Parents' Educational Group

Bad Bunny opens in a massive sugarcane field. For those that don’t know, sugarcane was once one of Puerto Rico’s biggest economic drivers. It represents labor, history, survival. If you want the deep dive, Google it… because it matters.
As he walks through the fields you see workers, kiosks, piragua stands, domino players, nail tech hustle, food stands… everyday Puerto Rican life. Not glamorized. Just real. Because that hustle is part of our DNA.
Then he passes two Puerto Rican boxing champions, Xander Zayas and Emiliano Vargas, a reminder that boxing has always been a source of pride for the island.
Next thing you know he’s on top of a classic casita straight out of el campo singing some reggaeton bangers. Are they the most proper songs? No 😂 But he still had the tact to censor the bad words even though half the audience wouldn’t have known the difference anyway.
And let’s talk reggaeton for a second. That genre was born in the barrios and caseríos. It wasn’t always accepted. It was criticized before it went global. So when he says:
“Estás escuchando música de Puerto Rico, de los barrios, de los caseríos.”
That means:
“You’re listening to music from Puerto Rico. From the neighborhoods. From the housing projects.”
Translation? This global sound came from us.
Then comes the violin intro to Monaco and he introduces himself by his full name:
Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio.
Not Bad Bunny. Benito.
And he says:
“If I’m here today at the Super Bowl it’s because I never stopped believing in myself… and you should believe in yourself too. You’re worth more than you think.”
Goosebumps.
From there we transition into what looks like a full Puerto Rican wedding. And if you’ve ever been to one, you KNOW it’s basically a family reunion with louder music and better outfits.
Enter Lady Gaga in a light blue dress with a red flower, a subtle nod to the original colors of the Puerto Rican flag, singing “Die With a Smile.” A song about love, about choosing your person no matter what. But with a salsa twist and a live band… because nothing says celebration like live horns and percussion.
Benito says:
“Mientras uno está vivo, uno debe amar lo más que pueda.”
“While we’re alive, we should love as much as we possibly can.”
Then…
“Baila sin miedo, ama sin miedo.”
“Dance without fear. Love without fear.”
Kids dancing. Adults dancing. Just joy everywhere. At one point there’s even a little boy knocked out across three chairs… and every Latino watching laughed because we have ALL been that kid at the family party.
Then the shift.
Nuevayol.
New York.
La Marqueta. Corner store. Barbershop. People dancing in the streets. A love letter to the Puerto Rican diaspora and the communities that built culture far from the island.
He says:
“San Francisco, disfruta… que esto es por un momento solamente.”
“Enjoy this moment… because it won’t last forever.”
Then a cameo from legendary Toñita handing him a shot. If you know Caribbean Social Club in East Harlem, you know that’s real community history.
One of the most powerful moments? A family watching Benito on TV holding his Grammy… and then he walks into the scene and hands that Grammy to his younger self.
“Siempre cree en ti.”
“Always believe in yourself.”
Dream → reality.
Then comes another icon… Ricky Martin.
Straight into “Lo Que Le Pasó a Hawaii,” touching on themes of identity and cultural preservation before exploding into “El Apagón.”
And if you know Puerto Rico, you know an apagón is more than a blackout. It’s one of the island’s biggest ongoing struggles. But what happens when the lights go out?
People come outside.
Neighbors connect.
Music finds a way.
Resilience.
Out comes the massive Puerto Rican flag… pride on full display.
Then the party ramps all the way up.
“Todos quieren ser Latinos pero les falta sazón!!”
Everybody wants to be Latino… but the seasoning is missing 😏
Suddenly flags from North, Central, and South America flood the field. As flags from every corner of North, Central, and South America flooded the field, the stadium lit up with one message across the screen: The only thing more powerful than hate is love. And honestly… that said everything.
He says God bless America… names countries across the continent… ends with:
“Y mi patria… Puerto Rico.”
My homeland.
Then a football that reads:
“Together we are America.”
And just when you think it can’t get bigger, he closes with “Debí Tirar Más Fotos” and turns the entire stadium into one giant celebration.
Listen…
The biggest stage in America had a jíbaro from Puerto Rico standing on it with class.
He brought history.
He brought struggle.
He brought pride.
He brought resilience.
He brought unity.
An American halftime show spoken largely in Spanish… showing that Puerto Rican history IS American history.
Connected to Latin America.
Connected to the diaspora.
Connected to each other.
Culture isn’t something you hide.
It’s something you carry.
Chest all the way out with pride last night. Puerto Rico está bien ca**ón.
Acho… PR es otra cosa

In 11970 I thought my phone was taped. I had been on the front page of several newspapers including the Washington Post and the Ann Arbor paper advocating for women's rights. I used to answer all of my calls with. "HI, Angela. I miss you!" I thought I was hilarious.

She was 11 years old when the bomb went off. By 26, the FBI had made her one of the most wanted fugitives in America. Her crime? Refusing to accept what everyone said couldn't be changed.
September 15, 1963. Birmingham, Alabama.
Angela Davis heard the explosion from blocks away—a sound that would define the rest of her life. Inside the 16th Street Baptist Church, four girls she knew were preparing for youth service. Denise McNair. Cynthia Wesley. Carole Robertson. Addie Mae Collins. The KKK's bomb didn't just take their lives. It drew a line in history.
Most children would have learned to live with fear. To accept that this was simply what it meant to be Black in the Jim Crow South. To understand that some things couldn't be changed.
Angela Davis learned something else entirely.
"I'm no longer accepting the things I cannot change," she would declare. "I'm changing the things I cannot accept."
This wasn't a slogan. It was a battle plan.
By 25, she was teaching philosophy at UCLA—not the abstract kind that lives in textbooks, but the dangerous kind that asks why the world is broken and who benefits from keeping it that way. She had studied under Marxist philosopher Herbert Marcuse in Germany. She had joined the Communist Party USA. She worked with the Black Panthers in Los Angeles. She believed knowledge was a weapon, and she was teaching others how to aim it.
The powerful noticed. Governor Ronald Reagan and the UCLA Board of Regents fired her—first for her Communist Party membership, then for "inflammatory language" when courts forced them to rehire her. Reagan vowed she'd never teach in California again.
But Davis's real trouble was just beginning.
In 1970, she became chair of the Soledad Brothers Defense Committee, advocating for three Black prisoners many believed were being scapegoated for organizing inside prison walls. When a courtroom escape attempt went tragically wrong and guns registered in her name were used, Davis was charged with murder, kidnapping, and conspiracy—despite being nowhere near the scene.
She didn't wait for a system she didn't trust. She went underground.
Within days, FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover placed her on the Ten Most Wanted list. For two months, she became a ghost while the world rallied around her name. "Free Angela Davis" echoed from Oakland to Moscow, Paris to Havana. John Lennon and Yoko Ono wrote her a song. The Rolling Stones dedicated "Sweet Black Angel" to her fight.
When federal agents finally arrested her in New York City in October 1970, she had already transformed from fugitive into symbol—proof of what happens when the powerful feel threatened by someone who refuses to stay quiet.
She spent 18 months in jail. Eighteen months of isolation designed to break her spirit. Instead, she read. She wrote. She organized. Even from inside a cell, she refused to accept the unacceptable.
On June 4, 1972, an all-white jury acquitted her of all charges.
Many would have disappeared into quiet relief after such an ordeal. Davis walked straight back into the fire.
She returned to teaching, eventually becoming Distinguished Professor at UC Santa Cruz. But her classroom had no walls. In "Women, Race, and Class" (1981), she pioneered intersectional analysis before the term became common, showing how racism, sexism, and capitalism weren't separate problems but intertwined systems of control.
In "Are Prisons Obsolete?" she asked a question most considered unthinkable: What if the answer to mass incarceration isn't better prisons, but no prisons? What if cages don't create safety but perpetuate the violence they claim to prevent?
She co-founded Critical Resistance to dismantle the prison-industrial complex. She traveled the world, teaching that freedom isn't granted from above—it's built from below through sustained, strategic struggle.
For over 50 years, Angela Davis has proven that resistance is not just protest—it's an art form requiring three elements:
Discipline: Every action calculated. Every argument built on scholarship. Every movement rooted in historical understanding.
Intellect: Ideas become weapons when you understand the systems you're fighting—their history, their function, their weak points.
Relentlessness: Through administrations that tried to destroy her, through decades when her ideas were dismissed as too radical, she never stopped demanding what seemed impossible until it became inevitable.
She understood what most people miss: You can wait without surrendering. You can persist without complying. Patience and acceptance are not the same thing.
"Injustice survives through acceptance," she reminds us. Silence allows brutality to continue. Confrontation—thoughtful, strategic, sustained—is what forces change.
This is why her words echo through every generation. Why protest movements rediscover her wisdom. Why young activists paint her quotes on walls and chant her principles in streets.
Because she gave us permission to stop accepting.
The civil rights activists who refused the back of the bus. The prison abolitionists who imagine a world beyond cages. The workers who strike for dignity. The students demanding climate action. Every person who has looked at injustice and decided, "No. Not anymore."—they all carry forward what Davis began.
She proved that change is not permission granted from above. It's a duty claimed from within.
The powerful don't surrender power because we ask politely. They change when resistance becomes too costly to ignore. When the old order becomes impossible to maintain.
Davis understood this from the moment she heard that explosion in Birmingham. From the moment she saw what hatred could do to four innocent girls. From the moment she decided acceptance was not an option.
The world moves forward because someone, somewhere, decides to stop accepting what should never have been tolerated in the first place.
That someone can be you.
Angela Davis spent her life showing us how. Not through rage alone, but through disciplined study. Not through individual heroism, but through collective organizing. Not by demanding everything immediately, but through relentless, strategic, intelligent resistance that never stops, never compromises, never accepts the unacceptable.
Her most famous words aren't just a quote. They're a declaration. A challenge. A responsibility:
"I'm no longer accepting the things I cannot change. I'm changing the things I cannot accept."
Read that again.
Now ask yourself: What have you been accepting that deserves to be changed?
That's where your revolution begins.

In 1970, a book landed in bookstores with a title designed to shock: The Female Eu**ch.
The author was a 31-year-old Australian academic named Germaine Greer. She had no interest in making anyone comfortable.
Her thesis was explosive: Women weren't naturally passive, submissive, or domestic. They had been systematically trained to be that way.
Society had castrated women psychologically, emotionally, and sexually—turning them into shadows of full human beings, defined entirely by their relationships to men.
And Greer was furious about it.
Her fury wasn't quiet. It wasn't polite. It wasn't apologetic.
That was exactly the point.
Born in Melbourne in 1939, Greer grew up in an era when women's ambitions were supposed to end at the altar. But she was brilliant, restless, and allergic to limitation.
She studied literature at the University of Melbourne, earned a Master's in Sydney, then headed to Cambridge for her PhD. Cambridge in the 1960s was deeply misogynistic—women were barely tolerated in academia, expected to be grateful for being allowed in the room.
Greer wasn't grateful. She was angry.
She watched how women were trained from childhood to shrink themselves, to soften their voices, to apologize for taking up space. She saw how femininity was constructed as the opposite of power—passive where men were active, decorative where men were substantive.
And she developed a sharp intellect matched by even sharper humor—weapons she would wield with devastating effect.
The Female Eu**ch was electric, raw, angry—everything society insisted women shouldn't be.
Marriage, she argued, was often a form of legalized prostitution. Romantic love was a trap. Femininity itself was a prison constructed by men and policed by women who'd internalized their own subjugation.
Women weren't born to serve men. They'd been trained to.
The book sold millions of copies. It was translated into dozens of languages. It sparked debates in classrooms, protests, and living rooms across continents.
And it made Greer one of the most famous—and controversial—feminists in the world.
What made her extraordinary wasn't just what she said. It was how she said it.
She challenged the idea that feminism should be polite, that women's anger should be tempered, that liberation should be achieved through niceness.
In lectures and debates, she was confrontational, provocative, sometimes deliberately shocking. She discussed female sexuality frankly when such discussions were taboo. She appeared on television panels—often the only woman—and refused to be talked over.
When male intellectuals tried to dismiss her, she demolished their arguments with wit and fury.
Critics called her "strident," "angry," "difficult"—all the words used to silence women who refuse to be quiet.
Greer wore those labels as badges of honor.
The Female Eu**ch became a cornerstone of second-wave feminism. But Greer stood apart in one crucial way: she insisted that women's anger was not only justified—it was necessary for change.
Her ideas influenced generations of feminists, activists, and thinkers. Women read her books and recognized their own experiences. Her words gave language to frustrations they'd felt but couldn't name.
She proved that feminism wasn't about likability. It was about liberation.
Her legacy, however, is not simple.
Greer continued writing and provoking for decades. Some of her positions—particularly regarding transgender women—have been widely criticized as exclusionary and harmful. Many contemporary feminists have strongly opposed these views, and that opposition is justified.
Her legacy is complicated, contested, and impossible to reduce to simple heroism.
But this complexity doesn't erase her impact. The Female Eu**ch remains a landmark text—not because we must agree with everything Greer has ever said, but because it articulated something crucial about women's oppression in 1970 and gave women permission to be angry about it.
What she gave us:
Permission to stop apologizing.
Permission to be angry instead of nice.
Permission to say that the problem wasn't individual men but systemic patriarchy—and that fixing it would require more than politeness.
She showed that women didn't need to make themselves smaller, quieter, more palatable to be worthy of freedom.
They were already worthy.
Her core insight remains powerful: Women are not naturally passive, submissive, or limited. They have been made that way by systems designed to benefit from their subjugation.
And liberation requires not just legal rights but a complete reimagining of what women are allowed to be.
Angry. Ambitious. Powerful. Complicated. Imperfect. Unapologetic.
Fully human.
Every woman who's been told to "calm down" when expressing legitimate anger should know that Germaine Greer said anger was justified.
Every woman who's been told feminism would be more effective if it were "nicer" should know that Greer refused niceness in favor of truth.
Her approach wasn't perfect. Her ideas weren't universally right. Some of her positions have been justifiably criticized.
But her fundamental message remains essential:
Women don't owe the world politeness while fighting for their liberation.
Germaine Greer didn't speak to be liked.
She spoke so women would stop apologizing for existing.
And sometimes, the most important thing you can tell someone is: stop apologizing. Start fighting.
Liberation has never been simple.
And it's never been achieved by being nice.

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2025/nov/13/archives-amy-levy-q***r-jewish-writer-admired-by-oscar-wilde-unsealed?CMP=fb_gu&utm_medium=Social_img&utm_source=Facebook&fbclid=IwY2xjawOINXVleHRuA2FlbQIxMABicmlkETFKc2ZLYU13czRldWlrS2szc3J0YwZhcHBfaWQQMjIyMDM5MTc4ODIwMDg5MghjYWxsc2l0ZQEyAAEesMaBqpKDa7Vt_qQELXKDr6steYoijHr-G0H-_mSuZ-DHzRlppl3EFBXKZ6Q_aem_F5Ff9qeC3JLT9jPTadrcrA =1763032752

‘A girl of genius’: archives unsealed of Amy Levy, q***r Jewish writer admired by Oscar Wilde Levy’s work was ‘ahead of her time’ and speaks to current debate around feminism, LGBTQ+ literature and Jewish identity, say researchers

https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1BZXJX2Eqr/

https://www.facebook.com/share/1JGWztF1Nf/

Joy Harjo once stood in a cold university hallway — broke, divorced, and clutching her baby. A professor looked at her with a dismissive smile and said, “Native women don’t become poets.” That single sentence burned in her chest. “Then I’ll spend my life proving you wrong,” she whispered to herself.
Born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, to the Muscogee (Creek) Nation, Joy grew up between beauty and pain. Her father, a jazz musician, filled their home with music — and anger. Her mother, gentle but strong, tried to hold the family together. When Joy’s stepfather’s violence became unbearable, she ran away at sixteen, alone and scared. “I left because I wanted to live,” she later said. She hitchhiked to Santa Fe and joined the Institute of American Indian Arts — the place that saved her. There, she learned that stories weren’t just memories — they were survival.
In her early twenties, she was a single mother with no home, sleeping on friends’ couches, working wherever she could. Nights were for sketching and trying to stay sane. Then one day, she read a poem by a Native writer — and it felt like lightning struck her soul. “I didn’t know we could do that,” she said, tears in her eyes. “That we could use words to fight back.”
So she began to write — not for applause, but for healing. Her poems were bold, fierce, alive with rhythm and fire. “I am not afraid to be beautiful,” she wrote. “I am not afraid to be wild.” But the world wasn’t ready for her voice. Critics called her “too political.” Men shouted at her readings. Some told her to “go back to the reservation.” She didn’t flinch. “If they can shout,” she said, “so can I.”
She started performing her poems with a saxophone — the same instrument her father once played. Her voice and music merged into something sacred — a ceremony of resistance. Each note, each word, carried the spirits of her ancestors.
Years later, America could no longer ignore her. Joy Harjo became the first Native American U.S. Poet Laureate — the voice of a people who had been silenced for centuries. When the Library of Congress asked her to write a “patriotic” poem, she smiled and said, “I’ll write one. But I’ll include the ghosts this country was built on.”
Even in her triumph, she stayed humble. “Every poem,” she said softly, “is a road back to myself.”
Joy Harjo didn’t just write poetry — she transformed pain into power. The girl who once ran from violence became the woman who taught a nation how to listen. “They told me my voice didn’t matter,” she said. “So I sang louder.”

https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1EKfVT1Fv1/

https://www.facebook.com/share/19c9U6i7SD/

In Lowell, Michigan, school librarian Christine Beachler is fighting back after years of vile harassment from Moms for Liberty member Stefanie Boone, who smeared her as a “pedo” and “smut peddler” simply for doing her job. Now, Beachler’s defamation lawsuit is moving forward, exposing not just Boone but the broader playbook of Moms for Liberty, a group that masquerades as defenders of “parental rights” while waging an extremist culture war built on fear, lies, and intimidation.

But here's the kicker, Boone’s attorney is Matt DePerno, a disgraced Republican facing multiple felony charges, disbarment proceedings, and a pile of legal complaints for his role in tampering with voting machines after the 2020 election. This is who Moms for Liberty turns to for legal defense, a man accused of undermining democracy itself. Beachler’s case isn’t just about clearing her name; it’s a direct challenge to the toxic, bullying tactics of Moms for Liberty, a group that thrives on smearing educators, silencing diverse voices, and weaponizing children’s education for raw political gain.

The SPLC has designated Moms For Liberty as a hate group.

horrific history .. swept under the rug

In 1959, 69 Black teenage boys (ages 13-17) were pad locked inside a dormitory at a juvenile correctional facility located near Wrightsville, Arkansas.

A mysterious fire occurred at night while they were sleeping. 21 of them perished while 48 managed to escape by prying off the mesh metal screens from the windows. It is the worst fire record ever in Arkansas history.⁣
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The boys were committed for a variety of reasons. Some were orphans or homeless. Others were there because of petty crime. One boy named William Piggee rode on a white boy’s bike even though the mother said it was ok.⁣
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“The science of preserving a crime scene was in existence in 1959. Yet the very morning… they were dismantling this whole scene with hoses, rakes and shovels. They were tearing it apart like they were trying to cover up something,” said Frank Lawrence whose brother (Lindsey Cross) perished in the fire.⁣
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The grand jury found that several individuals and agencies were responsible, but in the end, no criminal charges were filed.⁣
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The names of those who passed away in the fire:⁣
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Lindsey Cross, 14; Charles L. Thomas, 15; Frank Barnes, 15; R.D. Brown, 16; Jessie Carpenter Jr., 16; Joe Crittenden, 16; John Daniel, 16; Willie G. Horner, 16; Roy Chester Powell, 16; Cecil Preston, 17; Carl E. Thornton, 15; Johnnie Tillison, 16; Edward Tolston Jr., 15; and Charles White, 15. William Piggee, 13 (the boy incarcerated for riding a white boy’s bike);  O.T. Meadows, 13; Henry Daniels, 15; John Alfred George, 15; Roy Hegwood, 15; Willie Lee Williams, 15; and Gyce.⁣
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Source: https://katv-com.cdn.ampproject.org/v/s/katv.com/amp/news/local/wrightsville-21