hey

i'm cate, twenty-one, and very pleased to meet you. you can find me elsewhere on the internet and also here.

July 20, 2014 at 3:53pm
301 notes
Reblogged from huffpostworld

huffpostworld:

Headless bodies. Screaming children. Entire neighborhoods fleeing on foot. The unmistakable sounds of Hamas rockets and the booms of Israeli strikes.

This is what it’s like on the ground in Gaza.

3:52pm
390 notes
Reblogged from huffpostworld
huffpostworld:

This heartbreaking photograph of one father’s grief reveals the real cost of violence in Gaza.

huffpostworld:

This heartbreaking photograph of one father’s grief reveals the real cost of violence in Gaza.

3:27pm
6 notes

A super suburban American kid who grew up with me and has previously posted, crushed, about how the other soldiers stole his iPod charger during Israeli army training is now posting about how he’s “so excited” for his first day of combat today and I just want to shake him and all the American commenters who are literally like, “Shoot first. Ask questions later.”

Because war isn’t fun and you’re going to get hurt and you’re going to be told to hurt other people and invading Gaza is not the beautiful, heroic thing you think it is. And you studied music theory in college.

How did we even get here.

5:21am
29,160 notes
Reblogged from screenkid

williamdarcy:

(Source: screenkid, via silentdagger)

July 19, 2014 at 2:38pm
14,296 notes
Reblogged from tatianamaslnay

lies

(Source: tatianamaslnay, via baby-fish-mouth)

2:27pm
18,176 notes
Reblogged from glass-steel-concrete
glass-steel-concrete:

Upper East Side, New York City 105 by Vivienne Gucwa on Flickr.

glass-steel-concrete:

Upper East Side, New York City 105 by Vivienne Gucwa on Flickr.

(via lingeringgleam)

2:04pm
1,552 notes
Reblogged from fuckyesbeyonce

(Source: fuckyesbeyonce, via hermionejg)

July 18, 2014 at 12:27am
63 notes
Reblogged from stevenlauphotographies
stevenlauphotographies:

connection.

stevenlauphotographies:

connection.

July 17, 2014 at 11:18pm
2 notes

let’s build an express intertubular railway jet tunnel straight from new york city to here because whoa man

whoa

11:14pm
52,411 notes
Reblogged from clarkegriffin

This baby lion is so stupidly important to me

(Source: clarkegriffin, via hermionejg)

July 14, 2014 at 8:59pm
667 notes
Reblogged from flyartproductions
flyartproductions:

New slaves
Spoliarium (1884), Juan Luna / Haunted, Beyoncé

flyartproductions:

New slaves

Spoliarium (1884), Juan Luna / Haunted, Beyoncé

(Source: heart-without-art-is-just-he, via smartgirlsattheparty)

July 13, 2014 at 3:29pm
10 notes
Reblogged from keyloveasia
I was in tenth grade when I watched my first Korean drama. All of my friends were recommending them to me, so I thought I’d give Coffee Prince a try.
I was immediately hooked - less, I think, because of the cheesy good feels, and more because of this whole, full-bodied world that I’d never really spent much time thinking about. A world where people’s lives ran in parallel to mine, where they made connections and found meaning and went grocery-shopping. But it was just the tiniest bit alien - the lives were the same, the details were different. 
I wanted to study Korean in college, but since my university didn’t offer it, I chose Chinese instead. I’ve since been to Tokyo, Beijing, Xi’an, Taipei, Hong Kong, Macau - the list goes on. I’ve spent birthdays in Chinese coffee shops, explained sunburn over kimchi, made small, quiet friendships with a hundred word-sized grasp of Japanese.
I’ve been rewatching Coffee Prince today, and although I still haven’t been to Korea, the world doesn’t feel half as alien as it did the first time I watched it. But it is making me want to go back.

I was in tenth grade when I watched my first Korean drama. All of my friends were recommending them to me, so I thought I’d give Coffee Prince a try.

I was immediately hooked - less, I think, because of the cheesy good feels, and more because of this whole, full-bodied world that I’d never really spent much time thinking about. A world where people’s lives ran in parallel to mine, where they made connections and found meaning and went grocery-shopping. But it was just the tiniest bit alien - the lives were the same, the details were different. 

I wanted to study Korean in college, but since my university didn’t offer it, I chose Chinese instead. I’ve since been to Tokyo, Beijing, Xi’an, Taipei, Hong Kong, Macau - the list goes on. I’ve spent birthdays in Chinese coffee shops, explained sunburn over kimchi, made small, quiet friendships with a hundred word-sized grasp of Japanese.

I’ve been rewatching Coffee Prince today, and although I still haven’t been to Korea, the world doesn’t feel half as alien as it did the first time I watched it. But it is making me want to go back.

2:27pm
75,202 notes
Reblogged from rabbrakha

i.

“Your name is Tasbeeh. Don’t let them call you by anything else.”

My mother speaks to me in Arabic; the command sounds more forceful in her mother tongue, a Libyan dialect that is all sharp edges and hard, guttural sounds. I am seven years old and it has never occurred to me to disobey my mother. Until twelve years old, I would believe God gave her the supernatural ability to tell when I’m lying.

“Don’t let them give you an English nickname,” my mother insists once again, “I didn’t raise amreekan.”

My mother spits out this last word with venom. Amreekan. Americans. It sounds like a curse coming out of her mouth. Eight years in this country and she’s still not convinced she lives here. She wears her headscarf tightly around her neck, wades across the school lawn in long, floor-skimming skirts. Eight years in this country and her tongue refuses to bend and soften for the English language. It embarrasses me, her heavy Arab tongue, wrapping itself so forcefully around the clumsy syllables of English, strangling them out of their meaning.

But she is fierce and fearless. I have never heard her apologize to anyone. She will hold up long grocery lines checking and double-checking the receipt in case they’re trying to cheat us. My humiliation is heavy enough for the both of us. My English is not. Sometimes I step away, so people don’t know we’re together but my dark hair and skin betray me as a member of her tribe.

On my first day of school, my mother presses a kiss to my cheek.

“Your name is Tasbeeh,” she says again, like I’ve forgotten. “Tasbeeh.”

ii.

Roll call is the worst part of my day. After a long list of Brittanys, Jonathans, Ashleys, and Yen-but-call-me-Jens, the teacher rests on my name in silence. She squints. She has never seen this combination of letters strung together in this order before. They are incomprehensible. What is this h doing at the end? Maybe it is a typo.

“Tas…?”

“Tasbeeh,” I mutter, with my hand half up in the air. “Tasbeeh.”

A pause.

“Do you go by anything else?”

“No,” I say. “Just Tasbeeh. Tas-beeh.”

“Tazbee. All right. Alex?”

She moves on before I can correct her. She said it wrong. She said it so wrong. I have never heard my name said so ugly before, like it’s a burden. Her entire face contorts as she says it, like she is expelling a distasteful thing from her mouth. She avoids saying it for the rest of the day, but she has already baptized me with this new name. It is the name everyone knows me by, now, for the next six years I am in elementary school. “Tazbee,” a name with no grace, no meaning, no history; it belongs in no language.

“Tazbee,” says one of the students on the playground, later. “Like Tazmanian Devil?” Everyone laughs. I laugh too. It is funny, if you think about it.

iii.

I do not correct anyone for years. One day, in third grade, a plane flies above our school.

“Your dad up there, Bin Laden?” The voice comes from behind. It is dripping in derision.

“My name is Tazbee,” I say. I said it in this heavy English accent, so he may know who I am. I am American. But when I turn around they are gone.

iv.

I go to middle school far, far away. It is a 30-minute drive from our house. It’s a beautiful set of buildings located a few blocks off the beach. I have never in my life seen so many blond people, so many colored irises. This is a school full of Ashtons and Penelopes, Patricks and Sophias. Beautiful names that belong to beautiful faces. The kind of names that promise a lifetime of social triumph.

I am one of two headscarved girls at this new school. We are assigned the same gym class. We are the only ones in sweatpants and long-sleeved undershirts. We are both dreading roll call. When the gym teacher pauses at my name, I am already red with humiliation.

“How do I say your name?” she asks.

“Tazbee,” I say.

“Can I just call you Tess?”

I want to say yes. Call me Tess. But my mother will know, somehow. She will see it written in my eyes. God will whisper it in her ear. Her disappointment will overwhelm me.

“No,” I say, “Please call me Tazbee.”

I don’t hear her say it for the rest of the year.

v.

My history teacher calls me Tashbah for the entire year. It does not matter how often I correct her, she reverts to that misshapen sneeze of a word. It is the ugliest conglomeration of sounds I have ever heard.

When my mother comes to parents’ night, she corrects her angrily, “Tasbeeh. Her name is Tasbeeh.” My history teacher grimaces. I want the world to swallow me up.

vi.

My college professors don’t even bother. I will only know them for a few months of the year. They smother my name in their mouths. It is a hindrance for their tongues. They hand me papers silently. One of them mumbles it unintelligibly whenever he calls on my hand. Another just calls me “T.”

My name is a burden. My name is a burden. My name is a burden. I am a burden.

vii.

On the radio I hear a story about a tribe in some remote, rural place that has no name for the color blue. They do not know what the color blue is. It has no name so it does not exist. It does not exist because it has no name.

viii.

At the start of a new semester, I walk into a math class. My teacher is blond and blue-eyed. I don’t remember his name. When he comes to mine on the roll call, he takes the requisite pause. I hold my breath.

“How do I pronounce your name?” he asks.

I say, “Just call me Tess.”

“Is that how it’s pronounced?”

I say, “No one’s ever been able to pronounce it.”

“That’s probably because they didn’t want to try,” he said. “What is your name?”

When I say my name, it feels like redemption. I have never said it this way before. Tasbeeh. He repeats it back to me several times until he’s got it. It is difficult for his American tongue. His has none of the strength, none of the force of my mother’s. But he gets it, eventually, and it sounds beautiful. I have never heard it sound so beautiful. I have never felt so deserving of a name. My name feels like a crown.

ix.

“Thank you for my name, mama.”

x.

When the barista asks me my name, sharpie poised above the coffee cup, I tell him: “My name is Tasbeeh. It’s a tough t clinging to a soft a, which melts into a silky ssss, which loosely hugs the b, and the rest of my name is a hard whisper — eeh. Tasbeeh. My name is Tasbeeh. Hold it in your mouth until it becomes a prayer. My name is a valuable undertaking. My name requires your rapt attention. Say my name in one swift note – Tasbeeeeeeeh – sand let the h heat your throat like cinnamon. Tasbeeh. My name is an endeavor. My name is a song. Tasbeeh. It means giving glory to God. Tasbeeh. Wrap your tongue around my name, unravel it with the music of your voice, and give God what he is due

— Tasbeeh Herwees, The Names They Gave Me (via cat-phuong)

(Source: rabbrakha, via stopdropandbeauty)

1:06pm
22,712 notes
Reblogged from sabot-cat

sabot-cat:

"What’s your favorite album, or book?" "I really like Metamorphosis, I think it says a lot about the human condition and psyche." "Yeah I love Franz Kafka." "Oh no, I was talking about Hilary Duff’s debut album."

(via gabbyneiers)