I got accepted and I am going to Brown in August. I am here (on the internet) right now because I left my job at the end of May i order to go on this really privileged trip galavanting through the Scottish highlands.
Offer them both keys. This works particularly well if the bathroom keys have the bathroom they go to attached (like the little skirted figure or the little unskirted figure).
Alternatively you might just have to assign gender to people which is uncomfortable.
I’ve been wearing high waisted short shorts with super lightweight sheer/see-through shirts with a colored bra underneath and cute sandals.
If you’re more butch try some sort of preppier Bermuda shorts with a polo or (for a beachier look) boar shorts with a shirt with the sleeves cut off and a sports bra.
I don’t know why I didn’t use the word, that “e” word. I think it’s because I believed somewhere in my heart that everything was actually okay, and that they did love me, and that maybe they would come around, as many optimistic people have told me over the years. “When they see you happy, they’ll accept it,” someone told me once at a tarot-reading party where I ended up crying after someone read my cards, vague as can be, but somehow cutting straight through my heart: a deer, antlers heavy, a message, breaking with something.
We thank Autostraddle (the world’s most popular independently-owned website for lesbian, bisexual and queer women) for always being such big supporters of New Orleans and of Dykeadence— and as Taylor and Kelsey noted in August 2010, that we are super hot and New Orleans is paradise. (the full article is at the link)
According to our intrepid guide, we’d serendipitously arrived in New Orleans on the eve of “Decadence,” which the throngs of Hurricane-wielding gay men and hipsterqueer ladies suggested was The Big Gay Weekend. And so it was. New Orleans was so very gay that we didn’t know where to begin. But Megan did, so we hit up the sort of cringeworthily named bar, “Rubyfruit,” to be among our own. The dykes of New Orleans were remarkably good-looking, and mostly seemed to straddle the delicate hipster/lesbian line with aplomb, minus the pretense of how ladies do the same thing somewhere like Brooklyn, wherever that is. Also, did I mention everyone is super hot? And that it’s a paradise?
The fact is, I’m gay, always have been, always will be, and I couldn’t be any more happy, comfortable with myself, and proud.
As we move forward in the struggle to be regarded as fully human in the eyes of the law and within society, it’s important to remember that milestones like marriage and the repeal of DADT are certainly victories, but they are not end goals. When the queer liberation movement rose up in the 1960s and 70s, the goal wasn’t equal protection through matrimony, it was ownership of our bodies and the right to exist and feel safe in public spaces. We’re still fighting for that. Rights are only rights if everyone has access to them. Being queer is being anti-racist, being queer is being anti-classist. Acknowledging the struggles of people who aren’t white, who aren’t cis, who aren’t economically privileged, who don’t have access to the victories that have already been won isn’t being divisive, it’s being inclusive. And that’s what equality means.
