DevinElleKurtz
Grace Kelly on the set of High Society, her last movie.
coolcurrybooks-deactivated20230
I’ve been working on this post on and off for the last few months. I always intended to post it during Pride Month, and hey, here we are. I’ve got a lot going on in my life right now, so this might be the last book rec post for quite a while.
When possible, I’m linking to the Queer SFF Book Database since it has information on trigger warnings and links to reviews by queer readers. When not in the database of 6/15/20, I’ll be linking to Goodreads. Links are all below the cut.
Do not recommend cis authors on this post. This post is for centering trans and nonbinary authors. Please note that trans people write all sorts of stories and protagonists, and these books don’t automatically have trans or queer protagonists.
My master list of book rec posts is here, if you want to find more.
If you’re looking for a starting place on trans SFF, I strongly suggest the Transcendent anthology series as an overview. It’ll introduce you to a wide array of incredible stories from trans and nonbinary authors.
This list does not cover all of the amazing trans and nonbinary authors writing science fiction and fantasy! There are many more, and please feel free to suggest them here.
If you see any exclusionists or TERFs on this post, let me know without engaging and I will block them ASAP. I would prefer to keep this post a safe, positive place for trans readers.
“After learning my flight was detained 4 hours, I heard the announcement: If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic, Please come to the gate immediately. Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there. An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress, Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly. Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she Did this. I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly. Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick, Sho bit se-wee? The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used— She stopped crying. She thought our flight had been canceled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late, Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him. We called her son and I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and Would ride next to her—Southwest. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and Found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours. She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering Questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag— And was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California, The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies. And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers— Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too. And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands— Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing, With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere. And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, This is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped —has seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too. This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.”
—
Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be. (via oliviacirce)
When I lose hope in the world, I remember this poem.
(via bookoisseur)
(via sleepnoises)
I don’t want to hear a fucking word about how drag queens won’t know how to behave around kids from the same people flying “FUCK BIDEN” flags where every neighborhood kid can see a huge swear word on the regular.
Concept: a relationship where you’re both obsessed with each other but still respect each others space. There is healthy communication and trust. Tonnes of sex.
I love my gf so much. She doesn't specifically read my blog, since I reblog so much stuff. So I am crossing my fingers really hard that she sees this and is suitably mortified. I love you honey!
Yalll want to see some trans joy?!
Josie and I get to go swimming this weekend!! I know that doesn’t seem like much, but for a couple of trans women this is a big deal, and I AM SO EXCITED
Make sure Miranda gets these as soon as possible. And tell her I switched in the Dior for the Rocha. — Oh, great. Can’t wait.
The Devil Wears Prada (2006) dir. David Frankel
Source: bladesrunner
I ask again, what is the purpose of school resource officers other than to instill discomfort in the student body? Other than to brutalize and single out select “problem” students at random, often marginalized ones? There was not one single time during my academic career when I was glad there was a school resource officer in the school. It was a teacher who disarmed a student at my school. Every time there was a violent brawl, it was a teacher who inserted themselves in the middle to stop it. It is teachers who put themselves in front of gunmen to protect their students while the coward cop sticks his thumb in his ass in the parking lot.
"I got my life back" seems like a stunningly ill-considered thing to say when you're the one who did nothing during a multi-fatality shooting spree.
ok. listen. it’s about your girlfriend. you know how we thought she was a crop-blighting witch and we were planning to stone her? so, here’s the thing. every stone we threw drew not blood but like, the black and fathomless rage of a race of titans that were once slain but could not die. and she like, rose from her hastily-shoveled roadside grave as their resubstantiated champion or something. yeah, we’re suffering the onslaught of her vengeance right now. yeah. I guess we inadvertently created that which we had so feared. yeahh. could you like, answer her texts and ask if she’ll stop sloughing our flesh with her baleful gaze every time she sees us. thx in advance
you’re simping. calves are stillborn in the fields, food rots on the plate, holy symbols for miles around are tarnished black, and you’re simping.
DAMN RIGHT WE ARE. YOU SOWED. YOU REAP.