#Daily Education News

[nidarchhattisgarh]

बस्तर सांसद दीपक बैज व नारायणपुर विधायक चंदन कश्यप विकासखंड स्तरीय शाला प्रवेशोत्सव मे हुए शामिल..

NCG News desk Bastar :- बच्चों को नियमित स्कूल भेज कर अपने बच्चों को शिक्षा के मुख्य धारा से जोड़े – सांसद बैज अतिथियों का स्वागत करते हुए शिक्षक एवम छात्र छात्राएं आज बस्तर सांसद दीपक बैज व नारायणपुर विधायक चंदन कश्यप विकासखंड स्तरीय शाला प्रवेशोत्सव मे शामिल होने नारायणपाल एवं देवड़ा हाई स्कूल पहुंचे जहां उनका स्वागत पारंपरिक रूप से ढोल नगाड़े के साथ किया गया। मां सरस्वती की पूजा अर्चना करते…

[reality-detective]

Davos' debauched underbelly: How the global elite indulge in cocaine, caviar and champagne at secret 'bunga bunga' parties behind the scenes of the World Economic Forum

Hmmm 🤔

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

A title in the Arthur children’s book series is facing a potential ban after a conservative activist claimed that it “damaged souls”.

On 12 July, Bruce Friedman, a member of the Clay County School District community in Florida, filed a challenge to Arthur’s Birthday, a 1989 children’s book by Marc Brown about a fictional brown aardvark whose birthday falls on the same day as another party of a different classmate.

At one point in the book, Arthur receives a glass bottle from Francine the monkey as a birthday present. The bottle has the words “Francine’s Spin the Bottle Game” printed on it.

According to the challenge, which The Daily Beast website published, the reason for Friedman’s ban request is to “protect children”.

“IT IS NOT APPROPRIATE TO DISCUSS ‘SPIN THE BOTTLE’ WITH ELEMENTARY SCHOOL CHILDREN,” he wrote in all capital letters. “THIS BOOK IS FOUND IN ALL/ALMOST ALL [DISTRICT SCHOOLS]!”

“‘SPIN THE BOTTLE’ NOT OKAY FOR K-5 KIDS,” Friedman added, still using all capital letters. In response to a question about what he believes might be the result of a student using the material, he wrote, “DAMAGED SOULS.”

In a statement to The Daily Beast, a district spokesperson, Terri Dennis, said the book was among 45 titles currently “pending oversight committee review”.

Friedman is the Florida chapter president of No Left Turn in Education, a rightwing group that campaigns against critical race theory. The group seeks to “use all forms of media to expose the radical indoctrination in K-12 education, its perpetrators, the resources and methods employed and the resulting harm it inflicts”, according to its website.

In a Facebook post in September 2020, the group compared public schools to “Pol Pot’s Cambodia”, referring to the former leader of Cambodia who perpetrated the mass genocide of over 2 million people.

Last December, Friedman said that he had compiled “a list of over 3,600 titles that I believe have concerning content [including] porn, critical race theory, social-emotional learning, [and] fluid gender,” Popular Information reported.

He told the outlet that he identified the titles by “scouring the internet” for books that have been challenged in other parts of the country.

The Florida Freedom to Read Project has pushed back against Friedman’s challenge to Arthur’s Birthday, saying: “The entire book is about being inclusive of all friends and not only inviting boys or girls (based on your gender) to your birthday party.”

In recent years, Florida’s public education system has become a divisive battleground for Republican lawmakers who have enacted a slew of laws targeting various minority and marginalized communities.

In addition to the “Don’t Say Gay” ban across all school grades and bans of diversity, equity and inclusion initiatives in public universities, Florida’s Governor, Ron DeSantis, has banned African American studies from high schools while the state’s Board of Education updated controversial new standards earlier this month to include the claim that some black people benefited from being enslaved.

[see-arcane]

A Tale of Two Counts

Summary: Dracula's library is vast, but lacking a particular book Jonathan thought he was sure to have. Curious, the Count insists his good friend describe the volume. Jonathan regales him with the tale of The Count of Monte Cristo.

He will live to regret it.

If not for much longer.

Ao3 link

2 June—

I heard once that animals know what awaits them when they approach the butcher’s killing floor. Pigs and sheep, cattle and hens, even the dimmest creatures scent their execution. Perhaps it is as simple as the smell of death and their elders’ blood spilt before theirs. Sitting as I do now, hackles high as I await my own far less succinct destruction, I have doubts. Mere odor cannot be all that gives it away in them, for I have felt, almost tangibly, a shift in the air. As sure a contortion as a new wind or a switch of velvet to needles.

It is difficult to place the change. Indeed, I know the Count means to make his castle my tomb. Yet I fear there has been alteration in his initial ending for me. The one that will see me delivered as a calf to the altar of those three weird sisters in the building’s lightless bowels. Already a fatality harvested from a nightmare, and that only if I am permitted to die as a man. There are worse shapes of death. Ones without edge or end. But I ramble. Throwing words to the page as one sifts sand for gold.

For comprehension. What do my senses mean by wailing afresh over some phantom change in the Count’s designs? How could they be worse than they are?

The feeling struck me today, in the library. I am still permitted to wander the corridors when my jailor does not see fit to pen me in by whim or punishment. I have been straining myself to consciousness for all the hours I can, by day for the sun, by night for caution. Day I find more relief in, if only because I am less likely to be accosted by the Count’s company and the tightening noose of our charade of bonhomie.

I cannot tell if he is in earnest about gleaning all he can of my Englishman’s mannerisms—a singular victory there, for I am a comparative pauper and will posthumously dent his glamour if he means to mingle with noble classes—or if it is now, and could always have been, a mere relishing of my performance’s fraying shell, revealing the ripe misery beneath. A cat would show more mercy with a rodent. I am a hound’s toy, happily torn and worried at with love and vicious teeth until I am no more than rags. Such are my thoughts now. Such were they then. I hunted out the library for some respite from my own mind. Indeed, my own life, for all that remains of it should I stay caged.

The law books were not my aim. None of the Count’s practical volumes and educational texts drew me, no more than the scattered magazines and pamphlets. Material that had all taken a sinister color in light of his true purposes with England. But more, they would not carry me away from this wretched locale as a mere fictional fancy would. I would have taken Aesop’s Fables as soon as a novel. I wished for, of all things, one of the tomes from my collection of Dumas.

I combed and recombed the shelves, yet found none of the Frenchman’s offerings. Certainly not my favored tale, which I had foolishly left at home to leave more space for professional flotsam in my baggage. Irony tinged the realization from a dozen angles and I surprised myself with a laugh.

“My friend, I did not realize books of geography amused you so.”

My heart tried to escape my throat as I turned to see the Count. He had entered soundlessly, as he always seems to appear. A feat that still stuns me considering the sheer scale of this horror built like a man. I did my best to retain the accidental mirth on my face as I looked up at him. Another habit of his; the practice of being near as my own shadow whenever I turn my back.

“Geography is a great love,” I said, not lying. The vistas of the land have been a minute solace at any window I am fortunate enough to stare from. “But I laughed only because you lack a book I was certain you would have.”

“What book may this be?”

“The Count of Monte Cristo,” I said.

“By what author?”

“Alexandre Dumas.”

“Ah, a French writer. I confess, I have trifled little with works beyond those born of my destined England.”

“You have novels?”

“Yes, and read all. Sadly, they are…being lent. My library was quite hollowed of all the diversionary texts before your arrival.” His grin bared the sabers of his teeth. “I am certain there are others in my cellars, if you wished to follow me down to peruse such titles.”

Cellars. Dungeons. Catacombs. Stonework caves where, in sick pantomime of Mina with her bookshelves, garnet eyes surely skimmed over King Arthur and penny dreadfuls in equal number, keen despite the gloom. My smile struggled.

“No, no thank you. In truth, I read very little of fiction myself. Alexandre Dumas is an exception for his grand narratives.” It stung as much as satisfied me to add, “Many of his works are well-known staples in the English mind, if not by reading then by common knowledge.”

The great white caterpillars of his brows moved in interest.

“Is that so?”

“Oh, yes. The Three Musketeers is a great favorite in all circles. Then there is, The Man in the Iron Mask. There are dozens of his works published on the Continent as well as England. But Monte Cristo remains the one I hold in most esteem.”

“Then it is surely the finest of his works and I am doubly a fool for not possessing it,” the Count intoned. Then, laboriously, he took himself to a chair that he at once dwarfed with his dimensions and gave the gravity of a throne. He gestured me to the adjacent couch. “Tell me, my friend, what enamors you so with this Count of print and paper. It could be there is something of his character I might practice to endear myself to you and those of your like.”

Be it from desperation to insulate myself against crueler prying, from some mesmeric influence, or something so mundane as the desire to huddle inside an airy, frivolous topic with my sole mockery of a companion, I sat. I spoke. And I realized too late how merciless the subject truly was to my heart.

“I shall not give away all, should you wish to read it yourself, but the chief plot of the book concerns the eponymous Count, who is not a noble at all, but a man come to Paris for a rightful vengeance. This man was betrayed by false peers as a youth and sent to a horrid prison for a crime he did not commit, the better for these conspirators to profit. In prison, he encounters a brilliant teacher who leaves to him a covert education and the secret to discovering a great cache of riches. The man escapes. He finds his treasure. He transforms into the Count of Monte Cristo, now unrecognizable to any who might have known him before.

“Yet he cannot simply blunder his way into high society, where his quarry now dwells. One has become a great and wealthy banker. Another is the highest judge in the land. The third, his supposed best friend, has stolen away the man’s fiancée and had a son. It is the son that made me think to hunt for the book in the first place.”

As I said it, I knew it to be true. The words tasted of bile.

“You see, if it were not for the son, the Count could never have penetrated into the circles he needed to in order to exact his grand sprawl of revenges.”

My throat worked as if I were choking on hot coal.

“The Count of Monte Cristo, for all his innocence as a youth, is a ruthless genius when it comes to manipulation under his new mantle. To win the confidence of his foe’s son, he orchestrates two meetings. One, a lavish introduction as friendly new acquaintances as they enjoy the Roman Carnival. The second, a planned abduction of the young man by local bandits for a ransom the Count easily pays, rescuing the boy and earning his affection. When the Count makes his debut in Paris, it is with the son’s gushing praise, the gratitude of his parents, and all the oiled ease of a Trojan Horse passing through the gates of their unwitting fellow victims.

“He could not bring his machinations down on his enemies’ heads if it were not for his early charade of heroics and friendship with the son. It is,” I fought to flatten my voice and its new fissures, “it is one of the only works I have encountered where I found myself championing the mastermind and his seeming wickedness in plotting the downfall of others. Such is Dumas’ skill with crafting the story. It helps, of course, that the Count does not let revenge ruin his soul completely at the end—his schemes risked a collateral to innocent lives, and he made a hasty recompense for that.

“But the others,” I breathed. Breathed. “His targets. They suffered fully.”

“Because of the young man,” the Count hummed. “And his trusting introductions. I suppose his traitorous father met a poor fate?”

“Yes. He did.”

“Mm,” the Count thought. “If you were in the role of this naïve fellow, I assume this would put our friend Peter Hawkins in some danger, if this Count,” he put a hand to his rotted heart, “owned the same sinister wants as the one of Monte Cristo. Most fortunate he is not and I am not, yes?” He laughed and the ivory cave of his mouth seemed capable of swallowing souls as much as a leech’s diet. I am not certain if I managed to laugh with him, but he did not seem to care either way. “This young man—what is his name?”

“Albert de Morcerf, from his father’s own falsified name.”

“Then I envy your Count of Monte Cristo such an aide as an Albert de Morcerf. One who would ease the way into unknown doors and the hearts of acquaintances. Though not for any revenge. I know no one in England, after all, to assail or to befriend. Apart from Hawkins and yourself, of course.” His eyes seemed to settle on me and then cut through my head. As if seeing something far that I could not. “It would be no small boon to have such a guide to remove the last coarse edges of my transition from one home to another. There is no better directory than a friend, yes?”

At that he turned the conversation briskly away into some trifle and from there contrived an exit for himself, seeming oddly like a man who has just recalled a forgotten engagement while in the midst of another. I scarcely mourned the loss. Not least because, again, there was that tang of change to the atmosphere, and to the infliction of the Count’s attention. Something is different. Somehow, impossibly, something is worse. Now I fear I may guess at it.

I have made a mistake. Inspired him in some way. To what?

He must leave his lackeys behind in this native land. I would expect him to gather a similar legion to do his daylit labors. Yet such is not the same as a singular guide. Someone who might open the way to true connections. Gold will make a friend of many, whether they trust his title or not, but it would be a trial to ignore or mask his inhuman traits for long.

I do not know, I do not want to know what he may now be scheming for his arrival. Night is close.

10 June, evening—

Dread is now dented by confusion.

The Count rapped his knuckles at my door just now and let himself into my room. With a gift.

“One for each of us, my friend,” he sang, thrusting a book into my hands. It was a new edition of The Count of Monte Cristo, leatherbound, printed in English. He held his own volume with the tenderness of a priest with his Bible. “And you spoke true! It is an engaging tale Dumas pens for the Count, née, Edmond Dantès. It embarrasses me again to think I have overlooked it so long.” I saw from the ribbon of his bookmark he had already devoured a third of his copy. “Now we shall both have his company when we make our travels to fair England. Though I must admit, the gift is made in apology, with the deepest mortification.”

Here, he produced a sight that froze my pulse—the false letters he had me write and date, not yet sent. I swallowed dryly.

“What is the trouble?” I asked, unsure if I was meant to frown or grin.

“There has been word given to me that some trouble has befallen the tracks that would have taken you upon your return trip with your original route. That is, they shall require repair that shall overtake your initial plans. I have mapped the alternate routes and have found, to grateful surprise, my own way to the shore and to the good ship that shall ferry myself and my possessions to England is the most suitable option.” Here he feigned a shrug. “Ah, I suppose it is still good fortune to learn of it now rather than post these missives and make a liar of my friend.”

So saying, he took a candle to the envelopes, ensured they were burning in full blaze, and let them fall to the stone floor to gutter out at his feet.

“The only trouble now, my friend, is that I should have you rewrite and adjust your messages.”

Unsure of the game, I pointed out, “Of course, only, I do not understand what major alteration would be necessary.” Seeing as he intends me dead before I could ever travel to anything but the women’s maws. “I shall still be destined for the shore and a ship just the same…”

“Yes, yes, but of a different manner. A better one! That is to say, your travel on land will be brisker, as will your voyage upon the ship you and I shall share. But, of the most vital difference, you shall not arrive outright in the port you left by. Nor will you return so swiftly to Peter Hawkins or your good fiancée, the lady Mina.”

“No?” I asked, scarcely hearing myself.

“No,” he smiled. “You will return to friends and love alike, of course! I would not keep you for good. But I have today posted my own letter to Hawkins in premonition of your own writing—too eager, am I, far too eager!” He strolled forward, his step scattering my first batch of lies into ash and dust on the floor. “You see, I have written that you shall accompany me in Carfax. If only for a small while, and, as you and our friend Hawkins will be delighted to learn, doubly recompensed for the trouble of playing chaperone for that duration.”

I cannot define the exact chemistry of suspicion, wonder, and fear that pooled in me at this change to the Count’s script. The awful medley of feeling only mounted as he stood at my shoulder, dictating what I was to mention. Indeed, the strangest alteration was of the import of the 29th of June. Now it is meant to be the date of my exiting the castle, in the Count’s company. Oddly, he did not insist upon my jotting future dates.

“As before, these premature letters are merely for security’s sake,” the Count said, gathering the new pages up. “You shall have leave to write as we travel, with fresh eyes to take in a new route. I have read all your words, my friend, and your senses are lush with detail when playing witness. I would not rob you of the chance to describe what you experience first-hand.”

He left me with that. With much more than that. It made me sick to the point of nausea to lie to Mina again and the sensation was only made worse for my not comprehending the new evil that would necessitate a new lie. Only, I think this lack of comprehension is a lie in itself. One made to myself, for denial is my last threadbare shield against what I fear.

The Count of Monte Cristo is still in my hand, palm sweating against calfskin.

I must go. But the locks all hold even now. All that is left to me is the window. The stone wall and its distant foot below. Yet Edmond is proof himself that there are worse things for a man than death.

Mina, Mina, I will try once I have daylight as my aid.

? God. God. Help me.

?, daylight—

I do not know the date.

They sleep. I think they sleep. Or at least they are indulging a lull. I pray.

These pages are all that is left to me, of me. All my world has gone to Hell and deeper. It was not an hour since he left me that he returned. This time with the women. I will not burden these lines with all that was done to me. Suffice to say, I was used and emptied. Each had her turn with me, though not before him. Of them all, he was the only one to give as well as take his draught. In the midst of a scream, he held my open mouth to his own gouged flesh, forcing his ichor down my throat. They laughed. I cannot stop hearing their laughter.

I still taste the bitterness of him on my tongue despite the food. Yes, I am still fed. I yet live. Rather, I maintain a thin pulse which the sisters partake of now whenever it suits them. My door is no longer locked, but I huddle in it just the same. Pretending I can hide when now—now they roam free! I would have the wolves at me rather than risk those halls now that he has loosed the brides from their quarantine.

As I have lost track of days under this new routine, I measure my time alone by hours, if not moments. Their smiling teeth find their way to my veins as idly as a drunkard finds his pint. I am kept just alive enough to bleed and breathe. But no more. I have no more.

The last of my possessions and dignity have been harvested from this room, save the ruined clothes on my back, the backhanded gift of Monte Cristo, the crucifix even I now find a vulgar token, and this, my final treasure. My strength is so shallow I can hardly scratch these words. I have lost count of the marks pocking my throat, my arms, my breast; as if they wished to eat their way to my heart. And they could. Instead, they merely nurse at me, a feeble chattel that they can overpower without effort, or shock awake as my ever-deeper dreaming is startled by fangs in my skin. All the while I dwindle to nothing.

“It is only fair,” the girls sing-song between drinks. “He promised us more play with you. Now we have such a brief time to enjoy ourselves together.” They laugh. In my thickest deliriums, I have laughed with them. Or else I wept. Both?

Mina, Mina, I cannot force your face over them. I cannot hide in your memory when they take from me. My skull is another pillaged room and I find there is only more of them crowding it with the poison music of their voices. An intrusion that is almost merciful beside his presence within and without. I have not spied him since that hideous upheaval, yet I sense where he is. I see, I smell, I taste, I hear, I know his chthonic company in whatever shadow he stalks.

Sometimes beyond the castle. Sometimes inside it. Sometimes in this room.

Watching. Waiting.

I can guess for what. But there is still the window, with whatever escape it offers. There is strength and will enough to bring me to the ledge. If my footing fails, then God and gravity will carry me the rest of the way from here. I will not stay with them. I will not leave with him.

Good-bye all! Mina!

?, night

Lost. All lost.

I should have known it at the precipice. So weak, so sure of my fall, yet I scaled it deftly as a spider. Fool! Idiot! How did I think it a blessing rather than an omen? How did I take my newfound freedom for anything more than a final jest at my humanity’s expense?

I made it to the ground and I ran, staggered, dumb as a newborn deer into the gloaming’s half-light. It was as I could endure; not for pain of the sunlight, but a lethargy that nearly tranquilizes me in the day. Night is when the last of my mental powers are at their height. So, the hour before dusk. Out, away, as far as I could. Wolves bayed—I saw their shadows keep pace with me—yet I was not attacked. Another portent. Yet I had no mind to care.

Away!

And then, people. A caravan. One I recognized with bile. I knew I could expect no shelter or escape with them. In the moment, I did not know why I approached their party. These were the ones who had betrayed my letters, who had left me to die and cackled to themselves over it. Did I convince myself that I wished them to kill me? Perhaps that was it. I cannot say. My head turns to red fog.

I approached them, possibly raving. Swore oaths and promised violence. Yet I doubt I made an imposing figure; glazed in sweat and tears, the crust of my own blood under my rags. Still, I tried to goad them. They spotted me, jeered to each other, pointed in recognition. Half their number came to meet me. With ropes.

No execution—only a trussing and delivery back to the castle.

To him. Him, who I sensed spying with the same keen amusement as his wolves, as his minions, as his brides! Even the voyeur moon itself seemed to conspire with him!

A blankness fills my memory here. I recall them coming at me like stockmen approaching a wayward sheep, me taking long steps toward them. Then, nothing. Only a hating, hungry void.

My next lucid moment was filled with screaming; not my own. Wet warmth in my mouth, upon my face and hands. And a red taste I knew too well. I was crouched upon one of the men, I think the one who took my letters in his cap. There was no throat left between his chin and shoulders. An animal had torn away the whole of it, Adam’s apple and all, down to the ladder of the spine.

My innards swung on a pendulum of supreme intoxication and truer illness. I made noise with my shrilling audience. A scream, a howl, a laugh? Yet it did not matter—now they were taking aim. Even with the cutting teeth now pricking my tongue, I prayed I was still man enough to end by what they offered. So I might have. I bared my face and chest to them, ready.

But then, him.

I felt him manifest and descend even before the great shadow fell first over, then between us. He stood as a grinning monolith, neither side of him free from dread at the sight of that gleeful rictus. From the cloak, a flash of gold. It flew in its purse, striking and bursting against a wagon like a gilded pustule.

“Enough for recompense, my friends,” came his voice. It bore through my ears and into the foam of my brain, anchoring there. Never had it been more hateful. Never have I hated more that I could not hate it. Stranger still, he was not speaking English. But I understood. His gaze welded to me, knowing that I knew his will. “Carry on your way,” he told them, “and have our preparations in order. I trust they are unchanged by this small interruption.” They gawped.

He spun on them, the human face breaking with new and hideous shapes.

“Be gone!” he barked at them, and the forest snarled with him. They saw now the ocean of wolves that surged among the trees. As I watched, they did not spare a glance for myself, a wan gargoyle still dripping with their comrade’s life, but gathered up the gold and fled. By contrast, I was a sight which he looked on with the fondness of a father at a child’s first step. “You see, my friend? I have been the Count to my fullest. My hospitality and friendship has been yours, I have saved you violence with myself and my gold. All that leaves is your part, Albert.”

But I would not. Cannot. I ran from him. He let me, as did the wolves. Though I wonder if he already knew what I had stolen from the dead man.

The knife is sharp, if only a simple blade.

Of course he will find this cave. All this land must be known. Its hollows and tombs, all his. If I cannot take my own head for certainty’s sake, then I must strike my heart. Only I fear something is wrong.

You see, I have been carving and piercing since the moon was high. The hour before dawn is here and so am I, still. The wolves watch at the threshold.

I know which one is not a wolf.

He knows I know.

Why do I not care that he sees me writing?

Mina, I am so sorry. So tired. If I could only hit my heart again, perhaps it would help, but I cannot feel it beating.

Mina the wolves are coming

I fear I am too

Mina

Mina

M

5 August, night—

Forgive the absence. Much has happened to keep me from this habit. But tonight the Demeter is finally hushed, we are free to stroll on deck, and between the good captain’s steadfast pose at the wheel and my friend’s subtle guidance, Whitby shall come to us soon. There is no better time to indulge in these absurd pages once more. I have been teaching my friend shorthand and he has thumbed through this volume at his leisure. We laugh to read from the ghost of the fretting thing I was before.

I do have fresh eyes now, as he promised. They make a masterpiece of this moonlit mist and the obsidian waters. Even the spent husks of the ship’s available cuisine have been more than manna. My senses are rampant and many now. Want is a sense, I have discovered. A deep and demanding pit that flowers like hunger the more it is denied. It is more than the castoff toy called love. Far more.

I want the shore. I want my friend’s home. I want our sleeping soil laid in place.

I want you, Mina—or shall you be Eugenie? Ah, but she and Albert were not to be, in the end. And I want you for far longer than any end born of human rot. Will it be my kiss or his? Who will that make you?

“Haydée,” my friend hums to me, though he perches up by the bow. I hear him there as easily as he sees with my eyes here. “They shall all be Haydée, my friend.”

“Then I am not Albert?” I ask. “I shall surely make a poor decoration in Carfax.”

He laughs at that, but gives no confirmation or denial. Which is just as well. Perhaps we shall all be Haydée, for I am to room under his roof once more. Longer than you or Hawkins believe, at present. Much longer. Oh, Mina, Mina.

I cannot wait to introduce you to my friend.

[roboe1]

News and Headlines. Daily Brief. 10/6/2023.

US, World News. Politics, Commentary and Videos. Often covering what the mainstream media misses. US News. Los Angeles Elementary Schools to Celebrate “National Coming Out Day,” Dr. Miriam Grossman Megyn Kelly is joined by Dr. Miriam Grossman, author of “Lost in Trans Nation,” to discuss Los Angeles elementary schools celebrating “National Coming Out Day” and why this is “evil” towards…

[theheartchoice]

[luckystrike-x]

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[imgfixer]

I love you so much but I can't marry you, can you tell me whose mouth says it more, a man or a woman?

[psqqa]

Professor Van Helsing!! Of Amsterdam!!!!!

[greenflowerceo]

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Palestine Children's Relief Fund (PCRF) - Donate here to give funds and support to the children in Palestine as they specialize in pediatric care.

Google Docs/Spreadsheets:

Make sure to look at the other tabs within the spreadsheets as they lead to more options/resources!

Help Gaza - This is a spreadsheet with a list of fundraisers for different families/causes that need support! Look through and donate when you can!

Operation Olive Branch - This is a spreadsheet with many links and ways to help in the project! There are campaigns, fundraisers, volunteer work for other parts of the causes and such! Make sure to check it out!

★RESOURCE LINKS AND INFO★ - A google document made from Twitter/X user: para_docx. This includes links, resources, and information for the other ongoing genocides as well.

Some of these documents intersect and have similar resources and links, but I'm adding them just to make sure as they may also have some that aren't listed in this post either.

Free Palestine.

[quevadilla]

had a kinda weird-turned-good dream and when I woke up like two minutes ago they were saying such insane shit on the game grumps marathon I had playing while I slept that I legit considered whether I was still dreaming

[nidarchhattisgarh]

NEET की परीक्षा मे पास हुई गांव की यमुना : छह घंटे भट्टे पर काम, तीन बार हुई असफल; चौथी बार में मिली सफलता 

  ग्राम डूमरडीह की रहने वाली यमुना चक्रधारी ने जिले के साथ प्रदेश का नाम रोशन किया है। यमुना ने नीट में 720 में 516 लेकर आई हैं। वहीं ऑल इंडिया रैंकिंग में 93,683 आई है। जिस तरह “लहरों से डर कर नौका पार नहीं होती, वैसे ही कोशिश करने वालों की कभी हार नहीं होती”। कुछ ऐसा ही कारनामा कर दिखाया ग्रामीण क्षेत्र की एक बेटी ने। जो बिना कोचिंग किए नीट की परीक्षा में सफल हो गई। डूमरडीह की रहने वाली यमुना…

[reality-detective]

Arizona Republican chair Jeff DeWit RESIGNS over bombshell audio bribing Kari Lake to stay out of office | Daily Mail Online

Jeff DeWit resigned as the chair of the Arizona Republican Party Wednesday, 24 hours after DailyMail.com published leaked audio of him offering Kari Lake a plum job or money to step out of politics. 🤔

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

Middle school students in Florida will soon be taught that slavery gave Black people a “personal benefit” because they “developed skills.”

After the Florida Board of Education approved new standards for African American history on Wednesday, high school students will be taught an equally distorted message: that a deadly white mob attack against Black residents of Ocoee, Florida, in 1920 included “acts of violence perpetrated against and by African Americans.”

Dozens of Black residents were killed in the massacre, which was perpetrated to stop them from voting.

According to members of the board, that distorted portrayal of the racist massacre is factually accurate. MaryLynn Magar, a member of the board appointed by Gov. Ron DeSantis, said at the board’s meeting in Orlando on Wednesday that “everything is there” in the new history standards and “the darkest parts of our history are addressed,” the Tallahassee Democrat reported.

The majority of the speakers who provided public testimony on the planned curriculum were vehemently opposed to it, warning that crucial context is omitted, atrocities are glossed over, and in some cases students will be taught to “blame the victim.”

“I am very concerned by these standards, especially some of the notion that enslaved people benefited from being enslaved,” state Rep. Anna Eskamani (D-Orlando) said, per Action News Jax.

“When I see the standards, I’m very concerned,” state Sen. Geraldine Thompson said at the board meeting. “If I were still a professor, I would do what I did very infrequently; I’d have to give this a grade of ‘I’ for incomplete. It recognizes that we have made an effort, we’ve taken a step. However, this history needs to be comprehensive. It needs to be authentic, and it needs additional work.”

“When you look at the history currently, it suggests that the [Ocoee] massacre was sparked by violence from African Americans. That’s blaming the victim,” the Democrat warned.

“Please table this rule and revise it to make sure that my history, our history, is being told factually and completely, and please do not, for the love of God, tell kids that slavery was beneficial because I guarantee you it most certainly was not,” community member Kevin Parker said.

Approval of the new standards is a win for the DeSantis administration, which has effectively sought to create a new educational agenda that shields white students from feeling any sense of guilt for wrongs perpetrated against people of color. The Florida Governor signed the “Stop WOKE Act” last year to do just that, restricting how issues of race are taught in public schools and workplaces.

In keeping with the administration’s crusade against “wokeness,” Education Commissioner Manny Diaz defended the new standards against criticism, saying, “This is an in-depth, deep dive into African American history, which is clearly American history as Governor DeSantis has said, and what Florida has done is expand it,” Action News Jax reported.

Paul Burns, the Florida Department of Education’s chancellor of K-12 public schools, also insisted the new standards provide an exhaustive representation of African American history.

“Our standards are factual, objective standards that really teach the good, the bad and the ugly,” he was quoted as saying Wednesday by Florida Phoenix. He denied the new standards portray slavery as beneficial.

Although education officials say teachers are meant to expand upon the new curriculum in the classroom, critics say teachers are unlikely to do that for fear of being singled out and possibly punished for being too “woke.”

The Florida Education Association, the state’s largest teachers union, called the new standards “a big step backward for a state that has required teaching African American history since 1994” in a statement after Wednesday’s vote.

Derrick Johnson, president and CEO of the NAACP, also condemned the new curriculum, saying in a statement: “Our children deserve nothing less than truth, justice, and the equity our ancestors shed blood, sweat, and tears for.”

“Today’s actions by the Florida state government are an attempt to bring our country back to a 19th century America where Black life was not valued, nor our rights protected. It is imperative that we understand that the horrors of slavery and Jim Crow were a violation of human rights and represent the darkest period in American history. We refuse to go back,” he said.

[stephaniefchase]

As we begin to navigate the waters we would have to tread in 2024 I pray peace, love, happiness, prosperity, good health and blessings in abundance for each of you. I pray that God would order your steps and protect you wherever you go! Speak life into yourself! Celebrate your wins! No victory is too small. Pat yourself on the back! Pat attention to those who are silent when you are winning. Stand firm in your faith! Know we can’t survive alone! Let’s be there for each other. Thank you to those who have been with me from the inception and those who joined along the way, I appreciate your continuous support. God bless you!! Love & Light

#thechasefiles

[roboe1]

News and Headlines. Daily Brief. 9/19/2023.

US, World News. Politics, Commentary and Videos. Often covering what the mainstream media misses. US News. DOJ’s Harsh Treatment of J6 Defendant Drove Him to Suicide: ‘They Completely Broke Him,’ Relative Says Investigative journalist Lara Logan has set out to tell stories about defendants charged in the Jan. 6, 2021, Capitol incursion that Americans are not hearing from the establishment…