Big Mama Thornton - Hound Dog
You ain’t nothing but a hound dog (x)
The original FUCK Elvis!
You heard it right. Elvis stole the song from her and got all the credit.
White artists stealing black art and sterilizing it for white audiences is nothing new.
Flappers shaming Miley Cyrus.
Oddly enough we could say that Miley Cyrus is following solidly in the appropriative footsteps of white flappers, who in the 1920s grabbed national attention and stirred alarmism concerning the end of civilization because they partied to Black music, wore their hair short like Josephine Baker (who fled US racism to become a superstar in Europe), and imitated dance moves from Baker and other Black dancers. The famously flapperesque Charleston was lifted from the African American dance called the Juba, which had West African roots and was danced in secret in the South and the Caribbean. The dance sped up when it reached Harlem, giving birth to both tap dancing and the Broadway hit called The Charleston, which spread like wildfire from there. White people didn’t sway their hips this scandalously prior to that era, making flappers roughly equivalent to white twerkers of the Jazz Age.
This is 100% true. The period from the jazz age to the beat generation, comparatively speaking was the height of cultural appropriation of black art. The beat generation used lingo popularized by Lester Young. They then appropriated the style, dress, and lingo of bebop musicians like Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie, down to the beret, glasses, and soul patch. Bebop musicians, Parker and Gillespie in particular, were the blueprint of their image. Norman Mailer wrote an essay titled “The White Negro" that tackles this phenomenon. I’m no fan of Norman Mailer, but at least he admitted that white people were stealing from blacks. He wrote it in 1957.
With regards to the flappers, apart from Josephine Baker, they also liberally borrowed from black vaudeville performers. They would copy dance moves from black performers, and then introduce it as their own. Many dances attributed to whites are from black vaudeville performers who were forced to perform on the chitlin’ circuit because of segregation and Jim Crow laws.
It really is astonishing how nothing has changed in this regard. For example, people to this day still call Benny Goodman “the king of swing”, when what he did was procure charts for arrangements from Fletcher Henderson, a black man. Goodman’s biggest hits were from Henderson. It’s amazing how much credit Goodman gets for another man’s work. Of course Goodman became “the king of swing”, while Fletcher Henderson remains a footnote in history. How a white man becomes the king of something innovated by blacks is astounding. Benny Goodman is called “the king of swing”. Paul Whiteman is called “the king of jazz”. Elvis Presley is called “the king of rock n roll”. Is Eminem the king of rap? What about Justin Timberlake and Robin Thicke with r&b? Miley is soon on her way to become “the queen of twerking”.
Anyway, apart from getting his charts from Fletcher Henderson, Benny Goodman got his ass handed to him by Chick Webb at the Savoy Ballroom when they had a battle of the bands. Goodman is often noted as being one of the few white men in the segregation era to have black men in his band, and the narrative is typically presented as if he did it out of benevolence. He did it because there was no way to get around the fact that swing music was the domain of black folks, and he poached the best black players he could find to bolster his band, and black musicians went with him because as a white man, he was able to pay them more than black bandleaders, and they wouldn’t have to deal with indignity while traveling. Many hotels refused black bands, so they often had to sleep in cars, bus terminals, or crash at the homes of hospitable blacks. A big portion of Duke Ellington’s money went towards renting out train cars and making sure his orchestra had a place to sleep while on the road because hotels often turned them down because they were black. These were issues Goodman wasn’t going to face. Black musicians certainly didn’t go with him because he was the best. Goodman even later hired Henderson to arrange and play in his band. He wasn’t doing it because he loved black people. Black people were the ones creating and innovating. Where else would he get the best charts and arrangements? Now that the smoke has cleared and the dust has settled, Goodman gets all the credit. Funny how that works.
This stuff has been going on for a long time. Miley is the 2013 version. Twerking has been around for a long time, but Miley convulses on national tv and all of a sudden, dictionary definitions of twerking are made. Definitions complete with no mention of black people, like all this happened in a vacuum. It’s history repeating itself over and over again. I see the same thing happening with afrobeat music.
- This INCREDIBLY important. This should be talking in fucking American history in high school, because I remember my fucking history teacher talking about flappers and the change in music at the time, but no one EVER talked about the racial issues at play and they are SO IMPORTANT.
- Miley goddamn Cyrus will become the queen of twerking of Nicki Minaj’s dead fucking body.
okay so everyone’s making “steve rogers freaks out the media with his rampant progressivism” posts but
imagine bruce banner
bruce banner, who has lived in poverty, who has been an undocumented worker, who has seen what happens in sweatshops in india and greenhouses in colombia, fighting to dismantle capitalism and take down the exploitive conditions that come with it
bruce banner, who isn’t doing anything with the massive salary tony pays him for “R&D work” (actually just him and tony in the lab but, hey, tony likes giving people stuff even if they don’t particularly want or need it) so he spends it all on a fund for abused children and personally hires lawyers and therapists for them because maybe he can’t have kids of his own but he can make damn sure that no one goes through what he went through
bruce banner, who fights against climate change and fracking and tapping national parks for resources, and tony ends up making a whole campaign around it called “go green with hulk” which bruce gets very annoyed by but “it tested well with focus groups, jolly green” so it goes through anyway and becomes massively popular
bruce going a little green around the pupils if someone so much as breathes the word “autism” and “vaccine” in the same sentence (and more than a little green if they insinuate that having an autistic child is a bad thing)
bruce fighting for universal health care
bruce working to destigmatize mental illness
bruce hulking out on the set of fox & friends (which predictably becomes a meme)
bruce. fucking. banner.
this ^^ markruffalo
My first attempt to run an intersectional feminist community was sex_and_race on Livejournal. Delux_vivens helped me found it, run it, and in the process became a mother to me. To this day, I don’t know what she saw in me (I was a mess in my 20’s) but she was always there in email or on the phone, whatever to tell me I could have more, be more, and should not stop trying. Her feminism wasn’t…
She cut off the tattoo of he ex’s name, put it in a jar and mailed it to him.
What even the fuck?
But…you could just cover it & avoid the reminder scar…this is not a thing I will get is it?
some of the most sensitive areas of the female body
look at all the regions that are not titties and vagina guys
porn has lied to you. there are other places you can touch that sensitive and pleasurable.
Oh yeah because I’m just gonna rub her eyes until a she’s horny
Kiss her there you walnut! Use tenderness! Hold her face gently and stroke her eyelids with your thumb and then kiss them! Run your hands down to her neck when you do! THINK!!! Lordie, you have a lot to learn that TOUCH gives more than making her “horny” you’ll drive her nuts doing gentle stuff! It’s trust! It’s care! It’s sensitivity! *smacks your forehead* You want her to be numb in complete ecstasy! I know this shit and I’m ASEXUAL!
Reblogging purely for the beautiful use of the word “walnut” as an insult.
"i wish i lived in the 50s" the white girl says. "it was just so much more classier back then.." in an instant, ‘whites only’ signs reappear on public areas. black people are being chased down the streets with dogs and fire hoses. a white sheet begins to materialize itself on to her. she is now leading the woman’s ku klux klan revolution. white power.
A hush falls over a normally busy city street as the sun begins to ease it’s behind municipal buildings, almost as though it doesn’t want to be present for what evil may come. Black people quickly and quietly leave their places of business. Their heart beats steadily increasing in pace as they wait outside for the bus to come. A small, copper colored woman with thick, dark hair that was pressed down into a nearly scalp tight bun hold’s anxiously rummages through her purse for a pocket watch. ” Where is it…” Lip stick, cigarettes, church programs, coins, medicine, all seemed to collectively decide that it was best to bury her bus schedule.
"Doris, it’s coming down round the corner now." The voice of her next door neighbor, the tall and immaculately dressed mullato Jonas Crawford came right over her shoulder just as the panic of near darkness was surrounding them.
The City of Darlington was a Sundown Town. As in Negroes, Colored folk, Niggers, Darkies, were not permitted inside the gates after the night settled down upon the earth like Grim reapers cloak.
Doris was still shaking. Her small gloved hands fumbled with the clasp of her purse until it snapped. Jonas’s weary grey eyes caught her large dark ones with gentle concern. He was there when the those teenagers caught her after work one night. They nearly beat her to death and had been her savior in that moment, risking his life to protect her from rape and death.
She had missed the bus after Young Dawson asked her to stay late. She was the secretary for the Mayor of Darlington. Dawson was a slight wisp of a man with red hair and stone colored freckles that seemed to darken when he was angered. Which was often.
He considered himself sympathetic to the plight of the colored man. His family came to America as poor Irish immigrants. His father, a widower raised Dawson and his 4 brothers alone. He was able to buy a small farm right as people began to pour into Darlington. Soon, he found himself rich. Rich enough to buy more land, slaves, and buy several businesses in town.
Dawson didn’t agree with his father’s practices of owning people….He found it cruel. He could hear the dark people crying in the night sky. He saw them whipped and tortured. He loved playing with the child servants that bore a eerily similar appearance to him down to the freckles and greenish grey eyes…
But when the War came then later slavery was abolished he lost his friends. His dad still managed to keep his land and his money. 20 years later young Dawson became the Mayor of Darlington by a landslide vote bought by a lot of his father’s money and influence.
He was a proud man. So hearing that one of his employees was brutalized in front of his office angered him. But not enough to lift the Sundown Ordinance. Instead he put her on paid leave and quietly doubled her salary. Doris was the best secretary he ever had the pleasure of working with and the most beautiful woman he ever saw, the sweetest he had the pleasure of knowing. A secret he kept tucked in the deepest parts of his heart.He watched from his window to make sure Doris got on the bus safely once she returned to work and even considered providing a car.
Doris shivered,leaning slightly against Jonas as rattling tin can of a bus approached and Dawson, from the darkness of his window, scowled.
At twilight on August the 25th 1999, one week before classes were to begin, Hermione Granger Apparated into Hogsmeade, a wand box clutched under her arm.
Headmistress McGonagall was waiting for her outside the Three Broomsticks. The two women greeted each other warmly, and then set off towards the castle. Or rather, towards the grounds outside the castle.
They chatted amiably as they strolled towards the groundskeeper’s hut. Hagrid, sitting outside and darning a pair of enormous socks, looked up as they approached.
“Good evenin’ Headmistress, Hermione,” he said with some gruff surprise.
“Good evening, Hagrid,” replied McGonagall. “May we go inside? I believe Hermione has a proposition to discuss with you.”
If you had stood outside the hut as the evening darkened and the stars rose into the sky, you’d have heard the rumblings of an argument coming from inside the hut. You’d have heard Hagrid’s gruff refusals, Hermione’s calm (and then not so calm) rebuttals, and the very occasional interjection of the Headmistress.
Hermione did not emerge until the moon had fully risen and darkness enveloped the grounds. But in the light of the nearly full moon, you could see a smile on her face.
The Shrieking Shack was no longer widely believed to be haunted, now that the story of Remus Lupin was fully known. Still, the residents of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts avoided it out of a mixture of respect and residual fear.
This suited Hermione perfectly. The interior of the Shack was now stacked with books and bottles of potion ingredients. A cauldron sat in the corner, a telescope pointed out a cracked window, and cushions lined one wall. A table was covered in parchment, broken quills, ink pots and stains. Once a week, Hermione would apparate into the Shack and go over her notes from the previous session while she awaited her student’s arrival.
Sometimes he was late without explanation. Sometimes he would bring a wounded bowtruckle he wasn’t comfortable leaving on its own. Sometimes Fang would follow him and sit in the corner whining while his master sweated and cursed over a cauldron. Hermione was calm but firm, making adjustments as needed and letting Hagrid’s frustrated words roll off her back like water droplets.
The Hogsmeade residents may have turned a blind eye to the goings-on in the Shrieking Shack, but that didn’t mean they weren’t relieved as time went on and there were fewer and fewer roars of anger echoing through the village.
The OWL testers had been warned in advance that they would have an unusual student that year. That didn’t mean they weren’t taken aback when Rubeus Hagrid appeared on their testing scrolls. They all knew of him of course, knew the role he played in the Second War and of the false accusations leveled against him.
They were worried they would have to be kind.
They needn’t have. No one could have Hermione Granger teach them personally for a year and not improve in all aspects. His potions may not have been textbook perfection, he may not have fully transfigured his toad, but Hagrid had clearly worked hard to master his long dormant abilities.
Rubeus Hagrid may not have followed the traditional path to wisdom. But he had a new wand, the (sometimes grudging) respect of his peers, classes to teach and 6 OWLs.
Including the highest score ever recorded on Care of Magical Creatures.
(written and submitted by ppyajunebug; please excuse me, because I have something in my eye. Oh yes, it is my joyful tears. ppyajunebug has a way of bringing those out of me, you see. Their submissions tackle some of the saddest moments in canon, turning them around and making something beautiful out of them.)
THIS WAS SO STINKIN CUTE EVERYONE STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND READ THIS