Please Don’t Thank Me for Loving My Wife
My transgender wife and I are both people with a lot of serious challenges to face, and we chose to confront those challenges as a team. That’s not heroism. It’s love.
My transgender wife and I are both people with a lot of serious challenges to face, and we chose to confront those challenges as a team. That’s not heroism. It’s love.
“Whether you write a page-long treatise on your love of Jolly Ranchers or a meditation on the cultural currency of the alternative lifestyle haircut, you’re claiming a space on the page for yourself.”
“I am afraid help will come too late to someone in my life. I am afraid that closets become coffins.”
“I start unbuttoning my shirt, but can’t really decide on a way to make getting undressed in this space any less uncomfortable, so I just drop my pants.”
What I learned from a week on a hilltop with 50 queer writers.
“So we sit down and I pull out my life’s timeline and Officially Official Documents like WAH-BOOM! How you like them apples??”
An Autostraddle first.
“Will I have to leave my boxer briefs at home in lieu of high-waisted, thin, cotton lady panties under my kick ass uniform during Basic Training?”
Here’s the deal: I both like and am my body. I am a girl, ergo I have a girl’s body. It’s neat. You know what I think helped me to be comfortable with my body more than anything else? The US Army.
Some may call this need for speed insanity, others call it energy. I’m not sure how I feel because…feelings? Who has time for feelings?
“Given the message of acceptance and sex positivity that the queer community so openly espouses, I was hopeful that I had finally found a niche where my sexuality would be respected and validated. To my dismay, passive discrimination was alive and well.”
There was a time I wanted kids; but there’s nothing like Midtown to put the rust on the hands of my biological clock. Why would anybody want to bring yet MORE humans into the world?
I can’t wait to go back to Bryn Mawr, but I’m trying to make the most of these months away and, so far, I think I’m doing pretty well.
I’m a hairy short-haired sonuffabitch in plaid and denim that by that boy’s definition, and so many other definitions I’ve heard, is considered by society to be one of “those ugly lesbians”. And honestly, I ain’t even mad.
“When you’re surrounded by so many queers celebrating queer, you feel normal by default.”
Poet Leah Horlick comes out about her search for healing and answers after surviving lesbian sexual assault.
I thought, “Hey New York, just cause you wear these cool designer bridges across your rivers and you’ve got some graffiti on your interesting architecture, doesn’t mean I have to like you, okay?” But I do like New York in spite of myself.
“Her hair is like another person. Today it’s two braids.”
How many worlds can you fit per square mile?
Is there a space within sex positivity for those of us who feel uncomfortable doing what sex positivism seems to ask of us?