The Lady of Shenanigans

carryonmygaywardchild:

in a park that was Girl Land before — i know you meant well when you said 30 isnt...

enoughtohold.tumblr.com

For anyone who doesn’t want to or can’t click through: the “fact” that trans people only have an average lifespan of 30-35 is actually a myth with no basis in actual study. Any instances you see where this is quoted will either have no source or lead to a different article with no source. Average lifespans are determined either by studying a large number of people from a certain group from birth until death or studying historical records of the births and deaths of a large number of people from the group, but to date no lifelong study of trans people has occurred and due to the fact that we aren’t recorded as trans in the census historical records can’t be studied either. The ONLY source anyone can find for the 30-35 years myth was a presenter at the 2014 Transgender Health Conference who got the number by averaging the age of the trans people who had been listed as murdered on the TDOR website. So this is not the average age of trans people as a whole, but the average age of trans people who get murdered, and it’s pretty close to the average age of cis people who get murdered

Life as a trans person is already stressful enough, we don’t need to make it more so by telling each other that we’re going to die young and making us have to live with that fear hanging over our head. Rest in power to those who have died, and let’s continue to fight for a better future for all of us, especially trans women of color. The fact that the statistic about the average lifespan listed here was wrong doesn’t make the hate crimes and murders that our community faces any less awful, and this tribute is an incredibly powerful statement. But we should also try to stop spreading harmful misinformation which makes trans people feel hopeless about our future. We’re alive, and we can fight for a better tomorrow

thelatebloomer13:

Indya Moore wears earrings with the images of 16 trans people killed so far this year and holds a clutch bag showing the 17th.

… … … … … … … … … … . .

The life expectancy of trans feminine individuals in America is 35. The most recent person killed was just 17 years old.

… … … … … … … … … … . .

(via brownandtrans)

ruby-white-rabbit:

osointricate:

In high school one of the common fund raisers was carnation flowers for a dollar during prom season and valentines and a couple other times of year. And you could “order” flowers to be delivered to kids during their homeroom times so it was always a big deal to get flowers and it was super fun

But one of these fundraisers I had a guy friend who commented he never got any because he was always single or his girlfriend always expected flowers but never gave him any

So my senior year valentines I decided I was going to buy all the guys in my homeroom (which he was in) a carnation and said they were from “Anonymous Girl in your homeroom”

So the day came and all the guys started getting flowers and they all realized they were from the same one girl and all got super excited and giddy and protective of their flowers and all day long I saw the guys in my homeroom wear flowers behind their ears or stuffed in their notebooks and they flaunted them around to other guys that didn’t get flowers. One guy tried to see if it would make his girlfriend jealous. A couple of them tried to play detective to figure it out who it was.

Then the next day apparently they all (or at least most of them) got together and bought all the girls in homeroom a carnation as a thank you to whoever it was so every girl in my homeroom got a bouquet of one from every guy (so it was a bouquet of about a dozen) and every single girl was smiling and happy and bouncy as the guys were the day before

And no one ever knew it was me but I was always super proud of that

One simple act can have a ripple effect of kindness that grows as it spreads

(via nerdypsychologist)

primavera-cerezos:

inimitably-ineffable:

randomishnickname:

One of those fandom things that I love is when there’s new characters around and, with the unwavering confidence of an old farmer appraising cattle, fanfic authors take one good look at them, tilt their imaginary hat, and go “Aye. Praise kink, that one. Mighty case of praise kink if I ever saw one.” And everyone else just “aye.”

Not to mention the plot tropes.

“I don’t think the Highschool AU is going to come in too strong this year. Fandoms a touch jaded for that. But the hurt/comfort is growin’ thick as weeds and twice as fast. It’ll be a good harvest, fer sure.”

Fandom Farmers Almanac

(via theworsttrashofall)

teradoration:

Imagine a monster that brings death wherever it goes.

It walks slowly, sometimes remaining eerily still for weeks on end before resuming its dragging pace. Its grey face is expressionless, eyes black and wide and empty. Flowers die beneath its feet, and even the ground itself becomes withered and rotten where it has trodden.

It is a walking plague, and for centuries people have held fast to the rituals that keep them safe; to salt and bless the earth, to keep their talismans close, and above all, stay as far from the monster as they can.

You are the first person to try and talk to it.

Villiagers normally evacuate when the monster is seen approaching, but you stubbornly remain. You go unnoticed in the panic as people take whatever possessions they can carry, and flee. Soon the streets are eerily quiet, and you walk past the deserted houses, bemused.

The first thing you hear are the rustling, slow footsteps. The monster is approaching the town through a nearby field. You find yourself edging closer, watching the grass beneath it turn grey.

When you get near enough, you can hear it whispering. Its dead lips only move slightly, making a thin, papery sound as it continues. It doesn’t seem to notice you’re there, so you follow it, trying to keep at a safe distance.

The thing seems sad. On your journey through town you find yourself speaking to it, trying to keep it company. You don’t talk about anything in particular - you just fill the air with mindless chatter, telling it about the town and the shops that you pass.

By the time you reach the square, you’ve gained the confidence to cover the monster’s bare shoulders with a blanket. It just looks so skeletal and frail, you can’t help but duck into your own house and return with something to keep it warm.

By the time you get back, the monster has stopped. It stands there, swaying only slightly, staring blankly ahead. Stepping onto the dead grass that surrounds it makes your heart pound with fear for a moment, but all you feel as you wrap the blanket around it is a deep, penetrating sadness.

*

The monster is still there the next day. Almost as if it’s waited for you, it sets off as soon as you rejoin it, whispering incomprehensibly.

You note that it still has the blanket draped around it. One of its spidery hands has even fisted into the material, holding it tightly against its chest.

It’s only after a few hours of moving at a snails pace that you realise that something has changed - where before the town was unnaturally silent, now there is the faint sound of bird song.

You comment to the monster, spotting a bird fly overhead as you walk. There are daisies on the hillside, so you run and pick one, showing it to the monster.

The monster stops again, and its head turns towards you. Gingerly, you approach and pop the daisy stem through one of the holes in the blanket.

It withers immediately, and the monster seems sad.

“It’s okay, we’ll try again.”

It becomes a sort of game, picking the daisies and encouraging the monster to try and keep them alive. The creature isn’t even whispering any more, just staring down at its own chest as daisy after daisy is put through the blanket loops.

You let out a cheer when the first daisy stays green.

*

The next day, you bring along a backpack and a watering-can as you both reach the edge of town, where the woodside begins. Granite turns into a small, dirt track that winds through the trees, and you gently water any of the flowers that happen to droop as the monster walks by.

In the middle of telling the monster about the wildflowers that grow here, you hear a shout. A sentry, sent to watch for the monster, has spotted it. You hear their footsteps as they run back towards their own villiage, and you know it will be empty by the time you arrive.

*

You rest that night, huddled up in the monster’s blanket, and by the morning, a fairy ring of toadstools has grown all around you.

The monster is still there too, staring off to the side, where two squirrels chase eachother around a tree.

*

It doesn’t take long before the flowers begin to spring up behind you. The watering can is forgotten, empty and tied to your backpack, as bluebells and crocuses start to litter your path, like footprints.

The forest smells of rain and moss, and you look behind to see buttercups emerging from the dirt.

The monster is still whispering, but it isn’t the melonholy muttering it was before. Though you can’t understand the words, it’s now full of excitement. Like something new is about to happen, but neither of you know what.

*

When you reach the next town, it is predictably empty. The people are gone, but the wildlife remains. A cat trots up to greet you and rubs itself against the monster’s legs. The grass is green and vibrant beneath your feet, and a daisy lazily worms its way up from the soil.

*

Deep down, you know that change won’t happen overnight. A lifetime of fear of the monster can’t be erased by words alone, even after what you’ve seen. When the townsfolk return, first will come disbelief. Then will come suspicion, anger, fear. You can tell them the monster was never evil, never malevolent, but they won’t listen. Not at first, anyway.

Then it might begin to make sense. The way the animals are behaving; the disappearance of that tell-tale trail of death.

You’ll tell everyone that the monster only ever emanated what was directed at it, and the result was the scarring of the land. Life has a way of shielding itself from such cold hatred, just as it welcomes the warmth.

You smile to yourself as you walk beside the monster, as you have done ever since that day. In the end, all it took was for you to try and understand, to reach out and walk beside the monster instead of cursing it and running. Eventually, the rest of the world would catch up - how could they not, when the flowers that line your path bloom so beautifully.

(via sorrelchestnut)

bandana-dana:

fullten:

ultralaser:

fullten:

fullten:

trueconfessionsofacurvygirl:

fullten:

White women in the south don’t know how to cook

Last week I watched this YouTube video about a 3rd gen restaurant that makes box lunches in some where Virginia. The front of the house was all white and the owners were white. The people making these labor intensive box lunches were all Black and some of the workers there were 2nd and 3rd gen workers. Watching the video really pissed me off because the people making the food could easily make their own restaurant and the owners wouldn’t know what to do. The owners couldn’t fire the people that prepare their box lunches, not all at once anyways. When the owners said we take care of our people it made sick.

Another restaurant story that pissed me off was this cafe in Charleston S.C. The owners parents had maid to cook their meals. When the woman was getting on years owners asked their former maid to work in the kitchen and teach their chef her recipes. Don’t worry they have a picture of the woman in the restaurant.

All “good ol’ fashioned southern’ cookbooks” were stolen recipes from black women, usually with a smiling ugly racist white woman on the cover.

It’s fucking disgusting

So, a lot of people are offended by this post, and I’m honestly, truly, wholeheartedly, and deeply sorry, that you would think I would give a fuck, about your fucking opinion.

I’m just blocking to save myself from hearing your worthless opinions any further.

here is alton brown saying the same thing - http://twobrowngirlstalkback.tumblr.com/post/147184677153/alton-always-coming-with-the-receipts-get-on-that

Basically, like it *should* be common knowledge that traditional southern cooking was created in black kitchens

Southern/Soul food is rooted in African tradition. Peanuts, also called ground-nuts, were brought to North American from Africa; you can’t stop at a gas station in the south without seeing “boiled p-nuts” for sale. We also call them goobers, which comes from the word “nguba.”

Rice known as “Carolina Gold” wouldn’t have been a cash crop without the knowledge of slaves from West Africa, who already knew how to cultivate it and were sold to plantations because of this skill.

American food traditions, especially in the south, can and should be attributed to the Africans brought here against their will who kept parts of their culture alive despite grueling hardships.

(via thedi-wreck-tor)