I am...Markita. 21. Nutritional Sciences Major. Amazing. Enjoy the food, quotes, fandoms, culture, posts on international and multicultural issues, images of lovely people and things, and random posts that make me laugh.
Chat me up sometime?

abitofanoddball:

lostandins3cure:

(via imgTumble)

Secrets I don’t ever dare tell…………except if it’s with Markita in the HQ section!

Nancy!! <3

I shall still tell you my secrets on tumblr if we are never to meet in HQ again!

sinidentidades:

Poema para los Californios Muertos 

Once a refuge for Mexican Californios…
           —plaque outside a restaurant
           in Los Altos, California, 1974.

These older towns die
into stretches of freeway.
The high scaffolding cuts a clean cesarean
across belly valleys and fertile dust.
What a bastard child, this city
lost in the soft
llorando de las madres.
Californios moan like husbands of the raped,
husbands de la tierra,
tierra la madre.

I run my fingers
across this brass plaque.
Its cold stirs in me a memory
of silver buckles and spent bullets,
of embroidered shawls and dark rebozos.
Yo recuerdo los antepasados muertos.
Los recuerdo en la sangre,
la sangre fértil.

What refuge did you find here,
ancient Californios?
Now at this restaurant nothing remains
but this old oak and an ill-placed plaque.
Is it true that you still live here
in the shadows of these white, high-class houses?
Soy la hija pobrecita
pero puedo maldecir estas fantasmas blancas.
Las fantasmas tuyas deben aquí quedarse,
solas las tuyas.

In this place I see nothing but strangers.
On the shelves there are bitter antiques, 
yanqui remnants
y estos no de los Californios.
A blue jay shrieks
above the pungent odor of crushed
eucalyptus and the pure scent
of rage.  

                    — Lorna Dee Cervantes 
While many, including me, celebrate the natural hair movement’s emphasis on self-discovery, I cannot help but wonder if something has also been lost with this cultural shift. For all the horrible things about hair straightening, the experiences associated with it have created a powerful thread that connects the vast majority of black women. Even if you have kinky hair now, you probably have memories of time spent with family and friends in kitchens getting your hair done by someone who loved you and who you trusted enough to wield a sizzling hot straightening comb next to your ear. You probably remember that first trip to the beauty shop where black women talked about grown folks’ business, and nearly every sentence began with the endearment, “girl.” It does not matter if your mother was a teacher or housekeeper, or if you were in New York or Alabama because these experiences crossed class and region. Hair straightening was a rite of passage, an entry into the world of black women.
—

Cassandra Jackson: Is Natural Hair the End of Black Beauty Culture? (via tballardbrown)

I remember the days were I’d be sitting on a stool by the stove and my mom would straighten my hair with a straightening comb. You’d have to stay really still, and try not to slouch even though you really wanted to (because it took forever), and you had to brace yourself for the moments when you felt the heat from that comb come close to your ear. Yeah, the kitchen smelt a bit like burnt hair, but it was a time where my mom talked my ear off about things and we actually bonded through those moments.