Voices

This is a love song for those who showed me there was a thing called freedom, and it wasn’t closed-legged, and it wasn’t passable, that it was expensive and gaudy, and I wanted it, and I didn’t want it.

If you’ve ever tried to find books that deal with sexuality in any meaningful way — or even if you’ve simply looked for a book featuring LGBTQIA characters in the first place — you’ve probably noticed a trend: Most LGBTQ media is depressing as fuck.

[H]ermelinda Cortes, organizer with the queer liberation organization Southerners on New Ground, told AlterNet that racist, xenophobic rhetoric further erodes the safety of LGBTQ people, many of whom are undocumented, refugees, Muslims and people of color.

As storytellers, disabled writers have thousands of stories inside of us, some related to our disabilities and some not. Some of us are lucky enough to have some sort of outlet for our words — in public and/or private spaces — while others still struggle to find the voice that lives within.

Although I hesitate to admit it, I have a hard time believing that men can be victims of domestic violence, and I know that my stepfather Joe is at the root of my problem.

[N]o one held my molester down and called the police for what he did to me. He was quietly escorted away, and over the course of a few months, the whispers of support turned into accusations.

Until you have stared down that kind of mental anguish and all-consuming darkness for years on end, you cannot judge someone for choosing to escape their torture.

There’s almost definitely a better way to begin this, but I can’t think of one more appropriate. Growing up is really fucking weird. One day you’re having a great time arguing if Doctor Doom would beat Darth Vader in a fight (he would,) and next thing you know you’re worrying about taxes and whatever a “mortgage” is.