chescaleigh:

upworthy:

A Really Easy Chart To Help Americans Understand One Particular ‘Fashion’ Statement

Halloween is right around the corner folks…
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Gates Millennium Scholarship

youarenotdesi:

ipayrenttothedunya:

blackstaraura:

theredshedevil:

black-american-queen:

ATTENTION HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS GRADUATING IN 2015.

Fill this out.

It is a scholarship THAT PAYS FOR ALL OF YOUR COLLEGE THROUGH GRADUATION.

I know a friend who had it, and its amazing. Four years of college — at any school of your choice in the United States. Harvard, University of Louisiana, UCLA — it COVERS IT.

Don’t go into debt for school, be part of this prestigious program.

Who is eligible?

African American, American Indian/Alaska Native, Asian Pacific Islander American and Hispanic American students with high academic and leadership promise who have significant financial need;

Spread this Black Tumblr. This better have over 1,000 notes by morning because this will literally CHANGE SOMEONE’S LIFE.

This scholarship was promoted every year at my high school you have a 3.3 gpa volunteer work school activities and you gotta write like 10 essays this scholarship pays for every level of education you wanna pursue including PHD’s. Deffff worth the effort

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOST!!!

I watched three people win this scholarship over the course of my time in high school and trust me, it’s one of the greatest opportunities out there for POCs. If any of my followers are still in high school, get on it!

Step to it, PoC followers. 

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centerofrestorativeexercise:

Free for download Disability Etiquette

A great resource for businesses, schools, organizations, staff training and disability awareness programs. You don’t have to feel awkward when interacting with, or when you meet, a person who has a disability. This booklet provides tips for you to follow that will help create positive interactions and raise everyone’s comfort levels.

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moderntoss:

September 13th is World First Aid Day. Give someone you love a surprise appendectomy.

moderntoss:

September 13th is World First Aid Day. Give someone you love a surprise appendectomy.

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mini-girlz:

Figure 1: Images of figurines and their geographic origins. Images are shown in the same (random) order and numbered, as they were for the questionnaire study. 
(1) Willendorf’s Venus (Rhine/Danube)
(2) Lespugue Venus (Pyrenees/Aquitaine)
(3) Laussel Venus (Pyrenees/Aquitaine)
(4) Dolní Věstonice Venus (Rhine/Danube)
(5) Gagarino no. 4 Venus (Russia)
(6) Moravany Venus (Rhine/Danube)
(7) Kostenki 1. Statuette no. 3 (Russia)
(8) Grimaldi nVenus (Italy)
(9) Chiozza di Scandiano Venus (Italy)
(10) Petrkovice Venus (Rhine/Danube)
(11) Modern sculpture (N. America)
(12) Eleesivitchi Venus (Russia)
(13) Savignano Venus (Italy)
(14) The so-called “Brassempouy Venus” (Pyrenees/Aquitaine)
(15) Hohle Fels Venus (SW Germany)
via > hindawi.com

mini-girlz:

Figure 1: Images of figurines and their geographic origins. Images are shown in the same (random) order and numbered, as they were for the questionnaire study.

(1) Willendorf’s Venus (Rhine/Danube)

(2) Lespugue Venus (Pyrenees/Aquitaine)

(3) Laussel Venus (Pyrenees/Aquitaine)

(4) Dolní Věstonice Venus (Rhine/Danube)

(5) Gagarino no. 4 Venus (Russia)

(6) Moravany Venus (Rhine/Danube)

(7) Kostenki 1. Statuette no. 3 (Russia)

(8) Grimaldi nVenus (Italy)

(9) Chiozza di Scandiano Venus (Italy)

(10) Petrkovice Venus (Rhine/Danube)

(11) Modern sculpture (N. America)

(12) Eleesivitchi Venus (Russia)

(13) Savignano Venus (Italy)

(14) The so-called “Brassempouy Venus” (Pyrenees/Aquitaine)

(15) Hohle Fels Venus (SW Germany)

via > hindawi.com

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madridgirl7:

Levallois technique, a type of stone knapping developed by precursors to modern humans during the Palaeolithic period.

madridgirl7:

Levallois technique, a type of stone knapping developed by precursors to modern humans during the Palaeolithic period.

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strangeremains:

The resurrection of a mortsafe that protected a corpse from body snatchers and saved the bones for archaeologists.

The theft of dead bodies in England was a common occurrence in the early 19th century because medical schools could only dissect the bodies of executed criminals, which were in short supply.  As medical schools expanded in the 18th and 19th centuries, and more people attended universities, the need for cadavers far exceeded the supply of condemned prisoners, so anatomy lecturers had to resort to doing business with unsavory resurrection men.  Resurrection men, or body snatchers, would sneak into graveyards at night and exhume the bodies of people who had just died and sell them to medical schools.  It was important that the cadavers were fresh since the anatomy lecturers needed to dissect the remains.

Body snatching became so widespread that people came up with ways to deter resurrection men from stealing the bodies of family members.  Relatives would guard a body before burial, some cemeteries installed watchtowers to discourage body snatchers after interment, and some families purchased iron contraptions, called mortsafes, in which to bury their dead.

Read more at StrangeRemains

Top Image: Mortsafe at in Greyfriars Kirkyard.

Middle Image: Mortsafe at  a church yard in Logierait, south of Pitlochry, Perthshire, Scotland.

Bottom Image: 19th century skeletal remains of a woman found buried in a mortsafe

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thepeoplesrecord:

What HIV testing is like when you’re queer, black & undocumentedAugust 8, 2014
Last fall, I received a call from an old partner I had not spoken to in six-months. In the middle of debating whether to answer or not, I accidentally accepted the call and heard his voice. I went to get tested and I’m HIV positive, you need to get tested, he quietly explained. He sounded tired, filled with the kind of panic that comes after days of shock and denial. It was the same tone I remembered carrying in my voice one day in Boston as a glass bottle flew towards me—then shattering as it hit me—followed by an older White male calling me “illegal.” I heard his voice and I could not breathe. I was scared for him, for me, for life.
After the phone call, all I could think was: Can I even get tested?Growing up undocumented and queer on the East Coast meant only seeing a doctor when my temperature was over 104º or there were free clinic drives at local non-profits.
I could not sleep for more than two hours. I could not eat. I could not concentrate. During the week after the phone call, I kept running through scenarios in my head about how to go to the doctor and not disclose my immigration status. I was afraid that if I had HIV, the government would think I was a threat and deport me. I could see the headlines blaming undocumented immigrants for the HIV virus. I was afraid of the attacks on my community, my family, and myself. But above all, I was afraid that if my mother found out, her body would be too weak to endure the shock. My mother’s shoulders, limbs, and spirit carried the trauma of not seeing her mother in about twenty years, of having a deceased daughter, and of surviving years of domestic violence. If I was diagnosed with anything, I could not tell her. I could not burden her with another worry when she is still healing from the open bruises that hide underneath her clothing, her vulnerabilities only exposed in 30-minute phone calls to Abuelita Belen. I could not disclose negative news with the face of my younger sister still blurring in her mind, the remnants of a grave abandoned almost two decades ago when the cemetery did not receive the seventh-year payment.
The phone call scared me. It was about more than just papers and sexuality. I had just moved to Connecticut and didn’t know the area. I had to come out to a new friend as undocumented, queer, and potentially living with HIV. She dropped everything, not knowing exactly what to say, and took me to get tested. Stop one was Planned Parenthood. Approaching the glass window felt like I was about to enter an immigration check point. I had to act American: make sure my accent did not slip off my tongue; make sure I wore colors that didn’t make my skin look too Black; make sure I rubbed the nail polish completely off of my fingernails; remember to wear the button-up I would never have been able to afford if it weren’t for the $1/pound section at the thrift store. I was finally going to get tested.
Planned Parenthood turned me away from getting an HIV test. I did not have a U.S. ID. I had a Mexican matrícula. We’re sorry, but you need a state or federal ID. If you can’t provide that, you must pay full price for any check-up, test result, or anything of the matter. I walked out, something I was used to after living undocumented for sixteen years. As I pushed through the door, the thought hit me that maybe I experienced this not just because of just my immigration status, but because the lives of poor, queer, people of color do not matter to society.
Stop two was a free clinic a few miles away. Denied.
Local college clinic next, wait list. Maybe in two months.
Crying in a borrowed car outside a Rite Aid parking lot at 3:47 p.m. on a Tuesday appeared to be the only type of healthcare I would receive.
Hours later, many miles away, I finally found a clinic that would test me. No questions asked. Negative.
I moved to Los Angeles three-weeks ago, where, for the first time, I have seen organizations that work to gain healthcare for undocumented immigrants. It’s unbelievable to me that we even have to fight for such a basic human right. I am done feeling that I don’t deserve my health. This country has systematically conditioned me to think that I’m not good enough because I’m too Latino, too Black, too Gay, too easy to Mispronounce, too Savage—Illegal Alien. Healthcare is a human right, but in the US healthcare is only for those who can pay. I cannot live a healthy life when I can’t remember my last eye doctor visit or experience the security of a bi-yearly checkup.
My blackness does not make me invisible. My queerness does not make me illegitimate. My immigration status does not make me alien. I am in these positions because of a complex colonial history that has enslaved people that look like me; burned people who painted their nails like mine; shot people whose coffee tasted like the coffee in my backyard in Mexico; trafficked people that would do low to no-wage work like those in my family.
I am afraid I can’t even afford to die. Healthcare is the least this country could do for its people, our people.
Alan Pelaez Lopez is an AfroLatin@ that grew up in Boston via La Ciudad de Mexico, documenting his existence as an undocuqueer poet, jewelry designer, and bubble tea addict. Alan currently works at the Dream Resource Center in Los Angeles, which is a project of the UCLA Labor Center. He is a member of Familia: Trans*, Queer Liberation Movement.
Source

thepeoplesrecord:

What HIV testing is like when you’re queer, black & undocumented
August 8, 2014

Last fall, I received a call from an old partner I had not spoken to in six-months. In the middle of debating whether to answer or not, I accidentally accepted the call and heard his voice. I went to get tested and I’m HIV positive, you need to get tested, he quietly explained. He sounded tired, filled with the kind of panic that comes after days of shock and denial. It was the same tone I remembered carrying in my voice one day in Boston as a glass bottle flew towards me—then shattering as it hit me—followed by an older White male calling me “illegal.” I heard his voice and I could not breathe. I was scared for him, for me, for life.

After the phone call, all I could think was: Can I even get tested?Growing up undocumented and queer on the East Coast meant only seeing a doctor when my temperature was over 104º or there were free clinic drives at local non-profits.

I could not sleep for more than two hours. I could not eat. I could not concentrate. During the week after the phone call, I kept running through scenarios in my head about how to go to the doctor and not disclose my immigration status. I was afraid that if I had HIV, the government would think I was a threat and deport me. I could see the headlines blaming undocumented immigrants for the HIV virus. I was afraid of the attacks on my community, my family, and myself. But above all, I was afraid that if my mother found out, her body would be too weak to endure the shock. My mother’s shoulders, limbs, and spirit carried the trauma of not seeing her mother in about twenty years, of having a deceased daughter, and of surviving years of domestic violence. If I was diagnosed with anything, I could not tell her. I could not burden her with another worry when she is still healing from the open bruises that hide underneath her clothing, her vulnerabilities only exposed in 30-minute phone calls to Abuelita Belen. I could not disclose negative news with the face of my younger sister still blurring in her mind, the remnants of a grave abandoned almost two decades ago when the cemetery did not receive the seventh-year payment.

The phone call scared me. It was about more than just papers and sexuality. I had just moved to Connecticut and didn’t know the area. I had to come out to a new friend as undocumented, queer, and potentially living with HIV. She dropped everything, not knowing exactly what to say, and took me to get tested. Stop one was Planned Parenthood. Approaching the glass window felt like I was about to enter an immigration check point. I had to act American: make sure my accent did not slip off my tongue; make sure I wore colors that didn’t make my skin look too Black; make sure I rubbed the nail polish completely off of my fingernails; remember to wear the button-up I would never have been able to afford if it weren’t for the $1/pound section at the thrift store. I was finally going to get tested.

Planned Parenthood turned me away from getting an HIV test. I did not have a U.S. ID. I had a Mexican matrícula. We’re sorry, but you need a state or federal ID. If you can’t provide that, you must pay full price for any check-up, test result, or anything of the matter. I walked out, something I was used to after living undocumented for sixteen years. As I pushed through the door, the thought hit me that maybe I experienced this not just because of just my immigration status, but because the lives of poor, queer, people of color do not matter to society.

Stop two was a free clinic a few miles away. Denied.

Local college clinic next, wait list. Maybe in two months.

Crying in a borrowed car outside a Rite Aid parking lot at 3:47 p.m. on a Tuesday appeared to be the only type of healthcare I would receive.

Hours later, many miles away, I finally found a clinic that would test me. No questions asked. Negative.

I moved to Los Angeles three-weeks ago, where, for the first time, I have seen organizations that work to gain healthcare for undocumented immigrants. It’s unbelievable to me that we even have to fight for such a basic human right. I am done feeling that I don’t deserve my health. This country has systematically conditioned me to think that I’m not good enough because I’m too Latino, too Black, too Gay, too easy to Mispronounce, too Savage—Illegal Alien. Healthcare is a human right, but in the US healthcare is only for those who can pay. I cannot live a healthy life when I can’t remember my last eye doctor visit or experience the security of a bi-yearly checkup.

My blackness does not make me invisible. My queerness does not make me illegitimate. My immigration status does not make me alien. I am in these positions because of a complex colonial history that has enslaved people that look like me; burned people who painted their nails like mine; shot people whose coffee tasted like the coffee in my backyard in Mexico; trafficked people that would do low to no-wage work like those in my family.

I am afraid I can’t even afford to die. Healthcare is the least this country could do for its people, our people.

Alan Pelaez Lopez is an AfroLatin@ that grew up in Boston via La Ciudad de Mexico, documenting his existence as an undocuqueer poet, jewelry designer, and bubble tea addict. Alan currently works at the Dream Resource Center in Los Angeles, which is a project of the UCLA Labor Center. He is a member of Familia: Trans*, Queer Liberation Movement.

Source

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obsessedwithskulls:

Talk about being stoned!  This guy from Pompeii certainly was.

obsessedwithskulls:

Talk about being stoned!  This guy from Pompeii certainly was.

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theolduvaigorge:

School of Anthropology and Conservation, University of Kent

June 24-26 2015

"The School of Anthropology and Conservation at the University of Kent, Canterbury is hosting a three-day interdisciplinary conference on "The Anthropology of Hands”.   This is an open call to submit abstracts for presentations (podium or poster) at this unique event. The deadline for abstract submission is September 17, 2014 (see abstract guidelines below).

Human hands function as interactive links to the world around us. Hands serve human life: to feed, to communicate, to nurture to work in the broadest sense. In this conference, we aim to map what is known of hands from human evolution and biology, to human communication, to “the world at hand” from both biological and social anthropological perspectives, as well as other disciplines. We ask questions such as: How are human hands different from those of other animals?  How did human hands evolve? How do our closest living relatives the other great apes use their hands? How do hands function biomechanically? How is handedness linked to brain morphology and language development?  Is the first language of humans one of gesture? How do hands represent human presence in cave art and body paint?  How does the hand feel the world around it? What feeling/emotion is there in touching?  Do we think with our hands?  How are hands used as metaphors in everyday life? How is our world influenced by right and left hand symbolism? Is the world just beyond our hand part of our mind?  What is the role of hands in human labour, and what are the consequences of their supplanting by mechanized production? In pursuing a broad understanding of human hands, we aim to turn anthropological analysis back to its long desired yet postponed universalist and interdisciplinary paths” (read more).

(Source: University of Kent via @irreverentideas on Twitter)

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