I want to study at The Animation Workshop so badly HURGHH

jamfisher replied to your post: jamfisher replied to your post “Sorry …

Yeah man idk I haven’t even looked into anything around where I live Denmark sucks with this tbh

Yeah, not to mention the attention is mostly on the copenhagen area, so people living outside sjælland will probably have a harder time finding people to treat them & not be shits to them. (Quote my private doctor from when I lived on Bornholm: “Transgender? Do you mean like drag queens?”)

jamfisher replied to your post “Sorry I’m just - I’m really frustrated with trans issues currently. I…”

Maybe try to see a regular doctor some people actually want I help and will prescribe hormones I know you can’t cover surgery that way tho :// but that clinic is trash tbh

Yeah, it’s just difficult to find anyone who does it since they have to be shush-shush about it. And since I’m under 18, as well, it makes it hard to find anyone who will risk their career on that (not that I blame them tbh but still).

I did find one doctor in my area who were willing to help when I’ve reached legal age, though, so that’s a plus, hooray

Sorry I’m just - I’m really frustrated with trans issues currently. I keep trying to push down my feelings enough for me to be able to bear them for the extended time I have to wait before I fit into the clinic that treats trans people’s little mold. Like, when I first came to see them four years ago, they told me it was “just a phase,” and when I came in the second time to stand my ground, they literally put me on the edge of weeping with some of the things they were saying, before telling me off because “I was not eighteen so they couldn’t help me with anything.” I’m just so tired of having to waste my youth on waiting for this silly little thing that could have saved me a lot of scars on my body and mind if the decades old rules weren’t so damn unmoveable.

Like, it’s all fine if people need terms to cling to - if that shuts up the ignorant twits - but the problem starts when professionals start using terms like, “born in the wrong body,” as well. No matter how much you try to explain and elaborate your situation, they are dead set that they have found the answer, and even a 5 minute google search cannot convince them otherwise. They refuse to help people who do not meet the “symptoms” they created for us - and shut down cooperations that do, because they do not follow their own little homemade rules.

Ok, honestly, I really despise the term “born in the wrong body” used for trans people. I mean, I get that the whole issue can be rather difficult for cis people to wrap their head around, so they boil it down so that they don’t have to explain it further, but like

I already struggle enough with crippling self hate & body image issues, thanks for telling me that my bloody body is “something that needs to be fixed.” jfc

genderoftheday:

Today’s Gender of the day is: Hot Bread

genderoftheday:

Today’s Gender of the day is: Hot Bread

poldberg:

While there is a lot of appropriate rage about Ferguson right now, the killing of John Crawford, III is getting less attention than it deserves. I put Shaun King’s tweets and history lesson on the matter in chronological order for easier consumption.

Links:

Autopsy and video show John Crawford shot from behind in Wal-Mart

Witness in murder of John Crawford changes story

You really should be following Shaun King on Twitter.

blacksupervillain:

blacksupervillain:

hussieologist:

jcoleknowsbest:

hussieologist:

jcoleknowsbest:

talesofthestarshipregeneration:

darvinasafo:

Darren Hunt of Utah

The murder of young Black Men by police continues.

oh for fucks SAKE

Y’all he was shot in the back…. HE WAS SHOT IN THE BACK…

http://www.sltrib.com/sltrib/news/58409680-78/family-hunt-moss-police.html.csp

He was carrying a sword? This mf in my geography class carried a sword to class everyday and when I expressed my discomfort it was dismissed. But this brotha was shot in the back.

and it was a blunted sword.. couldn’t have cut anybody… but white people walking around with loaded rifles in target…

Exactly! This is evil.

Damn. Niggas can’t even cosplay anymore? I would love to see the cosplay community say something about this but that definitely won’t happen

Also: this paper is edited by a clown. It should’ve been in the first fucking paragraph that this dude was cosplaying. I’m reading this shit wondering why the fuck this negro is walking down the street with a sword and obvious answer is hidden almost at the en of the article.

This dude was cosplaying.

He was dressed up in a costume.

Should all black people just stay home on Halloween this year?

Friendly reminder that the police shot a black cosplayer in the back

aww-tistic:

grrak:

rynvasnormandy:

GUYS YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW WONDERFUL THIS IS 
Parkinson’s is a degenerative disease and while it’s progress can be slowed down, it currently doesn’t have a cure. People suffering from Parkinson’s will experience a gradual loss of coordination and ability to perform even the most basic of every day tasks, including feeding themselves. 
This fucking spoon is HUGEfor them. Look at that gif of the man just trying to eat with the regular spoon and compare it to the liftware device. It’s NOT just a spoon, by the way, it comes with a fork as well, for example. 
I found the website for the project where you can purchase a spoon for someone you know/love and even possibly donate money to help someone out who can’t afford it themselves right: HERE.
At the very least, please spread this for all the people who have Parkinson’s or loved ones with Parkinson’s. 
You’ll help them take part of their life back. 

that’s cool

PEOPLE HAVE BEEN TAKING OUT THE ABOVE INFORMATION AND JUST REBLOGGING THE PICTURE.  IF YOU CAN REBLOG THE PICTURE, YOU CAN REBLOG THE LINK TO ACTUALLY HELP PEOPLE.  THANKS.

aww-tistic:

grrak:

rynvasnormandy:

GUYS YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW WONDERFUL THIS IS 

Parkinson’s is a degenerative disease and while it’s progress can be slowed down, it currently doesn’t have a cure. People suffering from Parkinson’s will experience a gradual loss of coordination and ability to perform even the most basic of every day tasks, including feeding themselves. 

This fucking spoon is HUGEfor them. Look at that gif of the man just trying to eat with the regular spoon and compare it to the liftware device. It’s NOT just a spoon, by the way, it comes with a fork as well, for example. 

I found the website for the project where you can purchase a spoon for someone you know/love and even possibly donate money to help someone out who can’t afford it themselves right: HERE.

At the very least, please spread this for all the people who have Parkinson’s or loved ones with Parkinson’s. 

You’ll help them take part of their life back. 

that’s cool

PEOPLE HAVE BEEN TAKING OUT THE ABOVE INFORMATION AND JUST REBLOGGING THE PICTURE.  IF YOU CAN REBLOG THE PICTURE, YOU CAN REBLOG THE LINK TO ACTUALLY HELP PEOPLE.  THANKS.

astronomifier:

rachelhaimowitz:

obsessionisaperfume:

deadcatwithaflamethrower:

queensimia:

palavenblues:

holy shit there is a name for it

Well damn. Explains a lot.

Suddenly I understand some of my fan base a LOT better.  That is Awesome. 

"holy shit there is a name for it" was my reaction before I even scrolled down to the comments.

I just need to keep reblogging this because I cannot even begin to tell you how profound a feeling of YES and THIS and THERE IS A WORD FOR ME OMG I get every time I see this, and I hope it helps others too.

seriously, anytime you see a post with a comment saying “theres a name for it?!” reblog that post because even if it doesnt apply to you any of your followers could be waiting for that revelation.

astronomifier:

rachelhaimowitz:

obsessionisaperfume:

deadcatwithaflamethrower:

queensimia:

palavenblues:

holy shit there is a name for it

Well damn. Explains a lot.

Suddenly I understand some of my fan base a LOT better.  That is Awesome. 

"holy shit there is a name for it" was my reaction before I even scrolled down to the comments.

I just need to keep reblogging this because I cannot even begin to tell you how profound a feeling of YES and THIS and THERE IS A WORD FOR ME OMG I get every time I see this, and I hope it helps others too.

seriously, anytime you see a post with a comment saying “theres a name for it?!” reblog that post because even if it doesnt apply to you any of your followers could be waiting for that revelation.

diriyeosman:

TO BE YOUNG, GAY AND AFRICAN
BY DIRIYE OSMAN
When I first came out to my family, most of them stopped talking to me. My father, who I was very close to, stopped speaking to me for two years before picking up the phone late one night to let me know that my being gay was not only an amoral form of psychic and sexual corruption but also an act of perverse, Western mimicry. I was not only going against my Islamic upbringing but my African heritage as well.
I was born in Somalia, and I spent my formative years living in Nairobi, Kenya, before moving to London. Somalia and Kenya may have many sociological and cultural divisions but both states stand firm on one soil when it comes to the issue of homosexuality. Any form of sexual difference is considered not only repugnant, but also devious precisely because sexual difference in Somalia and Kenya, like most African states, is a narrative best kept to oneself. If you want to spin this story publically and share your experiences as an LGBT person, you had best buckle up and brace yourself for physical abuse, ceaseless harassment, imprisonment or death. Things are considerably more lenient in Kenya than Somalia amongst the cultural elite, but both nations still have a long way to go when it comes to ensuring basic rights for their respective LGBT communities.
When I came out to my family I did not flinch. I spoke my truth and stood my ground knowing that I would be punished in some way for having the audacity to assert my identity. What upset my family the most was the fact that I was proud of being gay. They could not configure the possibility that after years of silence, timidity and self-doubt I had finally cultivated courage and the kind of confidence that comes with a hard-won sense of comfort in one’s own skin.
I come from a community that has been emotionally and psychologically traumatized by decades of civil war, mass migration and dislocation; a community that has through sheer collective willpower and survivalist instinct managed to rally together to form the tightest, most close-knit networks, with family life as the nucleus. In order to fully belong you must live up to absurd standards of virtue, honour and piety. The reality is no-one manages this, but the trick is to try or act like you’re trying. There are multiple degrees of scorn poured on any form of transgression: a girl without a headscarf is a harlot-in-training, and a teenager with a rebellious streak is ripe for daqan celis – a return to a grim part of Somalia for some much-needed ‘re-education’. All these taboos become miniscule in comparison to homosexuality. The fact that I wanted to write about my experiences as a young, gay Somali did more than grate on my family’s nerves. They were incensed enough to threaten me with violence, but I was smart enough to know that as a citizen of the UK there are laws that protect my rights as a gay man. This is a position of privilege, but it’s only a position of privilege because I fully understand and exercise these hard-won rights. I arrived at this point of self-acceptance by doing what came best to me, what generations of the Somali community have always done in order to sustain themselves when crisis kicked off, I told stories. I told stories of what it meant to be young and endure struggle. I told stories of what it meant to fall in love with another man and for that love to be reciprocated in the face of rejection and familial disapproval. I told these stories repeatedly and I wrote them down by drawing on the gorgeous history and culture of the Somali people. It’s a natural human impulse to denounce the traditions of those who have rejected you, but I refused to do that. I wrote these stories down and compiled them into a collection of short fiction called “Fairytales For Lost Children”. These stories follow young, gay Somalis on the cultural and social periphery of both their adopted homelands of Nairobi and London as well as their motherland, Somalia. These characters experience a wide spectrum of dilemmas whether it is mental illness, civil war, immigration or complicated family histories. But they still hold on to their sense of humanity and optimism without the need for apology or victimhood.
When I published this book last year I received emails from young LGBT men and women from Somalia, Kenya, Nigeria and Uganda telling me how much the stories meant to them, and how they felt a sense of solace knowing that I was telling these narratives without shame or fear. Shame and fear are the most potent weapons in the homophobe’s arsenal. If one rejects the notion that one has to be ashamed of being gay or lesbian, then half the battle is won.
With each email that I received I would not only encourage and motivate these young men and women as best as I could, but I would also tell them to go out into the world and form meaningful friendships and support networks where they could be themselves without fear of judgement. At a time when LGBT youth across the world are losing their lives to homophobic stigma it’s important to remind them that they are worthy and their lives have value.
As for me, I’m wise enough to know that struggle will always happen. That’s just the general texture of a life’s pattern. But I keep moving forward in the knowledge that I’m simply a voice in a chorus of voices united in the belief that equality on all fronts is not a privilege but a basic human right that we must continuously fight for and defend.
As for my young fellow LGBT Africans, I will say this again and again because it bears repeating.
It’s a beautiful thing to be young, gay and African.
Diriye Osman is photographed by Boris Mitkov.

diriyeosman:

TO BE YOUNG, GAY AND AFRICAN

BY DIRIYE OSMAN

When I first came out to my family, most of them stopped talking to me. My father, who I was very close to, stopped speaking to me for two years before picking up the phone late one night to let me know that my being gay was not only an amoral form of psychic and sexual corruption but also an act of perverse, Western mimicry. I was not only going against my Islamic upbringing but my African heritage as well.

I was born in Somalia, and I spent my formative years living in Nairobi, Kenya, before moving to London. Somalia and Kenya may have many sociological and cultural divisions but both states stand firm on one soil when it comes to the issue of homosexuality. Any form of sexual difference is considered not only repugnant, but also devious precisely because sexual difference in Somalia and Kenya, like most African states, is a narrative best kept to oneself. If you want to spin this story publically and share your experiences as an LGBT person, you had best buckle up and brace yourself for physical abuse, ceaseless harassment, imprisonment or death. Things are considerably more lenient in Kenya than Somalia amongst the cultural elite, but both nations still have a long way to go when it comes to ensuring basic rights for their respective LGBT communities.

When I came out to my family I did not flinch. I spoke my truth and stood my ground knowing that I would be punished in some way for having the audacity to assert my identity. What upset my family the most was the fact that I was proud of being gay. They could not configure the possibility that after years of silence, timidity and self-doubt I had finally cultivated courage and the kind of confidence that comes with a hard-won sense of comfort in one’s own skin.

I come from a community that has been emotionally and psychologically traumatized by decades of civil war, mass migration and dislocation; a community that has through sheer collective willpower and survivalist instinct managed to rally together to form the tightest, most close-knit networks, with family life as the nucleus. In order to fully belong you must live up to absurd standards of virtue, honour and piety. The reality is no-one manages this, but the trick is to try or act like you’re trying. There are multiple degrees of scorn poured on any form of transgression: a girl without a headscarf is a harlot-in-training, and a teenager with a rebellious streak is ripe for daqan celis – a return to a grim part of Somalia for some much-needed ‘re-education’. All these taboos become miniscule in comparison to homosexuality. The fact that I wanted to write about my experiences as a young, gay Somali did more than grate on my family’s nerves. They were incensed enough to threaten me with violence, but I was smart enough to know that as a citizen of the UK there are laws that protect my rights as a gay man. This is a position of privilege, but it’s only a position of privilege because I fully understand and exercise these hard-won rights.

I arrived at this point of self-acceptance by doing what came best to me, what generations of the Somali community have always done in order to sustain themselves when crisis kicked off, I told stories. I told stories of what it meant to be young and endure struggle. I told stories of what it meant to fall in love with another man and for that love to be reciprocated in the face of rejection and familial disapproval. I told these stories repeatedly and I wrote them down by drawing on the gorgeous history and culture of the Somali people. It’s a natural human impulse to denounce the traditions of those who have rejected you, but I refused to do that. I wrote these stories down and compiled them into a collection of short fiction called “Fairytales For Lost Children”. These stories follow young, gay Somalis on the cultural and social periphery of both their adopted homelands of Nairobi and London as well as their motherland, Somalia. These characters experience a wide spectrum of dilemmas whether it is mental illness, civil war, immigration or complicated family histories. But they still hold on to their sense of humanity and optimism without the need for apology or victimhood.

When I published this book last year I received emails from young LGBT men and women from Somalia, Kenya, Nigeria and Uganda telling me how much the stories meant to them, and how they felt a sense of solace knowing that I was telling these narratives without shame or fear. Shame and fear are the most potent weapons in the homophobe’s arsenal. If one rejects the notion that one has to be ashamed of being gay or lesbian, then half the battle is won.

With each email that I received I would not only encourage and motivate these young men and women as best as I could, but I would also tell them to go out into the world and form meaningful friendships and support networks where they could be themselves without fear of judgement. At a time when LGBT youth across the world are losing their lives to homophobic stigma it’s important to remind them that they are worthy and their lives have value.

As for me, I’m wise enough to know that struggle will always happen. That’s just the general texture of a life’s pattern. But I keep moving forward in the knowledge that I’m simply a voice in a chorus of voices united in the belief that equality on all fronts is not a privilege but a basic human right that we must continuously fight for and defend.

As for my young fellow LGBT Africans, I will say this again and again because it bears repeating.

It’s a beautiful thing to be young, gay and African.

Diriye Osman is photographed by Boris Mitkov.

Some modern fantasy doodles (with obligatory centaur doodles of course)