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GLASHAUS - Du (Mad in Germany Mix) (Official 3pTV)








[Title Not Yet Released]


I’ve been waiting for you
For you to come to
Drink my wine until your coming down is through
I do it for you
No one else but you
'Cause no one attracts me like you
No one else gets me like you
I want to spend the rest of my life with you
But is it enough
For me to play tough
When you’re playing…



Where Will We Go Pt. 2



Growing up is hard.



They called me angry. “Try to soften your approach so that you’re not seen as the angry Black woman. Because we saw her today.” Meanwhile, the Mexican guy takes my approach and is thought of as direct and efficient.
They called me angry. It takes a lot for me to feel the heat behind my eyes. And most of the time, my eyes burned from tears of sadness, not anger.
A couple of them… the ones who didn’t see ME… they broke me. I was ready to go home. You think pleading is bad, think again. There is nothing like this process.
And I’m about to do it again? Does that make any sense?
I left the sciences for my peace of mind. I left the music department because my learning environment was abysmal. And once I find solace somewhere, I have to go back to hell?
To be stereotyped? To be challenged (and not in a good way)? To be made to sing and dance? To have to stroke the egos? To be the token? To be locked into their crooked room?
I’m an intelligent Black woman… and it would be your honor for me to share my mind with you. But now… I’m not sure if I want to.


There are way more significant indicators of self hatred than looking at the person someone is dating
When you argue that xyz is anti black because they aren’t dating a black person
As a black person, it is just a shallow argument and often just makes you look desperate…

I just had this dream about ego…
I was heading to a conference with my family (of all people). I was with my professor-aunt and her favorite grandchild. His mother was with us too; she’s a K-12 teacher. The topic of conversation was my cousin’s final research paper for undergrad. It was something science-related, so I tried to relate by talking about my genetics project from high school (it was really a thesis and the FDA gave me an award and everything - I’m proud of this truth). But my cousin’s mommaa just brushed it off and my cousin pretty much said that it wasn’t a big deal. “But if I had gone into the hard sciences, I could have continued this research and had it published.” “Let’s face it. It was good for what it was for, but you were never going to get that thing published…” And she went on to list the errors in my work, which I promptly went to check. My research was beautifully bound as if it were a professional work of fiction rather than a senior year research practicum. I looked at everything that she said was wrong and could find no fault with my work… I searched as we rode in the car. I searched as we walked to the convention center. And I searched as my cousin and I went to our first workshop. It was mainly for me because I’m the literature person. We were expecting to see this famous poet, normally accompanied by her husband and her two kids. But she was ill and her husband came in her place. He admitted that his knowledge was not that of his wife’s but that he would try to do her work justice. I was still engaged with my own “book”, saddened and maddened by the criticism I had received from my family. The speaker began reading with such conviction, and, while I was slightly paying attention enough to flip the pages at the appropriate time, I was not really listening. He came to me when he finished stanza one and said, “Reading a different book?? How rude… Do you even know where we are in this reading?” “Page two, stanza two, first line. I was listening.” I felt the heat behind my eyes. He smirked. “You’re young, aren’t you?” He was pissing me off. In anger I said, “Would you like me to read it for you, sir?” I felt like I was in Mabel’s class at school and I had to prove my intellect and my correctness. “Yes! Please do. Page tw-” “I know where we are…” I grumbled. I started with the subtitle. I stumbled a bit with that alone, the organization of having the publisher listed before the author confused me… and its use as a subtitle (in a poem) just confused me more. Then I read the second stanza. I read with conviction, not understanding why certain words were written on what looked like tape but brushing over the thought that there was meaning that I had not unpacked. I was reading aloud to show that I was present (not that I was comprehending). The speaker stopped me mid-line seven to point out my lack of interpretation of the censorship and use of euphemisms - the words that looked like they were written on tape… As he started from stanza two, line one and began to break down the piece, I once again felt devalued, like my intellect was challenged and defeated once again. My family didn’t respect my book. And I looked stupid in front of my colleagues and my cousins.
Then I woke up.
I woke up and I thought about my mock interview with “Yale”. I thought about grad school and how I would be evaluated. I thought about the moments when I felt like nothing as I was at academic boot camp, even though I know that I’m intelligent. I started wondering if I even want to go through with it.
I don’t have an answer yet.



Are you afraid?

(Source: black-culture)