Offbeat perspective

(fatherly voice): yes little johnny. you must learn to play the clarinet, because I never got the chance when I was a boy. (little johnny voice): well you got the chance now. why don't you learn it now?

I was talking with another trans person earlier, and we were talking about relationships with our respective moms. they were talking about how their transition was being viewed by their mom as something being done to her.

I was talking about a similar thing with my mom's feelings about my surgeries. I was jokingly saying, as if to my mom, "the things I do to my own body actually don't affect yours at all, because we have two different bodies. that one is yours, and you can do whatever you want with it. but this one is mine."

this is honestly something I think is really pervasive with parents, even outside of the context of being trans.

with my own mom, I know she deeply resented the patriarchal way she was raised. I know (because she's told me such) that part of the reason she wanted kids was to prove that she could raise a boy and a girl equitably. It was very important to her to "have one of each."

what she never said explicitly, but I've sort of come to realize must be the case, is that on some level her desire was to re-parent herself. she wanted the experience of getting to raise herself the way she wished her parents had raised her. she wanted to see what kind of life she would have had if she had gotten the same opportunities as her brothers.

on some level, this feels almost progressive. a laudable goal. but the thing is, it's an impossible desire. you can't raise yourself. you are always going to be raising an entirely separate person.

I am not my mom. her raising me was not her raising herself; it was her raising someone who had never existed before. every effort to preemptively treat me as she wished she was treated, to make predictions about my life based on her own, or to encourage her own interests far past when I communicated not liking them, was often a kind of a replacement for asking how I wanted to be treated, asking what I wanted from my life, or asking what I was interested in. Instead of learning about me, she wanted to shape me.

I think this is so common. This desire to give a child all the things that the parent wanted as a kid seems so generous and heartfelt from the point of view of the parent. But for the kid, it often ends up in continuous signals that everything they might want, enjoy, or become needs to be justified through the lens of fulfilling this parental fantasy.

there is a sense of duty to live the life the parent wants, because the parent couldn't. then this child doesn't get to live their life either, and might grow up and have their own child and parent with the same approach. sometimes there's generations upon generations of everyone living their parent's life instead of their own.

eventually I think parents all do need to take stock of what they really want out of being a parent.

as a parent, you cannot raise yourself. you can only raise a new person in the world. if you are grieving the lack of support you had to be yourself growing up, you are not going to successfully recreate yourself through forcing a child to pretend to be you. if you really wished you learned to play the clarinet as a kid, you need to stop displacing that wish onto your child and recenter it. this grief that drives the desire to create oneself through one's child relies on the belief in one's own life somehow already being over. it relies on a profound sense that it's "too late" (to ask to be treated differently, to pursue certain interests, or to become someone new). but unless you're dying, this belief is not accurate. there is still time. learn the clarinet now. you've got the chance now.

Feel awkward about people maybe thinking you’re queer but still want to clearly signal “queers are okay with me”? SURE. LOVE IT. HERE’S YOUR WEIRD FLAG.

Don’t fucking at me about allies right now, they are ALSO actually getting fucking killed over us. Take your puri-gay shitty tent somewhere else mine is great with people’s cishet friends and relatives showing up to have our backs.

While it is true that some LGBTQIA+ gatherings are meant to be more private safe spaces, PRIDE is a public event that is both celebration and demonstration. More people coming to Pride:

makes it safer for queer people to be there if they aren't out publicly.

sends a message to local businesses and local officials alike that queer rights still have a large support base and aren't a niche demographic they can safely ignore.

And as for the rainbow capitalism? Unless you have a plan to abolish capitalism next week, I am going to call it a win that my local bank and supermarket are out making a show of their willingness to hire trans people and give mortgages to same-gender couples.

In 2021, Swarovski (the company that makes the very sparkly crystals you see in certain jewelry, on figure-skaters' twinkliest outfits, on red carpet dresses), decided they didn't want the grubby fingers of small-time jewelers, clothing designers and costumers and crafters on their shiny beads and rhinestones anymore. They decided to limit their sales to "luxury" and couture creators, not girls who sell stuff on Etsy. The tenor of their press release on the subject was snide and insulting. Resellers (like your favorite bead shop) would no longer be allowed to carry their product; the average Jane on the street would not be able to purchase them. You could only get them if you had an authorized business agreement that bound you to very strict brand behavior. And those of us who still had good stock of the crystals would no longer be "permitted" to use the brand's name in our listings for sale.

Every bead shop and craft supply place and many, many small clothing makers--wedding shops, prom and dancing dress suppliers, the sort of salt of the Earth mom and pop time machines of shops that are the backbone of the field--scrambled to find something that could replace them. The last of the stock dwindled quickly, all of us grabbing what we could get while there was any chance of it, and then it was gone and we no longer had any access.

I was Big Pissed about it at the time. It was just so goddamn stuck-up, when wholesalers and indie jewelers had made them so much money, when some people I knew--when *I!*--had been brand-loyal for decades. But with no recourse, everyone pivoted fairly quickly, most of us to Preciosa Crystals. Those are Czech, quite sparkly, and considerably less expensive than Swarovski. The faceting method they use is different, but not worse; any differences are hardly noticeable when you're seeing them as a hundred pinpoints of light.

Well, out of nowhere, Swarovski just dropped this: https://www.harmanbeads.com/swarovski-brand-policy-update

"Effective June 1, 2026, Swarovski updated the distribution and brand usage policies introduced in 2021. Businesses may now purchase Swarovski Crystals without signing a Brand Control Agreement, and Authorized Distribution Partners may once again sell Swarovski Crystals to resellers, including bead stores and online retailers. Businesses may also use the Swarovski brand name when following Swarovski’s Proper Use Guidelines. Designers, manufacturers, artists, brands, retailers, and resellers are now eligible to purchase Swarovski Crystals through authorized distribution channels."

They want us back. A lot of the companies who could have kept a brand relationship with them also have swapped to Preciosa, over the last half-decade, in solidarity with indie creators and out of a sour awareness that it could be them, next. And it doesn't hurt that Preciosa was able to expand their line quite a bit now that everyone who wanted sparkle had no choice but to go to them.

And I'm not seeing nearly anyone who intends to return. The feeling is, "Y'all told us to fuck off! Off we fucked! And now, that's what you can do, too!" I'm seeing a lot of "How many of us did you stab in the back?" comments from the people whose money they're hoping to attract.

Eugene, Oregon has one of the worst per capita rates of homelessness in the United States. For many years recently it was worse than New York or Los Angels (current data is less clear because garnering it under this administration is dangerous). Many of those homeless people live in the Whiteaker neighborhood, a lively artistic hippie and craft brewery district near downtown that’s been central to a lot of social movements here (including Occupy Eugene), and has a thriving mutual aid scene to take care of all their neighbors. But other residents just see that as encouraging an invasion of dangerous people.

Like, last week while vending at a weekly outdoor market held there, I had a stranger in casual conversation say they felt like they needed a gun to protect themselves from all the crazy people around. And when I said at least this neighborhood is very caring and supportive, they said this is where they live. Like, ah yes, you are in fact a person who doesn’t see people suffering and reacting to that suffering as full or worthy people.

This week at the same market I couldn’t get a ride home with my stuff until two hours after it closed, so I was just chilling on the park bench alone with all my stuff as a short, far, indeterminately gendered queer person in a rainbow shirt and silly antique hat. I look exactly as weak and vulnerable as I am and it is abundantly clear that I must have a cash box on me. I’m the person who’s supposedly going to be targeted by all these crazy homeless people coming out of the woodwork as soon as decent people leave.

Actual people I interacted with:

Elderly man with a rickety cart scrounging up cans from the recycling bin who asked if I had any, and was perfectly satisfied to hear it was in the bin he just went through. Wished him well on his quest and he was perfectly nice just getting by.

Old hippie who wanted to sit down and smoke his cigarette before leaving for the day. He just moved back a few days ago after being away a long time and didn’t know this was happening until he stumbled on it. We talked about what was and wasn’t still here as he reckoned with how the times they are a changing in this place that both stands still and leads the vanguard. Perfectly nice and then he took off.

Youngish burnout stoner guy who wanted a spot to drink his tallboy can of cheap beer and just chillax. We ended up talking about the market, how cool and talented the big group of furries running the day’s themed events were, anime, video games, making music, intellectual property theft, competition cooking shows, edgy old punk cartoons and comics, and the nature of independent art in general. The kind of guy who both doesn’t really have his life together, but simultaneously has a hell of a lot more about life figured out than people who feel threatened by just seeing unpolished people in public. Knew a bunch of the other passing impoverished people and greeted them in a friendly way. Better way to kill an hour on a bench in late spring than looking at the Cursed Slab I’m writing this on now.

My general impression of the people of the Whit and other parts of the city that straight laced people fear is that those straight laced people are projecting fear and getting fear back. People you mistreat because they’re bearing the boot heel of capitalism will not be sunny and deferential to you. People having so rough a time they can’t stand it inside their head or outside of it will sometimes be loudly distraught, but not necessarily dangerous, and threatening them will not make them less miserable or distraught. An open hand gets you farther than a closed fist. Just treating people like they’re actual human beings and not problems to be removed helps you meet a lot more people than problems.

I’ve met a hell of a lot more horrifying and dangerous people that wear suits or luxury sneakers than I have people in cheap dirty hoodies. Having too much money seems to poison people’s brains a hell of a lot more often than not having enough does. I’ve met a hell of a lot more sinister people labeled sane than those labeled crazy. Like, people are people, and some percentage of them are just going to be rotten, but I have yet to find the mythical ontologically evil demographic that we could solve all problems by just removing them as people from society. Certainly many need to have their power over others removed, but even they have a place in the society I actually want to live in after that.

I just genuinely don’t understand why so many people are so terrified of being in community with others just because their circumstances are different. It’s like people can only imagine those with the least dragging everyone down to their level and not that those with more can collectively help raise everyone up. Like, it’s well proven that the most effective and cheapest way to reduce homeless people on the streets is to just house them. They don’t want to be out there either if they can get a roof over their heads, a lock on the door, unrestricted hours to be there, are allowed to bring their pets, and that housing isn’t conditional on sobriety. Those are the kinds of restriction cracks people fall into because they demand people instantly be better before getting help when people need help to get better.

Feel awkward about people maybe thinking you’re queer but still want to clearly signal “queers are okay with me”? SURE. LOVE IT. HERE’S YOUR WEIRD FLAG.

Don’t fucking at me about allies right now, they are ALSO actually getting fucking killed over us. Take your puri-gay shitty tent somewhere else mine is great with people’s cishet friends and relatives showing up to have our backs.

I pointed it out to her and together we regarded the infant screaming.

After she left my coworker came up and informed me there was a bird on her car. I went out to look and lo, the fledgling had scrambled up onto her windshield and was pecking forlornly at its reflection.

It stayed perched there in the hot sun, trying to move higher up the car with no success but too scared to fly down. She was agitated that it was on her car since she didn’t know if it would leave on its own.

“It’s a baby,” I told her, “It’s still learning how to fly.”

“That’s a baby?! It’s so big!”

“Yeah, it’s just a little guy.”

I went out to investigate. The parents began screaming and swooping. I placated them with crackers which they accepted without relenting their screaming. My coworker said she could now see that the creature on her car was indeed a baby with the sleek black parents swooshing angrily around in the air.

We regarded the baby together. After a while I started noticing it was showing signs of fatigue and distress. Mouth gaping but not begging for food, wings drooping. I went back out to check on it.

I was debating moving the baby; the day kept getting hotter and it didn’t have the energy or skill to relocate itself. My coworker also wanted the bird to stop pooping on her car. So eventually I announced, “I’m gonna move the bird.”

“Your gonna grab it? Aren’t you scared?”

I looked at her in bafflement. I grew up around every imaginable kind of fowl. The only bird I’d be scared of would be some of the big flightless ones. Even geese/swans are manageable if you just grab their necks before they really get flapping. The parents were not gonna go for my eyes like magpies and in general crows tend to recognize when you’re trying to help. “It’s just a little baby guy. It’s fine.”

I approached the baby amidst its parents shrieking crow obscenities down upon me. I scooped it gently like the burger.

I cannot begin to convey how soft that baby crow felt. It was the downiest most pleasant tactile thing that I’ve maybe ever held and the experience was only slightly marred by the goober trying ineffectually to bite me. It was stymied by the fact that it ain’t my first rodeo.

I brought it ten feet away to a nice shady tree. I held the baby gently so it could get its feet under it on the branch. It seemed a bit confused at this point but eventually gripped the branch and I stepped back and threw peanuts in self defense while the angry parents swooped showily around at me.

It stayed there pretty much the rest of the day. Its parents both checked in to make sure I hadn’t murdered it then flew back to where we could see a nest. So best theory is that this dingus was the first to start fledging and couldn’t actually return to the nest after launching.

I told my wife afterward and they went, “You. You touched the bird?!” My coworkers husband was also flabbergasted that I’d been brave enough to grab it. My coworker said she was just gonna shove it off her car with a broom.

As if they didn’t know who they married. As if I am not someone who would confidently help a stray cat or wrangle a chicken.

You haven’t seen that meme?