He almost lost his life this day.
This man has a name. His name is Frank Embree.
He was falsely accused of raping a 14-year-old white girl.
Embree maintained his innocence but confessed after receiving over 100 lashes.
With tears pouring down his face, he agreed to own up to the charges if the police agreed not to torture him any further.
He was castrated, skinned (front and back), lynched and burned alive in front of a cheering crowd on July 23, 1889.
If you are American this is your history, don’t ignore it. Make sure that you make up for it by changing America today.
"Joshua Beckford learned to read fluently by the time he was two and a half and taught himself to touch-type on a computer before he could write using a pencil.
He can speak Japanese, practices medical surgery on a computer simulator and has completed more than 1,000 maths problems.”
Can we please reblog our children!!!
HOW THOUGH??? HOW IS THIS AMAZINGNESS POSSIBLE.
That’s wilddddddddddddddd, gon head boi!
some unreleased art, a gift from me to you on my day
We are dying from overthinking. We are slowly killing ourselves by thinking about everything. Think. Think. Think. You can never trust the human mind anyway. It’s a death trap.
— Anthony Hopkins (via psych-facts)
Of women born between 1980 and 1995, 46 percent are now moms.
What. What. What. (via kelsium)
This actually did happen to a real person, and the real person was me. I had gone to catch a train. This was April 1976, in Cambridge, U.K. I was a bit early for the train. I’d gotten the time of the train wrong.
I went to get myself a newspaper to do the crossword, and a cup of coffee and a packet of cookies. I went and sat at a table.
I want you to picture the scene. It’s very important that you get this very clear in your mind.
Here’s the table, newspaper, cup of coffee, packet of cookies. There’s a guy sitting opposite me, perfectly ordinary-looking guy wearing a business suit, carrying a briefcase.
It didn’t look like he was going to do anything weird. What he did was this: he suddenly leaned across, picked up the packet of cookies, tore it open, took one out, and ate it.
Now this, I have to say, is the sort of thing the British are very bad at dealing with. There’s nothing in our background, upbringing, or education that teaches you how to deal with someone who in broad daylight has just stolen your cookies.
You know what would happen if this had been South Central Los Angeles. There would have very quickly been gunfire, helicopters coming in, CNN, you know… But in the end, I did what any red-blooded Englishman would do: I ignored it. And I stared at the newspaper, took a sip of coffee, tried to do a clue in the newspaper, couldn’t do anything, and thought, what am I going to do?
In the end I thought, nothing for it, I’ll just have to go for it, and I tried very hard not to notice the fact that the packet was already mysteriously opened. I took out a cookie for myself. I thought, that settled him. But it hadn’t because a moment or two later he did it again. He took another cookie.
Having not mentioned it the first time, it was somehow even harder to raise the subject the second time around. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice …” I mean, it doesn’t really work.
We went through the whole packet like this. When I say the whole packet, I mean there were only about eight cookies, but it felt like a lifetime. He took one, I took one, he took one, I took one. Finally, when we got to the end, he stood up and walked away.
Well, we exchanged meaningful looks, then he walked away, and I breathed a sigh of relief and sat back. A moment or two later the train was coming in, so I tossed back the rest of my coffee, stood up, picked up the newspaper, and underneath the newspaper were my cookies.
The thing I like particularly about this story is the sensation that somewhere in England there has been wandering around for the last quarter-century a perfectly ordinary guy who’s had the same exact story, only he doesn’t have the punch line.
— Douglas Adams (via sexhaver)