Like, if I were to pretend as a joke that I don’t understand why Macklemore was hailed as the first or most prominent artist to speak out against homophobia the same goddamn year Frank Ocean comes out, Jay-Z releases a statement of support for it and Angel Haze continues speaking about her experiences within the spectrums of gender and sexuality on her mixtapes (to name just a few notable moves in 2012), the punchline would of course be that I absolutely understand why that’s the case and am pretending to not know for the sake of the joke
Do you want to take a stab at how that joke would end
"Girls have to fight against a lot of the same stuff we did growing up…peer pressure, exploitation, etc. But what worries me the most is this trend that caring about something isn’t cool. That it’s better to comment on something than to commit to it. That it’s so much cooler to be unmotivated and indifferent. Our culture can get so snarky and ironic sometimes and we kind of wanted Smart Girls to celebrate the opposite of that."
Amy Poehler, on empowering you girl thru her web-series, “Smart Girls At The Party.” (via camewiththeframe)
from “The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” by Junot Diaz
Our hero was not one of those Dominican cats everybody’s always going on about—he wasn’t no home-run hitter or fly bachatero, not a playboy with a million hots on his jock.
And except for one period early in his life, dude never had much luck with the females (how very un-Dominican of him).
He was seven then.
In those blessed days of his youth, Oscar was something of a Casanova. One of those preschool loverboys who was always trying to kiss the girls, always coming up behind them during a merengue and giving them the pelvic pump, the first nigger to learn the perrito and the one who danced it any chance he got. Because in those days he was (still) a ‘normal’ Dominican boy raised in a ‘typical’ Dominican family, his nascent pimp-liness was encouraged by blood and friends alike. During parties—and there were many parties in those long-ago seventies days, before Washington Heights was Washington Heights, before the Bergenline became a straight shot of Spanish for almost a hundred blocks—some drunk relative inevitably pushed Oscar onto some little girl and then everyone would howl as boy and girl approximated the hip-motism of the adults.
You should have seen him, his mother sighed in her Last Days. He was our little Porfirio Rubirosa.