being noticeably physically disabled, with their impairment being used to mark them out as different next to the abled heroes and somehow represent them being morally ‘tainted’ by portraying them as not ‘’’whole’’’ or as ‘’’deformed’’’
being ambiguously mentally disabled and labelled simply as ‘mad’, ‘crazy’, ‘odd’ etc and used to suggest that people who are mentally disabled have no choice but to be violent
having a chronic or terminal illness or impairment which they go to any lengths to cure, ending up hurting people in the process, scarily this often ends up in a ‘master race’ plotline, blaming disabled people for an ideology often used to enact violence against us
im tired and angry, its been done hundreds of times, disabled people are always the fucking villains its harmful and unoriginal, do something else
Tatiana Maslany plays the part of six clones, including a four-clone scene through one clone’s point of view and a two-clone same-scene clone swap with a clone slap, while also voicing a scorpion in the season three premiere of Orphan Black.
just a reminder that like 2 days after some nasty cishet joked about bringing a gun to pride, there was a mass shooting inside a gay club in florida. just a fucking reminder that your words have meaning and weight and that those “jokes” aren’t even remotely funny because we are literally still being murdered just for existing.
i’m so fucking done with respectability politics. as long as there are still cishets who want us dead i don’t want them near me i don’t want them in my spaces i don’t fucking care how much sexual or romantic attraction they do or do not feel, it’s genuinely dangerous it puts our lives in danger and our safety is more important than the feelings of people who want to exterminate us. get the fuck over it.
I’ve been thinking about my driver’s license lately.
I don’t usually think about it anymore—when I do, it’s in an offhand way when I’m double-checking that I have everything in my wallet or when I’m carded at the grocery store. I have to get it renewed in a few years or so.
When I was sixteen, though, I thought about my driver’s license a lot.
Actually—make that fifteen, too. That’s how old I was when I took driver’s ed, which was a graduation requirement at my public school. It was a huge deal. Back then, being able to drive meant freedom, meant driving to friends’ houses, meant not having to take the bus to school, if you were lucky. For people in general, cars have a lot of important functions: commuting to work, driving to doctors’ offices, traveling to visit family and loved ones, lugging groceries, getting somewhere in an emergency, going to vacations, delivering goods, exploring the world. I could list more positive uses, and more, and more.
The thing is, driving is also dangerous.
We learned this over and over in driver’s ed, from grim drunk driving PSAs to lessons on defensive driving. The vehicle that could take us to work or the grocery store could also kill an entire family if we made a bad left turn. We could plow down a pedestrian if we were texting. We could cause a highway pileup if we don’t know how to handle hydroplaning. Cars are, by nature, giant hunks of metal that can go very fast and can hit very hard.
Damage is not the purpose of driving, but it is a possibility. So we are required to prove ourselves, just for that possibility. If I wanted it, I had to work for it.
In Pennsylvania you have to take a knowledge test before you even get your permit. A doctor also has to sign off on a physical exam and you have to fill out multiple forms and show your Social Security Card, among other things. If you don’t pass the knowledge exam you have to retake it another day. (I panicked on the last question and had to take it twice. We don’t talk about it.)
Once you have your permit, you have to log 65 hours of driving with a licensed adult. (It was 50 hours when I had my permit, it had increased by the time my sister started driving.) Some of those hours are required to be night hours or hazardous weather hours. You prepare, you prepare, you prepare, because if you don’t, you haven’t proven that you should be trusted behind the wheel.
After that, you (hopefully) pass the road test and get a license. (Being under 18, I had a junior license for a while, which had passenger limitations and a curfew.) This isn’t even getting into car registration, inspection, and insurance.
It’s worth noting that not only did I have to accomplish all of those steps, I had to be a good citizen while doing it. For example, if I was caught drinking underage, even if I was nowhere near a car, it would automatically affect my ability to get my permit or license. There is an understood link between my operating a motor vehicle and my attitude toward safety in other areas of life.
Does having a license totally prevent the possibility of a car accident? No. But it made sure I was as prepared as possible to drive responsibly.
Here’s what I’m trying to say about my driver’s license: I had to earn it. Now that I have it, I have to keep earning it by following traffic laws and being incredibly, incredibly careful every time I’m behind the wheel. Even though my driving endeavors are mostly commuting, going to the bookstore, and the occasional road trip, a car is still a deadly weapon.
And yet, I could buy a gun in a matter of minutes.
Like I said, a car’s intended use is transportation. Its potential danger is a side effect of its construction. A gun has no purpose but to be a gun.
Some people, I know, use guns competitively, or to hunt. My dad hunts. He loves hunting. It’s not my thing, but I respect that it IS a thing, and that people who hunt often hunt responsibly. But using a pastime or sport as an excuse to make guns freely available to everyone is like saying everyone should be given a driver’s license because NASCAR exists.
This especially applies to semiautomatic rifles like the AR-15.
That some people use it for hunting or believe their homes are safer with an AR-15 in them doesn’t mitigate the fact that it is an incredibly deadly weapon. It can shoot up to 45 rounds per minute, meaning it can take more lives at a higher rate than, say, a muzzleloader. It has been used to kill and wound hundreds of people in some of the worst mass shootings of the past few years (Orlando, San Bernardino, Santa Monica, Sandy Hook, Aurora, among others). Like a car, it can cause horrific damage if used improperly. Unlike a car, it can’t get you to work to justify its existence in society.
That some people might still be able to get semiautomatic rifles illegally even with regulation also doesn’t hold water. It would be incredibly illogical to do away with driver’s licenses and traffic laws just because car crashes still happen, or just because irresponsible drivers still exist. Instead, we do the rational thing, and we try to make the roads safer. We amend laws—like introducing bans on texting in the car once that became a relevant issue. We build better roads. We increase the number of practice hours required for learner’s permits.
“But I’ll only use the gun on my own property, for self-defense” is a nice thought, but is laughable when I think about my driver’s license. When I finally took my license test, no one asked me what I planned to do when I got behind the wheel of a car. If I had told the hawk-eyed DMV examiner, “Look, I don’t need to learn to parallel park, I’m just going to drive up and down my driveway. The car won’t even leave the property!” my test still would’ve been the same. Because once I was behind the wheel of a car, my words meant nothing—I was still operating a large machine. I could indeed sit in my driveway for hours, if I really wanted. Or I could point the car at a tree and floor it. I could drive to Canada. No amount of promises could physically stop me, so I had to be vetted, trained, and regulated before I was given that freedom.
When the founding fathers wrote the second amendment, they didn’t have AR-15s, they had muskets. They also didn’t have driver’s licenses, because they didn’t have cars, they had horses. Now we have cars, so we require driver’s licenses. Now we have semiautomatic rifles, so we need regulation.
I know people have made the connection between guns and cars before. I’m not unique. But in the wake of Orlando, in the wake of Sandy Hook and San Bernardino and the dozens—hundreds—of other mass shootings that have happened since I first legally sat behind the wheel of a car, I’ve been thinking about my driver’s license. It took me over a year to get.
Imagine Bucky having a really bad day and JARVIS helping him to get through it.
He’s flat on his back and the agony is all encompassing, and he can’t see – can’t breathe, choking on the tube down his throat –
– can’t scream, can’t –
He doesn’t so much wake up as open his eyes, and he’s still on his back, still frozen with terror, but he can wheeze desperately. Bed. He’s in a bed. His bed, in the Tower. Fuck. He manages to move enough to curl onto his side.
“Your heart rate was considerably elevated, sir.” It’s JARVIS.
His heart rate is still considerably elevated, pounding hard enough to make his chest ache. He’s had this particular nightmare-memory on loop enough times to know exactly how it ends. He gropes for his left arm, and the metal is a relief, the lack of a bloodied stump is a relief.
“Thanks,” he rasps.
“You’re welcome,” JARVIS says, and there’s no snide there. Eventually, Bucky’s able to sit up. “Would you like me to rouse anyone, sir?”
He wants… fuck. He doesn’t want anyone seeing him like this, still shaking and unable to draw a steady breath. He shakes his head. “Could you just… warmer?”
It doesn’t actually help with the shaking much, but it helps with the breathing, and he can close his eyes for more than a moment without horrible things rising behind his eyelids.
“Would you…” he doesn’t quite have words. “Could you just talk to me?“
JARVIS doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s Tuesday morning, sir, Dawn will be in twenty minutes. It’s going to be partly cloudy, and 74 degrees…”
He dresses slowly, and goes up onto the roof to watch the sun rise over the skyline. JARVIS sends up one of the kitchen staff to unobtrusively deliver dry toast and black coffee, and Bucky doesn’t ask how JARVIS knows it’s about the only thing he could keep down right now.
By the time everyone else is up and moving, he’s ensconced himself with a book so it’s okay that he doesn’t talk much. Steve notices, though, and quietly joins him on the couch, also reading, and it’s good.
Steve also brings him a plate of food from lunch, and it smells amazing - roast meat and vegetables, but he picks up the cutlery, and the metal reflects the light - his own goddamn hand reflects the light, and all he can think is scalpel and all he can hear is the whine of the saw and fuck everything -
Barnes,” JARVIS says, neutral as ever. “Mr Stark requires your expertise down on Level 17.” Bucky carefully puts the plate down and excuses himself to Steve.
“He doesn’t actually, does he?” Bucky asks when he’s out in the corridor.
“Not precisely,” says JARVIS. “But the gym on Level 17 is empty, and contains the new reinforced sparring apparatus. It needs testing.”
Working out until he’s too exhausted to think helps a lot.
It helps enough that he’s okay enough to eat dinner with everyone else, and lasts a whole hour in the common room afterwards before needing to plead tiredness and bailing.
His apartment is … warm, and there’s quiet music playing from above. “JARVIS, are you serenading me?” He aims for a joke, but he can’t deny the relief that’s easing his muscles. The staff have changed the bed, too, and slipping between clean, smooth sheets feels like an unspeakable luxury. JARVIS dims the lights, enough that Bucky can see the room at a glance, but also close his eyes to darkness.