Austin And Ally Quotes

I was born to make mistakes, not to be perfect.

Music is poetry with personality

Im looking for a girl who's fun to be around.

Every single person has the power to change the world and help people.

I kind of have the most amazing fans ever. They are the most committed, passionate people, and I love them so much.

Our life hacks include finding a cohort, a girlfriend, an ally - someone who is safe. Someone to have lunch with who doesn't need an explanation of our being.

And so hope for me has died one thousand deaths. I hoped that friend would get it, but hope died. I hoped that person would be an ally for life, but hope died. I hoped that my organizations really desired change, but hope died. I hoped I'd be treated with the full respect I deserve at my job, but hope died. I hoped that racist policies would change, and just policies would never be reversed, but hope died. I hoped the perpetrator in uniform would be brought to justice this time, but hope died. I hoped history would stop repeating itself, but hope died. I hoped things would be better for my children, but hope died.

Even more, if most white people are good, innocent, lovely folks who are just angry or scared or ignorant, it naturally follows that whenever racial tension arises, I must be the problem. I am not kind enough, patient enough, warm enough. I don't have enough understanding for the white heart, white feelings, white needs. It does not matter that I don't always feel like teaching white people through my pain, through the disappointment of allies who gave up and colaborers who left. It does not matter that the "well-intentioned" questions hurt my feelings or that the decisions made in all-white meetings affect me differently than they do everyone else. If my feelings do not fit the narrative of white innocence and goodness, the burden of change gets placed on me.

the clash between Austin Dickinson and his wife, who had been the poet’s intimate and her keenest reader. Out of this clash a lasting feud developed, and it was the opponents in this feud, their allies and warring descendants, who devised the image of the poet as her fame grew and endured.

In 1825, the legislators of Coahuila-Texas began writing the state constitution, and in article 13 they supported abolishing slavery.23 When Stephen Austin learned of this, he contacted other Anglo-American leaders, and they sought the support of influential Mexican Tejanos.24 Austin warned his allies that if slavery were abolished in Texas, most colonists would leave. Austin projected that this exodus would ruin the nascent, flourishing cotton economy and endanger the commercial ties that US companies were forming in Texas. According

For me, Coates’s words contain relief in that they were spoken aloud, in public, with the forcefulness history demands. But talking about race in America is not usually a hopeful experience if you’re Black. It brings no pleasure to speak of the hatred inflicted on our souls, the stories of discrimination and pain and injustices large and small that populate our lives. At the same time, we are barraged by society’s reinforcement that we are less than. I may be grieving the murder of Trayvon Martin and at the same time dodging the inquisitive fingers of a white woman reaching to touch my hair. I may be angry over the events in Ferguson and in the same moment attempting to respond with dignity to a white man who treats me as his verbal punching bag. I may have just heard about the latest racist words spewed by a white talk-show host, actor, or politician on the same day when I’m trying to claim my space in the classroom or on my college campus. The persistence of racism in America—individual and societal—is altogether overwhelming. It doesn’t lay the best fertilizer for hope to grow. And so hope for me has died one thousand deaths. I hoped that friend would get it, but hope died. I hoped that person would be an ally for life, but hope died. I hoped that my organization really desired change, but hope died. I hoped I’d be treated with the full respect I deserve at my job, but hope died. I hoped that racist policies would change, and just policies would never be reversed, but hope died. I hoped the perpetrator in uniform would be brought to justice this time, but hope died. I hoped history would stop repeating itself, but hope died. I hoped things would be better for my children, but hope died.

When you believe niceness disproves the presence of racism, it’s easy to start believing bigotry is rare, and that the label racist should be applied only to mean-spirited, intentional acts of discrimination. The problem with this framework—besides being a gross misunderstanding of how racism operates in systems and structures enabled by nice people—is that it obligates me to be nice in return, rather than truthful. I am expected to come closer to the racists. Be nicer to them. Coddle them. Even more, if most white people are good, innocent, lovely folks who are just angry or scared or ignorant, it naturally follows that whenever racial tension arises, I must be the problem. I am not kind enough, patient enough, warm enough. I don’t have enough understanding for the white heart, white feelings, white needs. It does not matter that I don’t always feel like teaching white people through my pain, through the disappointment of allies who gave up and colaborers who left. It does not matter that the “well-intentioned” questions hurt my feelings or that the decisions made in all-white meetings affect me differently than they do everyone else. If my feelings do not fit the narrative of white innocence and goodness, the burden of change gets placed on me.

So Black women come up with life hacks. These life hacks don't involve nifty use for egg cartons of finding unique ways to use paper clips. They involve helping one another write emails to our supervisors or coworkers, which we know will be scrutinized for tone. Our life hacks include keeping folders in our in-boxes where we place every single email that praises our project, attitude, or giftedness. This is not for our self-esteem; it's an insurance policy, because we know there are emails being sent to our bosses that say the opposite. Our life hacks include finding a cohort, a girlfriend, an ally - someone who is safe. Someone to have lunch with who doesn't need an explanation of our being. Our lifehacks include secret Facebook groups where we process awkward interpersonal microaggressions and suggest ways to tackle them in the future. But for many of us, life hacks can't stop the inevitable. They can slow it down, yes. But eventually, those of us who work for white Christians are asked the question "Are you sure God has really called you...here?

When this happens, people of color in the organization get saddled with the task of constantly fixing the harm done by halfhearted diversity efforts. We find ourselves challenging hiring decisions that don't reflect the company's stated commitment to diversity, pushing allies to speak up in rooms where marginalized voices aren't represented, responding to events or sermons that didn't go far enough (or worse, sermons that perpetuated harmful ideas). But must we always be the prophetic voice, the dissenter, the corrector, the fixer? Organizations would be wise to tap Black women in helping to craft the direction of the organization, the vision of the publication, the purpose of the ministry. When our voices are truly desired, numbers will cease to be the sole mark of achievement.