Oct. 3rd, 2017

rakasha: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2xavpcC:Keep the Deadcat Warm Fund:

deadcatwithaflamethrower:

I CAN ALMOST SEE MY JEWELRY DESK AGAIN. ALMOST THERE.

New shinies and Star Wars items listed (yeah, I’m probably going to list the Unleashed figures, but they’re not up yet). Some items are ending tonight. Please take a look because proceeds go to heating bill and also EXTRAVAGANT WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK WATER BILL *ranty screaming*

Uh. Anyway. There are shinies and gift-giving season approaches?

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rakasha: (Default)
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This is actually a form of institutional violence that trans people, largely trans women, face.

To copy-paste from a previous post I made on this matter:

Growing up, I had a few trans lady friends who were hyped about being openly/visibly butch and/or gnc trans women when they began transitioning.

Three of the bunch committed suicide after basically being blacklisted out of access to medical transition. Others were wealthy enough to be able to move to where they could have a second or third shot. A femme trans lady friend forgot to apply nail polish and makeup to one of her sessions with her doctor, and that led to him keeping her from medical resources for the next two years of care, and she, as well, ended up killing herself. I could keep listing story after story with similar narratives and endings, it’s really pretty common.

Gatekeeping, whether it’s within a medical context, or a social one, relies on heavily policing trans women to prescribe to normative gender expressions dialed up to 11. We don’t, and we tend to suffer. And I don’t think it’s at all fair to cast blame on trans women who follow those norms, not when our survival is paramount and we’re coerced into those conditions via potentially fatal consequences.

Like, I’m a sloppy/lazy femme in terms of my expression, often shifting towards the hoodie and jeans aesthetic because it’s just comfy, but every doctor’s appointment, every tribunal over my transition, best believe I was probably among the most stereotypically feminine presenting ladies those docs saw that day. Not a chance I’d risk it. Every job interview, every meeting when I was looking for housing, same deal. Survival wins over the microscopic impact I might have on the reproduction of gender norms in those instances, especially when my continued survival means I can live to fight those (and other) battles in other ways less tied to my survival.

So, to be blunt and concise, it’s not trans folks upholding harmful notions of gender. It’s cis folks…cis men and cis women, weaponizing society against us to uphold gender norms through us because we’re deemed as threats and as less legitimate, so our standards are often exponentially higher than our cis counterparts.

Like, I live in liberal Canada, and this gatekeeping shit still happens. I have sat down and taught so many trans people how to strategize and what language to use, what narratives will provide the path of least resistance, so that we can get what we need in the aggressively oppressive system we live in.

Like, as a young child, I played hockey, I liked micro-machines, I liked video games, I liked climbing trees, riding bikes, building forts, and track & field.

I told my therapist that in my third session when she asked about my childhood, just minutes after telling me she felt I was ready for hormones. I had to endure 23 more sessions with her, spread across the next year and a half, to get back to where I was mid-way through that third session, a long enough time for her to forget enough about those remarks on my childhood, before I could get access to hormones. When she asked about my childhood again in the 22nd or 23rd session, I told her I played with dolls, and that secretly, my favourite colour was pink as a child, and that I yearned to play house but no one would play with me, that I’d try on my mom’s shoes and some of her clothes, etc. etc. And after I tossed out enough cliche elements of the standard narrative (basically painting myself as a very heterosexual hyper-feminine 50′s housewife), I got access. I can’t say that if I ever got interviewed on public media that I’d stray from that safe narrative, because chances are, my doctors would/could see, and I could lose access to healthcare, employment, housing, etc.

Like I said, I’ve had friends who forgot to wear nail polish and were punished for it. I had a friend…in the dead of winter…who wore pants to an appointment and was suddenly told by the doctor that he had no confidence that she was a ‘real’ trans woman. A trans dude friend of mine got in a car wreck and had busted up ribs, and couldn’t wear his binder comfortably for a while, and his doctor refused to renew his prescription to T. He eventually had to find a new doctor, endure the waiting list, and get back on, which took like, 9 months.

So if we’re saying things like that, it’s almost always a self-defense mechanism. It’s very hard to tell who we can trust, and who has the power to derail our transitions, or kill our support networks, etc. And while I’m sure if all trans people revolted and told the truth, it might help disrupt that system of norms and standards and gatekeeping, but I could never ask others like me to take a stand on principle that would likely kill a great many of them. I know that without HRT, I wouldn’t survive more than maybe three months, it’s really that simple, and I know so many others in the same boat. It’d be like walking into a building burning from a three-alarm fire to try and activate the inactive sprinkler system, instead of calling the fire department to put it out. This isn’t our responsibility. 

I think it’s important to remember that trans people who are coerced into expressing these narratives are a tiny demographic, so our ability to significantly ‘reproduce’ or ‘essentialize’ any gender norms is negligible at best. And that in the overwhelming majority of the world, trans folks have to comply with exaggerated gender norms for our gender simply for survival. And that survival must take precedence over worries of us reproducing harm that we’d only be reproducing because cis people can’t get their heads out of their asses over their need to police everything about our bodies and our lives.

Like, in case you’re not aware, the “born in the wrong body” language stemmed from trans patients decades and decades ago, who were being experimented on, sterilized, mutilated, and tortured. Eventually doctors listened to us and our pleas to just treat our dysphoria, but our language didn’t fit necessarily with their worldview. They couldn’t accept that pre-transition trans men and trans women were actually men/women. That we had men’s/women’s bodies. That we were male/female. So we were coerced into using their language for us, in order to get the treatment we needed, to get any shred of support we could get. The cis-dominated structures of science and medicine are to blame for that sexism, cissexism, essentialism, etc. as well.

We’re just trying to get the help we need in a world that does not want us to get that help, and will generally only provide it if we tell them everything they want to hear. Some of the greener, fresh out of the closet trans folks push that sort of language/narrative hard, because it’s what they’re exposed to, it’s what they’re taught keeps them safe, and it’s pretty wrong to be critical of someone for surviving and actively reducing harm against themselves from society at large.

So if you get the urge to criticize a trans person for bringing that sort of thing up, maybe instead criticize the structures that prevent us from saying anything else.
rakasha: (Default)
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rydenarmani:

a velvety skeleton friend here to bring you financial luck this october 🔮✨
rakasha: (Default)
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deadcatwithaflamethrower:

One more thing for the day:

Las Vegas. 59 dead. Over 257 wounded. All due to automatic weapons’ fire, a weapon that a crazy nutbag (I am not memorializing that fucker) shouldn’t have even had.

I haven’t been able to really dwell on it, but not because I don’t care. I will either cry or fly into a rage over our NotPresident’s bullshit responses to that and all of the other things that have gone down recently. Given Puerto Rico’s status, I might rage and cry at the same time.

I’m worried there were followers in the area of that concert in Vegas. I’m worried that there are people we know who are in the hospital, or lying cold in a morgue, and we’ll have no way to know unless their Tumblr never updates again because no one knew their IRL names.

My heart goes out to those injured. Those lost. Families who are grieving. To those who are picking through the wreckage of two hurricanes and a shooting, trying to keep it together so they can do their jobs and keep helping.

We love you.
rakasha: (Default)
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grantcary:

The Medjai were originally supposed to be tattooed from head to toe, but Stephen Sommers vetoed against it because he thought Oded Fehr was “too good-looking” to be covered up. [imdb]
rakasha: (Default)
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…I have suddenly discovered that I really, REALLY would love to see a Mummy (1999)/Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them Gramander fusion - with Graves in the role of irritated archeologist-librarian and Newt in the role of the adventuring magizoologist who is, under great protest (and the promise of a no-holds-barred pardon from the local authorities) leading them to the Lost City of the Dead.

…Where Graves becomes an involuntary damsel-in-distress and Newt ends up, somehow, defeating the Mummy Grindelwald and saving the day… (cue make-out scenes)

 @funkzpiel @fantastic-beasts-smut
rakasha: (Default)
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glumshoe:

Every time I stumble across informational YouTube videos uploaded by literal children, I try to leave the most encouraging and sincere comments I can. I was searching for videos of deep sea isopods and discovered a little kid’s educational video of some pillbugs he found in his yard and it just… I think kids need as much sincere niceness as they can get when they’re growing up on the Internet, ‘cause they’re going to encounter so much uncalled-for viciousness.
rakasha: (Default)
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caffeinewitchcraft:

writing-prompt-s:

Lonely and bored, you developed a secret language, that you consistently use to talk to yourself. One day, when you mutter something under your breath, a stranger replies with ease.

The important thing here, you think, is to stay calm. You smile at this stranger who’s looking at you with anticipation. It’s clear that they’re a figment of your imagination. Just a figment.

A figment that your friend, standing next to you, can see, but a figment nonetheless.

“Take a right,” you reply in your secret language, gesturing ahead. “Straight down Sunset Blvd. The theater will be on your left, you can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” the stranger says in YOUR secret language. They smile, showing off perfect, white teeth. Are their canines too sharp? You can’t tell. “May your enemies bleed freely and your friends drink with plenty.”

You don’t know what to say to that so you nod. This seems sufficient and they stroll away from your date like they haven’t just obliterated your world.

“I thought you were speaking gibberish,” your friend says. He sounds impressed. “You should have told me you were bilingual!”

You are actually a polyglot, you realize. Able to speak more than three languages. The problem is that, before today, you were pretty sure that that fourth language didn’t actually exist.

“I have to go,” you tell your friend. His brow furrows with hurt and you wince. You might have worried about upsetting him in the past, but time has shown that he gets upset often and easily. It’s starting to get tiresome, if you’re honest. “I’ll call you later.”

You leave your friend standing on the corner of Lankershim and Sixth to hurry after the stranger. What does this mean? Have you somehow intuited an entire language? That’s not possible.

Is it?

You find the stranger standing outside the theater you directed them too. They are speaking quietly into a box. When they catch sight of you, their mouth splits into a big grin.

Those canines are definitely too sharp.

“It’s so rare to see one as young as you familiar with the old ways of speaking,” they say to you, sounding pleased. “English is an infestation, wouldn’t you agree?”

You stare at them. You’ve heard that phrase before. Your grandmother used to say it just to make your grandfather laugh.Cautiously, you offer your grandfather’s response. “There are bigger insects to be concerned with, I think.”

The stranger actually nods as if this makes sense. “ You’ve sensed them too. The return of the Valkanas.”

You don’t think that sounds at all good. You nod and say nothing.

The stranger looks grim. “Of course, that’s not anything for you to be concerned with, young as you are. I would like to speak to your cluster, however. It’s been so long that I’ve lost touch with everyone and we have much to discuss.”

Your mind races. You are suddenly afraid of your ruse being discovered. You say, “Is there a number they can reach you at? An address? They have, um, disconnected. For a while.”

The stranger smiles another flash of teeth. “Ah, your language is slipping. It is not disconnected but hibernated, yes?”

You pretend to be sheepish. “It’s been a while speaking for so long in this language.”

The stranger laughs. “It is good to practice then! And I do have a number though it was a journey trying to figure out what a cell phone is. Humans! So inventive.” They pull a business card from their wallet and hand it to you. “Sooner rather than later, please.”

“Of course,” you say, taking the card. You lick your lips. “May your enemies bleed freely and your friends drink with plenty.”

“And good fortune to you as well!” they say with delight. “I look forward to speaking with the head of your cluster.” They stride away before you must lie anymore, into the alley beside the theatre. As you watch, they grasp the brick wall firmly and pull themselves up by their fingertips alone, scuttling out of sight.

I need to call my grandparents, you think faintly. You have recently taken up parkour. You realize that your “special” skill may be more genetic than anticipated.

You go home and call your grandparents.

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