The Los Angeles-based Annenberg Foundation has revealed it purchased a set of 24 Hopi and Apache masks at a controversial Paris auction and will return them to tribes in northeastern Arizona who had tried get the sale blocked.
After an unsuccessful law suit filed by lawyers for advocacy group Survival International, who argued the masks were the cultural property of the Hopi and San Carlos Apache tribes, the Annenberg Foundation swooped up twenty-four of the masks “for the sole purpose of returning them to their rightful owners,” it said on Wednesday.
The philanthropic organization paid $530,000 when the items went under the hammer on Monday.
Photo: Joel Saget/AFP/Getty
This is super-great that they got returned to their rightful owners, but they never should have been for sale in the first place. The auction house and the owners still got their cut, and the white man and his money had to step in to rescue the poor natives yet again. This is a matter of sovereignty and self-determination, and it proves once again native peoples have only as much as the dominant power structure wants to give them.
as women, we are conditioned to smile and be polite
i’m trying to recondition myself to not do that
i’m sick of my automatic response to creepy fuckin dudes being a nervous smile and nausea
i want a chronic bitch face and when i get harassed i want my first response to be to spit and sneer
fuck your street harassment and fuck being polite
Only the feathers floating around the hat
Showed that anything more spectacular had occurred
Than the usual drowning. The police preferred to ignore
The confusing aspects of the case,
And the witnesses ran off to a gang war.
So the report filed and forgotten in the archives read simply
“Drowned,” but it was wrong: Icarus
Had swum away, coming at last to the city
Where he rented a house and tended the garden.
“That nice Mr. Hicks” the neighbors called him,
Never dreaming that the gray, respectable suit
Concealed arms that had controlled huge wings
Nor that those sad, defeated eyes had once
Compelled the sun. And had he told them
They would have answered with a shocked, uncomprehending stare.
No, he could not disturb their neat front yards;
Yet all his books insisted that this was a horrible mistake:
What was he doing aging in a suburb?
Can the genius of the hero fall
To the middling stature of the merely talented?
And nightly Icarus probes his wound
And daily in his workshop, curtains carefully drawn,
Constructs small wings and tries to fly
To the lighting fixture on the ceiling:
Fails every time and hates himself for trying.
He had thought himself a hero, had acted heroically,
And dreamt of his fall, the tragic fall of the hero;
But now rides commuter trains,
Serves on various committees,
And wishes he had drowned.
So many gif sets I want to reblog, so many typos/spelling errors that keep me from doing so.
There are publishing laws, though imbecilic persons like Xenophilius Lovegood disregard them, and are henceforth fined accordingly.
Laws that say what children may read, and what adults may impart. Laws that rail against obscenity, and protect young minds from monstrosity. Laws that accord with Mr. Malfoy’s view of the world – best to present Muggles as something foreign and odd – and likewise with Mrs. Weasley’s view of the world – best to give the impression that all magical persons are sexless as monks. Indeed, there are laws to please everyone, laws of all varieties, laws that have cut the volume of wizarding-published books in half over the last few centuries, and what a relief that is; for a book may attack one, a book may fly about one’s head, but Merlin forbid a book expose some precious tot to what mummy or dad do not see fit to teach.
The Ministry does not believe in freedom of the pen. Ink and pen are mightier than the wand, said Albus Dumbledore. And, fearing what that man’s supporters might publish, Mr. Fudge reeled out seventy-two laws the next day, realizing for the first time that such terrible weapons must be handled with the utmost caution. Bravo, Mr. Fudge! cried magical adults everywhere. Bravo! Best to be careful, around a book.
But the children – they do not agree. Young Dean Thomas, on the run for a year, with only his wand and his paints to protect him, found safety in the wand, yes. But the paints gave him comfort. He began to sketch out, on every available surface, the tale of bold Lady Courage (alias of a mild-mannered halfblood), who fought and bested seventy times the vile Unforgivabelle, a golden-haired fiend determined to lock innocent persons in dungeons.
Seamus Finnigan, himself not averse to penning a tall tale, later added in Dayanara Dietz, a ward and faithful sidekick.
Miss Mandy Brocklehurst dreamed up the White Wand Gang, to pass the time waiting for the Carrows. The White Wand Gang, creeping in and out of castle passageways, always under threat from amoral ruffians like Gunnvor the Strange, the Black Potion King — yet never truly defeated by them!
Ernie MacMillan, who fell in love with Miss Lavender Brown, sketched out a story of El Gentilhombre, the son of self-sacrificing werewolves, bitten by a cursed unicorn at the age of seven, counteracting his parent’s disease and giving him power over all magical creatures.
And Daphne Greengrass, at her father’s trial, created amoral Conlan Blood, A ruffian born, whose parents supported the rise of Grindelwald and taught him to do the same, a chance battle side by side with a handsome Muggle-born taught him the error of his ways — and saved him from prison.
Society rails against these stories. Dreadful! Not educational! Not at all what mum and dad intended! And so racy.
But they sell, you know. And by now most attempts to censor them have been struck from the books.
heartbreaking scenes/moments » mrs landingham’s funeral (1/7)
You’re a son of a bitch, You know that? She bought her first new car and You hit her with a drunk driver. What? Was that supposed to be funny? “You can’t conceive, nor can I, the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God,” says Graham Greene. I don’t know whose ass he was kissing there, ‘cause I think You’re just vindictive. What was Josh Lyman - a warning shot? That was my son. What did I ever do to Yours but praise His glory and praise His Name?
There’s a tropical storm that’s gaining speed and power. They say we haven’t had a storm this bad since You took out that tender ship of mine in the North Atlantic last year. Sixty-eight crew. You know what a tender ship does? Fixes the other ships. It doesn’t even carry guns. It just goes around, fixes the other ships and delivers the mail. That’s all it can do. Gratias tibi ago, Domine. Yes, I lied. It was a sin. I’ve committed many sins. Have I displeased You, You feckless thug? 3.8 million new jobs, that wasn’t good?
Bailed out Mexico. Increased foreign trade. Thirty million new acres of land for conservation. Put Mendoza on the bench. We’re not fighting a war. I’ve raised three children. That’s not enough to buy me out of the doghouse? Haec credam a Deo pio, a Deo iusto, a Deo scito? Cruciatus in crucem. Trus in terra servus, nuntius fui, officium perfeci. Cruciatus in crucem. Eas in crucem.
You get Hoynes.
This fucking episode.
This fucking show.
santa saw you reading all that gay porn
so does he want recs, or…?
Sebastian/Isabela/Merrill, is a threesome enough of a kink? If not: blindfolds
Or, you know, foursomes? Since I have a Fenabela problem. I was going to try and write this for your birthday, but it sort of got away with me and ended up much longer than expected and then I didn’t quite get it done in time for my December queue, so … I eventually decided it worked for a double post on one of the days for Solace, since those chapters are pretty short.
Or really I just was too impatient to wait ‘til January.And gosh is this NSFW. Just saying. I can’t even really give you the first paragraph as a teaser without breaking my general ‘behind the cut’ policy.
Also it is rather long for a text post, sorry.
/what is brevity?
Sometimes it’s OK working early.
White people destroyed 3/4s of the world for spices and have the nerve not to season their food.
Fandom: Fallen London|Echo Bazaar
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: The Quiet Deviless/Player (Echo Bazaar)
Additional Tags: Poetry, Silence Kink, F/F
Summary: The Quiet Deviless is extremely quiet on most occasions.
There was a certain book with an attractive bright green cover. It received accolades from the Prophet, garnered its author thousands of galleons, and brought entertainment to generations of young persons. But it was the bane of Madam Pince’s existence.
It was an American book; American witches and wizards loved self-help nonsense. And yet Brewing a Better You: Twenty Tonics of Kindness to Win You The Wizard of Your Dreams, by Philetus Reese Washington, seemed to captivate even British witches aged eleven through eighteen. Never had a book been returned late so many times! Never before had a tome been held hostage by the entire Hufflepuff dormitory, all consulting it in turns before the Yule Ball. Never before had Madam Pince opened to the table of contents and found entire headings circled in purple ink — defiled; not to mention the ripped pages when one got to Washington’s personality tests in the third chapter; not to mention the love notes on pages 134 through 176, penned by a pair of sixth year Ravenclaw girls who had read the thing from cover to cover and concluded that no wizards existed in their dreams.
The entire affair horrified Madam Pince. She took a tonic (a real one) to steady her nerves, and declared the thing confined to the library. None could check it out. It would remain on the shelf, to be consulted as a reference tool, never again floating from student to student and subjected to the most horrible abuses. Madam Pince ruled over her dominion like the tyrants of old, with absolute power, and so she planted the book firmly in a corridor leading the Restricted Section (fully visible from her desk), and Charmed it to that one location, and there it stayed. This did not dissuade those young witches and wizards who longed, as Celestina Warbeck did in most of her songs, for a dream wizard. They simply came to the corridor to read it, sharing furtive glances and even more furtive giggles, flouting their fancies before Madam Pince.
All but Hermione. Hermione despised wooly self-help nonsense more than Madam Pince did. And if perhaps she had gazed longingly at the thing in her fourth year before a strapping Bulgarian chanced to take her to the Yule Ball, she would never admit it. The truth was: much as she loved books, she couldn’t bear to be seen as the kind of person who would seriously and frequently consult a book like that. She’d read it once with Parvati and Lavender. But aside from that, she never touched it, except in her prefect years. Then, she would find it sitting abandoned after hours when she came to return her Restricted Section pass, and then she would pick it up and calmly put it back in its place, with perhaps a touch less aggression than beleaguered Madam Pince was wont to use. Once, while very tired, half-thinking, really not her most rational self at that hour, she told it: "It’s not your fault you’re such a silly book.”
But that was it. She had no further contact with the thing. And the years passed, and she muddled her way through romance using far more cleverness and self-righteous fury than feminine kindness, and before long she was a woman with the job of her dreams, visiting Tintagel’s magical library (four hundred floors of books in every language, magically defying the laws of space and time by overlapping with every other library in the world; basically the library of her dreams), and then she met him.
He was surely not the wizard of her dreams. American, with breezy good looks and a fondness for wooly American pseudo-science, he would pass by her very loudly and rudely while she was trying to read — he was shelving things, always shelving things — and somehow he would manage to keep her attention. He paid her endless compliments, and not the usual ones, which were all about a witch’s hair and eyes, but ones calculated to make bookworms wriggle: “Everyone just uses the books, really; but you, you love them, because you’re better than that,” and “You don’t pick up just any dumb series, do you? You really know what you’re looking for, and you go for it,” and “I’ve seen you traveling down library corridors, you know; I’ve noticed you, every time,” and “Oh, to be the page that your slim hand turns!”
It was silly, intellectually speaking. But it had an effect. Hermione — who had a wizard at home, though not really the sort of wizard that could be called a wizard of dreams — found her mind turning in all sorts of odd directions.
"He’s very sweet, but a nuisance," she confided in Ginny.
"Hex him," Ginny said decisively. Hermione tested the method and found that the hex had no effect, save to muss the fellow’s green jacket a bit, making him seem even more rakishly attractive.
"I can’t help but think he’s a bit familiar, that’s all," she told Harry.
"Dark magic?" Harry suggested. Harry was in the middle of Auror training and had Dark magic on the mind, though to be completely honest when Harry wasn’t thinking of Dark magic he was thinking of Quidditch, and this was preferable to that. And, to Harry’s credit, such an ardent romantic attraction as this fellow had formed couldn’t really be regular magic.
"He’s almost not a person at all," Hermione told Luna. "That’s how focused on me he is. It’s unnatural. Almost inhuman, like something out of a book."
Luna thought that was her answer, right there. Hermione agreed.
"Or he’s rude and horrible, like Ginny said," offered stout Neville, going on to second Ginny’s call to hexing.
But Hermione was not one repeat failed methods. She was very scientific about romance, when she wasn’t being furious about it, and so she retired to bed to think about the thing. She wrote Madam Pince a brief Owl. Madam Pince replied speedily and confirmed that certain shelves in the Hogwarts library were shared with Tintagel, yes. And that yes, this did happen sometimes with books. Books could be odd like that. Distracting them was the only answer, and this was largely a matter of proper shelving.
So then the only remaining step was to consult Ron.
"Wha…?" said Ron, turning over, half asleep.
“Twelve Fail-Safe Ways To Charm Witches,” Hermione repeated, “Do you still have it?”
Ron squinted at her. “No…?” he said. “Hang on, am I in trouble?”
"Just give it to me," Hermione said.
"You’re the only witch for me," Ron assured her. "Unless you like witches. I mean. Not that I would be upset! That’s fine. We can experiment, even! You know, I’ve always had my suspicions about Bill and Percy—”
"Give. Me. The. Book."
Ron surrendered it. It had a leggy blonde witch on the cover, the spitting image of Madam Rosmerta. She was lovingly caressing a broomstick. This made Hermione roll her eyes. Hermione took this book to Madam Pince the very next day. Madam Pince said, “Yes, that will do the trick.”
And when Hermione put it on the shelf, she tapped its fellow absentmindedly and said, “You two will be perfect together.”
When she next went to Tintagel, she experienced no trouble at all. She saw her American friend, of course. He was with another witch. She’d somehow conspired to smuggle a broomstick into the library. No one was making her leave; she was far too leggy and blonde to be thrown out of anywhere.
They waved at Hermione.
"You have bested the love experts," said the American in green, clasping his hands to his bosom. Then he departed with his newfound paramour.
"Hmm," Hermione said. She’d spent her life loving books. Ordinary Muggle books, even. Textbooks and everyday novels and long tracts on mathematics or burial customs or podiatry or the origins of mankind…
But only magical books decided they loved you back.
- refer to white people as Caucasian
- are under the notion that “reverse racism" exists
- think racism against white people exists and/or is a serious issue
- use the dictionary definition of racism as "proof" in your argument
- have the gall to say PoC are “takin’ all yer scholarships”
- claim the term ”PoC" is oppressive to white folk
- claim white people “aren’t technically white” (no link for this. should be common sense)
- say you are “colorblind”
- think being LGBT*QUIA means you don’t benefit from white privilege
Don’t waste my time with silly arguments and beliefs that have been refuted ad nauseum. Educate yourself before trying to discuss race and privilege.