and they finally succeed and lead me away from the goo pile that is now your body* haha oh my god who even is this dude? someone needs some anger management classes. love how he keeps reminding us that “I HAVE THREE GIRLFRIENDS”, “THEY ALL KISS ME”, and “THEY SMOKE WEED HURRP DURR”. and let’s not forget the “Blaiz” and her “wicked tat”, or that he doesn’t “wanna see you standing outside [his] home at 3 am holding your weird dripping brown bags ever again”, and that this is “the FINAL FUCKING WARNING”. “the goo pile that is now your body” i’m dying over here, jesus please, Jory, come challenge me to a bout of internet witticsisms; i promise, it’ll be fun. *shoots you dead* Heh, idiot…*leaves with my three weed smorking girlfriends to go hold hands and kiss.* this dude playin omg  Come again? *The bar falls silent. No one dares to make a sound, as you have just said a very poor choice of words at a very dangerous time. I remain slumped over the bar, not looking back to you. One hand limply holding an almost empty bottle, the other hand cradling my head. I repeat the question, this time louder.* Come again?! *You can hear me slur the words, the sentence sounds like a real struggle for me to get out. I’m clearly intoxicated. A bead of sweat rolls down your face as you realize you might have just fucked up in a very major way. Everyone else in the bar is pretending to not notice what is going on. The bartender idly washes a mug with a cloth. His eyes are closed and he’s muttering something to himself. A handful of people hurriedly leave. One person looks back at you, a look of sorrow on their face. They almost say something, but shake their head and cast their eyes down to the floor, and leave. But not you. You stand, petrified. A quick look at me reveals I’m still  at the bar. You look to the exit, there’s still time. But there’s not, there’s not, there’s not. Your fate was sealed the moment you opened your mouth.* Mother fuck.. what did you say?! *I slowly rise from my stool and being to lumber over to you.  I look a mess. My hair is unkempt, I haven’t shaved in what looks like months, there are dark heavy bags under my eyes, my shirt is stained and has holes in it, and I’m missing a shoe. But the main thing you notice is the gun tucked into my jeans, and my massive muscle arms that look like they were made for punching. You know that song about the boots that were made for walking? Yeah, it’s like that only instead of boots it’s my muscles and instead of walking it’s punching. As I drunkenly sway over to you, you think of your family… Will they mourn you, or will they try and forget this blotch of stupidity, that their child insulted the Jory publicly, ever happened to their family? Your thoughts are cut short as I now stand face to face with you. I grab your face and pull you even closer.* Playin?! There was nothing playing… no playing you fuck. No playing… it was real.. the realest thing I’ve ever know.. felt… Love. I loved them… Blaiz…. Chas-Chas… Funk… I loved all three of em… but they…*My face is wet with tears and I’m blinking constantly in vain to hold them back.* They left me… left… *Almost instantly the sadness leaves my face and is replaced with pure anger.* Playin? Playin?! *My hand leaves your face and starts to head to what you think is the gun. You close your eyes and see God looking at you, shrugging. ‘Pft, you brought this upon yourself dude.’ He says as he waves his hands at you dismissively. But instead of the gun, my hands grab yours. Your eyes jolt open and the anger is gone from my face. There is only sadness.* Left me… * I fall to the floor and sob.*Wow, grow up. *You say before you leave the bar but are hit almost immediately from a car and are killed upon impact.*
Being Alone, Crying, and Dude: thejorie:

xilast-zurvifferman:

thejorie:

jackbecq:

thejorie:

19leahjade96:

thejorie:

madamekagamine:

thejorie:

gccgrimm:

thejorie:

gucciballs:

thejorie:

peble:

thejorie:

My three girlfriends.And yes, they smoke weed.

do they smoke weed?

Yes, actually.

you mean she isnt just smoking a cigarette? but a weed cigarette? 

It’s called a bunt…. Not weed cigarette… And yes, it is a weed bunt. They all smoke weed bunts before we kiss. (They are my girlfriends,)

They don’t look like they smoke weed.

Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.I’m so angry you are so lucky my three weed smorking girlfriends are rubbing my shoulders to calm me down I’m so mad.

Your “weed smoking girlfriend” has a Hello Kitty tattoo on her belly. The one in the middle.

I printed out a photo of your avatar and taped it to my punching bag that I punch and I mutter your URL with every strong punch I punch you twerp…. Don’t ever Talk about Blaiz or the wicked Tat(tattoo) I drew on her ever again I Don’t wanna see you standing outside my home at 3 am holding your weird dripping brown bags ever again ok leave us alone this is the FINAL FUCKING WARNING 

Well that escalated quickly……

What, was that? Hmm? Come again. *Blaiz grabs my shoulder* Come on Jory, they aren’t worth it, please. * I jerk my shoulder shaking her hand off* NO! NOOOOO!!! *starts to just pummel you with my big fucking fists. With each blow I let out a furious yell. The blows come quicker and harder and the yells get louder. I’m yelling so loud and now I’m crying. BREAKING POINT. The week was hard and I can’t take anymore. I’m opening sobbing at this point while you blood gurgle. All three of my girlfriends struggle to pull me off and they finally succeed and lead me away from the goo pile that is now your body*

haha oh my god

who even is this dude? someone needs some anger management classes.

love how he keeps reminding us that “I HAVE THREE GIRLFRIENDS”, “THEY ALL KISS ME”, and “THEY SMOKE WEED HURRP DURR”.

and let’s not forget the “Blaiz” and her “wicked tat”, or that he doesn’t “wanna see you standing outside [his] home at 3 am holding your weird dripping brown bags ever again”, and that this is “the FINAL FUCKING WARNING”.

“the goo pile that is now your body”

i’m dying over here, jesus

please, Jory, come challenge me to a bout of internet witticsisms; i promise, it’ll be fun.

*shoots you dead* Heh, idiot…*leaves with my three weed smorking girlfriends to go hold hands and kiss.*

this dude playin omg 

Come again? *The bar falls silent. No one dares to make a sound, as you have just said a very poor choice of words at a very dangerous time. I remain slumped over the bar, not looking back to you. One hand limply holding an almost empty bottle, the other hand cradling my head. I repeat the question, this time louder.* Come again?! *You can hear me slur the words, the sentence sounds like a real struggle for me to get out. I’m clearly intoxicated. A bead of sweat rolls down your face as you realize you might have just fucked up in a very major way. Everyone else in the bar is pretending to not notice what is going on. The bartender idly washes a mug with a cloth. His eyes are closed and he’s muttering something to himself. A handful of people hurriedly leave. One person looks back at you, a look of sorrow on their face. They almost say something, but shake their head and cast their eyes down to the floor, and leave. But not you. You stand, petrified. A quick look at me reveals I’m still  at the bar. You look to the exit, there’s still time. But there’s not, there’s not, there’s not. Your fate was sealed the moment you opened your mouth.* Mother fuck.. what did you say?! *I slowly rise from my stool and being to lumber over to you.  I look a mess. My hair is unkempt, I haven’t shaved in what looks like months, there are dark heavy bags under my eyes, my shirt is stained and has holes in it, and I’m missing a shoe. But the main thing you notice is the gun tucked into my jeans, and my massive muscle arms that look like they were made for punching. You know that song about the boots that were made for walking? Yeah, it’s like that only instead of boots it’s my muscles and instead of walking it’s punching. As I drunkenly sway over to you, you think of your family… Will they mourn you, or will they try and forget this blotch of stupidity, that their child insulted the Jory publicly, ever happened to their family? Your thoughts are cut short as I now stand face to face with you. I grab your face and pull you even closer.* Playin?! There was nothing playing… no playing you fuck. No playing… it was real.. the realest thing I’ve ever know.. felt… Love. I loved them… Blaiz…. Chas-Chas… Funk… I loved all three of em… but they…*My face is wet with tears and I’m blinking constantly in vain to hold them back.* They left me… left… *Almost instantly the sadness leaves my face and is replaced with pure anger.* Playin? Playin?! *My hand leaves your face and starts to head to what you think is the gun. You close your eyes and see God looking at you, shrugging. ‘Pft, you brought this upon yourself dude.’ He says as he waves his hands at you dismissively. But instead of the gun, my hands grab yours. Your eyes jolt open and the anger is gone from my face. There is only sadness.* Left me… * I fall to the floor and sob.*Wow, grow up. *You say before you leave the bar but are hit almost immediately from a car and are killed upon impact.*

thejorie: xilast-zurvifferman: thejorie: jackbecq: thejorie: 19leahjade96: thejorie: madamekagamine: thejorie: gccgrimm: thejorie:...

Braids, Children, and Community: 61below: jyuu-chan: something-in-the-way-she-knows: freakishfrollic: psalmsofraven: yokhakidfiasco: stacyfaheyart: Illustration about Native American boys who have to cut off their braids to follow school dress codes. And black people have the same issue when it comes to finding jobs/careers. ^^^^ yes but it ain’t about us right now this is actually really important and pardon me for doing the cliche reblogging with a caption thing but i want to talk about braids and just how significant they are to native people (and of course i can’t talk about every native tribe as there are very specific sects and i only really am coming from the perspective of seneca) hair is extremely important as it represents the walking of the Sacred Path as the physical extension of thought and self, and holy men, women and two-spirits are identified through specific styles of dress and even if not holy, the hair shows what a person has participated in, their feelings, their age, whether they are married or not, whether they are in mourning and their tribe my grandfather is seneca and he had to remove his braids at a very young age and it was an act of assimilation because his mother knew they had to try to be white in order to proceed and it’s a tool of oppression and humiliation to cut (or force to cut) a native american person’s hair for both religious and cultural preservationist reasons my mom is half-seneca and her choice for me to not cut my hair until i was 13 and for it to be worn in traditional manner was because of this and when i cut my hair then, i cut it off at the base of my head for also this reason; i was diagnosed with depression and was going through therapy, i wanted my hair and my treatment to signify that i was becoming a new, better person– eventually i started dying my hair but that is for separate reasons of colour symbolism and it’s still an important thing to me please do not invalidate the struggles of other POC, i understand that this happens and it’s horrific to not be able to wear your natural hair, these are also children whose culture and religion is being stripped away from them and they can’t even participate in something so important within their culture simply because of white patriarchal ideas of masculinity ^^THIS American Indian children (especially plains ndns) were forced to attend boarding schools where they were forbidden to speak their own language and had to cut off their hair and choose a “white” name from the bible. If you refused, the teacher would often ridicule you by ignoring you anytime you attempted to speak or participate in class, to the point of saying offensive, false things about your people to rile you up enough that you gave in and picked a white name so the teacher would let you speak and tell the truth. (This is shown in bury my heart at wounded knee). In fact, it is hard to trace records before the turn of the 19th to 20th centuries bc the govt considered the way native peoples often have several different names that they go by in different context and by different people to be too annoying to record them in a census, another reason they were forced to choose white names. Being oppressed for your natural hair and the names you choose is a real thing other poc face and it’s wrong and it’s racist, but this specific post is about what it means to American Indians, and for them it was not only racist stereotyping, but forced assimilation and genocide of their cultures. dude holy shit being ridiculed for not assimilating was the least of your worries in a residential school. i know people who were forced to kneel on sharp rocks in a corner for speaking a single word in their native language some fun facts abt residential schools: • people who went to residential schools were abused physically, sexually, verbally, and emotionally. my mushum went through all of these until he turned 18 and was allowed to leave • boys were not allowed to wear their braids. period. the point of the residential schools was to ‘kill the indian in the child’ and you can google literal before-and-after images of students that the schools would distribute as a source of PRIDE • the government would experiment on the students, starving them to see how long they could go without food before it seriously affected them. officially, over 6,000 native children died in residential schools. our government admits the number was likely much higher • residential schools were literally hitler’s source of inspiration for concentration camps during world war II • where im working right now, there are people in their 30s who were forced to attend residential schools • the last residential school closed in 1996, one year after i was born, two hours away from where i live, twenty minutes from my family’s reserve native assimilation has been the goal from the very start Residential schools may have officially been shut down, but native kids are still disproportionately removed from their homes and while ICWA (the Indian Child Welfare Act) was designed with the intent of ensuring they’re still placed within their community, ICWA was just recently overturned in the courts, which means that these children are being overwhelmingly placed with white families. This hasn’t stopped. They’ve just gotten less overt about it.
Braids, Children, and Community: 61below:
jyuu-chan:

something-in-the-way-she-knows:

freakishfrollic:

psalmsofraven:

yokhakidfiasco:

stacyfaheyart:

Illustration about Native American boys who have to cut off their braids to follow school dress codes.

And black people have the same issue when it comes to finding jobs/careers.

^^^^ yes but it ain’t about us right now

this is actually really important and pardon me for doing the cliche reblogging with a caption thing but i want to talk about braids and just how significant they are
to native people (and of course i can’t talk about every native tribe as there are very specific sects and i only really am coming from the perspective of seneca) hair is extremely important as it represents the walking of the Sacred Path as the physical extension of thought and self, and holy men, women and two-spirits are identified through specific styles of dress and even if not holy, the hair shows what a person has participated in, their feelings, their age, whether they are married or not, whether they are in mourning and their tribe
my grandfather is seneca and he had to remove his braids at a very young age and it was an act of assimilation because his mother knew they had to try to be white in order to proceed and it’s a tool of oppression and humiliation to cut (or force to cut) a native american person’s hair for both religious and cultural preservationist reasons
my mom is half-seneca and her choice for me to not cut my hair until i was 13 and for it to be worn in traditional manner was because of this and when i cut my hair then, i cut it off at the base of my head for also this reason; i was diagnosed with depression and was going through therapy, i wanted my hair and my treatment to signify that i was becoming a new, better person– eventually i started dying my hair but that is for separate reasons of colour symbolism and it’s still an important thing to me
please do not invalidate the struggles of other POC, i understand that this happens and it’s horrific to not be able to wear your natural hair, these are also children whose culture and religion is being stripped away from them and they can’t even participate in something so important within their culture simply because of white patriarchal ideas of masculinity

^^THIS
American Indian children (especially plains ndns) were forced to attend boarding schools where they were forbidden to speak their own language and had to cut off their hair and choose a “white” name from the bible. If you refused, the teacher would often ridicule you by ignoring you anytime you attempted to speak or participate in class, to the point of saying offensive, false things about your people to rile you up enough that you gave in and picked a white name so the teacher would let you speak and tell the truth. (This is shown in bury my heart at wounded knee). In fact, it is hard to trace records before the turn of the 19th to 20th centuries bc the govt considered the way native peoples often have several different names that they go by in different context and by different people to be too annoying to record them in a census, another reason they were forced to choose white names. 
Being oppressed for your natural hair and the names you choose is a real thing other poc face and it’s wrong and it’s racist, but this specific post is about what it means to American Indians, and for them it was not only racist stereotyping, but forced assimilation and genocide of their cultures. 

dude holy shit being ridiculed for not assimilating was the least of your worries in a residential school. i know people who were forced to kneel on sharp rocks in a corner for speaking a single word in their native language
some fun facts abt residential schools:
 • people who went to residential schools were abused physically, sexually, verbally, and emotionally. my mushum went through all of these until he turned 18 and was allowed to leave
 • boys were not allowed to wear their braids. period. the point of the residential schools was to ‘kill the indian in the child’ and you can google literal before-and-after images of students that the schools would distribute as a source of PRIDE
 • the government would experiment on the students, starving them to see how long they could go without food before it seriously affected them. officially, over 6,000 native children died in residential schools. our government admits the number was likely much higher
 • residential schools were literally hitler’s source of inspiration for concentration camps during world war II
 • where im working right now, there are people in their 30s who were forced to attend residential schools
 • the last residential school closed in 1996, one year after i was born, two hours away from where i live, twenty minutes from my family’s reserve
native assimilation has been the goal from the very start


Residential schools may have officially been shut down, but native kids are still disproportionately removed from their homes and while ICWA (the Indian Child Welfare Act) was designed with the intent of ensuring they’re still placed within their community, ICWA was just recently overturned in the courts, which means that these children are being overwhelmingly placed with white families. This hasn’t stopped. They’ve just gotten less overt about it.

61below: jyuu-chan: something-in-the-way-she-knows: freakishfrollic: psalmsofraven: yokhakidfiasco: stacyfaheyart: Illustration about ...