I’ve got talented friends


I’ve got talented friends

The Allure of Newsboy Caps


I recently got a question from an anon asking how to wear newsboy caps/flat caps… and my mind went into a spiral of fashion and wonderfulness. I think the better questions is: what COULDN’T you wear newsboy caps with? Ok, maybe they wouldn’t go with a frilly dress or a leather biker outfit. But beyond that, they’re pretty much embedded into every aspect of the fashion industry. Poeple are femmeing them up with lipstick and purls. Hipsters are thrifting them and wearing them with plaid and boots. Golfers and country clubbers are pairing them with argyle and preppy styles. And really cute queers are being really cute. But what’s new.




Rugby by Ralph Lauren, October 2010 




Don’t forget to look up in case Andrew McCarthy is standing there. (source:


“If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.”
—Audre Lorde


“If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.”

—Audre Lorde

(Source: thepeoplesrecord, via pod313)



(“mami” is an hybrid between the english mommy and the arabic ummi. a lot of times in arab culture mothers will call their own children “mama.” my mami always said it was to make the love between them more whole, reflective of each other, through only one name)

*Trigger warnings for abuse, racism, body image


loving you is like a battle/and we’ve open up the scars/tell me who i have to be/to gain some reciprocity/no one loves you more than me/and no one ever will/no one hurts me more than you/and no one ever will

-lauryn hill, ex factor

I was the middle child mediator

Caught with one hand in the kitchen drawer

and the other in the car door

Bruised thumbs and bitten wrists

Admitted only to friends in the bathroom walls

Beards flowing like rhymes on the stalls

Picking at the scabs of old scars on scraped knees,

Where to begin?

Lodged in the generational wounds I was loaded with

 like bullets embedded in a baby’s skin

From you mama,

moved continents from cardamom to k mart

First home in America lost from the start

Apartment burned down from electrical wiring

Five year old brother’s lifeless body left in the closet

Homeless in the land of opportunity.

School was your home and home was a war zone,

daily epithets hurled at you like drones.

Made the stone in the back of your throat rise

boomeranged like palestinan boys throwing pebbles at war tanks 

The fuck you sand niggers and the fuck you ayatollahs

followed you like station wagon corrollas

Kicked to the ground, dignity ripped open like your headscarf

Teachers gazed indifferently, marched on,

KKK headquarters getting their groove on

Lying to parents “I was just having fun”

Everyday after school extracurriculars:

Abuse and orange juice go together like hoola hoops

bukhari says when the child becomes ten years old, then beat him for prayer

Jiddo takes it literally kiddos

So rope burns for you translate to bitten wrists on me

How come we both wrote the same suicide notes when we were fifteen?

The age you graduated, started popping degrees, genius queen

at seventeen married loveless teen dream

while raising five more brothers from Iraq to Saudi to shitsville NJ

nowhere to go

So you hid in the books and by 26 had two daughters with your PhD

Jilbabs and unibrows shed in teenage rebellion

Postponed to early thirties

These moments are etched in my brain like

the pock marks immigrants wear

from immunization shots and shocks of naturalization

How is one to become natural in a place that never nurtures?

And why the hell would you choose Arkansas for us to be nurtured?

I don’t know where to begin

I’m left confused and stressed out by the cracks in your skin

These memories shadowing me like jinn

The way you hid behind books and lockers,

I’m hiding behind my heart, locked up

So you can’t see how much pain I carry for you

Because you sacrificed everything to make us beautiful.

How can I tell you I’ve inherited your depression like the bags under your eyes?

The way you look into the mirror and say you’ll never be thin enough

and babies at an early age made your skin like an elephant, rough

makes me check the scales each hour to make sure I’m good nuff too

How were you to comfort me at five years old when you were the one sobbing?

With my little hands clasped around your curls,

I knew how to whisper “You are not a failure,”

Before I knew how to ask where the bathroom was

How do I know that eight packs a day is not a prolonged suicide note

but a way for your breath to smell like cardimum cloves again, a cough to warm your lungs and a way to make your voice as harsh as your skull?

Ya ummi,

I inherited the way your blood boils like magma

Curls into your body the way your hair twists around your waist

I inherited your sadness like the flabs of your skin                 

Tucked under your zipper from pregnancies too early

I inherited your love like the mole on your breast

Where I would lay my head and tell you

“You’re more than enough.”

How can I tell you inspire the poet in me

you inspire the rage in my eyes 

the irrational irritation, the ecstatic wonder, when I wake up each morning knowing you are alive,

Wanting to hurt myself

Wanting to heal myself

Because you survived.

(via blackfeministmanifesto)