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#goy
thetriumphantpanda · 10 months
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Ghost of You | Joel Miller (Series Masterlist)
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Series Summary / Grief is a strange thing. In the beginning it had been all-consuming. There wasn’t a moment of the day where you didn’t cry, didn’t ask yourself why it couldn’t have been you instead. And no-one ever explains the guilt you feel when it isn’t anymore. When it’s just a dull ache and you can finally breathe again, when you can start letting people get close to you again. People like Joel Miller. 
Pairing / Joel Miller x Widow F!Reader 
Main Masterlist
Chapters marked with ** will have smut
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine **
Chapter Ten - Coming Soon
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modelsof-color · 2 months
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Goy Michel by Luis Alberto Rodriguez for D Repubblica Magazine January 2024
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iwieldthesword · 11 months
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Listen, I’m sure some other Jews will disagree with me but I’m always uncomfortable when gentiles refer to themselves as a goy/goyim
Like first of all, they almost always get it wrong grammatically (“I’m a goyim”), but it also doesn’t make that much sense culturally. “Goyim” translates to “nations” which historically was used for both Jews and gentiles before becoming a word that specifically means in “people from other nations/cultures” or simply “not-us”. It’s an in-word to describe an out group. So it doesn’t really track to call yourself “person from not-our culture” because you’re not part of the “our”.
Secondly, it’s weird because it’s just not your word. It’s very specifically Jewish, it’s a Jewish word, so why are y’all tripping over yourselves to use it when gentile is much more neutral? Like I’m betting most non-Hispanic white Americans would probably not call themselves gringos, so it’s hard to not see gentiles being so into it as an offspring of “haha, Yiddish word funny” that happens in American English, or the desperate need for leftist gentiles to prove that they’re ~in on~ Jewish culture (often without examining their internalized antisemitism but I digress). It’s definitely not cultural appropriation, but it is very weird to me.
And that’s the thing where tbh a gentile calling themselves a goy signals to me that they’re actually not keyed in to being an ally to Jews. Because while y’all can call yourselves whatever with impunity, Jews regularly face overt antisemitism for using the word goy despite it being our own fucking word. See: goy is a slur. See: Jews have sneaky secret words for us. See: the goyim know. It’s fucking loaded and sometimes actively dangerous for us—growing up in an antisemitic part of the word, my sister and I were fully taught not to use the word goy around gentiles because of how easily it was used as justification for antisemitism. So gentiles using “goy” as if it’s a cute word that shows how ~in~ they are with Jewish culture actually tells me that they don’t know much about historic or current antisemitism, or that they’re uninterested in unpacking their privilege to as non-Jews. Idk, it just feels like a slap in the face for gentiles to hold up a banner that says “I can use your language/culture more openly than you can because I won’t face horrific violence for it” and then like… expect extra special ally points for it.
Just say gentile. It means the same thing, it doesn’t come with baggage and you’re less likely to embarrass yourself using it incorrectly.
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isaacsapphire · 1 year
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Hot take for the day: "Goy" as used by English-speaking Jews should be treated with the same scrutiny and hostility as an outright slur. A perfectly serviceable English word-- Gentile-- exists for non-Jews. Performatively dropping back into a visibly outgroup language to use ONE SPECIFIC WORD instead of an adequately translated one is a clear sign of scorn, contempt, and/or hostility.
I mean, I'd be lying if I said I've never heard "goy" said with a bit of an edge, but I think you're overreacting to a single syllable loan-word vs a a longer word. Also, I've self-identified as goy at times and used it myself in this blog.
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beau-gar · 3 months
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GOY & CRAIG
www.beau-gar.tumblr.com
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rhinexstone · 4 months
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As a fan of both ironwork and the ornate, I go insane over Hanukah every year a Jewish mutual posts their menorah and I go
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the-catboy-minyan · 2 months
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hi! I’m not Jewish, my best friend is Jewish and it makes them uncomfortable when people who are not Jewish refer to themselves as “goy” I am curious if this is a broadly held opinion or personal preference, I can understand either way and am fine not saying it regardless but I am curious as to how it’s commonly viewed. don’t answer if you don’t wanna, you’re not obligated to answer questions abt Judaism, just if you have an opinion
hmm, I'd say to each their own, does your friend hate using the word goy in general or do they only hate it when non-jews do it? I'm assuming the latter.
I personally don't have an issue with goys using the word when discussing Jewish stuff (like "as a goy, I think xyz about Jewish topic"), as long as their respectful. I don't really see the need to use the word otherwise, imo it should give a heads up that the opinion is coming from someone who's not Jewish and thus doesn't have the same experiences to see the full picture.
the word also highlights a difference between jews and non-jews so maybe your friend doesn't like it because it alienates them a little? I can see how it can be weird in casual conversations and stuff.
I honestly don't know if it's a commonly held preference, since I'm Israeli and thus lived around a Jewish majority all my life, so i didn't interact with goyim all that often. you can try asking diaspora blogs fir their opinion. thanks for the ask!
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fail-eacan · 27 days
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Hey guys! Just thought I’d share this with people, since I’ve been looking for a good glossary of antisemitic terms and things
The AJC (American Jewish Committee) has a very nice one that is easy to navigate! It’s called “translate hate” and I’m reading through it right now.
It’s weird cause I’ve seen like all of these at various times, but didn’t quite put my finger on a lot of them until now. Some of them feel almost normal, it makes me feel kind of ill.
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itsalla-blrrrr · 3 months
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You ID as a goy in your about?
HAHA oh man talk about outdated. for the uninitiated, hi i'm ori i'm converting to judaism. i actually had a discussion about this with my rabbi like six months ago? maybe even longer ago. but i asked her straight up if i'm a goy. she was first kind of horrified and said if anybody in the community called me that to tell her right away because that would be way out of line. once i reassured her that this was just a hypothetical, she told me that while i am not a jew yet, i am without a doubt a very important part of my synagogue's community and of the jewish community as a whole. when having conversations with jews i make sure to be very intentional about my wording, saying i am a part of the jewish community without being a jew just yet
ty for bringing that to my attention, i'll go and fix it right away :3
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witherbee · 10 months
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the lyric "in a crowd unfamiliar i just want to touch your familiar face" making me tear up for some reason
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thetriumphantpanda · 10 months
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Ghost of You | J. Miller (Chapter One)
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Series Summary / Grief is a strange thing. In the beginning it had been all-consuming. There wasn’t a moment of the day where you didn’t cry, didn’t ask yourself why it couldn’t have been you instead. And no-one ever explains the guilt you feel when it isn’t anymore. When it’s just a dull ache and you can finally breathe again, when you can start letting people get close to you again. People like Joel Miller.
Pairing / Joel Miller x Female Reader
Word Count / 3.4K
Warnings / soft!Joel, reader is a widow, in depth discussions and descriptions of grief and depression, will have eventual smut, SLOW BURN.
Authors Note / I AM SO PROUD OF THIS LITTLE STORY YOU HAVE NO IDEA. I've wanted to write soft!Joel for so long so I hope you love it as much as I do! If you do enjoy it, reblogs, asks and likes are my drug so I'd love to know what you think! Also considering following for more!
Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist
Grief is a strange thing. In the beginning it had been all-consuming. There wasn’t a moment of the day where you didn’t cry, didn’t ask yourself why it couldn’t have been you instead. There were days that you couldn’t bring yourself to throw back the sheets of your bed and get up. For the first month, you think you managed to shower three times. No point if no-one was going to see you. You hadn’t left your house since the day of the funeral, life had become a monotonous circle of waking up, soaking your pillow with tears until you made yourself sick, throwing on the same clothes as before and then doing the same thing but led on the couch. 
People had reassured you it would get easier. That each day it would subside, little by little, and you cursed them for being right. The longer you sat with your misery, the easier it became. One morning, a few months ago, you remember waking up, only this time you didn’t roll over and place your hand on the empty side of the bed and cry when you realized your husband wasn’t there anymore. You got up and showered, taking 15 minutes to brush the matted mess of your hair, and you dressed in new clothes. 
You managed to walk to the market hall and purchase food with your ration cards and Maria had almost fallen over when she saw you in the aisle. That was the worst thing though. You’d been absent from life in Jackson for almost six months, and whenever you left your house people looked at you. Some still had those sympathetic eyes, telling you they were sorry for your loss, but there were the others who judged you. How pathetic you were for falling into despair like you had. 
It wasn’t as if he’d met a violent end, he was quite lucky, actually. In this world death came at the hands of evil, whether it was being taken and tortured by raiders, or torn limb from limb by infected. Your husband had died peacefully, drifting off in his sleep in the hospital. The doctors had said it was cancer, which seemed painfully unkind to him. He’d never smoked in his life and was probably the healthiest person you’d ever known, but when was life ever fair? 
You could tell they whispered once you’d passed. How dare she be so upset when my husband was killed on patrol? How lucky you were to have been able to say goodbye and hold his hand as he passed, when someone else turned into one of those things all alone. So now it wasn’t grief that kept you behind closed doors, but shame. Shame at knowing you thought they were right, that not being able to pull yourself together was selfish. Selfish to all the people who had managed to carry on with their lives after losing someone, selfish to the community for not being able to pull your weight. You were stuck and you had no idea what to do about it. 
The only way you could face leaving your home these days was on Maria’s comforting arm. She’d been your friend for years, she and Tommy seemingly the only people who understood you. Didn’t force you to do anything, let you come to your own decisions when you felt ready. No-one would dare look at you or speak in hushed tones whilst she was around. 
The sun was soaking Jackson now, it was summer, and you were grateful for the warmth of the sun on your skin, everything felt better with the sun on your back. With summer came one of your favourites of life’s simple pleasures. Strawberries. In the market you picked up as many as you could purchase after buying your essentials. Maria walked you home, helped you put away everything and then left with a comforting hug. 
You carefully placed a large handful of the fruit in a bowl, rinsing it under running water. You were about to sit down on your couch to eat them, but the sun was filtering invitingly through your front windows. You stripped off your jacket, leaving you in your simple tank top and jeans before opening your front door to sit on the bench on your porch. You had sunglasses resting on your face, Tommy had found them on a patrol trip a few months ago and you were grateful for the safety you felt from them. People couldn’t walk past and meet your eye. 
You were finishing your third strawberry when Tommy walked past, a man you didn’t know on his left shoulder. He took a look to your house and smiled on seeing you sat in a patch of sunlight, he waved, which you return, then he turns to the mysterious man on his left to say something before they start walking over. 
“It’s good to see you out, honey,” He smiled, walking to lean over the railing of your porch, “What’cha got there?” He asked, motioning his head to your bowl of strawberries. 
“You want one?” You asked, picking the bowl up and walking over to meet him, he gladly takes the biggest fruit in the bowl, pinching the spidery leaves off before putting the whole thing in his mouth, “How about you?” You asked, extending the bowl to Tommy’s mysterious companion. 
He takes a strawberry as well, doing as Tommy did, but he takes smaller bites of the fruit, like he’s savoring it, “This here’s my brother Joel,” Tommy speaks, Joel extends his hand and you take it, shaking it softly in greeting, “He arrived a few weeks back, he’s been getting settled with his daught… with Ellie, but I thought it was high time he started pulling his weight.” 
He had a smirk on his face as he said it and you could see the beginnings of a smile on Joel’s face too, “This one’s a real taskmaster,” You say to Joel, a smirk across your lips, “You’ll be wishing we had a retirement age soon enough.” 
“Can’t think where he gets it from,” Joel chuckles, “You were takin’ notes all the time we worked together before weren’t you?” 
Tommy smiles and nods, “Learnt from the best,” There’s another round of chuckles from the men, “Listen, we should get a move on, but I mean it, it’s nice to see you out like this.” 
“Thanks Tommy,” You offer a small smiled, “Here, take a strawberry for the road.” 
Both men take another fruit gladly before the way and make their way back down the street, leaving you on your own once more. You slide the sunglasses back onto your eyes and take your place in the path of sunlight on the bench. You sit there for a while, eating your strawberries, thinking about all the times you and your husband had done the same, holding hands as the sunset, cuddling up into his side when the temperature dropped. You realized suddenly that you weren’t sad. That the tears that usually threatened to fall were nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was just a feeling of happiness, grateful that you’d experienced love in a world where it had seemed impossible. Sure, you wished he would reach over and take your hand in his like he used to, squeeze it and place a soft kiss to your palm, but you were no longer ruled by the grief that had consumed you all those months ago. 
*
“She seemed nice.” Joel muses as he walks with Tommy. 
“She’s lovely,” He replies simply, “Just had a pretty rough time of it recently.” 
Joel hums in acknowledgement as his boots hit the ground in time with Tommy’s, “When you said it was good to see her out, what did you mean?” 
Tommy sighs at his question, but not out of frustration like he usually did when Joel asked him questions, more out of sympathy, “Her husband died about a year ago,” He begins to explain, “Nothin’ violent or anythin’ like that, the doctors reckoned it was cancer, but she took it real hard, I don’t think she got out of bed for the first week, and then after his funeral she just kinda withdrew, she’s been all alone in that house for months, refuses to leave unless it’s with Maria because people talk.” 
“People talk about her?” Joel is shocked, in a world where loss in inevitable, what makes someone else’s grief less worthy than others? 
“We’re safe here,” Tommy says, steering him into a building at the end of the street, “But that doesn’t mean people don’t die when they’re out there,” He references his patrol men, he’d lost a few which he would always hold heavy in his heart, “Maria told me once that when she took her to the market a few months ago, some busybody wives were talkin’ about how unfair it was she got to say goodbye, that he’d been sedated and it was easy for him.” 
Joel stops in his tracks, letting Tommy walk in front of him. They’re in the gun store, not for anything in particular, just so Joel knows where everything is so he can stop following his brother round like a lost puppy. His mind inevitably wanders to his own grief in this moment. The pain of losing his own daughter, the all-consuming feeling of ‘what is the point in life anymore?’ without her. The scar on the right side of his face and the hearing loss in the same ear when he’d tried to end it all. He hadn’t been strong, not really. If he hadn’t of flinched that would have been it, the easy way out, as some would have said. He’d struggled for a long time with his survival but that didn’t mean his was worth more than your grief, or yours more than his. It wasn’t that simple. 
“I spoke to them, told ‘em if I heard ‘em gossiping again then we’d have no issues moving them on their way, but I suppose people are always going to talk, they just do it where we can’t hear them.” 
“I’m guessin’ she knows?” 
“Of course she knows, Joel, that’s why she shuts herself away, easier that way I guess.” 
“Doesn’t make it fair though, feelin’ like you can’t leave your house because people are gonna judge the way your husband died.” 
“She’s been better recently,” Tommy speaks, leaning against the table behind him, “Still won’t really go anywhere without Maria, but seein’ her today, it was nice.”  Joel nods his way through Tommy explaining the signing out system for guns, follows him around to the stables where he shakes the hand of the young girl in charge of caring for them and then settles himself next to his brother at the bar for a drink. All the while, he can’t stop his mind drifting back to you and your loneliness, your despair at your loss, or the rotten porch step he’d noticed at the front of your house that might just give him the reason to get a little closer to you. 
*
A few mornings later, there is a soft knock at your door. Your face contorts in confusion, Maria wasn’t supposed to come until tomorrow. Leaving the coffee pot to its filtering, you walk slowly to the door, opening it to find Joel stood on your porch, toolbox in hand and planks of wood resting against the railing. 
“Good mornin’,” He croons, “Not interrupin’ anythin’ am I?” 
You shake your head, “Can I help you?” You asked, wincing slightly at the defensive tone of your voice. 
“Well, I hope you don’t mind, but when I passed with Tommy the other day, I noticed your porch step was rotting,” He points to the old timbers behind him, “I’m surprised you’ve not fallen through it already, so do you mind if I fix them?” 
Your exterior softens and a small smile pulls at your lips, “Of course,” You say, “I’m just making some coffee, do you want some?” 
“If you don’t mind sharin’, then I’d love some.” 
You leave him on the porch to get started. Your mug is already set next to the coffee pot, you open the cupboard and instinctively reach for the only other mug you ever needed. It had meant nothing to you when you moved in. It was white and had a pattern of sausage dogs printed on it, but it had always been his. You hold it in your hands when you realise what you’ve done. His face flashes behind your eyes. He’s standing in front of you, his hair tousled from sleep, his voice still low and raspy. He thanks you as he takes hold of his mug, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You set it back in the cupboard like it had burned your palms, reaching instead of the plain black mug at the back of the cupboard. 
You rest your palms on the counter, closing your eyes to take deep breaths, feeling the weight of your body through to the ground. Once you don’t feel the wave of sadness flowing through you any longer, your quickly pour the coffee into the mugs, taking them out to the porch where Joel is currently working to take the rotten boards up, not that it’s taking much work, a little force from his hands and the wood in crumbling. 
“Here you go,” You say softly, setting the mug down next to his toolbox, “I hope you don’t mind it black, I spent all my rations on strawberries this week, so no milk.” 
“Just how I like it,” He says, looking up at you, “Thank you.” 
You take a seat on the bench out front, it’s been a long time since you had the company of someone that wasn’t Maria or Tommy and it was nice to watch him work whilst you sat in the sun. 
“Thank you, by the way, I didn’t realise it had gotten so bad,” You remark, and before you can think about what you’re saying, you add, “My husband always used to handle this stuff.” 
You press your fingers to your lips as Joel’s movement still slightly, he knows what you’ve said, but he continues working, “It’s alright, this is what I used to do before all of this, so I’ve got an eye for rotting wood.” 
“You were a builder?” You asked, desperate to steer the conversation away from your loss. 
“I was, Tommy and I were contractors, worked on a bunch of different sites together, kinda annoying the world ended, we’d just booked a really big job, was gonna pay the bills and then some for once, my daughter had already spent the money on a trip to Disney.” 
“Ellie?” You enquire, remembering the name Tommy had given. 
He shakes his head as he sits back on his knees, coffee mug in hand, “No, she’s not mine by blood, she came along a lot later, I lost my daughter on outbreak day.” 
“Oh,” You say simply, “I’m sorry Joel.” 
“It’s alright,” He shrugs, taking a mouthful of coffee, “I struggled, for a long time, didn’t see how it was fair, but it’s been easier recently, all because of Ellie, and this.” He motions around to the town. 
You’re silent for a while, your gaze flits between Joel working and the dregs of liquid in your cup. You understand in a way. The loss is different, but it’s loss all the same. 
“What was his name?” Joel asks quietly as he’s rooting through his toolbox for some nails, “Your husband.” 
“Mark,” You speak quietly, realizing quickly it was probably too quiet for him to hear, “His name was Mark.” 
“Were you together long?” 
“Eighteen years,” You answer, “He was my neighbour in the first QZ I was in, I’d lost my parents a few years before the outbreak so I was on my own, he moved in a year later and would always wake me up every morning when he stomped about to go to work,” You were smiling, recounting how you’d met, “One morning I’d had enough, I went right over there, pounded on the door and gave him what for. Said I was tired of waking up to the sound of his work boots every morning, and I guess the rest is history.” 
Joel smiles as he reaches for his hammer, nailing in the new boards, “Love at first sight?” He asked, worried at first that it’s too personal a question. 
“Something like that,” You offer in reply, “I guess it just kinda happened really, like most things do.” 
There’s silence between you again as Joel hammers in the last of the nails. He stands up, pressing his full weight on the step, “All done,” He declares, shutting away his toolbox, “Don’t have to worry about you fallin’ through it now.” 
You stand up to admire his handiwork, you must admit he was good at what he did. Efficient but thorough, the step had never looked so good, even when you’d first moved in, “Thank you Joel,” You place a hand on his arm and give it a gentle squeeze, “I really appreciate it.” 
“No problem,” He bends to pick up his coffee mug and hands it over to you, “Nothin’ else need sorting?” 
“I mean, nothing that risks death or serious injury,” You jest, “But there is something you might be able to help with.” 
You gesture for him to follow you through the house, setting the dirty mugs in the sink as you pass through. You open the back door and motion for him to join you. The garden is a mess, there’s no beating around the bush here. The grass is out of control, but that’s because you haven’t been able to go and get your gas ration for the lawnmower. The decking out back is fine, Mark’s handiwork in the year before he died, but you point to the unfinished table and chairs in the corner, or rather the pile of wood that never got to become the table and chairs. 
“Mark was going to build some table and chairs, you know, so we could have guests over or sit out here in the evenings, but he got sick before he could really start,” There’s a lump in your throat now and you’re willing yourself not to cry, not now, in front of a man you barely know, but nothing you do can quell the feeling inside of you and a few tears fall down your cheek, “God, I’m so sorry,” You sniffed, “I’ve done so well not to do this today.” 
“Hey, it’s alright.” Joel soothes, he pressed a firm hand to your shoulder for comfort but keeps his distance, which you are grateful for. 
He gives you a moment to compose yourself, watching closely as you rub the tears from your eyes and take a deep breath, “It would just be nice to have somewhere to sit where people aren’t going to watch me.” 
Joel’s heart almost breaks at your words. He doesn’t know you, not in the slightest, but the thought that you felt like you had to hide away, in your own community, the place that was meant to make you feel some semblance of normal, was preposterous to him. 
“I’ll build you something, don’t worry,” He reassures, “Tommy has me on patrol for the next few days, but as soon as I can, I promise I’ll build you the best damn table and chairs you’ve ever seen.” 
You laugh now, through the remnants of your tears, “Thank you.” Is all you can manage to say. 
He’s turning around then, you go to follow him, but he stops in his tracks, eyes admiring the trellis against the back wall of your home, full in bloom of sweet peas, “These are beautiful.” He comments. 
“They’re sweet peas,” You inform him, “Maria found the seeds for me, said something about it being good for me to have something to put my energy into,” You shrug, “I guess she was right.”
You reach out and pluck one of the deep purple blooms, “These are my favourites,” You say, turning the bloom over in your fingers before you hand it to him, he looks confused, “Sweet peas are meant to symbolize kindness and friendship,” You explain, “Also fond goodbyes, but I think kindness is more appropriate here.” 
He takes the bloom and tucks the stem into the breast pocket, the petals of the flower peeking out where you can both see it, “Well then, thank you,” He nods, “I’ll see you soon, sweet pea.” 
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modelsof-color · 7 months
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Goy Michael by Fabien Montique for Heroine Magazine November 2022
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psychologeek · 3 months
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It's not about you
We are tired, and
as you keep pointing fingers and getting offended by our struggles,
This isn't about you
This is a process the word "Goy" did
From meaning "a nation" to
"a non jew" to
An Outsider
(Danger?)
It's the way we clinge to eachother,
Pressing our hands together in frustration,
In a hope for understanding,
In a silent question
why?
It's not about you.
It's a tap on the shoulder,
Telling someone
"Stop,
They'll never get it anyway."
Or,
As my grandma said:
"stop fighting Goyim in your phone and eat something!"
It's comfort and warning
The oldest explanation in the book.
(They wouldn't get it.
Don't trust them -
they won't be there.)
It's not about you
(but you keep proving it)
Shabbat shalom.
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robertocustodioart · 2 years
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Goy and Diana Achan by Rafael Pavarotti 2021
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beau-gar · 3 months
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GOY
www.beau-gar.tumblr.com
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