16 But Ruth said: “Entreat me not to leave you, Or to turn back from following after you; For wherever you go, I will go; And wherever you lodge, I will lodge; Your people shall be my people, And your God, my God. 17 Where you die, I will die, And there will I be buried. The Lord do so to me, and more also, If anything but death parts you and me.—

Ruth 1:16-22

With Anne Ogborn, a devotee of the 1960s school of protest and agitation for social change, I participated in discussions of progressive viewpoints on actions that needed to happen to improve transsexual lives. Anne was one of the Transgender Nation protesters who were arrested in 1993 for defacing public property and disturbing the peace outside the convention of the American Psychiatric Association in San Francisco, while I was inside on the convention floor, working with members of IFGE and ETVC to educate psychiatrists one-on-one in a less confrontational approach. The two strategies worked together, because when the noisy, angry protesters provoked the psychiatrists they came over to our booth to ask us, perhaps rhetorically, what those obnoxious people outside thought they would accomplish. Every day of the conference we were asked if we were affiliated with the demonstrators outside the Moscone Center; we said we knew some of them and we thought they were raising valid points. People asked us, “Why are they protesting? What do they want?”
“We want control of our own lives,” I replied. “We want the stamp of mental illness removed from our foreheads. We want humane, responsible, and reasonably priced medical care, and we want ordinary civil rights.”
“It’s a lot easier for me to understand your message here in the booth than it is when I feel bombarded by demonstrators,” one psychiatrist said.
“But if there hadn’t been any demonstrators,” I asked, “would you have bothered to think about us at all?”
—  Jamison Green, “Becoming a Visible Man” p. 79-80
whistlestop: a fanmix


 a mix for idgie and ruth, for evelyn and mrs. threadgoode: for stump and dot weems and sipsey and big george. even for reverend scroggins.

a mix for whistlestop, alabama: a town with a living, beating heart.

leaner days (husky) | morning song (chris and thomas) | helplessness blues (fleet foxes) | return to darden road (beta radio) | land of sea (chris and thomas) | tiger striped sky (roo panes) | gotta have you (the weepies) | the truth is a cave (the oh hellos) | ghost train (thomas newman) | farewell (husky)

finish the story

you are awoken by the sound of aggressive chewing. the sound is coming from your front yard. you step outside. its junkrat. he’s eating your grass. chunks of grass. he’s ripping handfuls of dirt, grass, and the occasional weed before shoving it into his mouth and eating it. he’s eating your fucking grass. he notices you. he looks at you. seconds pass, possibly minutes, hours, years. you dont fucking know, theres a man eating your goddamn grass. 

suddenly, with a thick australian accent he says: