ACamp1900
Counting my ‘bet against ND’ winnings
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See...now that one's funny.
I actually find it super offensive...
See...now that one's funny.
I actually find it super offensive...
The care bear? I could see it. Just making sure I'm not mistaking your intent.
I had a cat once, he identified as a care bear... Mr. Funshine was killed by a moving truck....
Where's the "grind your gears" thread?
People who don't use italics.
I had a cat once, he identified as a care bear... Mr. Funshine was killed by a moving truck....
Target boycott is over 500,000 in a couple days
Target boycott is over 500,000 in a couple days
Good, now when I shop at Target it won't ever feel like Walmart.
Good, now when I shop at Target it won't ever feel like Walmart.
On Thursday, both the Tennessee House of Representatives and Senate passed a bill to cut the entire $436,000 state appropriation for an office at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville that promotes diversity at the state's flagship university.
A Confederate flag hangs out of a dormitory window at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville.Republican legislators in both houses have for months been criticizing the diversity office, which students have been rallying to support. On Tuesday, hundreds of students walked out of class to protest the bill, and many of the students sat on university walkways to block movement. Many students who marched in the protest said that a Confederate flag hanging outside a dormitory window they passed (above) offered a perfect illustration of why the university needs the diversity office.
More protests are being planned for this weekend.
Defunding Diversity
Tennessee Legislature votes to cut all state funds for office that promotes diversity at state's flagship university, where students walked out of class to oppose the legislation.
Defunding Diversity
Tennessee Legislature votes to cut all state funds for office that promotes diversity at state's flagship university, where students walked out of class to oppose the legislation.
Have you ever gone to Target on black friday? It's unbelievable how much better it is than wal mart.
I can't believe he has a mind of his own. How dare he...
Good stuff.
Best part is people "fighting racism" calling him a "house nigger"...
The really far fringe left is just completely out of control right now. The regular left is fine, but there is the "anti-bigot" fringe that is straight up fascist. They claim to fight intolerance, but actually are just absurdly narrow minded and want to destroy anyone who doesn't think exactly how they do.
Best part is people "fighting racism" calling him a "house nigger"...
The really far fringe left is just completely out of control right now. The regular left is fine, but there is the "anti-bigot" fringe that is straight up fascist. They claim to fight intolerance, but actually are just absurdly narrow minded and want to destroy anyone who doesn't think exactly how they do.
The students identified as the people behind a recent racist drawing found at Salisbury University’s library are black, school officials confirmed Tuesday.
The image, found April 10 on a whiteboard in Blackwell Library, showed a stick figure being hung and labeled with a racial slur. Underneath was the hashtag “#whitepower.”
Black students connected in SU racist drawinghttp://college.usatoday.com/2016/04/27/black-students-connected-in-su-racist-drawing/, USA Today, 27 Apr 2016
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One for the file:
Again, with all racist incidents, mass rapes, etc., alleged on campuses, which incur the wrath the leftists, we need to operate on the "presumption of hoax" until actual facts emerge. That's the only sensible approach given how frequently this happens now.
The Shame of Poverty in Hollywood
By Stephanie DePrez ‘11
When I moved to LA in July to pursue a career in entertainment, my identity shift from teacher at a Jesuit high school to unemployed aspiring Hollywood playmaker was worse than leaving Notre Dame. I quickly burned through my savings, depleted the availability of parental finances, and racked up some juicy credit card debt.
It was a parking ticket that sent me over the edge. The week before Christmas, I returned to my car on Manhattan Beach and met an angry valet driver and a ticket for $150. Knowing I had around $15 in my bank account, I began to cry. I got in the car, called my parents and verbally unloaded five months of anger, professional rejection, and financial ruin. “I am a moral, Catholic woman trying to follow God’s will!” I screamed. “Why is the universe doing this to me?”
Once they’d calmed me down enough to drive, I turned onto a freeway. I had no idea where to go. I didn’t want to go back to my tiny, moldy apartment. I had a quarter of a tank left, and I knew I couldn’t afford to fill up until getting paid in two weeks. I was out of options and so, detached from myself, I drove to Dolores Mission.
Dolores Mission Parish is a small church located in East Los Angeles. It serves a primarily Latino population, just over the bridge made famous by five of the seven Fast and Furious films. It’s where Fr. Greg Boyle started Homeboy Industries, and where I accompanied high school students for four years on immersion trips to wade into the underbelly of homelessness. The Jesuits there always encourage students to touch the Salvadoran cross behind the altar with their own hands.
I slipped into the last pew, keeping my blotchy face angled at the ground. When the service I’d stumbled upon ended, I looked up.
“Hi, I’m Padre Miguel. You look familiar.”
“Hi, Father Mike. I used to come here with high schoolers. I’m, um, out of context right now.” Reading my blotchy eyes and feral appearance, he invited me into his office.
I was prepared for tea and sympathy, an opportunity to share my woes and perhaps a shared prayer. I got about 30 seconds in before Fr. Mike stopped me and said, “I’m a social worker. Go back to the part about the credit cards.” He addressed my debt, my student loans, my rent, health insurance, and suggested I consider going to therapy.
“How about we walk through the food shed before you go?”
I began to panic. “But that food is for… poor people.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you…”
I thought about my dwindling pantry and the last time I’d eaten. I nodded.
“How are you on gas?”
“I, uh, can get home, but then I don’t get paid till next week.”
“I think the Society of Jesus can sponsor a tank of gas.”
After piling me with canned beans, fruit, and boxes of detergent, I was instructed to drive to the gas station at the end of the street. As Fr. Mike filled the tank, he saw the array of Notre Dame stickers on the back of my car.
“You went to Notre Dame?”
“… Yeah.”
“You’ll be alright. You’ll pay me back someday—with interest. You’ll be fine.”
As he drove away, somehow stuffing $40 cash into my hand before he went, I began to address the war that had been raging inside of my mind the moment he sat me down. I was filled with gratitude, the kind that is so full and so stunning I almost couldn’t breathe. The things I needed the most in that moment—food and gas—were taken care of. I had been given a list of concrete things to do, from putting loans on forbearance to seeing a counselor, that could help right my sinking ship.
But knowing I come from educational privilege with a substantial employment history, the act of walking through a food shed, or letting someone buy me a tank of gas, filled me with a deep sense of shame. I felt as though I’d failed, like the promise I’d made to the world on behalf of my aptitude and aspirations had fallen apart, and I had become financial carnage for society to deal with.
Now, for someone who has passionately taught the concept of “downward mobility”—purposely foregoing wealth in order to be closer to those with whom Christ was closest—I was failing my own test. The shame and embarrassment with which I met my poverty of goods was indicative of the real poverty inside of me: a poverty of humility. I couldn’t shake my pride, or the nagging expectations of what I thought I deserved. But I had to deal with the obvious: I had become the poor, those I spent years claiming to admire, and I couldn’t stand it.
As I drove home (on the Jesuits’ dollar), I was shaking. I didn’t tell anyone for weeks, but when I did, whoever I was speaking with would say, “Oh, yeah, I was there.” Friends, coworkers, my home-owning relatives—everyone had a moment to share when the floor fell out from under them and they needed help. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I thought. “So many people have been one paycheck from ruin and nobody talks about it!”
But that’s the thing—once the ground is firm, and hope is established, the shame and humility of poverty begin to fade. We don’t want to identify with it anymore. And that, I think, is the real tragedy.
In recent weeks I’ve started three new jobs, and I no longer panic about rent. It is worrisome how quickly I forget that $30 to buy groceries for the week is something that a fifth of the people in America don’t have.
We live in a world of excess and aspirations of indulgence. I park next to Teslas and drive past Beverly Hills mansions, but none of this is what I truly desire. The way to remain immune to this culture of addictive financial self-improvement is to stay as close to the poor as possible. I must remind myself to be grateful for what I have, and to pass on whatever else may come.