The history of LGBT+ activism is a long and storied one, but many of those stories have been erased or forgotten. In honor of the month of Pride and all the courageous activists who came before us, here are some of them:
The Activism of Dr. Magnus Hirschfeld
Magnus Hirschfeld, who was himself gay, led a movement to decriminalize and understand homosexuality in pre WWII Germany that was highly successful given the time in which it took place. In 1897 he founded the Scientific Humanitarian Committee to study and demystify homosexuality, believing that through scientific examination hostility towards gay men and women could be reduced. In 1898 his committee presented 5000 signatures of prominent Germans to the Reichstag in favor of overturning discriminatory laws against homosexuality. The bill didn’t pass, but Hirschfeld was only beginning. In 1910 he coined the term ‘transvestite’, the very first term for what we now know as transgender people, and even - remarkably - suggested that gender might be a spectrum. In 1919 he opened his Institute for Sexual Research, a clinic created for studying and caring for sexual or gender minorities. The famous Lili Elbe (as in The Danish Girl) received treatment at his clinic.
The clinic was wildly ahead of its time. Hirschfeld not only pioneered gender confirmation surgery through the work of Dr. Ludwig Levy-Lenz but he convinced the police - the police! - to issue a special permit to trans women so that they could travel freely in their own clothing without being harassed or arrested.
As a gay Jewish man who fought for the rights of gay and trans people, it’s not a surprise that Hirschfeld was a favorite target of the Nazis. In 1933 his Institute was raided and his research burned, setting back queer liberation for god knows how long. He fled to France, where he lived out the rest of his life.
The Mattachine Society and the Daughters of Bilitis
The Mattachine society, founded in 1950, was the first ‘homophile’ (gay rights) organization in the United States. Founded by Harry Hay in Los Angeles, the society had itself likely been inspired by knowledge of Hirschfeld’s work and proposed to improve the condition of the lives of gay men in America. The group adopted the cell style organization favored by Communist groups and soon there were chapters all around the country. When member Dale Jennings got arrested for ‘lewd behavior’ he decided to fight the charges with the support of the Society, who generated publicity and sympathy around the case. The jury deadlocked, the charges were dropped and the Mattachine society declared victory.
The Daughters of Bilitis (1955) was originally concieved as an alternative to the lesbian bar scene but quickly politicized. They provided support and education for lesbians who wanted to learn more about their orientation, as well as launching a magazine that was the first nationally distributed lesbian publication called The Ladder in 1956. In 1960 they even held a national convention.
The Activism of Frank Kameny
In 1957 Frank Kameny was caught up in the “lavender scare”, a purge of homosexuals from US Government departments, and lost his job. But Kameny was a fighter, and he didn’t take it lying down. He devoted himself to activism.
Refusing to be bullied or made ashamed of his orientation, Kameny not only founded the Washington D.C. chapter of the Mattachine society but launched what was one of the earliest LGBT picket lines in history when he and ten other activists picketed the White House in 1965 carrying a sign that said “Gay is Good”, his favored slogan. In 1963 he launched the campaign to decriminalize homosexuality in D.C. and personally drafted the bill that finally passed in 1993.
The Compton’s Cafeteria Riot
The first transgender-led riot against the police took place not at Stonewall, but at Compton’s Cafeteria in the Tenderlion district of San Francisco.
Compton’s Cafeteria was a restaurant that had become a meeting place for transgender people, as they weren’t welcome in many gay bars at the time. In the early 1960′s, the staff at the Cafeteria began calling the police on their trans customers, leading to arrests and raids and harassment. Things came to a head when a police officer attempted to arrest one of the trans women who was patronizing the restaurant, and she threw her coffee in his face. Furniture was thrown, windows were smashed, and the fighting spilled out into the street. A police cruiser had all its windows smashed out and a newsstand was burned down.
The next night trans women and other LGBT supporters formed a picket line outside the Cafeteria to protest their treatment. During the demonstration the windows of the Cafeteria were once again shattered. Many of the activists were members of Vanguard, an early organization for LGBT youth.
I was blessed to meet this lil cutie the other day. wanted to get a nice picture of those beautiful green eyes but she refused to sit still and look at me properly, too busy rubbing her face on the furniture. super friendly though! really wish I could take her home with me :’-(
Genre: peter pan!au | a wave of angst
| drops of fluffiness at the end
The star: Ten / Reader
Word count: 7 257
A/N: I wrote this one based on a song I heard. Special thanks to Lauren, for correcting my one hundred and one faults. If there’s any grammatical mistake left, please forgive me.
hurt me, Y/N.” He said, making the saddest face he could. “As you don’t
remember, I’ll introduce myself again. Like twelve years ago.” He took a deep
breath, closed his eyes for a moment and suddenly jumped on top of the bed,
surprising you. “My name is Ten! I am the tenth lost boy!”
In an attempt to stop your bad habit of writing on walls, when you were five, your brothers had attached a small chalkboard to your door. You became so fascinated by the chalk and the way the colors looked on your door, you had stopped drawing on the other walls in the bunker. However, this did not stop the smiley faces on the furniture. Even though the habit of marking everything in your path with marker stopped, your doodles on the board did not. You grew up drawing sketches, or putting messages on the outside of your door.
You were a pretty positive kid, considering the life you were growing up in. The messages on the board normally reflected your happiness. Your brothers daily routine involved checking the board as well. The image and saying changed daily. You would have it up before Sam came back from his run, and before Dean woke up in the morning. An assortment of colors and fonts would show the boys what mood, and what the day would be like with their little sister. It was never, ever left blank in the seven years you had had it.
Sam walked past your room, glancing over to see that last night’s message was still the same. He decided to shrug it off, thinking maybe you were tired from staying up and studying. He went about his morning just as usual, giving it no other thought.
Later, Dean passed by your door after having lunch. He looked over towards your door, seeing that the message was still the same as last night’s. He stopped and gave the door a good, hard look. He walked down the hall, trying to shrug the strange feeling off.
When it came to dinner, the boys sat at the table. You were nowhere to be seen. They waited for you, when finally Sam decided to go get you. They both hadn’t seen you all day, and it was unlike your normal self to avoid them. The message board was changed, but this time it had a little rain cloud drawn on it. He squinted as he read the little caption.Leave food outside the door. He quickly went back to the kitchen.
“Dean, I think there is something wrong with Y/N,” he said.
Dean looked up from his plate, “She’s probably just out of cherry lip gloss again Sammy,” he smirked .
Sam rolled his eyes, “No Dean, the message board has a sad little sketch. I think something is seriously wrong”.
Dean dropped his burger, and stood.They both went back to your room, but this time the board was completely blank. They glanced at each other, both showing looks of worry and furrowed brows. Dean opened the door slowly, and Sam followed. They came to find you laying face down on your bed. Books were scattered everywhere, along with lose papers and pens.
“Y/N, what’s going on in here?” Dean asked. You didn’t respond, just stayed put.
“Uh, Y/N, would you mind facing us at least?” Sam asked.
You groaned, and pulled yourself up. When they finally got a look at your face there were tear stains and red, puffy eyes.
“Y/N/N what’s wrong?” Sam asked, giving you his classic puppy eyes as he hopped over the little piles on your floor.
You sighed, and wiped at your eyes. “I can’t think of any more quotes for my board,” you replied. You played with the ends of your sleeves as a smile cracked across Dean’s face.
“Baby girl are you telling us you’re crying over the chalk board?” he tried not to laugh.
You nodded, “It’s not funny!”.
Sam also cracked a smile, “It is a little bit”. They both started chuckling as you groaned and laid back down.
“Y/N why don’t you just look online?” Sam asked.
“Yeah, use that phone for something other than texting,” Dean snickered.You sat up again, and gave a small smile, “I guess I could try that. These books are kinda useless,” you pushed a piece of hair from your eyes. Sam almost fell off the bed. Dean sat on the other side of you, and gave your hand a little squeeze.
“You know, if you start feeling pains in your-,” Sam started but both Dean and yourself gave him a horrified look.
“Okay, okay, just making sure this wasn’t caused by mother nature’s gift. I know it’s usually an emotional time of the month”.
You rolled your eyes, “I’ll make sure to put it on the board if it happens.” “Please don’t,” Dean squawked.
Your brothers helped you clean up the mess, and from then on the message board was never empty again. It did every once in a while inform them on when you needed some ice cream and the heating pad however.
You’re Safe Now, I’ve Got You (George Washington x Reader)
This one gets a bit real. There’s a big emphasis on war PTSD and trauma. If those are sensitive topics for you, I may advise against reading this. All that being said, my health isn’t so great right now. We have no clue what’s going on and I can’t function without my pain medications, and they make me quite groggy, so updates may be a bit slower. Thank you for all of your support, kindness and love. I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart. Enjoy!
“(Y/N), are you ready?” George called from down the hall.
“Yes dear! I’m coming!” you replied as you finished lacing your dress.
You checked yourself over in the mirror, making sure your hair and makeup were in place, and that you could still function in the tightly-set corset hidden beneath your gown. Giving everything your final approval, you took a deep breath and trotted out of your room and down the stairs to meet George, patiently waiting for you at the bottom.
Tonight, July 4th, 1777, was a celebration of the one year anniversary of America’s independence from the British. You and George were going to go down to the city, where an immense celebration would ensue. There were going to be fireworks, food, drinks, large crowds, singing and dancing. To say you were excited would be an understatement. You couldn’t wait to celebrate, meet friends, and watch George interact with his old soldiers again, and see people pay gratitude and thanks towards him. It was incredibly obvious that you were more than proud of your husband. His accomplishments, ambition and work ethic still left you in awe. You had met him in the war; he was the major general and you were a nurse that traveled with his armada. You still had no clue how or why he had taken such interest in you, but you were glad he did. He truly was a God among men, and by some miracle, asked you to marry him.
You saw his typically stone expression melt into one of disbelief and wonder as you descended down the stairs. A grin spread across his face as you approached him and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“(Y/N), I don’t know how you do it, but you steal my breath away on too many occasions,” he admitted, a grin spreading across his face as you planted a kiss on his cheek.
“After all this time?” you asked, sheepishly resting your chin on his chest and looking up at him.
“Yes, my love,” he started, looking down at you with big, warm, loving eyes. “As long as I’m on this Earth, I doubt I’ll ever have a chance to catch my breath.”
You smiled and placed a soft kiss on his lips. You were too lucky to have him.
“Coming?” he suddenly asked, holding his arm out so you could loop yours around it.
“Yes, dear,” you giggled as you linked arms with him and walked out of the house to an awaiting carriage.
“Alright, alright! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” slurred a very drunk Laurens, wobbling on top of a table where drinks were being served. The bartender couldn’t even begin to shoo him before he completely fell off the furniture and face planted onto the floor.
The party was in full bloom, with young men drinking their weight in the free alcohol, people happily dancing to the celebration tunes that played in the streets, and children darting through the crowd, laughing and brandishing small american flags. You couldn’t help but smile at the fruits of your labor, an independent country reveling in its amazing spirit. Still, you kept in the back of your mind the families, friends, and souls of those who were lost on the field of battle.
You were sitting with some of your nursing friends, gossiping and catching up with each other. George was seated at a table surrounded by his men, all patting him on the back, cheering him on and offering to bring him a drink. It was clear how much they adored and looked up to him. You grinned with pride.
A shudder rippled through your body as the night was filled with magnificent red and blue color. The streets filled with cheer and applause. The fireworks had started.
You went silent and felt yourself began to shake as another firework whistled as it was shot into the sky. They sound that was left echoing in your head sounded all too familiar.
Horrible memories that you had been trying for so long to get rid of flooded back into your head. You ran your hands through your hair and cupped them over your ears, as if physically trying to restrain the thoughts from entering into your head. These fireworks sounded almost identical to cannons.
With every sound of explosion, you heard the screams of men in horrible pain, their hands and fingernails tearing at their flesh trying to remove bullets lodged in their bodies. Before you could even realize it, you were vividly reliving a horrific day on the battlefield as a nurse. You let out a small, audible cry for help. Your fellow nurses directed their attention towards you, noticing something was very wrong.
You let out another cry, and felt the eyes of several people around you. You saw Washington’s brow furrow in concern as he broke away from his crowd of men and began rushing towards you. You were sure that he was calling out to you, but you couldn’t hear him. Your ears were clogged with men howling in anguish at their newly lost limb, or their screams as they were filled with bullets and the harsh metal tore through their skin and organs, their sounds then transforming into gurgled sounds as blood rushed into their lungs.
You couldn’t take it anymore. You quickly stood up and fled down the street, hands still firmly clasped over your ears. You ran. And ran. And ran. And ran. The street cobblestone turned into grass as you furthered your distance from the commotion. You had no clue where you were going or where you were, you just needed to get away. Now.
As your legs felt like they were aflame, you reached a small grove of trees and with your last shred of energy, carried yourself to one and collapsed under it, your legs folding into the grass as your body slumped against the rough bark. Your chest heaved as you took deep breaths of oxygen and tried to calm down. Even though you had run so far for so long, you could still hear the explosions and violently shook with each one. You clamped your eyes shut and curled into a ball, waiting for it to be over.
“(Y/N)?” you suddenly heard a voice call out.
You turned your head and opened you eyes, revealing an incredibly worried-looking George jogging towards the grove.
But that wasn’t all you saw.
Your mind evilly tricked your eyes into having you see your worst nightmare play out right in front of you. You saw dead men laying dead on the ground, their clothes soaked with blood and sweat. Several detattched limbs surrounded you. A man with half his head blown off lay at your feet.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no!” you screamed.
You felt arms wrap around you as you were brought into your husbands chest.
“(Y/N), it’s not real! Everything is fine!” he desperately told you. You shook in his arms and felt your emotions begin to flood out of you.
“No…no….no…no…” you said in between sobs. George continued to press you into him, comforting you as the fireworks continued, feeling you quiver with each one.
“Shhhhh…” he cooed as he patted your head. Your breathing was beginning to steady as the imagined images became to fade. You realized their non-existence as they dissappeared from view.
“You’re safe now. I got you.” he breathed as you were still held into his chest, tears silently running down your face.
“I-I’m s-sorry…” you stammered, trying to apologize for your outburst.
“Don’t even dare try to apologize to me.”
“I didn’t mean to-”
“Of course you didn’t. No one does. We’re all haunted by it.” he comforted.
You sat for awhile in silence. You recollected all of the atrocious scenes you had been a part of in the past few years.
“It was so scary.”
“I know, I know.” He responded softly rubbing circles on your back and placing light kisses onto the top of your head. “But we made it out alive, and that’s what matters.”
You began to sob again.
Please, don’t cry (Y/N)…“ He begged.
“C-can we please leave?”
He stood up and offered you his hand so you could support yourself. However, your legs, exhausted after such strenuous use, practically gave out from under you. George immediately caught you around the waist, and effortlessly lifted you into a bridal carry. You leaned into him as he began making his way back.
Kenneth Branagh explains Poirot’s moustache in Murder on the Orient Express
Bonus: “I spent months getting that moustache right, that massive piece of face furniture.” Q: “Was it real?” “I can’t tell you or I’d have to kill you. *smiles* It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real, I did try growing one but Agatha Christie says that Poirot has the most magnificent moustaches in England. So, we created this kind of double-layer twirly moustaches which in itself took so much taking care of, that we got really well ahead of the game with that one, same with the accent.”
Some thoughts on multiplicity and traumagenic vs. endogenic
We know why we’re multiple. It doesn’t boil down to a simple traumagenic vs. endogenic thing.
We’re autistic, and because of our autism as a little kid we experienced a lot of things as extremely overpoweringly overwhelming to the point where dissociation was a good coping mechanism. These weren’t things that are normally considered to be traumatic, but fairly “normal” things. Like, our own emotions, and also social things. Like, fairly innocuous things like us smiling and other people seeing it was so mind-blowingly overwhelming and terrifying that 3-year-old-us was doing things like covering our face and hiding under furniture until dissociation allowed us to cope with life better and not be an overloading mess all the time.
Is that trauma-based? If so, that’s saying that being our flavor of autistic is inherently traumatic, and we’re not really into that. It’s just how our brain works.
Dissociation + a highly active imagination gave us worlds and people and stories and our system. We like calling ourselves “imagination-based”. A lot of people might find this offensive, thinking imagination is trivial or “not-real”. However, we consider it to be one of the most real and important things in our life. Imagination is a very real thing, generated by the brain, and I think it can be related to dissociation in some very interesting ways.
We ALSO are from a very screwed up family and most definitely were abused and traumatized. We just don’t think it was the origins of our multiplicity. We’ve sorted through some repressed stuff and it had jack-all to do with us being multiple and was also not contained to individual ones of us, was more like general denial and not realizing how screwed up and not-normal some things were until we’d gotten away from them. We definitely fit the “well, things were kind of bad, but not like real abuse or trauma bad, other people have it worse, and nobody ever hit us except that one time and also that other time…” denial thing. Yes, it actually was that bad. Trauma has shaped us in some ways, though. Just not the repressed-memory DID way.
We relate to endogenic multiplicity a lot because we just don’t fit the repressed-trauma-causing-dissociation DID mold, and we think we’d probably be multiple regardless of abuse & trauma stuff just because of our neurology, and as far as we can tell we were already multiple before stuff started getting really bad.
We’ve described ourselves before as an “it’s complicated”-based system. Some combo of our autism, our natural neurology, imagination, trauma… Unless we could see ourselves in some kind of alternate universes where various ones of these different factors don’t exist, and how we turned out in those universes… who knows what definitely factored into it and what didn’t? We’re here now, no matter our origins, that’s what matters.
In the end, I really feel like it’s not anybody else’s business why a multiple system exists, or to judge whether or not those reasons are valid, or whether that system has explored trauma enough to properly declare themselves to be endogenic or not.
In a lot of ways we’re actually sick to death of all this debate and focus on origins and causes.
We’re autistic, queer, grey-ace, gender-weird… For all those things, it’s usually considered enough for us to say that’s what we are, and to just exist.
For multiplicity, though, people want REASONS and JUSTIFICATIONS. Can’t just say “hey, this is who we are and how we identify”.
If people got like this over our autism, queerness, or gender identity, wanting to know WHY we are this way, and wanting to focus on the causes, and wanting to delve into what trauma might have caused these things, that would be considered rude as hell. For multiplicity though, it seems to be the standard. I know things are complicated with this due to links between dissociation and trauma. But on some level all of this stuff still feels rude as hell.
Possibly because we are old and crotchety and have been out of the closet for a long time and are at the point in life where we don’t want everything we do to be about our multiplicity or about analysis of why we are the way we are. In our circle of friends we know systems of all types, trauma & endogenic & other, and we don’t spend our time in some kind of deathmatch over who is the one true way to be multi, we are friends. Not having the same origins is harming nobody. We just kind of want to exist and have the focus be on WHO we are, not on WHAT we are. However, here it seems like there’s no escaping all this focus on origins and demands for justification.
All the gatekeeping stuff is harmful bullshit. If you’re a multiple system and you exist, you exist. The importance of your origins and how much you want to share is up to you. Nobody should ever have to justify their own existence. Existing is enough.
Pairing: John Laurens x reader Word Count: 718ish T/W: None! A/N: A little story for my Groffsauce Anon who was having a bad day. I love you, Honey♡ Tags: @justfangirlingaround ✨
That was it. The last straw. You were completely done with people. It felt like no one cared how you were feeling and you were exhausted. Heading home you planned on just going straight to bed. You slowly creaked the door open, just enough for you to slip through. As if your day hadn’t been frustrating enough, your lanyard got caught in the door jam. Sighing you opened the door, holding your keys as far away from the door as possible when you shut it again. Setting your backpack down, you dropped the keys on the counter.John turned around from where he was int the kitchen at the sudden clatter of metal against the marble counter.
“Hey, baby,” he smiled your direction, but you were already headed to the couch, “how was your day?”
You just grumbled, falling face first into the couch, one foot hanging off. You heard him laugh a little as his footsteps came closer. You were completely done, but if there was one person to make you feel better, it was John. He always knew how to make you laugh or when to comfort you. He crouched down beside the couch and rubbed a hand on your back.
“That bad?” he frowned a little.
“Mhmm…,” you muffled into the pillow your face had landed on.
“I’m sorry, baby girl.” His hand came up to stroke your hair, “If you want to join me, I’m in the kitchen attempting to bake cookies, if not that’s perfectly okay, get some rest.”
You turned your head to face John. How did he do it? How did he always make you feel better, even if it was just a little better, it was still better. His golden brown eyes were so warm and comforting as he smiled at you, before giving you a pouty look, making you laugh a little.
“Thanks babe,” you rubbed your eyes, “I’ll think about it.”
“Okay,” he pressed a kiss to your forehead before standing and returning to the kitchen.
You sat up from where you were sprawled out. Tucking your knees into your chest, you crossed your arms, resting them on your knees. Looking to the kitchen you saw John attempting to bake. He would glance at the directions, turn to get the ingredients and then quickly glance back to the little chart to double check that he was getting the right stuff. You smiled to yourself a little. He was so cute. You were still exhausted, but you opted to join him. Instead of helping though, you just hugged him from behind.
“Hey, look who’s not face first into our furniture!” he teased you lightly.
“Shut up,” you nuzzled your face into his back, hugging him tightly.
Even when he moved you followed, never breaking the hug. He laughed at times when you would correct him on how much vanilla to put in, or how to properly crack an egg without getting the shell in the bowl. But your tips were helpful. You closed your eyes, feeling his chest rise and fall, you were almost lulled to sleep, but then he moved again. Once he was done adding everything in the bowl, he stirred them all together. He felt you lean into him a little more. He figured you were probably tired.
“If you’re tired, why don’t you-”
“No,” you answered, hugging him a little tighter.
After a while of stirring, he began placing the fresh dough onto the cookie sheets. When the pans were full he walked them over to the over, setting the heat and timer, before turning around in your grasp. He leaned back against the counter as your head now rested on his chest. He finally held you back. You listened to his heartbeat. He rubbed your back while you leaned into him, resting and clinging on to him like a koala.
“So, tell me about your day?” he asked tilting his head, looking down at you.
“People are just…mean.” you answered, sighing, “Work was just frustrating.”
“I’m sorry baby girl,” John rocked you a little, “You have off tomorrow right?”
You responded with a quiet ‘yeah.’
“Well, how about we stay home, eat these cookies while lounging around in sweats watching movies?” He suggested, brushing some hair behind your ear.
“You know how to speak to a girl’s heart John, you really do.” you looked up at him with a soft smile.
what she means:
i'd forgotten how much i thirsted for diego luna after i saw him in dirty dancing: havana nights shaking his lil body for cuba and love and freedom but DAMN DID THE ROGUE ONE TRAILER REMINDER ME TALK REBEL ALLIANCE TO ME BB
Big thanks to @noxgold for commissioning me to write this based on an ask I got a little while ago! It’s a Learning the Ropes “what if”. Enjoy!
Honestly, Jesse should’ve been more honest when he told Gabriel about his Deadlock days. He had just told his dom that he had been involved in a street gang that trafficked drugs and weapons. He never mentioned the murders and kidnapping and extortion. Jesse thought that he had completely wiped his hands clean of them. He wasn’t even in the gang, his boyfriend at the time was the member.
Jesse and Genji were exiting the mall at the end of the day, weighed down with shopping bags and drinks from the food court. They were talking back and forth, making jokes, laughing, and generally enjoying themselves. They were young, loved, spoiled rotten, and didn’t have a care in the world. They were packing the backseat of Jesse’s Nissan with their purchases from that shopping trip when Genji spoke up.
I Know I’ll Get It From A Good Friend (Update: Ch 5/7)
Clarke swears off dating for 6 months. Bellamy needs to get laid to move on from a bad breakup. The usual nonsense ensues.
Chapter 5 up now: Clarke joins the Blakes for Thanksgiving. Things don’t go exactly as expected.
Bellamy’s apartment was small, and sparsely decorated, but Clarke immediately felt at home there. The living room walls were lined with mismatched shelving, absolutely covered in books. The living room furniture was faced around a modest television set.
“God, Murphy, you’re so rude!” Octavia was reclining on the couch facing toward the kitchen, her injured foot elevated on a stack of cushions. “Sorry about that, Clarke. I’m so glad you could come!” Octavia’s smile could have lit up any room, Clarke was sure.
“Thanks for inviting me,” she replied.
“Hey, friend.” Clarke turned behind her to see that Bellamy was standing in the middle of the kitchen, a dish towel thrown over his shoulder, holding a large mixing bowl. It was almost certainly the most endearing thing Clarke had ever seen.
“Hey,” she smiled at him, “I brought wine. And cake.”