Two years ago, a man pulled a pistol and aimed it at me because he was afraid of me. I was a six foot four eighteen year old walking around in an unfamiliar neighborhood at night. Trayvon Martin was a six foot four seventeen year old when he died in remarkably similar circumstances. The man who aimed his gun at me didn’t fire. My white skin helped me, saved me, on that night as it has on countless other occasions. My white privilege is living all of the days that Trayvon Martin, and the scores of other black men and boys murdered and executed for their skin color don’t get to. My white privilege is real, and it is a matter of life or death.
- person: get your license
- me: The Road Is A Terrifying Place And I Am Very Afraid To Drive
Someone just told me that today would have been Joe Strummer’s sixty-third birthday. I’m not gonna write a whole thing about how much Joe Strummer has meant to me ever since my mom gave me her old Walkman and a best of The Clash cd in sixth grade, but Joe Strummer was a great man, and I wish he were with us today so that the millions of people whose lives he made a difference in could celebrate his birthday with him. We need a little bit of Joe during times like these.