i don’t want to be a part of a college system where plagiarism is a worse crime than rape
Instead of letting freedom ring, why doesn’t freedom just text? Welcome to the 21st century
if u can’t handle me at my hardcore feminist then u can’t have me at literally any other time bc that’s all i am 24/7
So I’m going home this weekend because an old friend is getting married, which is exciting and wonderful and awesome. But y’know what *wasn’t awesome? GOING HOME. This travel experience — while not even close to my worst travel experience, not by a mile — has been objectively pretty ridiculous.
I did my damnedest to get to the bus on time after work. By my watch, and by the bus schedule, I missed it by two minutes. ‘No matter,’ I thought naively — I knew so little back then. The next one should be here in 8 minutes.
Some 15 or so minutes later, I begin to get a little concerned. I’m at 20th and I, the crosstreets indicated on the bus schedule. And standing directly in front of a bus stop. I’m where I am supposed to be, so where is the bus?
To be fair, some buses came, but none bearing the markings of the bus I was supposed to take. “Nah that’s not this bus,” I heard one too many times. My backpack becomes heavy. My world becomes weary.
25 minutes in. The mosquitoes descend - out in force in case anyone forgot that DC was built on a swamp. I’m outnumbered. There are too many. A wasp lands on my glasses. I have never removed my glasses more slowly. I pray to whatever God will listen that this wasp will not sting my eye. I call my mother.
Mother phones the bus company, because, of course she does. They tell her the bus just left but the last one will be there in ten minutes. I am perplexed. I am distrustful. I am annoyed.
Surprising no one, the so-called bus is nowhere to be seen. My mother decides to meet me at Union Station. I decide I need alcohol.
I walk to the nearest train station, about 15 minutes away by foot. Theoretically one could have taken a bus, but I was uninterested in testing that theory. I board the train just as it arrives. Perhaps, I think, my luck is changing.
The train runs smoothly for the first of four stops. Come the second, there is an announcement in the distance that I ignore, followed by a mass exodus of the train car. I don’t understand; the girl seated next to me shares my confusion. ‘What’s happening?’ I ask a man standing near me. “This train is not in service,” the distant voice answers, “please exit the train. Everybody must get off the train.” Why have I been forsaken? The girl and I - the last two on the train - both stand. As I reach the train’s doors, the voice says ‘Sorry, sorry, this train is in service. Everyone board the train again. Sorry.’ ‘Groan,’ said literally every passenger.
Finally, I arrived at Union Station, the Promised Land. I had never seen this side of Union Station before: has there always been an H&M here? There’s a Le Pain Quotidien? That Shake Shack is definitely new. Can I trust a burger from a train station? And look! A liquor store!
'Pull yourself together girl,' I think. Mama would not be pleased if she showed up and you were three sheets to the wind. Also you would look ratchet as hell. Let's see where we can sit and pretend to be classy.
After confirming with mom that she was over a half hour away and I had time to kill, I make my way to cafe in the center of Union Station. I pretended to look through the menu fully, but I knew what I was ordering as soon as I saw it. “I would like the cheese plate and a glass of the Chardonnay, please.”
This cheese plate was mind-boggling. I knew I was splurging a little, but I thought that was just train station spiked prices. But when they brought out this cheese plate, I quickly deduced that it was not created with one, two, or even three people in mind. It was quite a lot of cheese. I figured that balanced out the exorbitant amount I was throwing away for a compensatory Me Party post-ridiculous travel, and I was okay with that.
Eventually my Mom and Uncle arrived to pick me up and drive me home. And now, roughly four hours after this supposed-to-be hour and a half long journey began, I’ve arrived.
There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home. …maybe I should have tried that first.
Today I saw some white folk asking a Black dude about his dreads, whether and how much he washes it, etc. He was exceedingly polite and I thought ‘Huh, I wonder if he knows those white people.’ And then I thought damn that that’s even a question tho.
one of my fav scenes to be honest, cause lawd knws if they allowed black folks in the league maaaaaaan listen, alot of what ifs possiblities
This film, “A League of Their Own” dedicates so many scenes to issues like sexism.
Yet, blink too fast and you’ll miss this short scene…the one that shows how Black women were barred from the league.
The Black woman is supposed to represent Mamie “Peanut” Johnson (who actually did try out for the league). She wasn’t allowed to play and went on to be one of the few women to play with men in the Negro League.
I WOULD LOVE TO SEE A FILM ABOUT JOHNSON AND THE OTHER WOMEN WHO PLAYED FOR THE NEGRO LEAGUE! But Hollywood …