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Literature
Racism is Dead
They say they lost their lives
How many boys need to die
Before they’ll see it?
Chalk outlines on the pavement
Drawn around black bodies
And they paint us white
As we spill onto the pavement
Hollow
We are past it
We are past it
They say they lost their lives.
Countless
Unarmed
Black boys
Lost
Their
Lives.
I reject
The idea that their lives were lost
Like a sock in the dryer
Like a toy under the bed
Like a gun to his head
His life was taken.
On the darkened streets walking to home to his mother
His life was taken
When he called the police to stop a robbery
His life was taken
In his home his life was taken
In his home
His life was taken.
They say it’s not about race.
Because he has a gun.
Because he is attacking.
Hands held above his head
He does not run
He cannot move
But he has the face of the devil
“Don’t shoot”
He is a chalk outline on the pavement
“Don’t shoot”
We are chalk outlines on the pavement.
And they tell us it’s not abou
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Literature
A Racial Stereotype
He is a bumbling idiot.
He never gets anything right
Even the simplest of endeavors
Becomes a full out catastrophe.
And he speaks
As if there is not a single language
In The Galaxy
He has properly learned.
They look at him,
And see a stereotype.
A poor reflection of something black.
I look at him,
And I see a seven foot tall lizard.
If I could speak plainly:
Jar Jar Binks
Is not a racial stereotype.
There is no universe
Where that makes
Any amount of sense.
And you look at me,
Expression wary,
Shoulders shrugging.
“Well,
I could see it.”
If you do not see
The irony here
Then allow me to explain you something.
If you see idiot,
Fool, inarticulate,
And think black
You
Are the racist one here.
You
Are stereotyping
And blaming someone else
For it.
Now don’t pretend
You are blind to race
Do not try to play like
The soldier in this war
Because, honey,
You don’t even know what side you’re fighting for.
A racial stereotype
Is a misleading representation
Of an ethn
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Literature
A History Lesson
They never want to talk about the 80s.
And by ‘they’ I mean our historians and by ‘our’ I mean Americans –
And they never want to talk about the 80s.
We know 1619 as the year our people became yours –
And by yours, I mean your property.
Taken from their home, their world, shackled on your ships
In a way you would not treat animals.
And by you, I guess I mean us because
White history is black history is my history is our history
It began in 1619.
And I write these words now because of Lucy Terry in 1746
Solomon Northrup in 1853
Fredrick Douglas in 1864.
Because Zora Neale Hurtson in 1956.
Alice Walker in 1983.
Geoffry Fletcher. In 2009.
I write these words now because they tell us we live in a place
Called Post Racial America.
As if we’ve gotten past it
When they just don’t want us to talk about it
And by ‘it’
I mean our history.
1978 – Our courts uphold equal opportunity.
1992 – The first race riots in decades
And
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Literature
Fly
With the covers pulled over my head, my room darker than the city night and the steady breath of my sister in the bed below me, I would put my hands together, close my eyes, and pray. I’m not sure who I was praying to. I knew God then, I suppose. Each night asking for the same thing. Never receiving, but I’d never stop. I couldn’t sleep unless I prayed. Dear Lord, I thank you for such a nice day. Please let us all have good dreams tonight and a good day tomorrow. And please, please, please let me have the power to fly. In Jesus name I pray, amen. I thought these words each night, and each morning I’d wake from my nightmares to find that I, in fact, could not fly. I was always disappointed.
“Jezebel, what are you thinking about?”
“Flying.”
There is laughter. “Flying is for the birds, dear.”
“Then I’d like to be a bird.”
“And what would you do as a bird? You couldn’t speak, or walk.”
“Bu
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Literature
Unstable Together - Hurricane Katrina
I’m heavy. So heavy. But I can’t stop. I can’t. Not even if I wanted too. There’s too much, just too much. And everything is spinning, spinning, spinning. And I’m moving, but I don’t know where. And I’m taking, but I don’t know what. I’m moving close – so close. I don’t even know where I am. There’s just water and grey and a screaming howl as I spin and spin and spin. It’s all around me. Where I go, it follows. If I could break through it, I would – oh I would. Just for the silence, just for the peace. If only for a moment. But I haven’t stopped. I’m moving closer and closer, I can almost feel it now. I don’t know what it is. But I know it’s there. And then I feel it. It tries to slow me down, it tries to end my spinning, my crying, my running. I try so hard to let it happen. I try. But –
Boom! Boom! Boom! There’s cracking and falling and crumbling all around me, and
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Literature
Caught in the Storm
There is a rough pounding on the thick walls.
She takes cover, as she always does when it happens. Her movements are practiced; she does not need to think about them. Lying on her side, knees pulled to her chest, blankets pulled tight around her still frame, hoping this time it will be enough.
The walls are shaking. The pictures go first, as they always do. Images of smiling men and women, girls and boys. One family. Good memories. She prefers the good ones. They help her to pretend. But they are falling, one by one. Cracking, tearing. She pictures them in her mind as they shatter. What they were, where they went. Sometimes she forgets. The puzzle isn’t even worth attempting when so many pieces are missing.  
The picture on the side table is always the same, though. It does not fall. It is stable where it stands. A girl and a man, smiling. This is the important one. The one that never breaks. The one that must never break.  
The windows go next. One small crack. Another
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Literature
Black
It began in the quietest hours of the night. Granny was snoring up a storm, her bed creaking with each breath and twitch of her bigness. That's always the first thing I remember, thinking back. She always snored in the same way Pappy revved up the engines of his prized Cadillac. Loud, proud, and never ending.
I s'pose I should start with what happened before hand. Nothing will make sense if I don't. It don't make no sense anyhow, but the story won't be right if I don't start before everything got bad.   
So we were in the market, Granny and I. We go every Sunday while my parents and siblings are at praise and worship with most of the rest of the town. We get all the best stuff that way without havin to elbow our way through the hordes of people doin their last minute shoppin for Sunday dinner. Granny always said that the best book couldn't keep her from making Sunday dinner, and no man in the sky gonna keep her from her shoppin.
"Jerry, you got them apples for me?" Grann
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Literature
Avarice
I.
She is a girl of beauty. Tall, slim, soft features. This is the first thing that I notice. From her flawless, creamy skin, to her thick dark hair, rolling down her body in perfect waves. I sit, I watch. She sits, she smiles. But not at me, oh no. She doesn't even know I'm here, watching her in this crowded cafe. She is speaking to a man in a boring grey suit with salt and pepper hair. He too, has noticed her good looks. She knows it. I can tell by the way she leans in to him, the way she lets her skirt ride up her thigh as she crosses her legs. She flips her hair over her shoulder, flashing just enough skin to really get him interested. She has him.
II.
The night moves slowly. Too slow for my liking. He says something funny, and she laughs just a little bit too hard. But I know his type. Rich, lonely. Lost in his nostalgia for his younger days. When an attractive woman seems interested in him, he jumps at the chance. Fool. He cannot see her hunger for wealth. He cannot see her sin.
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Literature
Beautiful Warmth
I.
The sun shines so beautifully this time of year.
To feel the warmth, to see the brightness reflecting
Off everything; the serene water, still icy even in this heat;
The leaves, green as they always are.
The beauty alone is enough to make anyone smile  
But there's always more to it, more to the beauty of it all.
This is the time of year when people gather together,
All singing the same tune, dancing to the same song.
They can feel it. It reverberates throughout the crowds,
All the happiness, the joy, the fulfillment.
The one time of year when everyone comes together,
Brought out by the sun. Beaming in its image.
It's the beauty that brings them.
II.
Yet, as I watch all the joy, I can't help but wonder,
Question their thoughts, their antics.
The sun is shining so beautifully, yet I am locked inside.
I feel that comforting heat, but I cannot react.
I sit. I watch. I wonder.
What is it like, coming together like that?
Is it as glorious as it looks, as wonderful as it seems?
C
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The Glasses by MadHat11D6 The Glasses :iconmadhat11d6:MadHat11D6 3 3

Favourites

Literature
You Perfect Boy
Oh you, conqueror boy,
your gaze captures the dreams of
telescopes. You alone walk
against the milky fibers of
the fire-filled cosmos, flung arms
flush with sacrosanct sublimity. What terror
have you not vanquished, what ambition
have you not grasped?
Your lashes hold the beauty
of a thousand dying skies.
Why, you, joyful boy,
would never find yourself
scribbling lamentations in
ballpoint pen onto
bettered bathroom stalls,
begging some other body to
spark you back alive, or
crying yourself awake
in the quiet of the night
underneath the mantle
of an indifferent moon--no,
the great lakes of your smile
can screen even lonelier lights.
You, boy, are
a perfect boy, perfect
enough that you don't
know it yet, too perfect
for mortal truths. We fear
to dig too deeply, godly child,
for your pillars would begin to topple,
and you have too long
a way to fall.
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Journal
A Splatter of News: Issue 1
PowerfulWriting  here with a splattering of news. These series of News Journals will serve to keep you all up-to-date in what's going on throughout the literature community here on dA. This will be expanded more as time goes on. If you have any lit related news you wish to share in future editions, do not hesitate to note either the group or Medoriko   with the details :heart:
Contests/Projects
:iconProjectComment:
Project Comment is holding a Comment Tournament!
Note: The tournament is now closed to new participants for Round One. If you would like to participate, please wait for the next tournament next month. See thumb for details.

:iconmy-soul-bleeds-ink:
My Soul Bleeds Ink is hosting a Valentins Contest which starts January 26th.
Timeline:
Jan 26-February 9th (Writing and Submitting Time)
Feb 10-Feb 13: Judging Time
Feb 14: Revelation of Winners
Theme:Love, Friendship, Love and Friendship. Using Quotes provided, write a prompted piece
:iconPowerfulWriting:PowerfulWriting
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Journal
Journal {CSS} Guide - Beginners
Hi there,
If you are reading this blog then I assume that you are interested in learning about deviantART Journal Skins. In this beginner’s tutorial I’ll be covering the basic understanding of HTML, CSS and DA’s journal skins. I’ll be explaining everything in details from the scratch so that you do not miss anything. I have designed this tutorial in such a way that I can assure you that you’ll be able to achieve a working knowledge of deviantART journal skins.
A little background about myself: I am a hobby-driven artist who mainly deals with CSS and HTML in deviantART (now). I like to teach people about customization and provide helpful guides to achieve them. I have designed and coded over 100+ skins till now in DA and I can confidently say that I have quite a deep knowledge about dA’s journal and gallery skins.
A point of inspiration (may be):
I never had any kind of formal training or courses on HTML and CSS coding. I have self-learn
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Journal
Writers of the Revolution, January
featured ADMINS
theWrittenRevolution
:iconthewrittenrevolution:
So, it's 2015 and to (slightly belatedly) celebrate that, this is a special New Year's edition of Writers of the Revolution where I'm going to feature all of the wonderful admins of the group because they're fantastic and deserve a lot of appreciation, particularly because of all the hard work they've all put in recently for the upcoming Mentorship Project! (Fair warning: our admins are great writers whose work will make you feel things.) Don't worry, though, it's not going to be all admins - this is the first article that'll start including features of DDs or DLRs earned by members of our group, because you are equally awesome and deserving of appreciation. Heart 
This is a special New Year's edition, which is why for this article, there won't be any featured resources or critiques - the Mentorship Project's coming up soon,
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Journal
The Mentorship Project Is Back!
And let me tell you, it's never been this awesome!
Please spread the word about this project by :+fav:faving and sharing this blog.
You can sign up for the Mentorship Project HERE!

Our Anniversary Gift, To You
Today marks theWrittenRevolution's fifth anniversary, and we can finally re-start a project we were very fond of: and in the best tWR fashion, we bring it back to you packed with innovation!
What is the Mentorship Project?
It's a learning system for our members, that works through a series of mentees (aka the deviants who want to learn, or rather, "be taught" new things) and mentors (the more experienced deviants who feel confident enough to teach - and maybe learn something new also ;) ), that we help form pairs to follow the Project.
What does the project consist of?
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landscape 2 by rchaem landscape 2 :iconrchaem:rchaem 648 143 Deer god by Sedeptra Deer god :iconsedeptra:Sedeptra 1,713 45 Date, Interrupted by Sempaiko Date, Interrupted :iconsempaiko:Sempaiko 1,049 76 Orient Express by Alyanna9 Orient Express :iconalyanna9:Alyanna9 364 33
Literature
For You, Children
A story paints a picture
An anecdote for the mind and soul
To remedy the lost faith of kin
To tug on the moral fibers of our being
And, above all, to heal the fresh wounds of oppression
The woman with the endless love
Bound to a drunken brute
Slaves away for the sake
Of her child's future
While sinking in the depths of chaos
Portraying ethics through words
And words through motions
She evokes a sense of 'right and wrong'
"Have patience" she claims
For virtues are essential for personal growth
Her melodic voice entrances
The earnest children
Taking them to a place foreign
A place replenishing hope
For a chance of success
Her diligence, she embraces
Striving for disoriented files
And ornery consent
In a pale faced form
She struggles for her son's freedom
She battles outside demons
And inner desires
For an encouraging education
To bring better prospects
For a "father-less" son
Tribal garments are no longer welcome
For she, of all, know
The western world has won the war
And so can her son
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Literature
Rwandan Screen Time
guilt spoke
with angry eyes
sounding choked
from the throats
of eight hundred thousand
ghosts
so much
for the great
white hope
:iconYouInventedMe:YouInventedMe
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Literature
Frankenstein
My mouth is sewn shut with a soft pink ribbon
My eyes hide their venom behind
voluminous lashes
I curl my fingers 'round my
dislocated jawbone
and twist and pull those joints-
those nerves which
forgot how to hold shape or
form words
It wears on me like
an itchy, old sweater,
as he paces the room with his questions
and his answers
My jaw should be set and
hard as a mountain;
my lips should be trembling and
forming my outrage
But I'm sewn like a doll-y
with pink ribbons and stitches-
a smile on a mannequin-
some beauty from her silence
I cannot fathom why I've come undone
But more so, why I
have chosen to sew these
frayed and exhausted parts back together
to impersonate an idea of something
inherently broken
to make him feel better
when he's asking his
questionable questions
to hide that I have no voice
to ask questions of my own.
:iconOseltamivir:Oseltamivir
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Literature
Overcome
Overcome
It is a moment without metaphor,
without the elegance of ambiguity.
What happens does not signify anything,
does not borrow the body of what it is
to create the soul of what it is;
it does not lend itself out to betoken
other things. These are seconds
without such generosity.
It is not a moment of young onions
grown tender for the harvest, or persimmons
frosted over by the sugars of age. There are
no solemn rail cars rusting into poignancy.
There is only a young black man
who is only a young black man
bullied by the sting of insult and indignity
too great, his proud mouth burnt by wrath
as he careens down the sidewalk
toward bedlam.
There is only a loose-tongued white man
who is only a loose-tongued white man,
older and leaning heavily on a cane as he turns,
a bag of something in his free hand, fretfully
silent now as he looks into the face
his epithets have spoken to life –
one ugliness begets another.
Cups of coffee leave the parking lot
behind me, where presumably all
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Literature
Identity
"White reflects all colors on the light spectrum,"
                                    my teacher once said.
I wondered why it took a scientist to discover
a lesson that history has already taught us.
White doesn't carry home its dead
                                   with
                                   the
                          
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Literature
Free
Free:
Corrupted by the ways of freedom
You broke out of bondage
And dined on the flesh of decency.
Rusted chains adorn your wrists
Shackles jangling at your knees.
Dribbling blood from the corners of your mouth
Your nails dig further into blasphemy.
:iconAaron-Jay:Aaron-Jay
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Groups

Journal History

deviantID

MadHat11D6
J.R.
Artist | Literature
United States
I suppose I should be writing something here. I'll get back to you.
Interests

August 31, 2014 - Black and White


With the appearance of social unrest tearing through cultures all over the world, it is important to explore different perspectives to paint the truest picture of the situation. The pieces featured here explore race, specifically looking at relations between black people and white people.  

Poetry



Identity"White reflects all colors on the light spectrum,"
                                    my teacher once said.
I wondered why it took a scientist to discover
a lesson that history has already taught us.
White doesn't carry home its dead
                                   with
                                   the
                          

Identity by TurboTracks

"I live with dispersed hues that run at the sight of me
because my science-history says it must be so."

This poem takes a white perspective on this issue, exploring the guilt of history as well as the daunting dream of cohesion. What makes this interesting is the rarely-explored idea of hope for white people - that this state of oneness can be possible despite history.

OvercomeOvercome
It is a moment without metaphor,
without the elegance of ambiguity.
What happens does not signify anything,
does not borrow the body of what it is
to create the soul of what it is;
it does not lend itself out to betoken
other things. These are seconds
without such generosity.
It is not a moment of young onions
grown tender for the harvest, or persimmons
frosted over by the sugars of age. There are
no solemn rail cars rusting into poignancy.
There is only a young black man
who is only a young black man
bullied by the sting of insult and indignity
too great, his proud mouth burnt by wrath
as he careens down the sidewalk
toward bedlam.
There is only a loose-tongued white man
who is only a loose-tongued white man,
older and leaning heavily on a cane as he turns,
a bag of something in his free hand, fretfully
silent now as he looks into the face
his epithets have spoken to life –
one ugliness begets another.
Cups of coffee leave the parking lot
behind me, where presumably all
 
Overcome by b1gfan

"It is not a moment of young onions
grown tender for the harvest, or persimmons
frosted over by the sugars of age. There are
no solemn rail cars rusting into poignancy."

Taking the perspective of an onlooker, the impact of this piece comes from it's blatant style. It is not layered with emotion or impression, rather, it presents the scene as it is. Whether intentional or not, the situation described in this poem speaks to a deeper issue; a black man, angry enough to be moved to violence from the words of a white man. There is something to overcome. 


Prose



colour blind.She saw him at the park once. He was the colour of dirt; with bird eyes and white, mapped palms. Her little forehead lined as she felt the bile force its way up until her saliva was acid. She counted her toes and bit the inside of her cheek, should she run? Are they fast runners? She figured this one must be if he kept himself out of jail. The dark man flashed a mouthful of pebbles and held out his hand- which would have swallowed hers.
'Don't touch me.'
Her hands were all knuckles and her baby eyes tore into his. He faltered and stepped away, a half mouthed sorry. He looked upset, a grin spread like fire between her dimples.
Suddenly she imagined force-feeding him barbed wire and then tearing it back out- the way a clown pulls coloured cloth from his sleeve. She imagined tying the left of his limbs to a heavy tree trunk and the right to a truck. Dragging and pulling until his joints sang high with dislocation and his arms snapped like twigs. The way she likes the crackle of dea

colour blind. by Pretty-As-A-Picture

"The bruised black boy sat two seats behind her one year. She'd hold her nose to stop the apocryphal smell as she tried instead to fill her lungs with the air that lingered under her shirt, at her chest."

This story is written from the perspective of a young girl raised to hate black people, not realizing the blackness that is a part of her. It presents the stark injustice of discrimination, at the same time dealing with identity and white passing. Both interesting and haunting (and at times difficult to read), this story is a quietly important addition to the racial dialogue. 

Black and WhiteI met him in the sandbox.
It sits just past the streetlight mamma tells me is old fashioned because it looks more like candy than a stoplight. I don't agree, but I'd never tell her. (she only insults it in this manner after she forgets to look for it and runs a red light)
I was not building sandcastles, or playing house, or pretending to be princess of anything. I was building roadways and mountains and intersections for my little yellow jeep to purr its way over; ignorant of all traffic laws. (Did you know that if you purse your lips and blow, you can grrr just like one?)
He had green eyes to match his green tractor, and we built farms and dug trenches until our little arms were sore and then we planted pebbles while we chanted grow corn grow.
.
I think I remember her skirts, and the red of her hair, and the twisted rouge of her lips as she yanked him stumbling to his feet and sneered.
She had his green eyes.
I do remember what she said, Don’t play with her Michael. She

Black and White by TheAfterWhys

"I do remember what she said, Don’t play with her Michael. She’s dirty. I didn't know then, that the word dirty had nothing to do with hygiene."

This piece takes the perspective of a young black girl told she cannot play with a white boy. What makes this interesting is, unlike many stories within this point of view, the mother is unable to teach racism to her child. This creates the effect of highlighting the ridiculousness of the mother's ideals, but does this without taking away from the pain felt by the black girl and her mother. 

All of these pieces are interesting and thought provoking. Each of them provides a unique perspective on the relationship between black and white, each adding something to this important dialogue about race.   

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Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconmintchocolate188:
MintChocolate188 Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2015  Student General Artist
Oh my dear, I miss you so much. How has life been treating you?
Reply
:iconmadhat11d6:
MadHat11D6 Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2015   Writer
Good. I miss you too! =] I have an internship at king's books right now, which is fun. How are things going for you?
Reply
:iconmintchocolate188:
MintChocolate188 Featured By Owner Jan 26, 2015  Student General Artist
:D an internship? Awesome! is king's that antique book shop downtown?

I'm good. guitar lessons, snowboarding lessons, book/guitar club, and my online life with my bf are kinda hectic, but i'm managing~ I was nominated for the sweetheart dance princess, so that's... interesting...

But I miss sota so much! like, i can't go downtown without remembering so much and getting all teary T.T
Reply
:iconmadhat11d6:
MadHat11D6 Featured By Owner Jan 26, 2015   Writer
It's on St. Helens, right down the street from Stadium. Used and new books. =]

Wow, that's a lot. What in the holy hell is a sweetheart dance princess?

sota misses you to, dearie. =] I'm starting to get antsy because this is my last semester them I'm out in August. Then I'll be in Vermont for at least the next four years, likely the next six. So that's happening.  
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconpepper-the-phoenix:
Pepper-the-phoenix Featured By Owner Jan 18, 2015  Professional Writer
I can't believe we weren't already watching each other. Anyway, thanks for the watch. Hug 
Reply
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