Comments on the trailer of the new Annie movie staring Quvenzhané Wallis and Jamie Foxx.
Would you just look at how racism isn’t a thing in today’s society.
White people being progressive as usual. No racism to see here.
I want heads ….. I want their fucking heads …. fuck these monsters
"It would keep the character more innocent"
HOOHOHOHOHOAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAH I AM BREATHING FIRE HOW FUCKING DARE THESE SWINES EVEN THINK OF COMING FOR LITTLE BLACK GIRLS
Lol at the racist dumb ass going “Annie is a white name” when that was my mother’s nickname for me for years…..
"it would be relatable to more people" yeah more white people maybe
Apparently only white people are relatable. Black people are just too alien and strange.
Whtes have humanity when we don’t
Lol maybe they’re not human they’re from the planet headupmyass and they just hate us humans. That’s why they can’t relate to us
Its things like this that make me sad to be a white person sometimes. That little girl is absolutely adorable and precious, and looks like she is going to be amazing from the trailer. Why the fuck do people have to be such assholes? How does her being black prevent people from relating to her? Its still the same story of Annie the Orphan. Was whiteness and red hair really the only thing that defined that character to these assholes? It wasn’t her kindness or her optimism, nope, just the fact she was white. I went and looked at the trailer too, hoping and praying that people TRIED to find these comments, LOOKED FOR THEM, but no, these are popular opinions. Why is it so hard to just love people? T_T
RIGHT? Facepalming hard over here. Just, planting my face directly in my hands and groaning.
She looks precious and I’m definitely going to go see it and support it.
I drove forty minutes to the Netherlands for some groceries and then I popped into Germany to see some of my relatives before driving back home.
I was in Florida, I drove for nine hours, now I'm still in Florida.
i drove for nine hours #now i'm nine hours away from home #no one is here #the streets are empty #how did this happen #where has civilisation gone #i am alone in the universe #oh wait no there's an echidna it's okay
By Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie for Elle.com
As a child, I loved watching my mother get dressed for Mass. She folded and twisted and pinned her ichafu until it sat on her head like a large flower. She wrapped her george—heavy beaded cloth, alive with embroidery, always in bright shades of red or purple or pink—around her waist in two layers. The first, the longer piece, hit her ankles, and the second formed an elegant tier just below her knees. Her sequined blouse caught the light and glittered. Her shoes and handbag always matched. Her lips shone with gloss. As she moved, so did the heady scent of Dior Poison. I loved, too, the way she dressed me in pretty little-girl clothes, lace-edged socks pulled up to my calves, my hair arranged in two puffy bunny-tails. My favorite memory is of a sunny Sunday morning, standing in front of her dressing table, my mother clasping her necklace around my neck, a delicate gold wisp with a fish-shape pendant, the mouth of the fish open as though in delighted surprise.
For her work as a university administrator, my mother also wore color: skirt suits, feminine swingy dresses belted at the waist, medium-high heels. She was stylish, but she was not unusual. Other middle-class Igbo women also invested in gold jewelry, in good shoes, in appearance. They searched for the best tailors to make clothes for them and their children. If they were lucky enough to travel abroad, they shopped mostly for clothes and shoes. They spoke of grooming almost in moral terms. The rare woman who did not appear well dressed and well lotioned was frowned upon, as though her appearance were a character failing. “She doesn’t look like a person,” my mother would say.
As a teenager, I searched her trunks for crochet tops from the 1970s. I took a pair of her old jeans to a seamstress who turned them into a miniskirt. I once wore my brother’s tie, knotted like a man’s, to a party. For my 17th birthday, I designed a halter maxidress, low in the back, the collar lined with plastic pearls. My tailor, a gentle man sitting in his market stall, looked baffled while I explained it to him. My mother did not always approve of these clothing choices, but what mattered to her was that I made an effort. Ours was a relatively privileged life, but to pay attention to appearance—and to look as though one did—was a trait that cut across class in Nigeria.