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Found It!!!

My mom recorded the movie Polly off TV years ago. It’s a Disney remake of the movie Pollyanna. She was so disappointed when the VHS tape started going bad to the point of unwatchable because she couldn’t find anywhere that was selling the movie. Finally and with great disappointment she just gave up.

Well I thought to look just now and I found some brand new DVD copies of it on Amazon and ebay! AND they made a sequel!

It cost me $50+ to buy both of them but it’s totally worth it. My mom is gonna be so thrilled when she sees this!

Now I just gotta keep my mouth shut until they arrive so I can surprise her.

  • Track Name

    Fast Car

  • Album

    Tracy Chapman

  • Artist

    Tracy Chapman



"Fast Car" was released by American folk rock singer-songwriter Tracy Chapman in 1988 as the second track on her debut studio album "Tracy Chapman" through Elektra Records. It was written by Tracy Chapman. The song peaked at number 6 on the US Billboard Hot 100 Chart.

I need to put the rest of the songs from this album on my iPod tonight.

Do NOT Touch My Hair

Growing up white kids thought it was okay to touch my hair without permission only to complain and squirm about how weird they thought it felt or the gel my mom put in it.

I always glared at them afterwards and told them that’s what they get for touching my hair without permission.

When we went to visit my great grandmother in South Carolina. I was still a little girl at the time and my mom would often braid plastic beads into my hair. I didn’t mind sitting through it because I loved how it looked and how it sounded when all the beads clicked together as I ran.

I was in a store with my parents there when a black girl about my age saw my hair and got upset. Not just upset but furious that my hair was done like that.

"You can’t have hair like that! That’s black hair!"

She was so angry that I had hair like black girls wear. So angry she looked like she wanted to hit something.

You see I am biracial but my skin is light. Very light. So light that many mistake me for white or have openly stared at me trying to tell the difference. They did it then and still do it now.

Having a black parent was more than enough enough for some white kids to avoid me and parrot the racism of their parents. Calling me the N word at school or asking why my hair looked like that if my skin was so white.

Some black girls seemed uncomfortable around me because of how light my skin was and clearly didn’t know what to say when I reminded them yet again in a patient voice that I didn’t like being called white. I’m biracial or mixed. All I wanted was a friend.

One biracial kid in school always taunted me on the playground. Following me around calling me the N word when no teachers were around to hear him.

The other biracial boy in my class always asked me if my dad was really white and if my mom was REALLY dark. Like light skinned? Or dark, dark? Is she really brown? Or is she just light like you are? She’s not really dark is she?

No matter how many times I told him it never seemed like a good enough answer. Not until he saw my mother come and pick me up one day. A person with beautiful brown skin who was unmistakably, unquestionably a black woman.

He didn’t like speaking to me after that and seemed annoyed just having to look at me when I tried being nice to him like I did to everyone.

This was all when I was in elementary school.

I never wanted sympathy I wanted people to understand me and I wanted to understand them. I wanted to feel accepted. I wanted the racism to stop. I wanted my mother to be able to walk into a store without being followed around. Or for my brother to feel safe just driving down the road in his car. I wanted everyone to be able to stand up and stop subtle gestures of racism the way my dad.

Learn to accept what happened I your past without comparing your experiences to others. It doesn’t help anyone. Covering over your pain by reminding yourself that others have it worse is not going to heal your scars and it’s not going to help anyone else.

Learn from the past so you can improve the future. For yourself and others.


“Your name is Tasbeeh. Don’t let them call you by anything else.”

My mother speaks to me in Arabic; the command sounds more forceful in her mother tongue, a Libyan dialect that is all sharp edges and hard, guttural sounds. I am seven years old and it has never occurred to me to disobey my mother. Until twelve years old, I would believe God gave her the supernatural ability to tell when I’m lying.

“Don’t let them give you an English nickname,” my mother insists once again, “I didn’t raise amreekan.”

My mother spits out this last word with venom. Amreekan. Americans. It sounds like a curse coming out of her mouth. Eight years in this country and she’s still not convinced she lives here. She wears her headscarf tightly around her neck, wades across the school lawn in long, floor-skimming skirts. Eight years in this country and her tongue refuses to bend and soften for the English language. It embarrasses me, her heavy Arab tongue, wrapping itself so forcefully around the clumsy syllables of English, strangling them out of their meaning.

But she is fierce and fearless. I have never heard her apologize to anyone. She will hold up long grocery lines checking and double-checking the receipt in case they’re trying to cheat us. My humiliation is heavy enough for the both of us. My English is not. Sometimes I step away, so people don’t know we’re together but my dark hair and skin betray me as a member of her tribe.

On my first day of school, my mother presses a kiss to my cheek.

“Your name is Tasbeeh,” she says again, like I’ve forgotten. “Tasbeeh.”


Roll call is the worst part of my day. After a long list of Brittanys, Jonathans, Ashleys, and Yen-but-call-me-Jens, the teacher rests on my name in silence. She squints. She has never seen this combination of letters strung together in this order before. They are incomprehensible. What is this h doing at the end? Maybe it is a typo.


“Tasbeeh,” I mutter, with my hand half up in the air. “Tasbeeh.”

A pause.

“Do you go by anything else?”

“No,” I say. “Just Tasbeeh. Tas-beeh.”

“Tazbee. All right. Alex?”

She moves on before I can correct her. She said it wrong. She said it so wrong. I have never heard my name said so ugly before, like it’s a burden. Her entire face contorts as she says it, like she is expelling a distasteful thing from her mouth. She avoids saying it for the rest of the day, but she has already baptized me with this new name. It is the name everyone knows me by, now, for the next six years I am in elementary school. “Tazbee,” a name with no grace, no meaning, no history; it belongs in no language.

“Tazbee,” says one of the students on the playground, later. “Like Tazmanian Devil?” Everyone laughs. I laugh too. It is funny, if you think about it.


I do not correct anyone for years. One day, in third grade, a plane flies above our school.

“Your dad up there, Bin Laden?” The voice comes from behind. It is dripping in derision.

“My name is Tazbee,” I say. I said it in this heavy English accent, so he may know who I am. I am American. But when I turn around they are gone.


I go to middle school far, far away. It is a 30-minute drive from our house. It’s a beautiful set of buildings located a few blocks off the beach. I have never in my life seen so many blond people, so many colored irises. This is a school full of Ashtons and Penelopes, Patricks and Sophias. Beautiful names that belong to beautiful faces. The kind of names that promise a lifetime of social triumph.

I am one of two headscarved girls at this new school. We are assigned the same gym class. We are the only ones in sweatpants and long-sleeved undershirts. We are both dreading roll call. When the gym teacher pauses at my name, I am already red with humiliation.

“How do I say your name?” she asks.

“Tazbee,” I say.

“Can I just call you Tess?”

I want to say yes. Call me Tess. But my mother will know, somehow. She will see it written in my eyes. God will whisper it in her ear. Her disappointment will overwhelm me.

“No,” I say, “Please call me Tazbee.”

I don’t hear her say it for the rest of the year.


My history teacher calls me Tashbah for the entire year. It does not matter how often I correct her, she reverts to that misshapen sneeze of a word. It is the ugliest conglomeration of sounds I have ever heard.

When my mother comes to parents’ night, she corrects her angrily, “Tasbeeh. Her name is Tasbeeh.” My history teacher grimaces. I want the world to swallow me up.


My college professors don’t even bother. I will only know them for a few months of the year. They smother my name in their mouths. It is a hindrance for their tongues. They hand me papers silently. One of them mumbles it unintelligibly whenever he calls on my hand. Another just calls me “T.”

My name is a burden. My name is a burden. My name is a burden. I am a burden.


On the radio I hear a story about a tribe in some remote, rural place that has no name for the color blue. They do not know what the color blue is. It has no name so it does not exist. It does not exist because it has no name.


At the start of a new semester, I walk into a math class. My teacher is blond and blue-eyed. I don’t remember his name. When he comes to mine on the roll call, he takes the requisite pause. I hold my breath.

“How do I pronounce your name?” he asks.

I say, “Just call me Tess.”

“Is that how it’s pronounced?”

I say, “No one’s ever been able to pronounce it.”

“That’s probably because they didn’t want to try,” he said. “What is your name?”

When I say my name, it feels like redemption. I have never said it this way before. Tasbeeh. He repeats it back to me several times until he’s got it. It is difficult for his American tongue. His has none of the strength, none of the force of my mother’s. But he gets it, eventually, and it sounds beautiful. I have never heard it sound so beautiful. I have never felt so deserving of a name. My name feels like a crown.


“Thank you for my name, mama.”


When the barista asks me my name, sharpie poised above the coffee cup, I tell him: “My name is Tasbeeh. It’s a tough t clinging to a soft a, which melts into a silky ssss, which loosely hugs the b, and the rest of my name is a hard whisper — eeh. Tasbeeh. My name is Tasbeeh. Hold it in your mouth until it becomes a prayer. My name is a valuable undertaking. My name requires your rapt attention. Say my name in one swift note – Tasbeeeeeeeh – sand let the h heat your throat like cinnamon. Tasbeeh. My name is an endeavor. My name is a song. Tasbeeh. It means giving glory to God. Tasbeeh. Wrap your tongue around my name, unravel it with the music of your voice, and give God what he is due

Tasbeeh Herwees, The Names They Gave Me (via cat-phuong)

I am weeping.

(via strangeasanjles)

This is so beautiful.

(Source: rabbrakha)

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