#colorblindness

[thenib]

"In my day to day life I experience color as the background noise of a language I cannot understand." 

#m sabine rear #colorblindness

[phantomphangphucker]

Phic Phight - Dal′ton-izm

@tourettesdog

Danny should not be trusted with self care and clean up duty, especially if he couldn’t tell the goddamn difference between ectoplasm and blood.

Danny growls down into his arm, struggling a little to keep all the skin more or less together. Damn, he hated getting nastier injuries, it was always a freaking pain... literally and metaphorically. He’s busy using the other arm to fire off ecto-blasts and make shields to block the return fire. Stupid Skulker and his stupid homing missiles. Stupid ghosts destroying any sense of a normal fucking sleeping schedule. Ugh. 

“I will wear you down eventually! And when I do! Then you’re mine!”. 

Could he at least get some new lines? Danny snapping back, “tha oni ‘ay ya be owl ta cah eee ‘ine’ is ‘hen Ine ackin’ as a ‘and ‘ine fah ya!”. That wasn’t his best line and it was probably impossible to understand him, but his arm is in his mouth, so he’s kinda focused on things other than puns right now. 

Skulker sends off another rocket at him, unsurprising. What is at least slightly surprising is that right when Danny puts up another shield Skulker gets shot by what’s borderline a freaking taser. Danny glancing down at a smirking Tuck peeking out around a corner and congratulating himself. Danny making quick work of capturing the ghost after that and landing on the ground with his arm still in his mouth. Sam popping out in a second and pointing at the ground aggressively. 

“You better sit down or so help me”. 

Man they were both always so aggressive about making sure he got patched up as quickly and cleanly as possible. It was both touching and annoying, sometimes he still had ghosts to chase! Or he just wanted to go to bed instead of dealing with being bandaged up or stitched or wiped down. Granted the stitching was usually a little more necessary, like it definitely was right now. 

So he floats himself down to the ground, back against a wall and opening his mouth to let Sam inspect it and get to work doing patch up. 

“Zone Danny, way to really fuck up your arm”.

Danny pouting, “hey blame Skulker, not me. I actually tried to protect myself pretty well I think, it’s not my fault he managed to spear a goddamn grappling hook through my arm”. The guy nearly took his arm off entirely with that shit, dumb jerk. Though that was probably part of the point since the dude wanted trophies and shit, he could absolutely see Skulker freaking mounting his arm on a wall or something. 

Sam sighs, wiping his arm down overly thoroughly, “I know I know, it’s just a pain to clean up this level of damage and I’m allowed to worry about your dumbass; also, nice fang marks”. 

“Worrying about my ass is fair, sitting on this hard ground is gonna make it go numb”. She smacks him over the head for that one before getting to work on the stitching. 

Tuck’s off spraying some of the ecto mess on a wall, that dissolve crap Danny’s folks made works like a freaking charm, like well enough that he’d be legit worried they’re could get away with murder. All three going still for a second at the sound of a hover board, Danny turning him and Sam invisible while Tuck goes and crawls himself under a dumpster. Val/Red doesn’t do more than fly by at least, good. Danny grumbling quietly, “you know, if we didn’t stick around alleyways for cleaned up time, we wouldn’t have to worry about that so much”. 

Tuck crawling himself out, whisper hissing, “dude, we can’t leave your mess everywhere. The other ghosts are one thing, you’re different”. Sam only huffing and working a little more quickly on her stitch work, it looked like she was nearly done at least and fuck is he glad his pain tolerance could solidly kick ass these days. 

Danny whisper hissing back, “I don’t see how? Even if my parents, so called ghost experts, stumbled upon this, how would they even tell my stuff from any persons or ghosts stuff? My folks aren’t nearly thorough enough to take literally millions of samples”. 

Sam pausing a little, “don’t be stupid”.

“I’m not being stupid. Like yes I’m sure stumbling across massive messes and stuff would be very upsetting for the towns folk but people have gotten used to weirder. I mean, I’ve overshadowed Jason, like, eight times now and the guy isn’t even surprised anymore”. 

Tuck, scrubbing the edge of a newspaper stand, chuckles, “okay yeah that guy has terrible luck with you, didn’t you also accidentally set his water heater on fire?”, shaking his head and looking underneath the newspaper stand, “and it’s less about people freaking out and more about them wondering why there’s freaking human blood mixed in with the ecto”. 

Okay now Danny just goddamn confused. Glancing around at what little remained of the mess as well as looking his -slightly messy again- arm over without moving it, “the heck you talking about? Everything’s glowing, why would anyone think any of this was human”. 

“Okay sure, yeah, your human blood glows too but it’s clearly human blood, man”.

“No? It’s not?”. Literally the only difference between ghost ectoplasm and human blood was wether or not it glowed. If his human blood glowed then how would literally anyone know its wasn’t ectoplasm unless they went around sampling literally every drop they could find. Even then if some traces of human blood showed up in an ecto sample it could just be written off as freaking transfer or whatever. 

Sam looks up at him like he’s stupid, while grabbing out the wrapping, her pausing at Danny pretty clearly looking goddamn legit confused. “Danny... are you seriously saying you can’t see a difference between your ‘mess’ and everything else?”; she sounds actually worried about him. 

Well that was concerning, is he not seeing something they are? Because of the half dead thing? Sure, obviously goddamn dying changed his body, like duh, but he’d like to think he didn’t really lose anything a fully living human had. Or maybe it was because of the life long ecto-contamination? Danny shaking his head results in Tuck rubbing towels in some of the mess in different spots and holding it up at him with a head tilt. 

Okay Danny’s going to guess that the towels, or the mess that’s on them anyways, look different to the guy. Still don’t to Danny... “if you’re trying to ask me if I think those towels look different from each other or something, they don’t”, tilting his own head, “how the heck do they look different to you?”.

Tuck drops his arms and the towels right on the ground, fully gapping at him, “dude”.

“Okay now you’re starting to worry me. They’ve both got a glowing mess on them so obviously ecto, the glow is literally the only difference between ecto and blood”.

Sam buries her head in her hands and actually starts laughing, “oh- oh my zone- no, Danny. Oh- ha!”. 

“Sam stop laughing, damn it, you’re gonna make me laugh and this should be serious”, Tuck snickers a little anyways before clearing his throat, “Danny, man, Zone, how can you not tell they’re two completely different colours”. 

Danny blinking owlishly, “what”. Tuck just losing it at that, sitting on his ankles and laughing into his hands. Wait a minute, Danny blurting out, “are you saying I’m fucking colourblind and just didn’t goddamn notice?!!?”. How???

Tuck wheezes a little more while Sam struggles to contain herself and actually clamp Danny’s wrapping in place. Tuck walking over while fiddling on his pda, shoving it in his face, “okay okay, we, ha, should definitely make sure this isn’t a half-dead thing”, wiggling the pda. “So what numbers in the circle?”.

Danny blinks at the screen. Oh damn it, screw him. There’s no damn number at all, he is so totally colour blind. Groaning and rubbing the hand that isn’t attached to an injured arm down his face, “ugh”.

“Well?”.

Danny sighing, “it’s just a circle, dude. Fuck my half life”. Rubbing his face some more as both of them snicker at him mockingly but also clearly in pure goddamn surprise. Well, at least it wasn’t a dead thing. Yay? Dropping his hand and then using it to gesture at the somewhat still there mess, “so all of this doesn’t look all the same?”.

Tuck laughs, shaking his head and then snorting, “no, man. It’s mostly ectoplasm, which is green by the way. But there’s also splatters and swirls of your human blood, which is red”, he chuckles again, “those two colours are about as different as yellow and black”.

Danny winces, okay so it was noticeable. Shit. Sam patting his shoulder, “you’re patched and at least now I know why you suck at cleaning and were always so lax about it. You would be so screwed without us”.

Okay that Danny can’t help laughing at himself, “oh yeah! my blood and ecto mix would have gotten found out in a month!”.

“Try three days, you combative little shit”.

Danny absolutely sticks his tongue out at Sam for that, but watching his two friends get up and start cleaning the area again; occasionally shaking their heads in disbelief or snickering some more. At least they usually didn’t try and make him help since he was usually supposed to be spending his time healing aka not moving around a ton. Tuck actually left him his precious pda so Danny fiddles with it looking up random colourblindness tests.

…

He doesn’t seem to have any other issues but he fails every red/green one horrifically. Even the ‘super easy’ ones. The universe must really goddamn hate him to make him extremely colourblind but literally only to basically his own blood/ecto. Stupid body, stupid eyes. Wait, him blurting out, “holy shit does this mean that Vlad doesn’t have the same eye colour as me?!?”.

Both of them burst out laughing and fall over each other, smacking each other and random things. Tuck wheezing, “NO!”. Sam snickering, “oh that is too good! I mean it’s sad but ho!”.

Danny sticking his arms out to the side, pda cradled in his lap, “but that means we have literally nothing in common physically? Who would want a son that looks zero percent like them?!?!?”. Their laughter only gets louder and eventually he’s laughing again too.

“What is going on here?”.

All three still, still goddamn laughing though because shit you can’t just stop that shit on a dime. Danny snorts, coming up with something on the fly before Red -fuck is her outfit even actually red????- decides to start shooting him, “I, ha, am apparently fucking colour blind and, ha, these two citizens decided to absolutely lay into me for not realsing there was human blood here”.

“I just flew through here! I thought someone got hurt and was looking for them! You jerk!”, she actually sits down on her board, “so this is how I find out that the only other remotely decent sorta coworker in this town can’t tell if something blood or ectoplasm. Zone that’s stupid and I hate it”.

Danny snorting while Sam and Tuck continue making half assed laughter-fuelled attempts to clean. “What? You gonna give me a way to beep you in case I ever stumble upon a mess again?”, and chuckles to himself.

She groans loudly, “i hate that that’s a good idea”. Which makes Danny bark a loud laugh, “oh man is being fucking colour blind what gets Red to stop ridding my ass! Ha!”, clearing his throat and tilting his head at her in a way he hopes looks puppy-like, “is your suit even red? I will whole ass admit to thinking you picked your colour because the ecto blended into it”.

He can tell she’s staring at him, “I’m going to kill you a second time, Phantom”.

“Been there, tried that. Do something more original”.

Red goes from glaring bloody murder at Danny to looking at the teens who’ve basically cleaned everything, meaning that Val won’t realise the RED human blood had been glowing. “Will you two care if I end the town menace?”.

Sam glares but is still too amused for there to be any real bite to it, “this is the funniest shit I’ve ran into all week don’t you dare sully that”. Tuck just giving an agreeing thumbs up while snickering and wiping off a storm drain.

Red sighing, “that’s fair”, pointing aggressively at Danny, “it is red and ectoplasm does not blend in, zone I hate you”, gesturing at random bits of wall and ground, “now is there an injured person or not?”.

All three shaking their heads immediately, Tuck giving the crappy excuse of, “bad nose bleed plus sudden ghosts plus face-planting into a wall. I’m fine”.

Red scowl could be heard in her voice, “good, now I’m going to bed”, her moving to fly off with a grumbled, “my suit was supposed to remind him and the town of my human blood, stupid ghost jerk”.

Okay fine that is hilarious, eventually Tuck comes over and gives him a high five, “congrats on not getting shot”. Sam shakes her head, “I’m more impressed she’s chilled out even remotely”, pointing at both boys, “but you know that excuse will never work again, right?”.

Danny blinking and smirking, “so what you’re saying is I should start being super cautious and just constantly send photos of murky liquid for a colour check?”.

“As much as I have no problem with you filling my phone with gore, I don’t want the cops to one day question me about that”.

Tuck elbows her, “eh I can set up a fully secure time deletion. Start lowkey stealing all snapchats users after I release it on the masses”.

Danny stretching and swatting Tuck one, “that sounds like you’re attempting to take over the world big brother eye in the sky style”.

“I totally could”.

Sam rolling her eyes, “I don’t even disagree”, her glancing around before nodding to herself, “looks like we’ve dealt with everything. How’s the arm?”.

Danny gives the limb a shake before grinning, “healed as fast as ever. And no seepage on the bandages so no, you don’t need to redo it”.

She puts her hands on her hips, “i don’t think you should ever be the judge of that. But fine, I guess it looks fine. Meaning we should get outta here before someone changes their mind”.

“Yeah yeah yeah”, rubbing his neck, glancing around, and changing back human. Eyeing his arm for changes and shrugging when he doesn’t see any olive murky liquid, “is my blood always a weird mix of colours?”.

Tuck patting his shoulder as they all begin to move out of the alley, “yeah, hence why we always try to hide you or cover it all the time. Did you just think we were being weirdos?”.

Danny rubbing his neck and glancing around, “I mean, yeah? More overprotective than weird”. They both shake their heads and chuckle at him and his generally stupidity.

In the future Danny did absolutely become just as cautious of others seeing his blood as his friends were, much to their relief and amusement.

End.

Prompt: Danny is red-green colorblind. This never caused him much trouble before the accident, but now, well... It would have been nice to know beforehand that his blood was the wrong color.

#danny phantom #phandom #phicphight24 #phic phight 24 #danny fenton #tucker foley #sam manson #phantomphangphucker #have a fic suck my dick #my writing #gothmoth #valerie gray #Danny's a dumbass #blood and injury #colorblindness #colorblind danny

[gaasublarb]

I am embarrassed at how long it took me to wonder what Hobie looks like to colorblind people (also pets)

(I used an app that's supposedly a colorblindness converter. If someone can tell it's crap, please lemme know. I bet it's different depending on screen settings too. Blarg)

#hobie brown #my posts #spiderpunk #deuteranopia #tritanopia #protanopia #colorblind #colorblindness

[charliejaneanders]

As history has shown, maintaining racial inequality requires constant repression and is therefore antithetical to democracy. And so we must be clear about the stakes: Our nation teeters at the brink of a particularly dangerous moment, not just for Black Americans but for democracy itself.

The ‘Colorblindness’ Trap: How a Civil Rights Ideal Got Hijacked

#politics #quotes #nikole hannah jones #racism #race #colorblindness #discrimination #white supremacy

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Tyler Austin Harper

Published: Aug 14, 2023

The hotel was soulless, like all conference hotels. I had arrived a few hours before check-in, hoping to drop off my bags before I met a friend for lunch. The employees were clearly frazzled, overwhelmed by the sudden influx of several hundred impatient academics. When I asked where I could put my luggage, the guy at the front desk simply pointed to a nearby hallway. “Wait over there with her; he’s coming back.”

Who “he” was remained unclear, but I saw the woman he was referring to. She was white and about my age. She had a conference badge and a large suitcase that she was rolling back and forth in obvious exasperation. “Been waiting long?” I asked, taking up a position on the other side of the narrow hallway. “Very,” she replied. For a while, we stood in silence, minding our phones. Eventually, we began chatting.

The conversation was wide-ranging: the papers we were presenting, the bad A/V at the hotel, our favorite things to do in the city. At some point, we began talking about our jobs. She told me that—like so many academics—she was juggling a temporary teaching gig while also looking for a tenure-track position.

“It’s hard,” she said, “too many classes, too many students, too many papers to grade. No time for your own work. Barely any time to apply to real jobs.”

When I nodded sympathetically, she asked about my job and whether it was tenure-track. I admitted, a little sheepishly, that it was.

“I’d love to teach at a small college like that,” she said. “I feel like none of my students wants to learn. It’s exhausting.”

Then, out of nowhere, she said something that caught me completely off guard: “But I shouldn’t be complaining to you about this. I know how hard BIPOC faculty have it. You’re the last person I should be whining to.”

I was taken aback, but I shouldn’t have been. It was the kind of awkward comment I’ve grown used to over the past few years, as “anti-racism” has become the reigning ideology of progressive political culture. Until recently, calling attention to a stranger’s race in such a way would have been considered a social faux pas. That she made the remark without thinking twice—a remark, it should be noted, that assumes being a Black tenure-track professor is worse than being a marginally employed white one—shows how profoundly interracial social etiquette has changed since 2020’s “summer of racial reckoning.” That’s when anti-racism—focused on combating “color-blindness” in both policy and personal conduct—grabbed ahold of the liberal mainstream.

Though this “reckoning” brought increased public attention to the deep embeddedness of racism in supposedly color-blind American institutions, it also made instant celebrities of a number of race experts and “diversity, equity, and inclusion” (DEI) consultants who believe that being anti-racist means undergoing a “journey” of radical personal transformation. In their righteous crusade against the bad color-blindness of policies such as race-neutral college admissions, these contemporary anti-racists have also jettisoned the kind of good color-blindness that holds that we are more than our race, and that we should conduct our social life according to that idealized principle. Rather than balance a critique of color-blind law and policy with a continuing embrace of interpersonal color-blindness as a social etiquette, contemporary anti-racists throw the baby out with the bathwater. In place of the old color-blind ideal, they have foisted upon well-meaning white liberals a successor social etiquette predicated on the necessity of foregrounding racial difference rather than minimizing it.

As a Black guy who grew up in a politically purple area—where being a good person meant adhering to the kind of civil-rights-era color-blindness that is now passé—I find this emergent anti-racist culture jarring. Many of my liberal friends and acquaintances now seem to believe that being a good person means constantly reminding Black people that you are aware of their Blackness. Difference, no longer to be politely ignored, is insisted upon at all times under the guise of acknowledging “positionality.” Though I am rarely made to feel excessively aware of my race when hanging out with more conservative friends or visiting my hometown, in the more liberal social circles in which I typically travel, my race is constantly invoked—“acknowledged” and “centered”—by well-intentioned anti-racist “allies.”

This “acknowledgement” tends to take one of two forms. The first is the song and dance in which white people not-so-subtly let you know that they know that race and racism exist. This includes finding ways to interject discussion of some (bad) news item about race or racism into casual conversation, apologizing for having problems while white (“You’re the last person I should be whining to”), or inversely, offering “support” by attributing any normal human problem you have to racism.

The second way good white liberals often “center” racial difference in everyday interactions with minorities is by trying, always clumsily, to ensure that their “marginalized” friends and familiars are “culturally” comfortable. My favorite personal experiences of this include an acquaintance who invariably steers dinner or lunch meetups to Black-owned restaurants, and the time that a friend of a friend invited me over to go swimming in their pool before apologizing for assuming that I know how to swim (“I know that’s a culturally specific thing”). It is a peculiar quirk of the 2020s’ racial discourse that this kind of “acknowledgement” and “centering” is viewed as progress.

My point is not that conservatives have better racial politics—they do not—but rather that something about current progressive racial discourse has become warped and distorted. The anti-racist culture that is ascendant seems to me to have little to do with combatting structural racism or cultivating better relationships between white and Black Americans. And its rejection of color-blindness as a social ethos is not a new frontier of radical political action.

No, at the core of today’s anti-racism is little more than a vibe shift—a soft matrix of conciliatory gestures and hip phraseology that give adherents the feeling that there has been a cultural change, when in fact we have merely put carpet over the rotting floorboards. Although this push to center rather than sidestep racial difference in our interpersonal relationships comes from a good place, it tends to rest on a troubling, even racist subtext: that white and Black Americans are so radically different that interracial relationships require careful management, constant eggshell-walking, and even expert guidance from professional anti-racists. Rather than producing racial harmony, this new ethos frequently has the opposite effect, making white-Black interactions stressful, unpleasant, or, perhaps most often, simply weird.

Since the murder of George Floyd in May 2020, progressive anti-racism has centered on two concepts that helped Americans make sense of his senseless death: “structural racism” and “implicit bias.” The first of these is a sociopolitical concept that highlights how certain institutions—maternity wards, police barracks, lending companies, housing authorities, etc.—produce and replicate racial inequalities, such as the disproportionate killing of Black men by the cops. The second is a psychologicalconcept that describes the way that all individuals—from bleeding-heart liberals to murderers such as Derek Chauvin—harbor varying degrees of subconscious racial prejudice.

Though “structural racism” and “implicit bias” target different scales of the social order—institutions on the one hand, individuals on the other—underlying both of these ideas is a critique of so-called color-blind ideology, or what the sociologist Eduardo Bonilla-Silva calls “color-blind racism”: the idea that policies, interactions, and rhetoric can be explicitly race-neutral but implicitly racist. As concepts, both “structural racism” and “implicit bias” rest on the presupposition that racism is an enduring feature of institutional and social life, and that so-called race neutrality is a covertly racist myth that perpetuates inequality. Some anti-racist scholars such as Uma Mazyck Jayakumar and Ibram X. Kendi have put this even more bluntly: “‘Race neutral’ is the new “separate but equal.’” Yet, although anti-racist academics and activists are right to argue that race-neutral policies can’t solve racial inequities—that supposedly color-blind laws and policies are often anything but—over the past few years, this line of criticism has also been bizarrely extended to color-blindness as a personal ethos governing behavior at the individual level.

The most famous proponent of dismantling color-blindness in everyday interactions is Robin DiAngelo, who has made an entire (very condescending) career out of asserting that if white people are not uncomfortable, anti-racism is not happening. “White comfort maintains the racial status quo, so discomfort is necessary and important,” the corporate anti-racist guru advises. Over the past three years, this kind of anti-color-blind, pro-discomfort rhetoric has become the norm in anti-racist discourse. On the final day of the 28-day challenge in Layla Saad’s viral Me and White Supremacy, budding anti-racists are tasked with taking “out-of-your-comfort-zone actions,” such as apologizing to people of color in their life and having “uncomfortable conversations.” Frederick Joseph’s best-selling book The Black Friend takes a similar tack. The problem with color-blindness, Joseph counsels, is it allows “white people to continue to be comfortable.” The NFL analyst Emmanuel Acho wrote an entire book, simply called Uncomfortable Conversations With a Black Man, that admonishes readers to “stop celebrating color-blindness.” And, of course, there are endless how-to guides for having these “uncomfortable conversations” with your Black friends.

Once the dominant progressive ideology, professing “I don’t see color” is now viewed as a kind of dog whistle that papers over implicit bias. Instead, current anti-racist wisdom holds that we must acknowledge racial difference in our interactions with others, rather than assume that race needn’t be at the center of every interracial conversation or encounter. Coming to grips with the transition we have undergone over the past decade—color-blind etiquette’s swing from de rigueur to racist—requires a longer view of an American cultural transition. Civil-rights-era color-blindness was replaced with an individualistic, corporatized anti-racism, one focused on the purification of white psyches through racial discomfort, guilt, and “doing the work” as a road to self-improvement.

Writing in 1959, the social critic Philip Rieff argued that postwar America was transforming from a religious and economic culture—one oriented around common institutions such as the church and the market—to a psychological culture, one oriented around the self and its emotional fulfillment. By the 1960s, Rieff had given this shift a name: “the triumph of the therapeutic,” which he defined as an emergent worldview according to which the “self, improved, is the ultimate concern of modern culture.” Yet, even as he diagnosed our culture with self-obsession, Rieff also noticed something peculiar and even paradoxical. Therapeutic culture demanded that we reflect our self-actualization outward. Sharing our innermost selves with the world—good, bad, and ugly—became a new social mandate under the guise that authenticity and open self-expression are necessary for social cohesion.

Recent anti-racist mantras like “White silence is violence” reflect this same sentiment: exhibitionist displays of “racist” guilt are viewed as a necessary precursor to racial healing and community building. In this way, today’s attacks on interpersonal color-blindness—and progressives’ growing fixation on implicit bias, public confession, and race-conscious social etiquette—are only the most recent manifestations of the cultural shift Rieff described. Indeed, the seeds of the current backlash against color-blindness began decades ago, with the application of a New Age, therapeutic outlook to race relations: so-called racial-sensitivity training, the forefather of today’s equally spurious DEI programming.

In her 2001 book, Race Experts, the historian Elisabeth Lasch-Quinn painstakingly details how racial-sensitivity training emerged from the 1960s’ human-potential movement and its infamous “encounter groups.” As she explains, what began as a more or less countercultural phenomenon was later corporatized in the form of the anemic, pointless workshops controversially lampooned on The Office. Not surprisingly, this shift reflected the ebb and flow of corporate interests: Whereas early workplace training emphasized compliance with the newly minted Civil Rights Act of 1964, later incarnations would focus on improving employee relations and, later still, leveraging diversity to secure better business outcomes.

If there is something distinctive about the anti-color-blind racial etiquette that has emerged since George Floyd’s death, it is that these sites of encounter have shifted from official institutional spaces to more intimate ones where white people and minorities interact as friends, neighbors, colleagues, and acquaintances. Racial-awareness raising is a dynamic no longer quarantined to formalized, compulsory settings like the boardroom or freshman orientation. Instead, every interracial interaction is a potential scene of (one-way) racial edification and supplication, encounters in which good white liberals are expected to be transparent about their “positionality,” confront their “whiteness,” and—if the situation calls for it—confess their “implicit bias.”

In a vacuum, many of the prescriptions advocated by the anti-color-blind crowd are reasonable: We should all think more about our privileges and our place in the world. An uncomfortable conversation or an honest look in the mirror can be precursors to personal growth. We all carry around harmful, implicit biases and we do need to examine the subconscious assumptions and prejudices that underlie the actions we take and the things we say. My objection is not to these ideas themselves, which are sensible enough. No, my objection is that anti-racism offers little more than a Marie Kondo–ism for the white soul, promising to declutter racial baggage and clear a way to white fulfillment without doing anything meaningful to combat structural racism. As Lasch-Quinn correctly foresaw, “Casting interracial problems as issues of etiquette [puts] a premium on superficial symbols of good intentions and good motivations as well as on style and appearance rather than on the substance of change.”

Yet the problem with the therapeutics of contemporary anti-racism is not just that they are politically sterile. When anti-color-blindness and its ideology of insistent “race consciousness” are translated into the sphere of private life—to the domain of friendships, block parties, and backyard barbecues—they assault the very idea of a multiracial society, producing new forms of racism in the process. The fact that our media environment is inundated with an endless stream of books, articles, and social-media tutorials that promise to teach white people how to simply interact with the Black people in their life is not a sign of anti-racist progress, but of profound regression.

The subtext that undergirds this new anti-racist discourse—that Black-white relationships are inherently fraught and must be navigated with the help of professionals and technical experts—testifies to the impoverishment of our interracial imagination, not to its enrichment. More gravely, anti-color-blind etiquette treats Black Americans as exotic others, permanent strangers whose racial difference is so chasmic that it must be continually managed, whose mode of humanness is so foreign that it requires white people to adopt a special set of manners and “race conscious” ritualistic practices to even have a simple conversation.

If we are going to find a way out of the racial discord that has defined American life post-Trump and post-Charlottesville and post-Floyd, we have to begin with a more sophisticated understanding of color-blindness, one that rejects the bad color-blindness on offer from the Republican Party and its partisans, as well as the anti-color-blindness of the anti-racist consultants. Instead, we should embrace the good color-blindness of not too long ago. At the heart of that color-blindness was a radical claim, one imperfectly realized but perfect as an ideal: that despite the weight of a racist past that isn’t even past, we can imagine a world, or at least an interaction between two people, where racial difference doesn’t make a difference.

[ Via: https://archive.today/8zfvc ]

#Tyler Austin Harper #antiracism #antiracism as religion #neoracism #colorblindness #colorblind #color blindness #color blind #religion is a mental illness

[bunhype]

Some of you need this chart, I think.

#colorblindness #pokeblr #dashboard commentary

[goondah]

Trying to find stuff about being colourblind online is like:

Race Discourse

Race Discourse

Ripoff ishihara plates

Race Discourse

Fandom post headcanoning a character as colourblind as a cool quirk (written by someone who has no idea how colourblindness works)

Race Discourse

Art where the creator drew it with their monitor in greyscale for the "colourblind challenge"

Race Discourse

Joke post where colourblindness is the punchline (written by someone who has no idea how colourblindness works)

Race Discourse

Fandom post about an OC who can only see the colour pink

#colourblind #colourblindness #colorblind #colorblindness #vent

[fusehound-prompts]

FuseHound Prompt #46

Bloodhound: Mitt Walter, look at this ruby I have found.

Fuse: ...that's an emerald, love.

Bloodhound: But emeralds are green.

Fuse: This thing IS green.

Bloodhound: But it is a dark...gray...red. Mostly gray. Sometimes red things are gray!

Fuse: Mate, you're a little colorblind and there's nothin' to be ashamed of.

Bloodhound: I...oh.

#fusehound prompts #fusehound #adventure time #prompt #writing prompt #blodhundr #blódhundr #fuse #fuse apex #fuse apex legends #walter fitzroy #walter fuse fitzroy #bloodhound apex legends #bloodhound apex #bloodhound #colorblind #colorblindness

[crsinclair]

So a small snippet of an Erasermic Soulmate AU in which when you can't see colors until you meet your soulmates! (This was also slightly based off an idea that @o0fyuu0ouu0o once talked about on the bird app in which Shouta was naturally colorblind.)

Hizashi goes to the library the day before going back to school and finds a book that describes color for those who've found their soulmates. He sits with it in a corner and traces over the colors and the descriptions next to them, along with the various examples of and pictures of what might be those colors in awe for hours. (Sundays are usually days in which his family spends doing their own thing, and occasionally they'll let him have the day to himself so long as he's in his room by curfew and doesn't embarrass the family in any way. Sitting in the library is usually what Hizashi ends up doing.) He looks in the mirror after that, taking the book with him into the library restroom (one of the librarians seeing the title with a knowing eye and letting him). He stares at the pages and then looks at his eyes, the barely there spots on his face, his tightly bound hair. Green eyes, with darker green rings. Light brown freckles, so light one can barely see them. Yellow...no, blonde hair, like wheat or even sunshine. Hizashi stares at himself for a long time. What does his soulmate think of the way he looks? Does he like the different colors of him? Is it better than the different shades of grey he was before? Hizashi didn't realize he had freckles until he could see color, so maybe... But not everyone likes freckles, so what if - what if that's why his soulmate wasn't there to talk to him after their fight in the Sports Festival? What if he didn't like his colors? Hizashi slams the books closed and hurries out of the restroom, leaving the book on a table before rushing out of the library.

#ravyn writes #erasermic #yamada hizashi #present mic #soulmate au #snippet #discovering color #colorblindness #not knowing the other person is colorblind #this au honestly was a lot of fun to toss about

[princesssarcastia]

sometimes i do wonder about identity politics, and whether they truly serve us well. but then i remember! i live in a nasty queer progressive bubble that's not at ALL representative of reality.

If you do live in America, I can't recommend this article highly enough. Nikole Hannah Jones is inevitably going to be written down in the annals of history as one of the great writers of our time. She really truly blows the whole issue wide open, every time.

Excerpt:

Thus, the first time the court took up the issue of affirmative action, it took away the policy’s power. The court determined that affirmative action could not be used to redress the legacy of racial discrimination that Black Americans experienced, or the current systemic inequality that they were still experiencing. Instead, it allowed that some consideration of a student’s racial background could stand for one reason only: to achieve desired “diversity” of the student body. Powell referred to Harvard’s affirmative-action program, which he said had expanded to include students from other disadvantaged backgrounds, such as those from low-income families. He quoted an example from the plan, which said: “The race of an applicant may tip the balance in his favor, just as geographic origin or a life spent on a farm may tip the balance in other candidates’ cases. A farm boy from Idaho can bring something to Harvard College that a Bostonian cannot offer. Similarly, a Black student can usually bring something that a white person cannot offer.” But, of course, a (white) farm boy from Idaho did not descend from people who were enslaved, because they were farmers from Idaho. There were not two centuries of case law arguing over the inherent humanity and rights of farm boys from Idaho. There was no sector of the law, no constitutional provision, that enshrined farm boys from Idaho as property who could be bought and sold. Farm boys from Idaho had no need to engage in a decades-long movement to gain basic rights of citizenship, including the fundamental right to vote. Farm boys from Idaho had not, until just a decade earlier, been denied housing, jobs, the ability to sit on juries and access to the ballot. Farm boys from Idaho had not been forced to sue for the right to attend public schools and universities.

#racism in america #colorblindness #identity politics

[magidoggie]

Honestly as a colorblind person, I reaaally dislike how the word was appropriated into a negative term about racial perception. It's clearly important to talk about those things, but the term "raceblind" is right there and that one doesn't turn a disability term into a negative word!

I sometimes just can't find things related to my disability on certain social medias because of this, as every other post will be about something completely unrelated!

#colorblind #colourblind #colorblindness #colourblindness

[waspsinyouryard]

favorite color scheme go

Genuinely love the color scheme witnessed by tritanopia havers even though my favorite color is green

#colors #colorblindness #tritanopia #ask

[unovas-reluctant-champion]

......is genesect blue?

#pkmn irl #pokemon irl #irl pokemon #pokeblogging #colorblindness

[thatdemiboymess]

Not enough people talk about the fact that Hanazawa Teruki from mp100 is canonically colorblind. Why don't more people talk about Teru being colorblind?

#mp100 teruki #mp100 teru #teruki hanazawa #colorblindness #canon disability

[srhuevos]

My eye doctor talking to me about colorblindness:

#funny #lol #joke #tumblr #life #me #personal #color #colorblind #colorblindness

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Francesca Block

Published: Jan 15, 2024

In the 1960s, when Clarence Jones was writing speeches for Martin Luther King Jr., he used to joke with the civil rights leader: “You don’t deserve me, man.” 

“Why?” King would ask. 

“I hear your voice in my head. I hear your voice in perfect pitch,” Jones would respond. “So when I write, I can write words that accurately reflect the way you actually speak.” 

King would agree. “Man, you are scary. It’s like you’re right in my head.”

And Jones is still, in his mind, having conversations with his friend, who was assassinated at the age of 39 on a Memphis hotel balcony in 1968. Especially now, as America’s racial climate seems to have worsened, despite the fact that King successfully fought to ensure all Americans are given equal protection under the law, regardless of their skin color. A poll from 2021 shows that 57 percent of U.S. adults view the relations between black and white Americans to be “somewhat” or “very” bad—compared to just 35 percent who felt that way a decade ago.

Jones knows exactly what King would have felt about that. He says it out loud, and directs it to his late mentor: “Martin, I’m pissed off at you. I’m angry at you. We should have been more protective of you. We need you. You wouldn’t permit what’s going on if you were here.

“We are trying to save the soul of America.” 

[ Jones, behind Martin Luther King Jr. in 1963, wrote: “I saw history unfold in a way no one else could have. Behind the scenes.” ]

I spoke to Jones, 93, two weeks ago as he sat on a beige couch in the humble second-floor apartment in Palo Alto, California, that he shares with his wife. A black-and-white close-up of King sits directly above his head, almost like a north star.

“Regrettably, some very important parts of his message are not being remembered,” Jones said, referring to King’s belief in “radical nonviolence” and his eagerness to build allies across ethnic lines. 

“Put in a more negative way,” he added, King’s messages “have been forgotten.” 

Jones was a young, up-and-coming entertainment lawyer when he first met King in February 1960. The preacher had turned up on the doorstep of his California home and tried to convince him to move to Alabama to defend him from a tax evasion case. But Jones wasn’t interested.

“Just because some preacher got his hand caught in the cookie jar stealing, that ain’t my problem,” he said in a talk, years later.

But King wasn’t one to give up easily. He invited Jones to attend his sermon at a nearby Baptist church in a well-to-do black neighborhood of Los Angeles. Standing at the pulpit, King spoke to a congregation of over a thousand people, delivering a message that seemed almost tailor-made for Jones. 

Jones remembers King talking about how black professionals needed to help their less fortunate “brothers and sisters” in the struggle for equality. He realized, then and there, what an incredible speaker King was, and felt compelled to join his cause.

“Martin Luther King Jr. was the baddest dude I knew in my lifetime,” Jones says. 

Jones moved down to Alabama to join King’s legal team. He helped free King of any charges in Alabama, and quickly became one of the leader’s closest confidants, and ultimately, his key speechwriter. 

Jones refers to himself and King as “the odd couple,” because, he says, “we were so different.” King was the son of a preacher from a middle-class family in the South. Jones grew up the son of servants, raised by Catholic nuns in foster care in Philadelphia, who he credits with instilling in him “a foundation of self-confidence that was like a piece of steel in my spine.” 

He said this confidence propelled him to graduate as the valedictorian from his mixed-race high school just across the border in New Jersey, and then on to Columbia University, where he earned his bachelor’s degree in 1953. After a brief stint in the army, where he was discharged for refusing to sign a pledge stating that he was not a member of the Communist Party, Jones enrolled at the Boston University School of Law, graduating in 1959. 

Though Jones was mainly a background figure in the 1960s civil rights movement, it might not have been possible without him. He fundraised for King’s Southern Christian Leadership Conference so successfully that Vanity Fair later called him “the moneyman of the movement.” In 1963, when King was in prison, Jones helped smuggle out his notes, stuffing the words King scrawled on old newspapers and toilet paper into his pants and walking out. 

Later, he helped string those notes together into King’s famous address, “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” which argued the case for civil disobedience, and was eventually published in every major newspaper in the country.

Jones then wooed enough deep-pocketed donors, including New York’s then-governor Nelson Rockefeller, to raise the bail needed to release King and many other young protesters from jail.

Jones also helped write many of King’s most iconic speeches—“not because Dr. King wasn’t capable of doing it,” Jones emphasized—“but he didn’t have the time.” Jones crafted the opening lines of King’s “I Have a Dream” speech from his D.C. hotel room on the eve of the 1963 March on Washington. In his book, Behind the Dream, he recounts how he penned their shared vision for a better nation onto sheets of yellow, lined, legal notepaper, many of which ended up crumpled on the floor. 

But he didn’t write the most famous words: “I Have a Dream”—that was all King, his book notes. “I would deliver four strong walls and he would use his God-given abilities to furnish the place so it felt like home,” Jones writes about their speech-writing dynamic. 

The day after he wrote that speech, Jones stood just fifty feet behind King as he delivered it to the hundreds of thousands gathered on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. “I saw history unfold in a way no one else could have,” Jones writes. “Behind the scenes.”

The movement King led with Jones by his side helped achieve school integration, the Civil Rights Act of 1964, and the Voting Rights Act of 1965. 

So, when asked if America has made any progress on race, Jones is dumbstruck. “Are you kidding?” he said, with shock in his voice. “Any person who says that to the contrary, any black person who alleges themselves to be a scholar, or any white person who says otherwise, they’re just not telling you the truth.

“Bring back some black person who was alive in 1863, and bring them back today,” he adds. “Have them be a witness.”

But after the death of George Floyd in 2020, 44 percent of black Americans polled said “equality for black people in the U.S. is a little or not at all likely.” And “color blindness”—the once aspirational idea of judging people by their character rather than their skin color, which King famously espoused—has fallen out of fashion. The dominant voices of today’s black rights movement argue that people should be treated differently because of their skin color, to make up for the harms of the past. One of America’s most prominent black thinkers, Ibram X. Kendi, argues that past discrimination can only be remedied by present discrimination.

Jones makes it clear he doesn’t want to live in a society that doesn’t see race. “You don’t want to be blind to color. You want to see color. I want to be very aware of color.” 

But, he emphasizes: “I just don’t want to attach any conditions to equality to color.” 

He adds that it’s possible to read Kendi’s prize-winning book, Stamped from the Beginning, and “come away believing that America is irredeemably racist, beyond redemption.”

It’s a theory he vehemently disagrees with. “That would violate everything that Martin King and I worked for,” he said. It would mean “it’s not possible for white racist people to change.”

“Well, I am telling you something,” Jones adds. “We have empirical evidence that we changed the country.” 

Jones is the first to admit King and his circle didn’t change the country on their own.

“As powerful as he was at moving the country, I tell everybody, there’s no way in hell that he or we would have achieved what we achieved without the coalition support of the American Jewish community.”

Jones especially gives credit to Stanley Levinson, who also advised King and helped write his speeches, and Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, who marched alongside King in Selma, Alabama. He remembers being on the picket lines and talking to Jewish protesters who told him about their own families’ experiences in the Holocaust. 

“There would have been no Civil Rights Act of 1964, no Voting Rights Act of 1965, had it not been for the coalition of blacks and Jews that made it happen,” Jones says. 

Now, in the wake of Hamas’s October 7 terrorist attack against Israel, Jones said he fears that relations between the Jewish and the black communities in America are beginning to unravel.

He said he has seen how, days after the attack, college students—many of them black—marched on campus, chanting for the death of Israel. 

“It pains me today when I hear so-called radical blacks criticizing Israel for getting rid of Hamas. So I say to them, what do you expect them to do?”

He continues: “A black person being antisemitic is literally shooting themselves in the foot.”

Long before October 7, Jones has proudly shown his allegiance to the Jewish people: a gold mezuzah—the small decorative case, which Jews fix to their door frames to bless their homes—is nailed outside his Palo Alto apartment. 

“I’m like an old dog who’s just not amenable to new tricks right now,” Jones says. “I have to go on the tricks that I’ve been taught, that got me where I am at 93 years of age. And those old tricks are: you stay with an alliance with the American Jewish community because it’s that alliance that got us this far.

“I am damn sure, at this time in my life, I’m not going to turn my back. This time is more urgent than ever.” 

Meanwhile, Jones worries that some of today’s social justice measures have strayed too far from King’s original message. He points to an ethnic studies curriculum for public schools in California, proposed in 2020, which sought to teach K–12 students about the marginalization of black, Hispanic, Native American, and Asian American peoples. 

Jones fiercely opposed the new curriculum recommendations, calling them, in a letter to Governor Gavin Newsom, a “perversion of history” that “will inflict great harm on millions of students in our state.” He wrote that the proposed curriculum excluded “the intellectual and moral basis for radical nonviolence advocated by Dr. King” and his colleagues. 

“They were promoting black nationalism,” he told me. “They were promoting blackness over excellence.”

California later passed a watered-down version of the curriculum.

At the same time, Jones feels more conflicted about affirmative action, a policy he believes was grounded in “the most genuine, the most beautiful, the most thoughtful” intentions, and that it helped to “accelerate the timetable. . . to truly give black people equal access.” 

Even so, he is pragmatic about the Supreme Court’s decision to strike it down last year. “You had to stop the escalator somewhere.”

[ Jones is still working. He released his autobiography, The Last of the Lions, in August, and is now recording the audiobook. ]

In the immediate years after King’s death in 1968, Jones struggled to find a path forward. He was angry and even considered “taking up arms against the government,” which he blamed for allowing King’s death to happen.

For a while, Jones dabbled in politics—serving as a New York State delegate at the 1968 Democratic Convention—and then in media, purchasing a part of the influential black paper New York Amsterdam News. In 1971, he acted as a negotiator on behalf of some of the inmates behind the Attica prison uprising, unsuccessfully trying to seek a peaceful resolution. 

But King’s voice—always in his head—eventually steered him back toward his original purpose. 

A father of five, Jones lives with his wife, Lin, just a five-minute walk from the Stanford campus where he maintains an affiliation with the Martin Luther King, Jr. Research and Education Institute. In 2018, Jones co-founded the University of San Francisco’s Institute for Nonviolence and Social Justice to teach the lessons of King and Mahatma Gandhi “in response to the moral emergencies of the twenty-first century.” 

He is also the chairman of Spill the Honey, a nonprofit founded in 2012 to honor the legacies of King and Holocaust survivor and Nobel laureate Elie Wiesel. And in August 2023, he released his autobiography, The Last of the Lions, so named because he is possibly the only member of King’s civil rights circle still alive. “There’s an African saying that I often reflect upon when I think about his legacy and my own part in his movement,” Jones writes in his book. “If the surviving lions don’t tell their stories, the hunters will take all the credit.”

Although the eight years he spent with King happened more than half a century ago, Jones told me he now sees his mission as clearly as ever. Asked if he has a message for young black Americans on this Martin Luther King Jr. Day, he doesn’t hesitate.

“Commit yourself irredeemably to the pursuit of personal excellence,” he says emphatically. “Be the very best that you can be. If you do that. . . our color becomes more relevant, because we demonstrate ‘black is beautiful’ not as some slogan, but black is beautiful because of its commitment to personal excellence, which has no color.” 

==

What's going on now is what happens when activists and fanatics, such as frauds like Kendi and Nikole Hannah-Jones, construct history curriculum, not actual historians. If they teach the Jewish allyship with the Civil Rights Movements at all, it will be wrapped in conspiracy theory such as "interest convergence."

https://newdiscourses.com/tftw-conspiracy-theory/

This doctrine insists that white people (as the racially privileged group) only take action to expand opportunities for people of color, especially blacks (see also, BIPOC), when it is in their own self-interest to do so, and in which case the result is usually the further entrenchment of racism that is harder to detect and fight. Under interest convergence, every action taken that might ameliorate or lessen racism (see also, antiracism) not only maintains racism, but does so because it was organized in the interests of white people who sought to maintain their power, privilege, and advantage through the intervention.

One of the truly gross and despicable things about frauds like Kendi is that while he pulls every bogus fallacy to assert that nothing has changed - it's a tenet of Critical Race Theory that nothing has changed, racism has only gotten better at hiding itself and becoming more entrenched - his own success blows this conspiracy theory completely out of the water, given how fawning his acolytes are about his wildly overstated wisdom, and the number of white fans he's accumulated who masochistically want to be told how racist they are and how much they hurt black folk every single day.

That's not possible unless racism is both aberrant and socially and culturally unacceptable.

#Clarence B. Jones #Clarence Jones #MLK Day #MLK Jr Day #Martin Luther King Jr #Martin Luther King #Martin Luther King Day #i have a dream #Henry Rogers #Ibram X. Kendi #black nationalism #colorblindness #color blindness #colorblind #color blind #antiracism #antiracism as religion #antisemitism #am yisrael chai #pro palestine #pro hamas #islamic terrorism #israel #palestine #hamas terrorism #hamas war crimes #exterminate hamas #religion is a mental illness