After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost."
Naomi Shihab Nye, “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.”
Harry Styles, Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik, Niall Horan, and Liam Payne have always insisted: Directioners are not crazy—and they’re not to be ignored. In interview after interview over the past three years, usually surrounded by thousands of screaming young women, the band has politely corrected reporters who characterize their followers as “insane” or “deranged.” “We prefer ‘passionate,’” they’ll demur. “Or ‘dedicated.’”
There’s more to this than semantics. Possibly you don’t realize how radical it is to see five guys treat young women with respect, and to demand that others do so as well, but it is. In a world where “fangirl” and “groupie” are routinely used to put down women who are enthusiastic about anything, One Direction stands in shocking contrast to their peers and to the culture as a whole.
Women need to make their own spaces as fans in a culture where most media ignores, sexualizes, trivializes, or attacks them—particularly women of color. Women control the budgets of fandom, buying 80% of sports clothing, and nearly 2/3rds of all books; women account for the majority of spending online; women are more likely to share and create online. The majority of fan fiction is written by women, putting ourselves and our stories into the worlds that we love. We change worlds, or try to, so that we can be heard. We scream and cry sometimes when we love things, like loving five guys who listen to us. But we’re not crazy—we’re just excited."
Reblogging because these great quotes today:
"I think at that age you are passionate about everything. [If] you remember your first girlfriend at school when you’re 13, you convince yourself that you love her. I think looking in, not everyone can understand it but to that girl or that boy it might be the most important thing in the world. Just because you don’t understand it, doesn’t mean you can say it’s crazy."
"They are so dedicated…our fans put us where we are. I don’t think it’s something that should be taken as a negative, I think passion’s good in any form."
Dirty (South) Flower in the making.
since no one has ever asked about wawa i decided to make a wawa powerpoint. possibly offensive to north jersey-ans and sheetz enthusiasts.
This is so perfect. I’m dying.
if you’ve ever made a post asking what wawa is here you go
god fucking bless this post
this is so perf
Men I Would Smang in fur Collared Jackets: A Productive Analysis of Today’s News by Me.
New Spring Breakers poster
I remember, before the snow started,
thinking I wish it would start. The sky darkened
shadow on shadow. The cats, as usual,
slept through the morning. Then snow so heavy that even
my father, who was a kind of Noah—all resolve and solitude,
cabinetry and salt—couldn’t have steadied me. I remember—
and this was back when the sham fortune-teller sat
turning over cards, saying you will be lonely—
thinking it could be worse. Thinking loneliness
is nothing more than a cotton slip
and uncombed hair. A path you dig in the snow
once the snow has stopped. Thinking then let it begin.
— karin gottshall