Oh I’m an asshole.

So today pulling into Stop and Shop, this lady cut me off and nearly drove into me, and then, when I tried to pass her, she swung to the right and nearly hit me again, and then flipped me off.

So somebody is having a bad day and taking it out on me. That’s fine. It’s harmless, and I don’t know what’s going on in this woman’s life. I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt she’s not just a piece of shit and is just having a bad day.

But then I park and she follows me, and gets out of the car and starts swearing at me and getting in my face.

Now I go from “indifferent” to “I’m gonna fuck with this woman’s head.” Now I would say I’m a gentleman of size, and in all black and bemohawked I probably look spookier than I actually am, so props to this lady for getting in my face. Now of course I’m not going to hit her, or even threaten violence. That’s shitty. Nobody should get threatened with violence.

Instead, I take a step back, narrowing my eyes like I’m studying her face really closely, and then I touch one of the several piece of “occulty” jewelry I’m wearing (none of which, by the way, are magicked in any way at all). Then I mumble some nonsense under my breath, and then make the fig gesture and the horns at her.

She stops, wide-eyed.

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST DO TO ME?”

I chuckled, and shake my head. “Nothing at all.” I say in a not-terrible convincing voice. “But every time something bad happens to you today, you’re gonna be thinking of me.”

Then I winked at her, and walked away.

Blind people must save a lot on electricity.

They do actually!

I had a blind professor, last semester, and I swung through his office to make up an exam. It was a while before I knew he was in there because he was sitting with the lights off. I finally went in, apologized, and took the exam by the light of a nearby window (which was fine). Forty-five minutes into dead silence he panicked and yelled in this booming voiced, “WAIT, YOU CAN SEE!!!” before diving across his desk to turn on the lights. I’m sure he was embarrassed but I thought it was endearing and it highlighted a large aspect of disabled life that I hadn’t previously considered.

Sort of relatedly I once had professor who was deaf, but she had learned to read lips and speak so she could communicate easily with hearing people who didn’t know sign language. One day she had gotten off topic and was talking a little about her personal life, so that one of the students said “Oh, I know, I grew up in Brooklyn too.” 

She stared at him for a long time and then said “How do you know I’m from Brooklyn?”

And he said “You have a Brooklyn accent.”

She said “I do?” and the whole class nodded, and then she burst out laughing and said “I had no idea!  The school where I learned to speak was in Brooklyn.  I learned by moving my mouth and tongue the way my teachers did.  So I guess it makes sense that I have their accent, I just never thought about it.”

My moms a sign language interpreter, and she’s signed with people from all over the US. According to her, when she signs with people from the south they sign with a “drawl.” They have slower hand movements and exaggerate certain parts of the sign. People from the Midwest sign very fast and people from the south sign very slow.

So we were at a restaurant once and my mom started interpreting for someone who was trying to order and she was like “oh you’re from the south!”

And they were like “how did you know that?”

And she said “you sign with a drawl.” And they were really surprised that it came through that much.

It’s really interesting that even when not speaking verbally accents and heritage come through.

Humans are so fucking fascinating

It doesn’t end there:

another addition

do you ever just like. feel unbelievably proud of someone you’d never even heard of previously

oh my god

Lemme tell u guys a story

In my freshman year, my great grandma passed away. She never threw out or sold anything worth keeping if she could help it, having grown up in the Depression, so when she passed, my grandma suddenly inherited a lifetime’s worth of treasured items. She distributed most of them to her kids and grandkids, saved some sentimental items, and donated most of the clothing and trinkets to charity. I got back the stuffed leopard I’d given great-grandma in the hospital; the fur was still as soft as it’d been when I bought it. One of the biggest things she had to sort through was jewelry. For a year after my great-grandma died, my grandma was setting out organized rows of costume jewelry on basement tables and chivvying her granddaughters to take what they wanted.

And then, after all the choosing, she snuck me into her room while my cousins picked through wristwatches. On her bed were two small jewelry boxes: an old wooden one, and a cushioned one in white pleather.

“I brought you in here because if I gave these to your cousins, they’d sell it. I don’t want these sold. Do you understand?”

I understood.

This is the story of the biggest lie my grandma ever told her mom.

Great-grandma’s birthstone was garnet, and she loved the look of the stones, but could never justify paying for some. Her husband worked constantly, and so did she, and new clothes for the kids was more important than jewelry at the time. When my grandma was 16, she saved her first paychecks to buy her mom a garnet ring for Mother’s Day; that’s what was in the wooden box. The original receipt, handwritten, was crammed into the lid. Great-grandpa saw that ring and teared up; he’d always wanted to get his wife something nice like that, but hadn’t ever had enough money for it. Determined, he vowed to change that. He set aside money for years, slowly, hiding it away in a box in the attic, vowing to buy his wife something she could always wear with her ring.

Time passed, and inflation happened, and he slowly squirreled money away in the hopes that jewelry might get cheaper again sometime. Time passed again, and age had little mercy on him. He got older, typed up a note, and placed in in the box, describing what the money was for; he knew his time was near. Under no circumstances was the money to be spent on anything other than giving his wife a nice gift. The letter read, “One day, my dear Ruth, you’ll have garnet earrings to match that ring.” It’s what great-grandma had always mourned missing; she had such a nice ring, and no good earrings to go with it.

Well, men don’t live forever, and when great-grandpa passed away, my grandma cleaned out her mom’s attic as she prepared to move somewhere smaller. Going through boxes of polaroids and paper clips, she stumbled on the box of earrings money, note and all. She stashed it with her coat, and after that day of cleaning, went to the jeweler before her mom could try and spend the money on something too sensible. She came back with the white pleather box; sure enough, still nestled inside that box were two clip-on garnet earrings.

”Mom never got her ears pierced, you know. That’s why it took so long to find a good pair.”

Once she’d gotten the earrings, grandma presented them to her mom, along with the note. The paper was obviously old and warped by moisture, but it was legible. My great grandma cried happy tears and treasured those earrings more than any other jewelry; the last gift her husband could give her. Decades after the fact, I’d seen her wear them to Christmas parties and worry over them, checking that they stayed on her earlobes.

There was never any note from great-grandpa. Never any box. Never any earring money. My great-grandpa had spent his saved money keeping himself and his wife confortable throughout retirement. To set aside hundreds of dollars, even a bit at a time, for garnet earrings, was never a thought that crossed his mind. My grandma had seen her mom, exhausted, wracked with grief, and lied through her teeth about where she’d gotten the money for those earrings. She faked the note and everything, making sure her mom wouldn’t wonder where the money came from, and never winced at the pinch in her own pockets. And she never told a soul, not even my mom, until great-grandma was safely and thoroughly buried herself.

any time i hear the insufferable transphobic athlete arguments i think of that one time in middle school when my boys lacrosse team did a full-contact scrimmage against the girls team (who typically play with limited contact) and i, a six-foot, 180lb defender, got utterly laid-out by this 5-foot-nothing girl experiencing the newly-unleashed animosity accompanied by violent sport and as i looked up at my assailant from flat on my back i experienced a brief bout of heterosexuality and fell wildly in love and then had to be taken to the ER because i had a concussion

“from flat on my back i experienced a brief bout of heterosexuality” took me out

lgbt ppl force their lifestyle on ppl? Try telling a straight woman at a hair salon you, a woman, want a buzzcut

Ashckdb when I was getting my hair cut off I showed lady the picture and she went to my mom to ask and my mom was like “….she 19” and then lady argued with me about during the ENTIRE cut and everytime she cut it shorter she said “this is nice, right? Keep it like this” I DONT WANT A BOB KAREN JUST CUT IT OFF

I was trying to go from hair halfway down my shoulder blades to a pixie cut and the lady kept asking thinking she was done (even though I’d given her a pic) my mom and I kept having to tell her “no. Even shorter” and she was like “rEaLlY” the whole godddamn time. Like please just do your job

This exact reason is why I got to barbers and not places that typically work with women’s hair. At a typical salon, it’s a battle to get just a clean, short cut, and I end up walking out looking like I’m ready to pick a fight with a manager in a grocery store. At a barber? Usually the guys are super chill about it and excited to see how they can make the cut work with my facial structure. Only a few times I’ve had a guy warn me, “there’s some parts of this cut that are super masculine, I know a way we can make it still the same cut but a *little* softer” and even then it turned out amazing.

So tl;dr pro tip for ladies looking for that nice clean buzz; barbers can be your best friend!

I go to an old man that talks about his grandkids, and lemme tell ya when I went and asked for this like short pompadour-esque style that man got GIDDY doing my hair, unlike all the women I’ve gone to.

That was the first time I have ever like actually loved my hair after a haircut, ya gotta get an old barber if you want it short

My high school had a rule that our shorts couldn’t go above a certain point on our legs. If we broke this rule, we would be forced into a humiliating large yellow shirt named “big bird” in order to publicly shame girls for distracting te boys. Although, no one ever had to wear the shirt except me. After a group of skinheads saw my shorts during my sophomore year, they coughed and told me, “put on some pants, boy!” They then complained to the school staff, who gleefully forced me to wear the shirt. 

Behind the shame, I was somewhat proud of having to wear the shirt which was supposed to target (cis) girls. In both affirming my gender as a trans woman while also shaming me for my womanhood, a question about the place of “equality and inclusion” in our movement comes to mind. On paper, I was treated with the same disrespect as any other girl. However, we should ask for more than mere trans equality: instead we could work toward abolishing the rules that affect all women. 

We can have a much more important impact: dignity for everyone. It’s boys’ responsibility to not be distracted, not girls’ to cover ourselves. On a broader level, we can demand more than trans equality - for universal healthcare, prison abolition, and justice for all. This goes far beyond the targeting of women’s bodies to all aspects of our lives.

(Via Instagram) Being a transgender teen can be difficult to say the least. What can be even more difficult are the pressures that we face as queer and trans people during this time. With doctors, therapists, and teachers telling me I had to present femininely in order to be safe, respected, or valued in society, I caved to the pressure of these authority figures. Over time, all openly trans people learn that being comfortable with oneself is more important than how others see you. So, I changed my appearance after a few years of transitioning as I grew more comfortable in my body and knew what was right for me. I’ve long had much more of an affinity for suits and ties than flow-y shirts and dresses. I should have access to this aesthetic as any other queer woman does. Trans people should likewise have autonomy over how we appear, regardless of how much we conform to gender norms. Instead of invoking fear about backlash to our trans identities, we should create a society that degenders clothing and embraces us for our unique presentations.

Here’s why it’s so important we don’t resort to narratives of respectability when telling our stories (featuring my dad). When I was a teenager, a large trans nonprofit filmed us for an ad campaign advocating for laws around the U.S. I was immediately put off by them instructing me to claim I always knew I was a girl (I didn’t). They also encouraged me to dress as femininely as possible. 

While these “always knowing” stories alongside presenting in a way that conforms to gender norms make our bodies more appealing for cis people, they’ll not only miss the opportunity to help other gender nonconforming trans people but also harm our community. At the time I was struggling with my fashion. I wanted to express my gender more fluidly. These directors didn’t help this by controlling my style. Plus the ads could have been supporting gender nonconforming trans youth.

My parents were both in the ad as well. They spoke about how much they supported trans kids and wanted to be an example. 

When my dad began to talk, the directors quickly silenced him after he mentioned he was feminine when he was younger. They had already forced him to tie his hair back to appear more masculine so it wouldn’t look like he influenced me into being trans. At that moment I realized we were walking into a trap. 

The reality is that we should be celebrating the many ways families can appear. My dad, who’s cis and straight, was also a feminine hippie for years. My mom is better educated and the family breadwinner. We don’t have a normally gendered household. 

Sometimes families can work in complicated ways and have no influence over a child’s gender or sexuality. Other times they can have influence over these very same aspects of life. Both ways of growing up trans are worthy of support regardless of how consumable the narratives are for a cis audience.

This photo was the first time my dad wore a suit in 5 years, for my cousin’s wedding. Now, I try to make up for it by wearing the suits he never wanted, as his daughter.

My Younger Sibling is Non-Conforming

I don’t know exactly what my little sibling is doing but she’s been super into dressing like and pretending to be a guy. Sooo today I helped her by finding some guy’s clothes and helping her wear a sports bra that flattens her chest, and I pinned her hair back and hid it under a hat. I made sure to talk to her like it was normal without outright saying “transgender” because I don’t want to be the one who comes up with it (when she’s old enough, maybe teens, she’ll know the term better and maybe suggest it) Until then, I’ve been asking her what she wants me to call her and what she wants to look like.

So we asked our mom what her name would’ve been if she had been born a boy— “Charles”. I’m calling her Charlie while (s)he is acting masculine and dressing like a boy. I also try to use the term “brother” and masculine pronouns with my sibling, but she never seems put off by being called “she”. (However is concerned about looking too feminine)

I want to maintain openness and opportunities for her. Our mom was chill and acted normal, saying “Chuck” as a nickname for “Charles”.

While she’s still young, I don’t know if this thing she’s doing is just drag and for fun or if she is trans or fluid. She still likes to act very feminine as well but totally does a great persona of a guy trying to impress the ladies.

I’ve never been great at connecting with my sibling because we, first of all, have a lot of different interests. A lot of the time we just don’t get along. Still, helping her and being open with her about this has made us a bit closer even if she’s emotionally distant about what she wants. There are times when she is even skeptical about my bold LGBTQ outspokenness and about my bisexuality, but she is still younger and growing up in an environment at school where “gay” is an insult.

I felt like sharing this story to encourage people to have an open mind about these things. It shouldn’t be weird or “unnatural” because gender (and sexuality for that matter) really is just a spectrum.