Going Down (South): Midnight in the Garden of Marriage Equality and Hate Crimes Laws
Keisha Waites of the Georgia House of Representatives has a special place in my heart
In case you haven’t noticed, I’m real femme. What you definitely haven’t noticed (because we totally haven’t hung out in ages) is that I’m freezing cold. Yup, right this minute. How could I not be? I live in New England and it’s the dead of winter. Not just that, it’s the dead of winter and everyone expects me to be displaying my holiday splendor in a series of teeny-tiny blingy-shiny crimson red dresses. Sure you can wear a winter coat, but what does that do for my legs? What about my toes?! You know how cold my toes get! So yeah, I’m fucking freezing out here. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t filled with jealousy toward’s my butch date’s wool suit, tie and sweater. She’s not cold at all.
So how the hell am I going to tackle Christmas and New Years without subjecting my toes to the Fourteen Degrees But Feels Like Five Degrees With Windchill air? Well I’ve got four tips that will keep you just a bit warmer no matter what holiday you’re celebrating.
andrea gibson, tegan & sara, concussions, heller, Queer Open Mic Night, homesickness, campus ministries and moar!
Ebooks vs. print across various behavioral categories. Children’s picturebooks are clearly lagging most palpably – here is Martin Salisbury’s thoughtful explanation of why.
‘Electronic or printed, it doesn’t matter: Nothing beats a good book.’ See more of the infographic over on mashable.com.
Different strokes for different folks. (This is why we’re so happy to be able to offer Kobo eReaders!)
I guess what it boils down to for me is that it’s either everyone gets to carry or no one does. Either we all pass through the metal detectors or we don’t. My brown skin doesn’t make me more dangerous.
Guns are inherently a part of my family’s life. As descendants of Annie Oakley, we’ve always been proud of our heritage and have always owned guns for hunting or protection or fun at the shooting range. I can’t imagine growing up without guns, and I know that doesn’t make me a violent person more likely to commit a gun crime.
I was seven when I fired a rifle for the first time. When the searing hot shell casing exited the gun, it became trapped between my arm and ribcage. I screamed for a minute straight, under the impression that I’d shot myself. My father—the same person who’d kept our family fed with guns— was the person who laughed and called me “chicken.” I think that memory has lingered because that was the definitive moment when I realized that guns—loaded or not, pointed at someone or not—were inherently threatening.
