To the Heckler in the comments today…

​”If that triggered you then you must have a hard time leaving the house because it’s everywhere”
Yes. I do. 
It’s everywhere. 
Your flip, assumed-cutesy dismissal is right. 
It’s everywhere, and it took years of therapy, more than one trip to the loony bin, and a daily cocktail of drugs to help me even get out of the house. It, as you said is everywhere. 
Do you, o flippant one, have the right to know what precisely It is?  I think no. You’ve really enough today—Including an attempted game of oneupsmanship bordering on the “not-all” and “splaining” playbooks. 
Your input was unneeded and unhelpful. 
And you should do better. 

​You don’t need “Straight Pride” or “Heterosexual Pride” day, month week, or any time that I can think of. 
No one has been discriminated against because they were straight. 

No one has had their experiences and identity erased for being straight. 

No one has been the target of a massacre for being straight. 

Weddings, marriages, cakes—godsdamned cakes, pastry!—aren’t systematically denied to you for being straight. 

Straight people are not arbitrarily told they’re going to hell for existing

They are not sent to “pray away the straight” reprogramming torture camps. 

They are not disowned for being straight. 

Straight people are allowed to exist unbothered unnoticed, unharassed, unjudged—and people want a celebration for this unearned privilege

No. 

You do not get a present for living on the default setting

Have several seats. Listen. Learn. 

Learn and listen to your LGBTQIA friends and learn why we need ours, and why trying to take away from it is beyond shameful.

We celebrate who are gone. We celebrate who paved our way. We celebrate who lived to make inroads. 

That is why we are Proud. 

On the new transantagonism

The recent influx of these so called bathroom bills is just the latest round of body policing and transantagonism that has been going on since the time of the colonizers. People don’t understand something, so instead of trying to understand it, they seek to violate, dehumanize, or rationalize away their own internal revulsion of it.

It happened before in every culture that embraces nonbinary identities as something to be acknowledged—but, slowly, we remember our heritage as our spirits wake. And it happens now as our sisthren, brethren, and sibthren come into their identities and walk their truths. At the same time, they—we—live lives like the other people, like those people who do so dislike being called what they are—the cisgender.

And it is with the cisgender that I take my current beef.

(Any comments to the effects of “not all cis” are subject to a metric buttload of side-eye. Only warning.)

It should be no one’s business what is in anyone’s trousers/kilt/skirt/long dashiki except their significant other and the owner of the parts, yet a mob of legislators wants to control where people can go to the bathroom or change clothes at the gym based on this. Were we to subject the cisgender populations to this treatment it would be called invasive harassment and overturned so quickly that your head would spin.

But since it’s “for their protection,” this is fine. The double standard is disgusting. It makes me furious. And more than a little sick.

It has also brought back the old chestnut that equates gender to genitalia, and I’m seeing more and more talk about how people would immediately drop a partner—even a long time partner—if their genitals didn’t match the perceived or presenting gender. No other justification is even given, just “I thought you had X” and “bye, Felicia.”

This revelation makes me sick. Just plain sick. And I don’t understand how this line of thinking could be interpreted as anything but transphobic. Putting my cards on the table as nonbinary gets the same reaction. And the reaction is always the same:

“Never mind. Thought you was a woman” and a fast walk away with much dusting of shoulders.

Determining partners on plumbing exclusively is fetishist at best, phobic bull at worst, and needs to stop.

People forget: we are whole persons, with minds and lives and interests and hobbies. Not just sets of genitalia for you to fixate on.

At least the management got shook out.

And now, a tale of public housing. (I bear no responsibility if you hear this entire thing in the voice of Cecil from Welcome to Night Vale.)

It says something about the state of government housing that I have developed a sort of Spidey Sense for the common Cimex lectularius Linnaeus.

(SLOW YOUR ROLL. DO NOT GOOGLE.)

Building management, after two years of doing jack shit, has actually been ousted wholesale and replaced, and I have just treated the current linen so thoroughly with chems it would be working backwards for a week to swap. MINOR nosebleed from all the chemical in the air (or the fact that it took a bite to wake me this time and I am allergic)  but I’m tired of bugs.

Folks who have been in cheap motels, unfortunate Air BNB experiences, seen every other news report about pesticide resistance, noticed things moving on buses or movie theatre seats, or have followed me through this fight know what I’m talking about when I talk about this bitey bastard. Folks who are confounded by that Latin up there, DO NOT GOOGLE THAT WITH IMAGES ON. DO NOT. DO. NOT.

The sick irony of the struggle is that though the entire building had been reporting this since jump, WE’RE the ones that have to be trained how to spot them or face eviction. Um. Hi. Ten years hospitality, know the chems, just need the license to operate the giant heater thing that kills them. I THINK I’M GOOD.

To add insult to injury, the spot where I’ve been talking about the mold on the ceiling that totally blew, leaking and flooding my clothes and a TV, is turning an unsavory color. It continues to smell of old meat and paint and now has a jagged, small maw-like opening. It also looks vaguely like where Morpha spawns in Ocarina of Time and I don’t think I like that.  At least if it leaks again, it will go straight for the improvised bucket and not for the replacement television, which is just the one from when I first moved in. Thanks to growing up in one of those houses that had a garbage bag full of garbage bags, the garbage situation is no situation at all.

But, this one room, buggy, drippy, flood, faulty fridgey experience that so disproportionately affects PoC of low income (because really, why would you WANT this) costs thirty percent of what little bit one makes a month before food, meds, bills. If you’re lucky (?) you’re in bad enough shape that you might get help with one or two of those, but chances are if the meds are the thing you’re getting help with, you’re not going to be getting a lot of hours. And assets? Forget it. Too much of those and you’re outta there, without your income having gone up… So where can you go?

So you report bug after bug, construction failures after failures, until management is turned over, futilely treating your little one room for the biters as you go, making a mental note to save enough money for food and that one med that your healthcare coverage doesn’t cover, the one you were stuck without for two months because it’s been that slow.

And now… A nap. I don’t know if it’s the fumes or all the lifting I had to do to manually remove those red flats—same bug as cimex lectularis—but I am exhausted a mere hour from waking up and spraying the place, and the hernia area is in violent spasm. I can do laundry and yell at management in an hour.

On Black Power

As a black person hearing people compare black power to the KKK, I have a few words on TV matter.

Here’s the thing. Invoking Black Pride is us punching up at CENTURIES of (usually white) boots on our necks and celebrating our achievements.

Invoking “White Pride” usually means some heavy  dangerous shit is going down and someone is going to get hurt, destroyed, or killed.

People who get nervous when the former comes up think we’re going to wake up in the morning and do the same shit they did to us—which is untrue. We don’t have a fucking death wish. They’re not going to listen to reason, not for a while.

So if someone is unreasonably paranoid when you voice your Black Pride… Watch your six. Don’t hide your pride by any means, but watch your damn six.

“We are all one race” Erases Struggle and I’m Sick of Hearing It.

image

«Unknown source. My Google Fu has failed me»

Not exactly a rant… Just tired.  Work with me here.

If you can honestly believe in a “We Are One Race” argument, you’re touched by the hand of privilege. (This is also a classic version of the “I don’t see color” argument that Black America is getting tired of hearing, but that’s another rant.)

I cannot. I am not. It is exhausting to argue with the people who really and truly believe this, because when there is no way to offer the perspective—despite trying—all you get is frustration.

If you argue that racial dividers are manmade and only really tribal markers made to divide us, I’ll agree with you—and I will remind you that one half of my family’s “tribe” was yanked from its home continent to be used as slaves and had its culture beaten out of it, while the other half has been nigh exterminated, both by the “division/tribe” called “White Man.” “We are all one race” in response to someone bringing up injustice only serves to silence. And if you haven’t noticed, people are very tired of having people use the privilege of being a step up in the form of a boot on the neck.

Yes, this is on my mind a lot. It’s a thing that I have in the back of my mind most days. Every time I get a “You don’t sound [this word is always in a stage whisper] Black.” When a new person gets promoted over me. When I get passed on a hire because “I don’t fit the aesthetic” and I meet the new hire, with perfect alabaster complexion.

In today’s world, the way it works, “We are all one race” only applies practically in a gaming group or a video game. It does not advance discussion of the problems that exist. It pushes them under the rug. I see where people are trying to get at with it, but it will never, ever work. Not in the world we live in.

It simply is not that simple.

Of Mismanaged Apartment Complexes and Men

The telltale scent of gasoline, syrup, and carrion meat is all I needed to tell me that for the final few weeks of not having an actual mattress, I’d been lucky: the bedbugs are in the bedding. I’m quite glad I’d taken the paranoid option and bagged every piece of linen that I had used as a temporary bedroll mattress assembly at this point—I didn’t even need to see the place where a dead one had dislodged its desiccated corpse.

What I’d forgotten about was that this is weeks of signal chemical, and anything live was about to come running.

Cue my shriek when an exceptionally fat, well-fed little pestilence bringer shot up the side of my bed frame and made a beeline for me.

The horror.

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