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Diese Beispiele können umgangssprachliche Wörter, die auf der Grundlage Ihrer Suchergebnis enthalten. Poor, little, spoiled, white girl. Übersetzung für "that white girl" im Deutsch.

During these years i heard a lot of blacks saying white people got tans because they want to be black.

Most black men today as they did in past times live off of somebody. I know as fact that all or most black guys do NOT have the great big schlong so many claim.

And they are all NOT that great in bed. In the early days blacks believed they could do any and everything better than white people. If this is true what happened?

Is it still the MAN! Is the white man still keeping the black man down. I think the trouble with the black race is in their own self defeating and counterproductive neighborhoods, NOT god awful whitie.

Most blacks were not and still are not willing to work that hard to make it big in life. To the black race life is or should be one big party. The problem Latinos are having in America is the same problem they had where they came from.

Brown people just as the blacks wants us all to believe their problem is whitie. Was whitie a big problem in Mexico?

Somehow dropping babies everywhere in Latino land is thought to be the greatest thing since American money.

When the rest of the world brings into this world more babies than they can support its thought of as a bad thing to do. As Latinos breed profusely they not only think its excusable now they claim the whole continent belongs to their people.

This means white Americans or any race of people with money that will like Orientals owes Latinos a life just as blacks always believed whitie owed their people one.

As it has been throughout all of human history most people cannot except that they are their own worst enemy.

So they blame it all on another people. Like lets blame whitie! Or lets blame the jews! How am i doing so far! Here are the words of a black girl.

But these are, i think black women should tell their black men to leave white women alone. Instead of this being another whities fault. Just another thing to blame the peckerwood for.

Maybe a crowd of haters with torches and pitch forks will assemble. There are to many white women trying to be black. Your people are not without conviction dude.

Who the F is blaming black man over sexual inadequacies you ass. Alpha male? We are people homie not animals and i have seen a lot of black men that are NOT all that.

If you look around black and brown throw race around more than anybody. Most of the crimes against blacks are black on black crimes and most white vitims of crime are attacked by blacks.

You show a lot of hate man take a chill pill. Your wife needs to worry about people like you bitch. Maybe you should be a bit more worried.

Black men are only about 7 million in this country. White men represent 90 million easily and white women are about 90 million.

You do the math, I did… The average black male dates 6 white women out of the average 12 sex partners… They are sought after and its not in public for the most part, fear of looks from people, racim.

I know this article is about one womans opinion i should i wrote it. And i know there is a link of an opinion of another woman in this article because i put that in there to.

Also i know from decades of experience that many white women are obsessed with black men because many have told me they were. I have heard this from other people and i have heard this from black men and black women.

Also i am related to some white women that are or were at one time. Do you need proof? I had lived in black neighborhoods in Detroit for 18 years to if anyone knows what goes on there i do.

I can say these people are good at holding themselves back for the sake of party down and refusing to be responsible for their own actions.

You may not like me saying so but your spelling is pretty stupid. White have always been the enemy of blacks. The original people are black.

God put a mark on cain wish was his color its a negative name someone who hates others. So he would be a dugitive and a vagabond. We are all living on planet earth in a critical moment.

There have been other critical moments, but this one is ours. There are other human beings in your world every day — the clerk at the corner store, the people at the library, the guy buying gas at the pump next to yours.

Every interaction is a potential moment of connection. A choice to be numb or a choice to feel human together for a split second.

People everywhere are coming out to show support — to express themselves in protests and rallies.

There are community meetings, interfaith gatherings, lawsuits, campaigns, articles, interviews, conversations. Yes, they used political and military power, but they were also masters of media, spreading messages of fear and divisiveness.

Pitting neighbor against neighbor. Ultimately forcing people to make terrible choices — to protect their families or have their lives destroyed.

They also played on a very human capacity — to ignore threatening information. To not want to know, because then one would have to act, to change, to give up the illusion of safety we hold — the buffer of privilege between ourselves and pain, suffering and death.

Instead of The Feeling, can I simply feel? Simply act in the ways open to me? Expand my view of what spheres of my life I can influence — and go for it?

Participate in supportive circles so when I lose heart or stamina for meeting the madness, others can be there with me, and I can do the same for them?

To these, I say YES. Justice cannot breathe when Black men and boys and women and girls are routinely profiled, abused, arrested, and killed with impunity by police officers.

My car alarm went off one day recently. It happens all the time. I have a funky old Toyota Tercel with windows you have to crank up and down by hand and an alarm with a broken remote button.

The only way to turn off the alarm is to put the key in the ignition. But this time it could have been life-threatening. Bob is a retired math educator who now takes incredible photos of wild birds.

That Saturday afternoon we had stopped at home on our way from one place to another and I went in the house for something. Wes came in also, while Bob waited in the car.

The keys were in my pocket. Wes went back out ahead of me and a few seconds later I heard the car alarm go off when he opened the door. Oh, NO! My first thought was what a bummer to be sitting in a car helpless to turn off the alarm.

Then came a fleeting image of Bob and Wes — two black men, unfamiliar to my neighbors — in my familiar car with the alarm going off.

Sudden silence. I could have dismissed their fear as unfounded. Some years ago, I might have done just that — or at least had the impulse to.

White people do it all the time. The fear was real. And the danger was real. This has been happening for years, of course, but now the pattern has become more visible, partly because so many people have cameras in their phones and the internet allows images to be communicated far and wide.

I remember the shock, back in , of watching the grainy, chaotic video of BART officer Johannes Mehserle pulling out his gun and shooting Oscar Grant in the back.

Sandra Bland. Too many people of color have been pulled from cars, beaten up, thrown to the ground, shot in the back, killed while unarmed, died in custody, died alone without their family or friends.

This is not news to the black community. But for me as a white person, how do I hold this news not as a series of single tragic events or travesties of justice?

How do I let the impact sink in to body, heart and spirit? Tamir Rice was killed one year ago, on November 22, As each of these stories hits the media, we hear about it over a period of time — days, weeks, maybe — and the momentum of our lives makes it easy to forget, or not really register the impact in a personal way.

Especially if we are white. I remember hearing a news story about the police killing Tamir who was playing in a park and had a toy gun.

My immediate reaction was outrage, disgust, helplessness. Then the news moved on. My life moved on. The impact on people who loved him will never really move on.

Where was the humanity of those police officers? There was no assessment whatsoever of the situation, even though the caller who reported someone in the park with a gun had said that it might be a toy and the the person might be a teenager.

In June an Ohio judge ruled that the police officers should face murder charges. So has justice been served? The grand jury hearing is underway at this moment.

Want to do something? Right now? You can join me in signing the petition here. You can watch or listen for news of how this trial unfolds.

Watch and listen to your own thoughts, where and how your attention moves. How you are touched or not. What you might be moved to do. Not let this one get lost in the momentum of life.

I had almost forgotten what happened in the car with Bob and Wes. But what did happen was a stark moment of truth — of the contrast between the world Bob and Wes walk in and the one I walk in every day.

And how easily they could have become the next tragic news story. There are not many of these posters visible in our neighborhood. But it will help me remember and pay attention.

Sometimes small gestures, like small moments, can make a difference. The following piece is by a guest writer, my friend and UNtraining colleague Mollie Crittenden.

I lie awake, feeling heaviness in my heart and fear in my soul that I cannot shake. I realize that the pulling physical sensation I feel in my heart and the subsequent pain in my throat are familiar to me.

I realize I am actually experiencing heartbreak. They are biracial, and already undoubtedly receive a certain amount of privilege based on the fact that they have a middle class, white mother and are lighter skinned than some.

My boys, Amani, who is 8 and Asante, who is 5, live the meanings of their names, peace and gratitude, every day in small and profound ways.

I could go on and on, but the point is that both of my boys are precious. They have a light and spirit that is both unique to them and shared in common with all of us.

I give you these details about my sons not to bore you with the stories of a doting mother, but instead to make the point that these same stories would be told if they could, by every mother of black boys and young men whose lives have been taken in the betrayal of our society.

These are the same types of stories your parents would tell about you to convey how precious your life is. Unfortunately, Darren Wilson, the officer who killed Michael Brown, did not recognize the connection in the humanity between them.

It is our collective disconnection from these realities of others, regardless of how different we may seem, and the many fears that are rooted in our individualism, materialism and greed that enable us as a society to continuously betray the lives of some while systematically benefiting those of others.

Ferguson is not new. Countless lives have been taken by law enforcement, as people of color and in low income communities face the reality of police officers who threaten the freedom and very existence of people in their communities every day, rather than acting to protect and serve them.

Our society betrays all of us when mainstream news portrays criminalizing images of people in black and brown communities rather than the strength, resiliency and connection that exists there, and when our government responds to people exercising their first amendment right to protest with militarized police force; the list goes on and on.

This is all happening here and now, and is a widespread experience. I am here as an educator, who also has hope for what we can become as people, and more importantly, the belief in the tremendous positive power and potential you all have, if you choose to use it, to make positive change in the world we live in.

Someday, you may be in positions to make major decisions to influence foreign or public policy, criminal justice, our educational or health care systems and so on.

My not so secret hope is that you will be in these positions and use your brilliance for the benefit of all lives in the future.

What I want to ask of you is that you start now with things you do have control over. Even though it may not feel like it sometimes as a teenager, we all have power and can act today.

One of our avoidance mechanisms when we are exposed to sad injustices that keep us paralyzed and disconnected from acting in accordance with the authentic goodness that is within all of us, is to numb out.

Please resist those tendencies to stay in the comfort zone of self-centeredness that we all reside in, myself included, and begin by simply pausing and FEELING.

At the conclusion of this presentation to a largely white, economically privileged audience, Mollie received a standing ovation. Thank you, Mollie, for sharing your heart with us.

I have decided to take an official break as opposed to just a long gap! The last chapters have been sitting in the back of my mind for too long!

Participants in the UNtraining and others have shared personal and powerful reflections here. Thank you! Please continue to add your stories and I will continue to reply.

The following posts have particularly rich comments:. Speaking of Whiteness. The Family of Man. Two Little Kids in the Land of the Free. I wear a real keen outfit except that tonight it was ten times too long.

If I stand up straight I have more of a figure. The dress is real low. It was an honor to be the Angel in the Christmas pageant.

In when I was 14, I was the chosen one. There were not many rituals in the Unitarian Church when I was growing up, but the annual pageant was one of them.

And I loved it — the church winter-dark, hushed but full of people, the pulpit removed to make room for the simple scene — the manger below and the star shining at the top of the arch high above.

All waiting for the magical story to unfold. Lohman, the Sunday school teacher, asked us to raise our hands if we loved ourselves. Disconcerted, I looked around.

Was it good to love yourself? I did kind of like myself, I realized, somewhat guiltily. Almost no one raised their hands. Lohman said that loving ourselves was important.

It was okay! We have something at stake. We want people of color to realize that we are not like those Bad Racist people.

We act super-friendly when we are introduced to them. We find ourselves smiling until our faces hurt.

Or we say something that lets them know we Get It about white privilege, institutionalized racism, and the history of oppression.

We might feel just a tiny bit smug about how cool we are to have friends of color. They arise out of a clash, a cognitive dissonance between conscious, heartfelt intentions and beliefs and the unconscious social conditioning of growing up in a white-dominated world.

Like my teenage self wrestling with internalized images about who I had to be for boys to like me, all of us inherit race-based images of who we and others are supposed to be.

So, returning to the Angel story:. The church is full of people. I stand in the back, the white filmy costume adjusted now to fit me.

Ahead of me the star casts its light on the empty tableau, like another world. From the shadows, Mary and Joseph emerge with the baby.

I raise my arms in welcome as they take their places. Looking up and out, I suddenly feel the huge darkness beyond the circle of light, the mystery.

The shepherds come forward. They are no longer just people I know, but, yes, Shepherds who watched over their flocks by night, who saw a star and followed it.

As I reach out to welcome them, my heart seems to expand, the gesture infused with gentleness and power. My body feels strangely empty and full at the same time.

The Three Wise Men, one by one in stately splendor step into the light, offering their gifts. The tableau is complete. Young candle-lighters come up the aisles, tipping long brass tapers to small white candles each person in the congregation holds.

Light spreads through the room. Then the organ sounds deep opening chords. The Angel opens her arms up and out like wings, silent and still, radiating peace.

The experience of the pageant disappeared from my conscious mind. That moment of grace, of simplicity. Of goodness beyond the story of Me.

Perhaps a taste of love that changes the world. May you all be touched by that deep place where light and darkness meet and dance in the mystery of solstice.

March on Washington, National Archives. It was the greatest assembly for a redress of grievances that the capitol has ever seen. I could have been there.

Fifty years later, I look back on the moment that opportunity came and went — and the forever mystery of how nonverbal signals and unspoken feelings communicate powerful messages contrary to spoken beliefs.

I had just turned 15 in the summer of Growing up in Vermont with liberal parents, I knew what was going on in the bigger world—the lunch counter sit-ins, the marches and boycotts that were in the news.

And I was for civil rights, believed that people should be treated fairly and everyone should have a chance. About a week before the march, my mother came into the bedroom on the third floor where I had created my own little world, away from the noisy downstairs, my five younger brothers and sisters, the pounding feet.

It was late at night. I was sitting on my bed, writing in my journal. I took in her words—an invitation to go away—not with the family or to summer camp, but to do something very different, with strangers.

What would it be like? My imagination flew into the unknown. A long bus ride—in the dark—to a place where a lot of people would be—more than I could imagine all gathered in one place—because of what they believed in, which I also believed in.

Did that affect my feelings? She waited silently for my answer. Did she think I should go? Not white, but my kids are?

With Dot or Feather? No one box is correct. My mixed-race son looks All-American. I'm part white, Can't prove it. Teacher of black youth, ancestors slaverholders.

White trash married to black man. The experience of White African Americans. Our inheritance hate, our legacy love. Something so important, but also not.

She loves me, her family can't. Dating an Arab, not just him. Calling someone a white-girl is offensive. I just want to be respected. But you played with dolls growing up.

Your perception is your faulty knowledge. You're Mexican? I feel like I've been sorted. Soil to Skyscraper. We are all humans doing life.

To be colorblind is a visual Impairment. Thank you for pointing that out. Debilitated by shame of my heritage.

Half Japanese Half Irish Hapa? Up with this I won't put. White wife to a black husband. Oh, I expected a Black woman. My actions shapes will impact perception.

Righteous cops and journalists. Stand tall. Give invisible minorities a chance at brilliance. A border town taught me understanding.

Playing by everyone's rules is exhausting. Then why are you white? Strength intelligence spice loyalty nobility earth.

Trouble is, maybe I'm a racist. What is a mad black woman. I'm Native American too! Vietnamese is difficult, love is stronger. Living liberal in a conservative home.

Why isn't my hair work appropriate. Fear doesn't define who you are. Discussing racism makes me feel uncomfortable.

Who will love this black girl? Fear turns the world upside down. I'm not white in my family. I love white partner and son. Not what I thought I was.

Culturelessness: how the oppressor oppresses itself. You see me as I'm NOT! Black women can be vulnerable!

Always, what are you? Long story. Hold my hand, cancer doesn't discriminate. It took 25 years to appreciate being Latina. Not white, but my kids are?

With Dot or Feather? No one box is correct. My mixed-race son looks All-American. I'm part white, Can't prove it. Teacher of black youth, ancestors slaverholders.

White trash married to black man. The experience of White African Americans. Our inheritance hate, our legacy love.

Something so important, but also not. She loves me, her family can't. Dating an Arab, not just him. Calling someone a white-girl is offensive. I just want to be respected.

But you played with dolls growing up. Your perception is your faulty knowledge. You're Mexican? I feel like I've been sorted. Soil to Skyscraper.

We are all humans doing life. To be colorblind is a visual Impairment. Thank you for pointing that out. Debilitated by shame of my heritage. Half Japanese Half Irish Hapa?

Up with this I won't put. White wife to a black husband. Oh, I expected a Black woman. My actions shapes will impact perception.

Righteous cops and journalists. Stand tall. Give invisible minorities a chance at brilliance. A border town taught me understanding.

Playing by everyone's rules is exhausting. I'm one of those young chosen people who qualify as "Jew-ish" at best. One time I memorized a whole Hebrew pop song just to impress this Israeli guy," he said to me with eyes the size of my grandma's matzoh balls.

He started singing and I envisioned my Hebrew school teacher Mr. Shapiro correcting him sternly.

I asked him what he likes about Jewish guys and the answer, of course, didn't surprise me: "Oh, it's their beards for sure. Love their noses too.

I am Asian-American, and my college and post-college boyfriend was and still is, I guess half black and half white.

We were driving cross-country one summer with two other friends, staying with whomever we could to save money. I had asked a friend who lived in Chicago if we could crash with his family.

He enthusiastically said yes. This friend was Mexican-American and came from a middle-class family. As we approached Chicago, I called him from a pay phone this was pre-cell phone era to let him know when we were arriving.

He sounded very stressed; he said that we could no longer stay with him because his mother had been recently mugged by a black man and would not stand to have a black man in the house.

He felt so bad that he said he would pay for a hotel. I told him he didn't have to do that, but he insisted. He directed us to a hotel where he had already made a reservation.

He probably had less money than we did, and the hotel, more like infested motel, certainly reflected that.

I recall much argument that night among us four travelers about what my friend should have done or what each of us would have done, but I never blamed him.

Each generation can only try to make fewer mistakes than the last. Now, 20 years later, we are all still friends.

I never thought I had a type, but I had also never dated anyone who wasn't white before I met my current girlfriend. When I first saw her and her smile , I was smitten.

And there was a comfort and an instant ease that I'd never experienced before. I don't remember thinking about the possible issues we could face as an interracial couple or from the fact that I would be a Jewish woman from New Jersey dating a Bangladesh-born, Queens-raised Muslim woman.

Of course, there are always the people who meet us for the first time and automatically assume the odds stacked against us. I'm a black girl who grew up in a predominately white neighborhood.

When I was younger, my mom always told me I should date and eventually marry "within the race. When I invited my first serious boyfriend — who was white — to the house to meet my parents, my mother actually asked him if his older brother was "as pink" as he was, referring to his skin color.

I was mortified. A few years later, when I was in college, she told me she had given up on the idea of me marrying a black doctor and was beginning to look forward to the day when she could meet her "zebra-baby" grandkids.

I'm Hispanic and dated an Italian girl from college a few years ago. It wasn't really a big deal for either of us. Her mom was sweet and I always felt like she had my back and made an effort to get to know me, but my girlfriend's dad definitely gave off the "you're not good enough for my daughter" vibe.

Actually, I stopped by their house before our second date and he thought I was just her friend and we had a blast, chatting and laughing and watching sports while she got ready.

But the next time I stopped by to pick her up, after she had told him we were seeing each other, I felt the chill from him. It was only after this that I saw him as a doctor who watched Fox News a lot and not as the cool, hip dad he came off as initially.

I can't say I'm sure it was just a race thing. I was starting my career then and felt like he wanted someone more successful and established for his only daughter.

Oh well, I'm established now. I pretty much have dated Latinas and black girls since then. Not really for any particular reason, but just because those are the women I've been drawn to and have been drawn to me.

But I guess I do miss the homemade pizza for dinner, if I'm honest. When I was 15, I started dating this guy who was half Chinese, half Polish, and born in Brazil what a mix!

His dad traveled a lot so I never really got to see him. On my boyfriend's 16th birthday, I was invited over for a family dinner. It was the first time meeting his parents.

Needless to say, I was freaking out. As soon as his dad met me, he said in broken English, "You can date my son all you want, but he has a wife waiting for him in China so you're wasting your time.

I awkwardly smiled, thinking, What the hell did I get myself into? When I thought things couldn't get any worse, dinner was served, and there were only chopsticks for us to use.

I had never in my life even come across these, but I knew that if I wanted the dad to approve of me I had to at least try.

Luckily, my motor skills were on fire and I didn't make a fool out of myself. After that night his dad was actually super friendly and nice.

And no, my boyfriend never married the Chinese woman he had chosen for him. Side note: When my parents found out my boyfriend was half Chinese, they started calling him "Yellow Submarine.

To this day, they still ask me things like, "How's Yellow Submarine doing? Around the time that I finally gained some conviction about myself, I took up with my first white girl.

I was 22 and had never been in a serious relationship with anyone, not even a black girl. So it was destined to be a bad fit. We still pressed ahead, hard, each the other's first in one way or another.

I had no desire to learn anything about country music or wine or eating steak medium rare. And I let her know it. She made me feel like an oddity at times, from the way I pronounced "ask" to the grade of my pubic hair.

We didn't share much but love and mutual respect. So, obviously, it wasn't enough. I've been in four serious relationships since I picked up my first boyfriend at the local Mexican grocery store really , and three of the four relationships have been with Hispanic men.

I've never thought that said much about me; the numbers there are close enough to mirroring my environment, and I never found any need for self-reflection on the topic.

Still, my "thing" for Latin men has been a persistent joke among friends and family. It's nothing terrible, and these are all accepting people, but it's hard for me to keep my mouth shut when people who've only dated within their own race make jokes about my apparently notable attractions to non-white men.

Aren't they the weird ones? My boyfriends have always been fine as hell. My girlfriend and I were in our early twenties, and we didn't have a particularly openly complicated or interesting relationship around race.

The Midwestern city we lived in was an extremely conservative place, very segregated, but also a place where nobody ever talked about race.

The one thing I only realized afterward was how much shit she was putting up with, as a black person in this conservative city in general, and as a black woman dating a white guy in particular.

Two moments I remember: One time we were walking down the street together and I could just feel her tense up and for a second couldn't figure out why.

Then, I saw a group of black guys a bit older than us across the street just sort of staring at her, not saying anything even. We didn't talk about it, and I didn't and still don't completely understand the situation.

Another time when we were driving separately and I kept nearly blowing lights, she kept falling behind because she was obeying traffic laws.

When we arrived, she said she'd seen a cop and was really avoiding being pulled over in a way I was really not bothering about.

I am biracial. After years of torment from peers in nearly exclusively white schools, I began straightening my hair. After even more years of spending an inordinate amount of money on serums and salon services, I began braiding my hair.

And after about two years of making six-hour round-trips for hour braiding sessions every season, I started wearing my hair naturally because life is too damn short.

My decision to go natural has been one of the most overwhelmingly positive choices I've made in my life, and I say this without exaggeration.

However, it does have one drawback: People feel compelled to comment on my hair. I have noticed this particularly among men who try to date me, who in the past years haven't been able to come up with come-ons or opening lines that aren't some variation of "I love your hair," even when they have at their disposal a full profile detailing countless things more interesting about me.

The problem, of course, isn't that it's wrong to love my hair. I love my hair too. It's just that the preponderance of remarks about my hair among potential partners points to a fascination that isn't about celebration, but exotification.

When you say you "love my hair," I hear the high school football player who told his locker room buddies that because I'm half black, half white, I'd be twice as good in bed.

In certain cases, I may be wrong. But I'd rather fail a hearing test than find out.

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