If you think Punk is just an aesthetic, get out.
If you think punk is all ripped jeans, rock and roll, and wild hair, please leave.
If you claim to be a punk but make no effort to change society’s standards and challenge the norm outside of your fashion choices, I have a problem with you.
Don’t get me wrong I’m not some elitist asshole who wants to tell you what you can and can’t be, but I will implore you to go look up the history of punk. True punks fight for the oppressed. Punk isn’t just about patches and pins, and it’s certainly not this “I don’t give a fuck” shit I’ve been seeing from some self-proclaimed “punks”.
To be punk is to care enough to say “fuck society for hurting you” to minorities.
Right now, we need the you to really prove how punk you are. If you truly are punk, show some antifascist action.
Mabel Hampton was a famous African-American lesbian activist.
She was a dancer in New York City in the 1920s, where she starred in all-black productions during the Harlem Renaissance. Mabel Hampton was in a romantic relationship with Lillian Foster, for 46 years until Foster’s death.
On a meager income, she managed to make many financial contributions to many gay and lesbian organizations.
Hampton collected memorabilia, letters, and other records documenting her history, providing a window into the lives of black women and lesbians during the Harlem Renaissance. She left a legacy of invaluable archival materials to the Lesbian Herstory Archives. She also marched in the first National Gay and Lesbian March on Washington. Then in 1984, she spoke before thousands of onlookers at New York City Lesbian and Gay Pride Parade, where, she is quoted as saying, “I, Mabel Hampton, have been a lesbian all my life, for 82 years, and I am proud of myself and my people. I would like all my people to be free in this country and all over the world, my gay people and my black people.”
Gentle reminder: To identify as Two-Spirited is to identify as NativeAmerican and outside the gender binary. Please do not disrespect that it is a part of being First Nations and queer and that identity is important to us.
A less gentle reminder: Spirit Animals are fucking sacred, don’t use them for just anything. I don’t care how much you identify with the thing, unless you are using the term properly you are being disrespectful.
PSA by a First Nations person, thank you for your time.
I remember being told at a young age to put my shirt on at sleepovers, that I wasn’t one of the boys. I remember trying to pee standing up at age 8 and making an absolute mess. I remember the envy I felt and couldn’t explain over my guy friends’ Adam’s apples And voices And muscle tone. While my body softened, though never became quite womanly, during puberty. I remember my grandmother telling me to stop slouching And never knowing why I wanted to hide my chest. I remember starving myself to prevent any curves from staking claim on my body. Looking back I remember these things, but it would be years until I came out.
I came out as queer (at the time, a lesbian) at 18 when I was out from under my parents roof. I thought I had finally found my niche, my thing, my explanation to a lifelong unnamed unease. I chopped my hair off, I loved women openly, and they loved me. I was “happy” in my newfound confidence as a masculine of center person. But I wasn’t.
Sometime around 20 I discovered that people could transition. That gender wasn’t black and white Or just what was assigned. I came out as trans for the first time crying on my bathroom floor, my girlfriend at the time tried to console me. I never came out to my twin, she just knew And though it took time, eventually she came around. The first time I told my mother we were in Vegas And I’d say it ruined the trip. The first time I told a stranger my new name was at Starbucks I was thrilled to hear someone call me Christopher Even if they didn’t know any better.
It would take me the next two years to come out slowly First to the my close friends Then to strangers And eventually a post on social media to address everyone else. I had been going by Chris in private for about two years before the day I actually “came out” (again). Some of us take time, and that’s alright.
One AIDS Death Every 8 Minutes Grand Central Station, New York City, 23 January 1991
Day of Desperation Early morning protests took place downtown Manhattan with AIDS activists protested the Government’s involvement in the Gulf War to the exclusion of vital interests at home. That afternoon — 5:00 RUSH HOUR — Grand Central Station was filled with demonstrators protesting under the banners: “Money For AIDS, Not For War” and “One AIDS Death Every 8 Minutes.”