Long-read

She flinched when he reached out to push her hair back from her forehead, feeling shame creep up her neck the second her body reacted this instinctively, caving in like a house of cards. She hadn’t meant to pull away, not consciously, not so violently that he noticed. Pain flashed in his eyes. It was something that kept happening and was completely out of her hands, like every part of her body knew to withdraw at his touch, even though her brain, her rationality, told her not to. And she shouldn’t have, because her brain also told her that he was where she felt safe, that he was home.
“What is it?” He was careful, afraid that she wouldn’t want to talk about it, that she would grab her coat and walk out the door without explanation like she so often did when she got upset. Her mind was pure chaos, her head was throbbing painfully. The urge to leave, to run from the situation, made her legs itch and her heart pound faster.
“I-” The words wouldn’t come. She’d never voiced them, never said what fear had been buried inside her for so long. The right to know was his, as was the attempt to finally understand her. So she spoke.
“I feel so incredibly selfish.” It wasn’t what he’d expected at all, she could see that. His brown eyes were wide, his gaze questoning. “I need time. I always need a lot of fucking time to let someone in.”
“I know that.”
“I’ve been hurt in the past.”
“I know-”
“But I know it doesn’t give me an excuse to act like I do. To run from you when things get hard or when you get too close and to be so goddamn unapproachable. Everyone’s been hurt before, everyone’s heart’s been broken at least once and I feel so egoistic to wrap myself in my sadness and use it as an excuse when it’s not.” He waited for her to nod when he reached out again and when she allowed his touch, his fingers entwined with hers. She exhaled with a deep sigh.
“I just don’t think it’s fair of me to always say I’ve been hurt when others have it worse. I don’t think you should be the one that has to endure my moods.”
“But I love you. You’re scared and that’s okay. We have all the time in the world if you want to take things slow. Besides, what does it matter that other people have it worse, as you said? You have the right to remember and to cry and to complain. You have the right to take your time to heal. There is no shame in admitting that you don’t feel ready to open up again.” She glanced up at him with teary eyes and squeezed his hand.
“The pain we feel doesn’t get better or worse if we compare it to other people’s pain, remember that.”
—  excerpt
n.j.
8

The closest we will get to photographs of Egyptians who lived during 30 BC-AD 324. 

Shown here are examples of the extraordinary mummy mask portraits produced in Egypt during the Roman period. These portraits were essentially the mixing of two traditions: the Roman interest in realistic portraiture, and mummification, which had been practiced in Egypt for millennia. These were most often painted in encaustic (a mixture of pigment and hot wax), on a wooden board, at an approximately lifelike scale. These wooden panels were then placed on the outside of the cartonnage coffin, either cautiously wrapped into the mummy bandages, or placed over the head of the deceased individual. 

The topic of the accuracy of the portraits has been heavily researched, and it is now clear that these portraits displayed the person as they appeared in life -with sometimes a bit of artistic licence. It has been possible for researchers to recognize members of a family through analyzing their physical similarities depicted, and to date some mummies on the basis of clothing, hairstyles and jewellery worn in the portrait.

Now for a few points about the specific portraits shown as examples above (for more detailed accounts, check out the museum listings given below). All of these examples were, of course, found in Egypt. The ‘portrait of a thin-faced man’ shown first has remarkably free brushwork, and the man depicted displays a direct, intent gaze. The braids worn by the women in the 2nd example date the portrait to around the period of Roman emperor Trajan. The next portrait of a woman is attributed to the Malibu Painter. Dated to the Flavian dynasty by her hairstyle, she has incredibly large, expressive eyes, and her rich jewellery is indicative of her elite status. Perhaps the most remarkable of the portraits given in this post, the 4th example is of a young boy named Eutyches, who is dressed in a white Roman tunic, and looks calmly at the viewer. High rates of infant and child mortality, as attested to by this portrait, was an unfortunate reality of the ancient world in general. A bearded man is shown next, which dates to the Roman Imperial period. The portrait of a woman shown in the 6th image is attributed to the Isidora Master, and displays a mature women named Isidora, fully accessorized. A youth is displayed in the 7th portrait. Interestingly, a treated abnormality is evident in his right eye. Dating to the Roman Imperial period, the man displayed in the final example shown gazes confidently out at the viewer.

While I always strongly encourage people to view all forms of ancient art in person, the mummy portraits of Roman Egypt are of the most remarkable to see face-to-face. If you are to see no other form of ancient art, if at all possible, go see examples of these, for they bring ancient history alive. As artist Euphrosyne Doxiadis stated: “The Fayum portraits have an almost disturbing lifelike quality and intensity. The illusion, when standing in front of them, is that of coming face to face with someone one has to answer to—someone real.

Portrait of a thin-faced man, AD 140–170, courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York: 09.181.3.

Female Portrait Mask, 2nd century, courtesy of the Walters Art Museum, Baltimore: 32.5.

Mummy Portrait of a Woman, AD 75-100, courtesy of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Villa Collection, Malibu, California: 73.AP.91.

Portrait of the Boy Eutyches, AD 100–150, courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York: 18.9.2.

Mummy Portrait of a Bearded Man, ca. AD 170-180, courtesy of the Walters Art Museum, Baltimore: 32.6.

Mummy Portrait of a Woman, AD 100-110, courtesy of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Villa Collection, Malibu, California: 81.AP.42.

Portrait of a Youth with a Surgical Cut in one Eye, AD 190–210 courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York: 09.181.4.

Mummy Portrait of a Man, late 1st century, courtesy of the Walters Art Museum, Baltimore: 32.3.

A mathematician, a physicist, and an engineer were in a hotel for a convention.

Then, in the middle of the night for no apparent reason, a fire breaks out in the engineer’s wastebasket. The engineer rushes over to the bathroom, empties out the ice bucket, fills it with water and pours it into the trash can, dousing the fire. Satisfied that the problem was solved, the engineer goes back to sleep.

Shortly thereafter, a fire broke out in the physicist’s wastebasket. The physicist rushes to the bathroom, whips out his calculator, frantically does a few computations, pulls out a cup, fills it to a precisely measured level, and rushes back to the wastebasket, pouring the water onto the fire. As the last drop hits the flame, the fire goes out. Satisfied that the problem was solved, the physicist goes back to sleep.

Finally, a fire breaks out in the mathematician’s room. The mathematician rushes to the bathroom, sees the ice bucket, sees a cup, sees the water faucet. Satisfied that the problem could be solved, he goes back to sleep.

“I am going to tell you everything,” she said, “because I have too many feelings that are filling up my lungs, and too many words that refuse to be silenced.

"And when I am eighty years old I do not want to look back and wish I had told you how I see galaxies in your eyes. I do not want to write letters that will never be read or poetry that will never be heard.

"So now I will kiss your nose and breathe your air, and I will ask you to hold me a just a little bit closer even if it means you crush my ribs in the process.

"Because when I am eighty years old I would rather have the scars from the stitches left by an eighteen year old boy than to have ribs that never felt a thing.

"And I would rather trace the marks on my skin, saying ‘he knew, he knew, at least he knew,’ than to lie there regretting and wishing and wondering what you thought, and if I still cross your mind.”

—  S.Z. // Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #67
If we think of the douchebag as a social identity as much as an accusation, as a subject with a distinctive persona locatable within the categories of race, class, gender and sexuality, then we find that the term carries a remarkably precise definition.
 
The douchebag is someone — overwhelmingly white, rich, heterosexual males — who insist upon, nay, demand their white male privilege in every possible set and setting.
 
The douchebag is always a white guy. But he is more than that. The douchebag is the demanding 1%, and the far more numerically significant class of white, heterosexist men who ape and aspire to be them. Wall Street guys are douchebags to be sure, but so is anyone looking to cash in on his white male privilege.
 
This narrowness of categorization — perhaps unique in the history of America’s rich history of racial and sexual slurs — is what makes the word douchebag such a potentially useful political tool.
— 

Douchebag: The White Racial Slur We’ve All Been Waiting For — Medium

This is a great, interesting, insightful, long read.

So there once was this wasp that lived in a jungle. This was not your ordinary wasp though-he was smart, philosophical even. One day he finally got fed up with his repetitive, insignificant life and decided that he would leave his hive, his family, his entire close-knit wasp community and he would go out into the world and make something of himself, just like the humans do. So the wasp enrolls in school, and passes with flying colors. Remember, this is a very smart wasp. He gets his high school diploma in a little under 3 years, with a 4.0 GPA and all that snazz. After high school, believe it or not, the wasp gets accepted to Harvard. Harvard! This too proves to be no challenge for our hero, as he graduates in just two years, again a 4.0, on the Dean’s list, and all that snazz. Not to mention all the clubs and sports he was in-the newspaper, rowing, student government-and the fact that he was by far the most popular student on campus. Even his professors looked up to him.

He goes on to get two PhDs, and when he finishes his education, the wasp faces a bit of a dilemma. How does he apply his knowledge now? Where does he go from here? He decides to try out politics. After all, he was popular throughout school, did well in Harvard government. So he runs for mayor, and wins in a landslide. He greatly reforms the city, fixing virtually all its major problems. He runs for governor and again wins in a landslide. Two years later, the presidential election was coming up, and the wasp decides he might as well go for it.

Of course, he wins in the largest landslide in US presidential history. His presidency goes exceedingly well-he is loved by all parties, and has the highest approval ratings in history. He also finds the cures for cancer, AIDS, and broken hearts while in the White House. After 8 years (yes, of course he was reelected) the time has come for him to leave his office. Even his successor his saddened by the wasp’s departure, but they all know it’s what must be done. Back at his vacation home in California his first day after leaving office, the wasp looks back on his long and fruitful life. He realizes that he hasn’t been back to his hive at all since that first day he left. He suddenly feels a twang of guilt as he realizes how much he misses his parents and his little brother. So he heads back to the hive, looking more worn out than he remembers. He goes inside and greets his family, who are overjoyed at the sight of him. He talks about how his life has gone as his family listens in wonderment. Eventually he decides he is thirsty, so he decides to visit the old watering hole he remembered. Once he gets there though, there’s an extremely long line. He decides it’s worth the wait, so gets in line. One hour. Two hours. This is the slowest moving line he’s ever seen! Eventually he calculates that it could be a few days before he gets to the front of the line, so decides it’s not worth it. He decides to go get some cider to drink instead, but waddya know, another huge line of people waiting for cider! He remembers one other drinking area that never had a long line-fruit punch! So he decides to go get punch. He arrives, and lo and behold, there’s no punch line.

2

Kehinde Wiley: America’s Most Ambitious Artist

At 36, he is already one of the art world’s brightest lights, painter of portraits that borrow heavily from the old to make something blazingly new. Where once there were only white kings and their queens, Kehinde Wiley inserts the “brown faces” long absent from Western art. Rappers, athletes, kids off the street. Wyatt Mason hangs with Wiley as he hits the beaches and markets of North Africa, handpicks his subjects, and transforms them, step by inspired step, into an ambitious new series of paintings. This is how a masterpiece is made.

3

In the quarter-century from the end of the Vietnam War in the 1970s until Sept. 11, 2001, the United States rarely went to war, and when it did, the conflicts were so brief they were measured in days. The Gulf War in 1991 lasted 43 days. Airstrikes in the former Yugoslavia in 1995 went on for 22 days, followed by another round in 1999, that time for 78 days.

But since the Sept. 11 attacks, the United States has been fighting every single day for 15 straight years, the longest unbroken period in American history. The U.S. has carried out airstrikes, sent in ground forces, or both, in seven countries stretching from Pakistan in the east to Libya in the west. None of these conflicts has been resolved, and all signs point to years of strife ahead.

Sept. 11 has reshaped the U.S. in countless ways, but perhaps the most profound has been the transformation from a country where peacetime was the norm into one seemingly locked into a permanent state of war. Yet strangely, the country doesn’t feel much like it’s at war.

“Like the war on drugs or the war on poverty, the war for the greater Middle East has become a permanent fixture in American life and is accepted as such,” writes Andrew Bacevich, a retired Army colonel and professor at Boston University.

Sept. 11 Legacy: One Endless War Against Many Radical Enemies

Photos: Joe Raedle/Getty Images, John Moore/Getty Images, Sion Touhig/Getty Images

This is a friendly reminder that:

  • No one complains that watching people commit suicide in A Study in Pink is too graphic or inappropriate.
  • No one says that watching John shoot the cabbie and then Sherlock step on the wound as he dies was too graphic or too violent.
  • No one insists that there’s too much fighting (Sherlock choked in the apartment; the circus scene; John knocked out at the apartment; the rescue scene in the sewers) in The Blind Banker.
  • No one thinks that the way General Shan is shot in the head at the end of The Blind Banker was too violent or graphic.
  • No one stopped to wonder if the domestic terrorism (bomb going off in a flat, killing 12 or more) depicted in The Great Game was too much, too triggering, too violent.
  • No one mentions that Irene non-consensually drugging and beating Sherlock in Scandal in Belgravia is legally defined as assault, and that apparently Greg (and the rest of the police) thought it was funny enough to just film Sherlock in that state and send him home.
  • No one complains about witnessing a man get blown up in The Hounds of Baskerville.
  • No one is concerned about what happened to the children in The Reichenbach Fall after they were saved. No one asks if the boy survived the poisoning.
  • No one says that seeing Moriarty shoot himself in the head in The Reichenbach Fall was too graphic or inappropriate.
  • No one complains that watching Sherlock be held up by chains and hit at the beginning of The Empty Hearse should have come with a graphic violence warning.
  • No one says that all the blood during Bainbridge’s near death in the shower in The Sign of Three was too graphic.
  • No one complains that there’s too much physical violence in His Last Vow (John spraining Wiggins’ arm; Molly slapping Sherlock several times; Mary hitting Janine over the head).
  • No one blinked at Sherlock (with Wiggins’ help) drugging his entire family, including a pregnant woman, except John.
  • No one says anything about how ubiquitous guns are in Sherlock and how we watch two people get shot in His Last Vow.

But two men falling in love and – gasp – kissing on screen?

  • “Leave it as subtext.”
  • “Why can’t two men just be close friends?”
  • “That would be too graphic.”
  • “That ruins the show; I want to watch a detective story, not a gay love story.”  
  • “Impressionable children watch this show and that’s not appropriate.”

Listen: If you are okay with extreme physical violence but not two people falling in love; if you would rather explain to a child why someone is being tied up and tortured but not why two men are holding hands; if someone falling in love gives you pause but cold-blooded murder doesn’t; if you will let ‘impressionable young minds’ watch someone blow up a building but not watch two men kiss you need to re-examine your priorities

Nothing you can say will convince me that this, all of this, isn’t about homophobia. This is homophobia. 

4

The Egyptian Book of the Faiyum, 1st century BC-2nd century AD.

The Book of the Faiyum is the modern name of a text that describes the Faiyum oasis as the mythical center of prosperity and ritual. The text was compiled during the Greco-Roman period, perhaps in the temple of the crocodile god Sobek in Shedet, but it may be based on precedents from earlier periods. The most famous copy of this text, known as the Boulaq/Hood/Amherst papyrus, consists of two papyrus scrolls with hieroglyphic text and illustrations. Portions of this papyrus are now in the Walters Art Museum (Baltimore), the Morgan Library & Museum (New York), and the Egyptian Museum (Cairo). Besides this and other hieroglyphic versions, there are also hieratic and Demotic copies on papyrus and an unillustrated hieroglyphic version inscribed on the walls of the Sobek temple in Kom Ombo (Upper Egypt).

The focal point of the Walters Art Museum’s section of the book of the Faiyum is a long oval representing the Faiyum lake itself. Inside the lake, images of mythological figures including the crocodile god Sobek-Re, Osiris, and the solar child allude to stories of the creation of the world as well as the nightly regeneration of the sun god. Around the lake, forty-two deities are depicted, each representing an important cult site in Egypt. In this way, the book functions as a map of a ceremonial landscape centered in the Faiyum. (Walters)

Courtesy of & currently located at the Walters Art Museum, Balitmore, USA. Via their online collectionsW.738.

“It’s been a while.” Frail. Her voice sounded so goddamn frail. She didn’t know how they’d ended up alone together in the barely lit garden when they’d been in a crowded room a heartbeat before, and how he’d gotten so close that she could count the freckles on his nose in the weak lamplight. “Yes. Yes, it’s been a while,” he echoed, so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. Too close. He smelled of cheap vodka and something sweet - cherry, maybe. The confusion was visible in his brown eyes, the way he didn’t quite know how to act around her, the way he tried to suppress his initial reaction of reaching out to touch her. “Please stay where you are,” she whispered and the hurt that flashed across his face broke her heart all over again. He’d never shared her view on life, had always failed to understand why she was so afraid. She knew that with every time she said hello to him came a goodbye, like thunder unrelentlessly followed lightning. And while he would always choose everything over nothing, accepting the bad times if it meant also getting the good ones, she’d rather stick with nothing at all, too scared of the tears and the heartbreak and the prospect of having to move on if things didn’t work out. Always careful.
“Talk to me, please,” he begged, shivering slightly in the cold, “there are so many things we should talk about.” He was right - they had turned their backs on unfinished business, paused arguments and unsaid words that now squeezed her throat shut. But she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t run back to him simply because the opportunity was there and he was drunk, both on vodka and on her, and because it would be easy to return to what she knew. It would be just as hard to let him go again. “Can’t we try to work things out? Can’t we try to be friends?” But how could they ever be just friends if he had seen every inch of her, if he knew her deepest secrets and how to break her?
“I can’t. I can’t just be your friend.” She saw his face fall and her heart seized. But the knowledge remained: she could never say hello to him because it meant just another goodbye and if she never had to say goodbye again, it’d be too soon. But where did they stand when being friends wasn’t enough but being more than friends was too much?
—  excerpt
n.j.

When I asked you for a Chai latte, what I meant to say was: ”I was walking past. I saw you in the window. I only came in here because I had to know what your voice sounded like.” But instead of saying that… Instead of saying that, I got really nervous and just ordered the first thing on the menu. I don’t even know what the fuck “Chai” is.. Or a latte, for that matter. When God made you, He cussed for the first time. He turned to an angel, gave him a high five and said: “Goddamn, I’m good!” You are that beautiful. I spent the last five days tryna figure out how I’m gonna introduce myself to you properly, and I think I’ve finally figured it out. It’s gonna be something like… “Hi.” That’s all I got so far, but I think it’s a good start.

You see, I want that… I want that my friends think I’m crazy kind of love. That reckless kind of love. That wake up early, make you breakfast kind of love. That crack open my life and say look, you gotta see this kind of love. Forget the shallow stuff, I want the deepest kind of love. That I want to stay up and tell you all my secrets kind of love. That every time I see you, I fall to pieces kind of love. I want that stand next to me kind of love. That you are my destiny kind of love. That no matter what happens, you always get the best of me kind of love. That you get my heart and my mind, this world gets the rest of me kind of love. That invest in me kind of love, because you already know that I’m invested in you kind of love. That you come home upset, you don’t have to say nothing, I already know what to do kind of love.

I want… I want love.

I want you to bite my lip until I can no longer speak. And then suck my ex-girlfriend’s name out of my mouth just to make sure she never comes up in our conversations. I want you to come to me like an afternoon, come to me slowly as if you were a broken sunset with a lazy sky on your shoulders. If you let me be your sunlight, I promise that I will penetrate your darkness until you speak in angel wings. Pull me close to you, tell me that you love me, and then scratch your future into my back so I can be everything that you live for. I promise that I will die for you daily and then resurrect in your screams. I promise that I will love you.

I promise that I will love you as if it’s the only thing that I’ve ever done correctly. I’ll be honest, I’m usually not even a love poet. In fact, every time I try to write about love, my hands cramp. Just to show me how painful love can be. And sometimes our pencils break just to prove to me that, every now and then, love takes a little more work than planned. See, I heard that love is blind, so I write all my poems in Braille. And my poems, I never actually finish, because true love is endless. You see, I’ve always believed that real love is kinda like supermodel before she’s airbrushed. It’s pure and imperfect, just the way that God intended.

You see, I’m gonna be honest, I’m not much of a love poet. But if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I really wanted to write about love, my first poem… It would be about you. About how I loved you the same way that I learned how to ride a bike. Scared, but reckless. With no training wheels or elbow pads so my scars can tell the story of how I fell for you. You see, I’m not much of a love poet. But if I was, I’d write about how I see your face in every cloudy reflection in every window. You see, I’ve written a million poems, hoping that somehow, maybe some way, you’ll jump out of the page and be closer to me. Because if you were here right now, I would massage your back until your skin sings songs that your lips don’t even know the words to. Until your heartbeat sounds like my last name. And you smile like the Pacific Ocean. I wanna drink the sunlight in your skin.

If I was a love poet, I’d write about how you have the audacity to be beautiful even on days when everything around you is ugly. I’d write about your eyelashes, and how they are like violin strings that play symphonies every time you blink. If I was a love poet, I’d write about how I melt in front of you like an ice sculpture every time I hear the vibration in your voice. Or whenever I see your name on the caller ID, my heart… It plays hopscotch inside of my chest. It climbs onto my ribs like monkey bars, and I feel like a child all over again.

And I know that this is gonna sound weird, but sometimes, I pray that God somehow turns you back into one of my ribs just so that I would never have to spend an entire day without you. I swear, I’m usually not a love poet, but if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I really wanted to write about love, my first poem… I swear that it would be about… It would be about you.

And after all of that, she was like, “So how do you feel about me?” And I was confused. I said, “Let’s put it like this…” I want to be your ex-boyfriend’s stuntman. I want to do everything that he never had the courage to do, like… Trust you. I swear that when our lips touched, I could taste the next sixty years of my life.

See, last night, I had a dream. And in this particular dream, I died in my dreams, woke not knowing I was still sleeping, decided to walk. You see that night, I walked in my sleep, I slept in my walk, I walked backwards until I saw you for the first time, and I could barely muster the courage to introduce myself all over again.

You see, I’ve been trying to find the right words. I’ve been trying to take the right steps for what seems to me like thousands of years, but something always seems to go wrong between us. We lived in Egypt, I was the Pharaoh’s slave, you were his daughter. Loving you led to my death, they claimed that I seduced you, and after they stole my life, I was resurrected as a mason. I made the foundation for your house. We met eyes for two seconds, you left, and I didn’t see you again until I died. I came back as a caterpillar. I turned into a butterfly, I landed in the palm of your hands, you brushed me away, and the rejection killed me. When I awoke, I was a kick drum, you were a snare, we were both owned by this drummer named Cozy Cole, and when he died, so did we. But I came back just to look for you. I left notes in random places, hoping that you would stumble across them. I carved our names in trees, and then prayed that it would jog your memory. I whispered your name in the wind, hoping somehow, maybe some way, my voice would reach you, but it didn’t, and I died. I died early. I died young with breadcrumbs in my hand just hoping that you would find me, but you never did, so they buried me. And when they buried me, they put these coins over my eyes, and I used them as bus fare to get back to Earth, just so I can look for you. That’s why sometimes, when we hold hands, ever so often, I tend to hold on a little too tight, and I’m sorry. I just don’t want to lose you again. My mother told me, when you find the perfect woman, you do whatever it takes to make sure that she’s next to you.

—  Rudy Francisco, Love Poem Medley
Important A-spec Allies PSA

Know what I don’t trust anymore? Any posts seemingly made for queer/lgbt+ people that use the phrases “straight people” or “the straights”, or that use the meme “thanks, sharon/janet/brenda/etc.”

Why? Because these phrases and that meme have become codes that SGA gatekeepers use to propagate anti a-spec sentiment. I’m not even exaggerating (though I wish I were). Every single queer/lgbt+ post I see nowadays that uses these codes (and there are a lot of them) is, if I check (which I do), made by an SGA gatekeeper. For ex. I’ve seen this one going around:

And, as you can guess, the OP is 100% an SGA gatekeeper.

These posts seem innocent and inclusive but they’re not. And I can promise you that many a-spec users on this site know these posts are meant to exclude them, even if they can’t articulate why they feel Othered like I can. That’s how slow, long-term propaganda works: it re-codes popular language by consistently placing it in specific contexts; that way, the audience will begin to unconsciously associate those terms with those contexts. In this case, SGA gatekeepers are consistently creating content that labels a-spec people as “straight”, and then consistently creating separate content that disparages “straight” people for intruding in spaces they don’t belong (particularly queer/lgbt+ spaces). 

And it’s working, because tons of a-spec inclusive bloggers are reblogging these seemingly innocent posts, thus giving sanction to their message. And as such, when SGA gatekeepers ALSO reblog those posts (fully understanding the true meaning), they gain authority through association with those other Trusted Bloggers. It’s the exact same tactic as using celebrity endorsement to sell makeup.

So when young queer/lgbt+ followers THEN see posts claiming that a-spec people are really just “straight intruders”? They start to trust those posts, start to doubt a-spec people. Because they see the SGA gatekeepers making the posts as part of a trustworthy front, and it’s hard to know what to do when everyone looks like the good guy. 

And so the cycle slowly continues. And a-spec people continue to see more and more anti a-spec sentiment on their dash, both covert and overt.

I don’t usually engage SGA discourse in any way because I prefer being actively inclusive instead, but this was too insidious for me to leave unaddressed. Due to current trends, I now consider it the responsibility of a-spec inclusive queer/lgbt+ people to vet community posts like these before reblogging. To actively try to remember this as often as possible. Especially those who aren’t a-spec themselves, because as non a-spec people, you won’t be as intuitively sensitive to the message underlying these posts but your a-spec followers will be. So please, make the effort to be aware and quickly vet these posts before reblogging. And if it turns out to be SGA-made, either call it out or don’t reblog. I know we can’t be perfect but I also know that with every SGA-made post that gains positive traction, a-spec people become more alienated. And if we don’t try to stop it then this tactic will succeed in its hatemongering. 

Thanks. And much love to all my black, non-white, disabled, neurodivergent, and intersex a-spec people out there. As well as the multi-spec and trans people taking shit for us and now also being called “straight”/”not lgbt” because of it. <3 Stay safe. You’re always welcome on my blog.

Reblog at will.

TLDR; Read The Bolded.

Five months later, Rinelle Harper gives a voice to the missing and murdered

Ever since her heart stopped, Rinelle Harper has been striving for normalcy. She fought for her life and now she wants to live like the 16-year-old she is – spending too much time on Facebook, listening to Eminem, playing volleyball, resisting her mother’s suggestions on how to wear her long black hair.

It has been nearly five months since a beaten Rinelle crawled out of Winnipeg’s freezing Assiniboine River, only to be attacked again on a footpath by two men who left her there to die. Now she is giving a voice to the murdered and missing native women who are not able to speak for themselves. She wants a national inquiry into their deaths and disappearances, and she wants native women to take care of one another – to walk in pairs, especially at night.

Hers is the quiet voice of a shy teen cast reluctantly into a public role by the ineffable luck of the survivor, but hoping to be heard all the same.

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Touchy subject.

Family is touchy subject for me..

In a nice world, we all get on and love each other because we are family and that’s what’s important.

In the real world, we are a bunch of strangers made to get on because we share the same blood line. 

Sometimes it works and it’s amazing when it does.

Sometimes it doesn’t.

At the end of the day, whats important is how you value yourself. No one has the right to treat you in anyway you don’t accept. 

I guess i’m saying sometimes having the same blood line doesn’t mean much. I got friends that will be my family forever

Louis

House Of Hippies

Shay Mitchell on Her New Flick and Unstoppable Drive / May 2016 / FLARE

Who better to headline our #FLARE60Under30 extravaganza than a multi-hyphenate who does it all? And we mean all. Charlotte Herrold shares 30 fascinating factoids about Pretty Little Liars star–movie actor–author–social media maven–spokesperson Shay Mitchell.

Read the full interview here

(Top and pants, Stella McCartney. Bracelet, Alexis Bittar. Earrings: Marni.)
(Photo: Nino Muñoz)