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May 31 2017

bradypus
22:20
bradypus
22:19










Someone in Bulgaria is putting googly eyes on broken street objects
Reposted fromdarksideofthemoon darksideofthemoon viawonko wonko
22:19

Ich Jane, du Jane

Von Amelia Umuhire

Letztens war ich auf dem Geburtstag einer Bekannten in einer Neuköllner Bar eingeladen. Es war eine dieser neueren Bars, in denen das alternative Jagdzimmer-Feeling aus der Weserstraße von Beton und minimalistischem Design abgelöst worden war. Sie war voller junger und hipper Menschen, die bereitwillig 10,90 Euro für einen Longdrink zahlten. Die meisten Gespräche handelten von Umzügen, neuen gestalterischen Projekten und dem „Struggle“ junger, subventionierter Künstler*innen und wurden zum größten Teil auf Englisch geführt, da die Gastgeberin aus dem europäischen Ausland stammt.

Keine Deutschkenntnisse? Für manche kein Problem. © Tine Fetz

Als der Kellner, ein junger, blonder und recht hipper Mann, an unseren Tisch kam und ich meine Bestellung auf Deutsch aufgab, antwortete er mir auf Englisch.

„I don’t speak German, can you repeat?“

Ich war überrascht darüber, wie furchtlos er zugab, kein Deutsch zu sprechen, obwohl er in einer Bar in Deutschland arbeitete. Sein Akzent und die blonden Haare verorteten seinen Migrationshintergrund irgendwo in Skandinavien. Ich bestellte noch mal auf Englisch und scherzte anschließend zu meiner Tischnachbarin in einer ironischen „Das wird man ja wohl noch sagen dürfen“-Stimme, dass in den 10,90 Euro vermutlich die Kosten für seine Deutschkurse verrechnet worden waren.

Sie verstand meinen Humor nicht beziehungsweise fand mich einfach nicht lustig und lachte etwas angewidert. Vermutlich hielt sie mich für eine dieser Schwarzen CSU-Wählerinnen. Doch ich war ehrlich überrascht und auch ein bisschen empört über die Selbstsicherheit, mit der mich der Neu-Neuköllner Kellner aufgefordert hatte, ihn in der Sprache anzusprechen, die er verstand. Auch weil in der Gastronomie, zumindest im restlichen Deutschland, Menschen ohne Deutschkenntnisse meistens mit Haarnetzen und Handschuhen hinter verschlossenen Türen arbeiten.

Das weiß ich von den zahllosen Orten, in denen ich im Laufe der Jahre gearbeitet habe und mein einziger Kontakt mit anderen Schwarzen Menschen aus dem verlegenen Kopfnicken durch offene Küchentüren bestand. Kurzum, es widersprach allem, was mir dieses Land bis dahin gelehrt hatte.

Mit acht Jahren kam ich ohne jegliche Deutschkenntnisse nach Deutschland. In der Linguistik befand ich mich damit noch circa fünf Jahre unter der Akzentgrenze. Denn laut der modernen Sprachforschung ist der Mensch ab ungefähr dreizehn Jahren nicht mehr in der Lage, eine neu erlernte Sprache akzentfrei zu sprechen.

Damals war uns diese kritische Grenze nicht bekannt, aber in unserem Haushalt war es trotzdem sehr schnell klar, dass meine Schwestern und ich so schnell wie möglich die neue Sprache lernen mussten.

Der akzentfreie Erwerb würde darüber entschieden, welche weiterführende Schule wir besuchten, welche Freund*innen wir haben würden, welche akzentfreien Räume wir später betreten würden, und würde uns in einer Umgebung, in der dieselbe Sprache in unterschiedlichen Mündern offensichtliche und weniger offensichtliche Angriffe bereithielt, die nötige Munition geben.

Es zahlte sich aus.

Immer, wenn ich ein Geschäft betrete und ein deutsches Gesicht hinter der Kasse erblicke, verändert sich meine Stimme. Ich grüße laut und sage schwungvoll „Morgen“ oder „N’Abend“ in einer Weise, die klarmachen soll, dass ich wie die Person vor mir bin. Es ist das sprachliche Äquivalent der Friedenspfeife oder um aus der unendlichen Quelle kolonialrassistisch geprägter Geschichten zu schöpfen, ähnlich dem berühmten „Ich Tarzan, du Jane“, abgewandelt in „Du Jane, ich auch Jane“.

Dieselbe Stimme setze ich bei offiziellen Telefonaten auf und fliege meistens erst auf, sobald ich meinen Nachnamen mehrmals buchstabieren muss.

In Deutschland ist der Akzent beziehungsweise seine Abwesenheit mächtig.

Er macht, dass meine Mutter von Busfahrer*innen, Arzthelfer*innen, Nachbar*innen, Kassierer*innen usw. minderwertig behandelt wird und führt dazu, dass ich mich als Teenie für sie schäme. Er führt dazu, dass einer Freundin bei der Ausländerbehörde die Verlängerung ihres Aufenthaltstitels unrechtmäßig verweigert wird, da die zuständige Sachbearbeiterin vortäuscht, sie aufgrund ihres Akzentes leider nicht verstehen und ihr daher auch nicht weiterhelfen zu können.

Er macht den Komiker und Moderator Kaya Yanar berühmt und führt dazu, dass viele aus Angst vor der Karikatur, die ihr Mund von ihnen zeichnet, lieber schweigen.

Seine Ab- und Anwesenheit macht manche mündig und viele stumm.

Deswegen überraschte es mich, dass der Berliner Skarsgård so offen zugab, kein Deutsch zu sprechen. Es widersprach fast allem, was mir dieses Land bisher gelehrt hatte, außer vielleicht einer Sache: Hier sind manche Tarzan und andere Jane.

 

 

Reposted fromfeminism feminism viawonko wonko
22:15

My Parents are Dead and My Sister is Disabled

jacquez45:

lgbtprolife:

kanalashesa:

congalineofdurin:

cockismybusiness:

team—wolverine:

therealbarbielifts:

eisforedna:

On May 28th, my sister, Edna, turned 31.

image 

Her mental age is about three years old. She loves Winnie the Pooh, Beauty & the Beast, and Sesame Street. Even though the below picture is unconvincing. 

image

Edna and “Cookie.” I think she was trying to play it cool. 

My name is Jeanie. I’m Edna’s younger sister. I’m also her guardian and caregiver. 

image

That’s me on the left. (Hey, you never know. After a year of writing a blog about online dating - Jeanie Does the Internet - I’ve come to learn that there are A LOT of fools on the internet.) 

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ANYWAY, I’m not “doing the internet” anymore. I’m taking care of Edna full-time, after completing my MFA in Writing for Screen & Television at USC.

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May 16, 2014. I wanted a picture. Edna wanted breakfast.

In case you’re wondering where our parents are, they’re dead. Our mom died of breast cancer when she was just 33. 

image

Us with mom before she died. (Obviously.)

As for our dad, he peaced-out around the time my mom got sick. His loss - we’re awesome. 

image

Here we are being awesome at the beach. Pushing a wheelchair in the sand? Not so awesome. 

In case you’re wondering “What’s wrong?” with my sister - as a stranger once asked me on the street  -  NOTHING. Yes, Edna has a rare form of epilepsy - Lennox-Gastaut syndrome - but I don’t know if that’s anymore “wrong” than people who don’t have manners. 

Basically, Edna was born “normal,” and started having seizures as a baby. They eventually got so bad that they cut off the oxygen to her brain, causing her to be mentally disabled. Or impaired. Or intellectually disabled. Or whatever you want to call it - except “retarded,” because in 2010, President Obama signed Rosa’s Law into effect, replacing that word with “intellectually impaired.” 

Which is cool and all, but services for the disabled and the people who care for them are SEVERELY LACKING. Also, there’s a bunch of people working in taxpayer-funded positions who are supposed to help families like us, but don’t. (Big surprise, I know.) They just fill out paperwork (whenever they feel like it) with asinine statements like this: 

image

YUP. I transport my sister down the stairs in her wheelchair, because that is not only safe, but TOTALLY PRACTICAL. Why doesn’t everyone in a wheelchair just take the stairs, for God’s sake? Stop being so lazy, PEOPLE WITHOUT WORKING LEGS! 

But, as it says above, Edna’s legs do work. Whether or not she wants them to, is another story. 

image

Edna refusing to go inside. 

These are the stairs that I have to carry her up - by myself - on a daily basis. That is, until one of my legs break and both of us are just sitting at the bottom of the stairs, helpless. 

image

For six months, I have begged - BEGGED - the State of California to help my sister, which they are required by law - The Lanterman Act specifically - to do so. But they’ve told me “these things take time” and that I “need to amend my expectations.” (That was said to me when I refused to place Edna at AN ALL-MALE CARE FACILITY. Because yes, that was an “option” that was offered to me.) 

Prior to Edna moving in with me in my one-bedroom apartment, she was living with her amazing caregiver, Gaby, back in Tucson, where we went to high school and I did my undergrad. Edna’s reppin’ the Wildcats below. 

image

But back in November, Gaby also died from breast cancer. (FUCK YOU, BREAST CANCER!) This picture was taken a month before she died. She never even told me she was sick because she didn’t want me to worry. 

By the way, we were raised by our grandma. Edna and her were very close.

image

She’s dead, too. Surprise.

She died when I was 20 and Edna was 21. That’s when I became Edna’s legal guardian and Gaby stepped into the picture to help me out with Edna. 

So, six months ago, after Gaby died, I moved Edna to California, where I tried to get the folks over at The Frank D. Lanterman Regional Center to help me. I’ve told them I’m worried about our safety - that one of us could get hurt on the stairs -  I’ve told them I can’t afford to pay the private babysitters $15/hour because the ones social services sent me who make $9/hour were unreliable (they didn’t show up on time or at all so I could get to school and work), untrustworthy (one of them let Edna go to the bathroom in the kitchen and then took her into the bathroom because “that what I thought I was supposed to do.”) 

But the people over at the FLRC don’t return my calls, they don’t file the paperwork on time - and the first caseworker that was assigned to us actually LAUGHED AT my sister when he came to our home to evaluate her. When I reported him to his supervisor, she told me, “That’s just [insert name of said jackass].” 

He was one of the two caseworkers that contributed to the report I mentioned above, which also included this: 

image

So let me get this straight - I have to feed, bathe, dress and help Edna in the bathroom and you can’t deduce whether or not she is able to vote? What in the fuck?!

Now I realize I seem angry. And you can bet your balls I am. I’m also sad. Sad for those who don’t have family to stick up from them and who waste away God knows where, monitored by no one. Or monitored by people who physically and sexually assault them

I’m also sad for the caregivers who are SO EXHAUSTED - trying to take care of their loved ones - while also trying to take care of themselves and battling a system that is supposed to help, but does nothing of the sort. And I know a lot of people give up. They let their dreams, their marriages, their friendships slide. All while trying not to resent the very person you’re doing it all for.

image

Edna wanted to sit next to me the other day while I was writing. Clearly, she’s not impressed. 

Here’s the thing: I REFUSE TO GIVE UP. I’M NOT GIVING UP ON HER OR MYSELF. I’m going to pursue my dreams while taking care of her, AND while ensuring that the people paid to do their jobs ACTUALLY do them.

That’s where you come in. I need you to help me get my story out there. Because I know I’m not alone in this. I want to connect with families who are in similar situations and also show people who have no idea what it’s like to care for someone with a disability (or even a loved one who is sick) that it can be rewarding. Super fucking hard. Exhausting. Painful. Isolating. But, rewarding. 

I’m going to get help for my sister - and others. My hope is that by sharing our story, I can bring awareness to the lack of services and help for the disabled. 

Thank you, 

Jeanie 

Facebook:  facebook.com/eisforedna

Twitter: @EisforEdna 

This made me cry

SIGNAL BOOST

STOP SCROLLING. THIS PERSON ISN’T ASKING FOR MONEY AND THIS POST WON’T MAKE YOU SAD.

This is a really uplifting and inspirational story of a family sticking by each other and making things work despite a whole lot of shit

They just want to find other people in the same position they are, for a sense of community and to feel like they aren’t alone.

I know out of all of you, some of you have followers who are living with and taking care of intellectually or emotionally disabled family members, and this lovely and unbreakable pair of sisters need to find them.

SIGNAL BOOOOOOOOOST

Repost! This story needs told!

Disabled lives matter. Sooo much. 

this is a great story of love

(also a story of state assholery because what the fuck, california)

but mostly, a great story of love

Reposted frombryandbj bryandbj viawonko wonko
22:07
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tooloose-lautrec:

oswinstark:

esperian:

joi-in-the-tardis:

My favorite thing from the internet today.

this gem needs to be documented too

Reposted fromgreggles greggles viasstefania sstefania
22:05
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alunaes:

For anyone who might need this right now ❤️

22:01
bradypus
22:00
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Reposted fromstarwars starwars viasstefania sstefania
bradypus
21:56
bradypus
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bradypus
21:54
bradypus
21:53
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bradypus
21:53
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bradypus
21:50
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bradypus
21:48
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Reposted fromlokrund2015 lokrund2015 viaklaura klaura

May 28 2017

bradypus
23:18
Reposted fromcarfreitag carfreitag viaklaura klaura
23:17
4677 76ef

I had to think this over for ten minutes.

Reposted frommyry myry viaklaura klaura
bradypus
23:16
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23:15
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Reposted fromderzw3rg derzw3rg viaRekrut-K Rekrut-K
23:11
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Reposted fromlegitimateslut legitimateslut viaRekrut-K Rekrut-K
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