It’s intersesting how we lie everyday. Not only to other people about little things, but also to ourselves. Like every day. If you really sit and think about it, we (I know I do) liemore often than we’d like to admit.
My mom pretends she doesn’t know things so that she can ask my dad and lets him feel like he’s smarter.
“Sometimes people try to destroy you, precisely because they recognize your power — not because they don’t see it, but because they see it and they don’t want it to exist.”
— Bell Hooks (via larreckless)
“I am a turtle, wherever I go I carry “home” on my back.”
— Gloria Anzaldúa, Boarderlands/La Frontera (via iamstillmelia)
“A woman who writes has power, and a woman with power is feared.”
— Gloria E. Anzaldúa
“I am the welder.
I understand the capacity of heat/
to change the shape of things.
I am suited to work/
within the realm of sparks
out of control. I am the welder.
I am taking the power
into my own hands.”
— This Bridge Called My Back, Cherrie Moraga (via estherjoyb)
“In the effort not to feel pain or desire, I grew a callous around my heart and imagined I felt nothing at all.”
— Cherrie Moraga (via earthrocyte)
“I have never met any kind of Latino who, although he may have claimed his family was very woman-dominated (“mi mamá made all the real decisions”), who did not subscribe to the basic belief that men are better. It is so ordinary a statement as to sound simplistic and I am nearly embarrassed to write it, but that’s the truth in its kernel. Ask, for example, any Chicana mother about her children and she is quick to tell you she loves them all the same, but she doesn’t. The boys are different. Sometimes I sense that she feels this way because she wants to believe that through her mothering, she can develop the kind of man she would have liked to have married, or even have been. That through her son she can get a small taste of male privilege, since without race or class privilege that is all to be had. The daughter can never offer the mother such hope, straddled by the same forces that confine the mother. As a result, the daughter must constantly earn the mother’s love, prove her fidelity to her. The son - he gets her love for free.”
I remember the first time I read something Moraga had written and it really affected me, but this was the first time I read something so impactful, true and close to home that it made me cry.
Looking north west from Burnham Harbor, 1957, Chicago.