It was a Tuesday in 1981 when the San Francisco police kicked in the door.
Inside the small apartment, they expected to find a hardened criminal. They expected a drug kingpin. They expected resistance.
Instead, they found a 57-year-old waitress in an apron.
The air in the apartment smelled sweet, thick with chocolate and something earthier. On the kitchen counter, cooling on wire racks, were 54 dozen brownies.
The police officers began bagging the evidence. They confiscated nearly 18 pounds of marijuana. They handcuffed the woman, whose name was Mary Jane Rathbun.
She didn't look scared. She didn't look guilty.
She looked at the officers, smoothed her apron, and reportedly said, "I thought you guys were coming."
She was booked into the county jail. The headlines wrote themselves. A grandmother running a pot bakery. It seemed like a joke to the legal system, a quirky local news story about an older woman behaving badly.
But Mary wasn't baking for fun. And she certainly wasn't baking for profit.
To understand why Mary risked her freedom, you have to understand the silence of the early 1980s.
San Francisco was gripping the edge of a cliff. A mysterious illness was sweeping through the city, specifically targeting young men. Later, the world would know it as AIDS. But in those early days, it was just a death sentence that no one wanted to talk about.
Families were disowning their sons. Landlords were evicting tenants. Even doctors and nurses, paralyzed by the fear of the unknown, would sometimes leave food trays outside hospital doors, afraid to breathe the same air as their patients.
Men in their twenties were wasting away in sterile rooms, dying alone.
Mary knew what it felt like to lose a child.
Years earlier, in 1974, her daughter Peggy had been killed in a car accident. Peggy was only 22. The loss had hollowed Mary out, leaving a space in her heart that nothing seemed to fill.
When the judge sentenced Mary for that first arrest, he ordered her to perform 500 hours of community service. He likely thought the manual labor would teach her a lesson.
He sent her to the Shanti Project and San Francisco General Hospital.
It was a mistake that would change American history.
Mary walked into the AIDS wards when others were walking out. She didn't wear a hazmat suit. She didn't hold her breath. She saw rows of young men who looked like ghosts—skeletal, in pain, and terrified.
She saw "her kids."
She began mopping floors and changing sheets. But soon, she noticed something the doctors were missing. The harsh medications the men were taking caused violent nausea. They couldn't eat. They were starving to death as much as they were dying of the virus.
Mary knew a secret about the brownies she had been arrested for.
She knew they settled the stomach. She knew they brought back the appetite. She knew they could help a dying man sleep for a few hours without pain.
So, she made a choice.
She went back to her kitchen. She fired up the oven. She started mixing batter, not to sell, but to save.
Every morning, Mary would bake. She lived on a fixed income, surviving on Social Security checks that barely covered her rent. Yet, she spent nearly every dime on flour, sugar, and butter.
The most expensive ingredient—the cannabis—was donated. Local growers heard what she was doing. They began dropping off pounds of product at her door, free of charge.
She packed the brownies into a basket and took the bus to the hospital.
She walked room to room. She sat by the bedsides of men who hadn't seen their own mothers in years. She held their hands. She told them jokes. And she gave them brownies.
"Here, baby," she would say. "Eat this. It'll help."
And it did.
Nurses watched in amazement as patients who hadn't eaten in days began to ask for food. The constant retching stopped. The mood on the ward shifted from despair to a quiet sort of comfort.
Mary Jane Rathbun became "Brownie Mary."
For over a decade, this was her life. She baked roughly 600 brownies a day. She went through 50 pounds of flour a week. She became the mother to a generation of lost boys.
She washed their pajamas. She attended their funerals. She held them while they took their last breaths.
She did this while the government declared a "War on Drugs."
By the early 1990s, the political climate was hostile. Politicians were competing to see who could be "tougher" on crime. Mandatory minimum sentences were locking people away for decades.
In 1992, at the age of 70, Mary was arrested again.
This time, the stakes were lethal. She was charged with felonies. The district attorney looked at her rap sheet and saw a repeat offender. He threatened to send her to prison.
One prosecutor famously whispered to a colleague that he was going to "kick this old lady's ass."
They underestimated who they were dealing with.
They thought they were prosecuting a drug dealer. In reality, they were attacking the most beloved woman in San Francisco.
When the news broke that Brownie Mary was facing prison, the city erupted.
It wasn't just the activists who were angry. It was the doctors. It was the nurses. It was the parents who had watched Mary care for their dying sons when the government did nothing.
Mary turned her trial into a pulpit.
She arrived at court not as a defendant, but as a grandmother standing her ground. The media swarmed her. Reporters asked if she was afraid of prison. They asked if she would stop baking if they let her go.
Mary looked into the cameras, her voice gravelly and firm.
"If the narcs think I'm gonna stop baking brownies for my kids with AIDS," she said, "they can go fuck themselves in Macy's window."
The quote ran in newspapers across the country.
The court didn't stand a chance.
Testimony poured in. Doctors from San Francisco General Hospital wrote letters explaining that Mary’s brownies were medically necessary. Patients testified that she was an angel of mercy.
The charges were dropped.
Mary walked out of the courthouse a free woman. But she didn't go home to rest. She realized that her personal victory wasn't enough. As long as the law was broken, her "kids" were still in danger.
She needed to change the law.
August 25 was declared "Brownie Mary Day" by the San Francisco Board of Supervisors. It was a nice gesture, but Mary wanted policy, not plaques.
She teamed up with fellow activist Dennis Peron. Together, they opened the San Francisco Cannabis Buyers Club—the first public dispensary in the United States. It was a safe haven where patients could get their medicine without fear of arrest.
But Mary wanted more. She wanted the state of California to acknowledge the truth.
She campaigned for Proposition 215. She traveled the state, despite her failing health. She spoke in her simple, direct way. She didn't talk about liberties or economics. She talked about compassion. She talked about pain.
She forced voters to look at the issue through the eyes of a grandmother.
In 1996, Proposition 215 passed. California became the first state to legalize medical marijuana.
It was a domino effect. Because one woman refused to let her "kids" suffer, the public perception of cannabis shifted. The Economist later noted that Mary was single-handedly responsible for changing the national conversation.
She never got rich.
She had always joked that if legalization ever happened, she would sell her recipe to Betty Crocker and buy a Victorian house for her patients to live in.
She never sold the recipe. She never bought the house.
Mary Jane Rathbun died in 1999, at the age of 77. She passed away in a nursing home, poor in money but rich in legacy.
Today, over 30 states have legalized medical marijuana. Millions of people use it to manage pain, seizures, and nausea.
Most of them have never heard of Mary.
They don't know that their legal prescription exists because a waitress in San Francisco decided that the law was wrong and her heart was right.
They don't know about the 600 brownies a day.
They don't know about the thousands of hospital visits.
Mary didn't set out to be a hero. She told the Chicago Tribune years before she died, "I didn't go into this thinking I would be a hero."
She was just a mother who had lost her daughter, trying to help boys who had lost their way.
She proved that authority doesn't always equal morality.
She proved that sometimes, the most patriotic thing a citizen can do is break a bad law.
Every August, a few people in San Francisco still celebrate Brownie Mary Day. But her true memorial isn't a date on a calendar.
It is found in every oncology ward where a patient finds relief. It is found in every dispensary door that opens without fear.
It is found in the simple, quiet courage of anyone who sees suffering and refuses to look away.
Mary taught us that you don't need a law degree to change the world. You don't need millions of dollars. You don't need political office.
Sometimes, all you need is a mixing bowl, an oven, and enough love to tell the world to get out of your way.
Sources: New York Times Obituary (1999), "Brownie Mary" Rathbun. San Francisco Chronicle Archives (1992, 1996). History.com, "The History of Medical Marijuana." Weird Everything, FB december 12, 2025
I'd be only too happy to do that. I was suspicious to start, too. It seemed a bit on the nose to have the weed brownie grandma named "Mary Jane," but also, that's a very common combination in a certain place and time, so I thought it was worth the extra effort.
What I did was find sources that made the claim (in this case, that a woman named Mary Jane was a medicinal marijuana activist in California, USA in the 1980s and 90s.) I checked the dates to get some certainty those sources aren't AI slop, then checked that the sources are generally reliable.
Then I followed useful details about the place and time, and other people involved, to explore it more fully.
The first thing I did was search for "Brownie Mary" and see if that turned anything up at all. It turned up a LOT of results. Predictably, some of them were recipes, but not all of them.
Next up, I checked sources and dates. Wikipedia can be dodgy for academic use, but their policy on LLM-generated input is very clear: they don't want slop. I started by reading that page and then went on to read others.
The Atlas Obscura article is from 2018. I found another one from SFWeekly from 2017.
Both of those are decent sources - Atlas Obscura gets a High factual reporting rate from MediaBiasFactCheck, and while MBFC doesn't have a rating for SFWeekly, the verbiage in that article is very close to what GastroObscura has. (Also to what the post itself has, right down to the choice of pull quote.)
Now, we can stop there and feel pretty confident that articles published before the wide availability of LLMs are not, in fact, LLM generated.
...or we can go deeper, and run this all the way back to source.
I spotted references to a Chicago Tribune imterview of Mary Jane Rathbun, published in 1993.
My search string of "Chicago Tribune 1993 Mary Jane Rathbun" hit it in the top 3 results. That article includes some fun new details: she wore a cannabis leaf shaped pendant to her trial!
She also objected to being portrayed as a cuddly grandma up against The Man, so I must retract my flippant tags, above.
The evidence now strongly points to Brownie Mary being a real woman who really went to court for giving AIDS patients weed brownies. But can we get closer? I've now seen several mentions of a 1980 attempt at convicting her too.
The articles have mentioned Sonoma County and a nonprofit called the Shanti Project, so let's hook onto that and see what we get.
Searching for "Mary Jane Rathbun Sonoma County 1980" gets me an article from a law firm; that mentions the prosecuting attorney by name, and points to a book: Lust for Justice: The Radical Life & Law of J. Tony Serra, by Paulette Frankl. It even has an excerpt!
We can run the book down too, just for fun (now we have a primary source.) My favorite used book site has a copy for $1. Amazon gives a view of the back cover, too:
...wow. I should see if my library has that!
The excerpt on the site has a mention of a candelight vigil held for her death in 1999. It took some hunting past things I'd already read and a bunch of shops giving written tributes, but I found a news report about that, too.
There's a lot of information out there, and it's worth digging into. Otherwise it's altogether too easy to think something real and worth knowing is just another bit of slop.
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I went to a concert alone last week. one of the songs made me very emotional for some reason. the studio version never got to me, but hearing it live was something else. I started crying.
The stranger next to me offered their hand to hold and held it tight and did that thing where their thumb brushes gently across your knuckles. and while I wept next to them, we sang the chorus together and I just let the tears come flowing. At the end of it, I got one of the most genuine, warm, tight hugs I've ever gotten in my life.
I didn't even know what feelings I was having but they didn't let me be alone in them. They gave me one of their bracelets. Then the encore brought the energy back up and we danced our hearts out together. I'm not gonna forget that person.
– Guest Submission
(Please don't add negative comments to these posts.)
if you’re ever in the position to choose between giving up and accepting defeat, and actually trying to fight the ancient unkillable god that is about to peel apart reality like a string cheese, remember this: scientifically speaking, you might as well give it a shot!
1.there were trees at the beginning of the world! there were trees so long ago that they predate bacteria that causes wood to decay. when a tree fell, it would lie there in stasis and there wasn’t any way of breaking down wood xylem on a molecular level in that way.
2. it seems obvious to say, but wood eating bacteria are literally incapable of comprehending what they’re breaking down. It’s just not information conciously available to a microorganism. they don’t know what they’re deconstructing, where it came from, bacteria have no way to even fathom the existence of a tree as a concept.
3. Regardless of the facts above, the world we live in today is a world where wood inevitably decomposes
it is worth fighting the unkillable god no matter how pointless it seems. it is worth taking the risk even though youre trying to accomplish something impossible. the reality in which you live was also once reality in which trees didn’t rot. You live in a reality that allows for existence before the possibility of destruction. you live in a reality where uncomprehending microbes break down matter that is so far beyond the scope of their comprehension that it feels comical to specify something so obvious. you live in a reality that occasionally allows unshakeable physical truths to be altered with no warning.
It is worth fighting the unkillable god because trees are so old they predate the source of their destruction, and it still did not spare them. It is worth fighting the unkillable god because bacteria rots unthinkingly, because there is room in our cosmos for destruction without comprehension on the part of the destroyer. It is worth fighting the unkillable god because now and then reality retracts the promise of immortality without fanfare, and when that happens there is no mercy for the ancient. the unmaking is not softer for the desecrators ignorance. for all things, existence is endless until the exact point where it ends.
so you might as well try to kill the unkillable god. it doesn’t seem likely, but at the beginning of the world, trees didn’t rot. so you never know! you never know
When I get blood samples at work sometimes they’re still warm from being imminently inside the patient’s veins and my hands are always cold because all the labs Ive work in are in the basement and they keep it kinda cold for whatever reason (and I’m also just a chilly kid).
And I clutch the little warm tubes of blood and feel this sick person warming my hands and I think about how kind you might be and how I wish I could hold your hand and how badly, how really really badly, I want you to get better and stay warm and hold someone’s hand again.
And anyway sometimes it’s better to not think so vividly about the people I’m doing tests for. I’m a good little cog in a vast machine of people all trying to heal and cure, and my cog feels so fucking small sometimes. But I hope the blood I prepare for you helps you breathe better and laugh and wake up feeling well rested.
We’ve never met but you warmed my hands and I want you to know I love you and I’m rooting for you.
My job is in a specific niche of immigration support. This last year has been hard. There are more changes in the works that will probably make it harder. I think about my place in it sometimes - how powerless I feel in the face of much bigger systems steamrolling over us: the voices on the front lines of these processes, face-to-face with the people devastated by it. I wonder if I'm just a cog in a crushing machine that I should pull myself out from the teeth of, if I'm part of the problem just by being in it.
My coworker hears these thoughts, and tells me about an appointment she had that day. About how this person on a visa was about to be screwed by circumstances of the system. Would have been status-terminated and subject to deportation, with no obvious options. But then she had an idea. A last ditch possibility to save their immigration status, their entire LIFE PLAN. And her idea had worked.
"Yeah, I think about those things too," she said, "But then I get a case like that, and how if I hadn't been the one to talk to this person, they would have been fucked. And I think - hey, better that I'm the one here than someone who wouldn't care enough to try."
Yeah. Better that I'm the one here. This job may have me falling apart mentally and physically right now, but that's because I love these strangers that I'm advocating for - with the very little power I have.
I love you. I love you. You are WANTED here. I promise.
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Every time you catch yourself going, "Fuck, are humans just inherently evil and naturally inclined to selfishness and harm???" you HAVE to remember that that's literally a core ideal of Christianity.
so if it feels inescapable and like evidence of it is everywhere, whether at times or always, that might just because you're in a Western country where you're surrounded by Christians who believe that, fundamentally, in their worldview. And also they talk and make art about it all the time and run the vast majority of news outlets. And spent over a thousand years burning any art or texts that disagreed with them. Etc. etc.
If you're gonna come to as drastic and painful a conclusion as that, at least take the time first to make sure you're not working with biased evidence (surrounded by too many people and cultural products that believe original sin is real)
And if it turns out the feeling WAS partly the result of cultural Christianity, then hey, that's great news, because it means there's that much (and it really is SO MUCH) less evidence that humans inherently suck. Which is good, because we don't
Hey. Hey. Universe is not uncaring and cruel okay? Because you are part of the universe and i am part of the universe and everyone is part of the universe. And i care. And you care. And millions of us care. And we can all choose to be kind instead of cruel. Okay? The universe cares because you care because i care because people care. The universe can be kind because you can be kind and i can be kind and we all can be kind. Okay?
[ID: an illustration in greyscale of 5 wolves and 3 crows cuddling around a floating plume of fire. The background is snowy with mountains and a starry sky. Text at the top reads “we do not need to be cool, the world is cold enough.” End.]
Maybe might color this eventually, but I like how it is now enough to share.
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For healing that stems from being unsafe, out of control and/or powerless: yeah, this definitely checks out, feeling safe, in control and capable is an essential part of healing.
Unfortunately, that experience isn't always available. If you're in a country at war, or an undocumented migrant in the current US, for example, feeling genuinely safe is not going to be on the table and the cause of that unsafety is beyond your control.
In such situations, you can trick your nervous system a bit to give it some of those experiences anyway.
For experiences of safety: try to cover your basic physical needs if possible (food, drink, warmth, rest, caring for physical injuries) and try to build routine, rhythm and familiarity into your life if possible. That could be making tea every morning, or praying at set times, or playing your favorite song every evening before bed. Whatever fits your situation: routines are gonna help your nervous system feel stable and less constantly unsafe.
For experiences of control and capableness: try to regularly do little things that affirm your sense of accomplishment. Fixing your bike, doing a crossword puzzle, learning to play a new song on your guitar, putting on make-up in a way that makes you feel stunning, finish a level of a video game. Again: whatever is available to you. Little moments of 'fuck yeah i did this' help your nervous system feel like you are capable of things and less constantly powerless.
This isn't going to totally save you from the constant stress of your situation, but it can reduce the worst of the stress and make life a little more manageable in the situation that you find yourself in.
Feeling unsafe can also literally cause or trigger chronic illness symptoms, and teaching your brain and nervous system how to get out of perpetual fight-or-flight mode can reduce or resolve physical symptoms.
One of the most common understandings of this phenomenon is called TMS (tension myoneural syndrome) coined by Dr. John Sarno. Shout out books like Mind Your Body by Nicole Sachs and Pain Free You by Dan Buglio for building actionable systems on Dr. Sarno's philosophies. Both of these approaches get into ways to help your brain and body feel safer over time, even in environments that feel constantly unsafe / high stress.
Everytime someone but especially transmasculine people and trans men respond to one of my posts saying that it resonated with them or they feel similarly "from another angle" I feel my heart swell with joy a little bit.
Of course you'd feel alike.
Of course there's SOME out there like me who didn't go through an original and failed attempt at being raised a boy like me.
It's cause we have way more in common than could ever separate us.
That's the whole point.
I'm a transfeminine butch nonbinary gender-fucked dyke.
I'm a sissy, I'm a faggot, I'm a failure-of-a-girl.
A tranny brick through every window of conformity.
And no neat little box nor label could ever keep me in alive and I'm so glad for ANYBODY who looks at all I say and write and goes "a little bit, I feel the same" cause I grew up thinking that I was just the only one.
I grew up crying myself to sleep after wearing my sister's dresses that I stole cause I thought there were none like me.
To know there's other people who feel just like me, in parts, in whole, in countless ways, in myriad strains - is more than I had ever hoped that I could dream of.
Transmasc-presenting nonbinary who not-so-jokingly claims that looking like a femboy is peak goals: checking in on your vibration. Thank you for existing. Thank you for being visible. All of you.
ive been feeling real hopeless lately, like nobody loves me. what do i do? how do i get ppl to like me? how do you find love? srry this is venty i needed to talk to someone abt this i don't have a therapist
no matter what you ever do, even if you're perfect, there will always be people who don't like you. everything should always start with you being someone that you want to like in the first place. if you don't feel that way just yet, then keep evolving. there are some things sort of out of your control — for those things, you have to work on loving those parts of you as they are.
importantly, nothing matters. there is no intrinsic value to existence that can be deduced from an empirical perspective of the world. meaning and value is discovered and endowed by the sole observer that is yourself. you get to decide what actually matters to you. of course you have to still engage with the world on its empirical framework, so sometimes you will have to compromise in order to do certain things. but for existing, just internally, just in general, you should be deciding what matters to you. you can just do that. you can decide to care about something. you can also decide to not care about something.
we are social creatures, so we crave love, affection, and attention. above all else, we crave perception - that our existence and our experiences are validated by the observation and consideration of other social creatures. we don't always have the liberty of being able to have that, for one reason or another. to be a hypothetical but lonesome loner means that observers are even harder to come by. what you shouldn't do is coerce people, no matter how badly you think you need it. sometimes it just takes time to find the people who are ready to know you. sometimes it takes time to find community. the older you get, the longer you spend drifting around, you eventually find people. it's that period of uncertainty that bites the most. that's what makes art so important. there are still lots of parts of my life where i feel like i'm missing something. sometimes things i have go away, and then i miss that too. you can't supplement real, social perception with art, but you can simulate it and explore it in the safety of art. creating characters. they're your family, your friends, sometimes even your lovers. you can fall in love with an idea. the idea is real electrical impulses in your brain. you can decide that matters to you. it doesn't really matter if someone else won't take it seriously. you can't even prove they exist outside of your own conscious experience, they merely exist as a benefit of the doubt — so why give that skepticism credence?
you can't get people to like you if they don't want to like you. but there's no need to try and placate someone who won't naturally like you to begin with. if you're a faggy autistic outsider like lots of us are, people will be hostile to that. even other faggy autistic outsiders will be hostile to that, because you're faggy, autistic, and an outsider in a different way. in a way it seems like everything sucks. but the reality is that when you do, finally find that community, when you do finally come to that space that just makes sense for you, you'll be happy you didn't try to force anything. i've lived in so many social situations where i had to compromise so much of myself, transform so much of myself, just to fit into a crowd that i hated. i have been the desperate, imperfect lonesome loner that would do anything for one friend. you can't give into that. you need to sincerely hold onto your humanity and intrigue, the gentle consideration of the world around you, not to succumb to dollar store friendships that will just piss you off in the end. you have to be your own best friend before you can be someone else's best friend for life.
and if this is about romantic love? let me tell you from experience. the one thing you should never do is chase love when you're the most desperate for it. you cannot allow that to consume you whole. it's so extremely important that you be ready for love, that you know the responsibility it takes, that you're ready to truly love. i've made this mistake too many times, and i've caused too much grief for other people. and myself of course. when your perception of love and your ability to discern it with subtlety is matured and nuanced, only then should you really be seeking it. when it's burning, aching, horrifying, disgusting, and tearing you apart, you're not ready. it's really only when you're able to exist with out it, should you be finally open to existing with it.
maybe that doesn't sound like advice you want to hear. it could be a matter of wanting a tried and true fix to a complex social dilemma. well nothing is tried and true, because people keep changing. you keep changing. everything keeps changing. that's okay. everything would suck if it stayed the same. we trade comfort for chaos. there's a beauty and a grace in that. still, it turns the faggy autistic outsiders into adventurers of a social frontier that no evolved animal has ever been equipped to endeavour.
you'll be ok though. hope is one of the punkest things you can ever do. at face value, it seems like hope is just wishful thinking with the anticipation of something changing. surely it doesn't bring change on its own? but it does. hope keeps you going, where nihilism would abandon you. it changes your mind, and makes you keep going where you wouldn't otherwise. and if you keep going, you're moving in that beautiful, sweet, fourth dimension: time. so do some time traveling little punkfag. in the future, you've already figured it out.
The above is a video shared by smrchildsadness on Twitter, showing a person participating in a pride parade exchanging a pride flag with a person standing on his (am using his pronoun based on the TikToks/Tweets of what happened) doorway who had a Portuguese flag. There are sounds of cheers and crying and the two people hug each other as they exchange the flags. The man at the doorway then waved kisses to the crowd within the pride parade.
The Tweet says: "NO YOU DONT UNDERSTAND HE WAS WAVING THE PORTUGUESE FLAG BECAUSE HE DIDN'T HAVE A PRIDE FLAG AND THEY TRADED FLAGS AND HE'S SO EMOTIONAL TO GET HIS OWN PRIDE FLAG I'M EMOTIONALLY RUINED"
For context, apparently they were worried that maybe he's a nationalist because he was waving the Portuguese flag and some nationalists opposing the pride march were waving that flag. But upon interacting with him, it turns out he didn't have have a pride flag and he wanted to wave *a* flag in support of the pride march. So they had an exchange and now he has his own pride flag 😭🥹.
The image above is a Tweet by kunwara_ladkaa that says "I'm crying so much right now (Image taken by Manuel Fernando Araújo/Lusa)". The image shows the same man from the pride parade crying as he hugs his new pride flag.
The above image is a Tweet by dudz_zZzz that says "ainda não parei de pensar nele," which according to Google translate from Portuguese to English is "I still haven't stopped thinking about him." The image is a drawing of the person from the pride parade, crying as he hugs his new pride flag.
His name is António Fernandes, and you can find the original article where he spoke about this event here
This elderly gentleman lives alone in Porto, when he saw the march coming up his street all he knew was he wanted to participate, so he ran home to get the only flag he had to wave as they passed by, when they did he was overcome with emotion and called over one of the activists, they hugged and exchanged flags, he felt so overwhelmed that he could only hold it and cry.
This isn't a story about a closeted elderly man, António lives and has been living alone for many years now and that little moment made him feel included in something for the first time in many years.
Says the article:
"The act was "of support”, guarantees the man, especially because “each one is as they are and we are all the same”. “The joy I felt at this moment. I cried,” he recalled, still emotional when looking at the photograph offered to him during this report.
However, even though it reached thousands of people, the moment screams a feeling of belonging, of joy and also a portrait of loneliness as a consequence of aging.
Behind that door, whose image spread across the country, António is the portrait of a condition that affects many others like him. He lives alone, but the walls of his home are full of memories of a life shared and full of love. “Memories I preserve,” he stresses.
He's not gay, nor does he need to be to support and respect the cause.
“We all have the same color blood. We are all the same.”
Still with an emotional look glued to the photograph that immortalized his gesture at the march, António remembers: “I felt embraced by all of them”. After a sigh, he says: “See this photo? I want to take it to my coffin.”
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Nazis will never be welcome in paganism. They have no space in our communities, we will have a zero tolerance policy when it comes to nazis. You have no right to the cultures, gods and religions you hijack to spread your disgusting ideologies. You will find no refuge or comraderie amongst pagans.
Reblog to let nazis know they’re not welcome here.
I will outlive him. I will be here when he is gone. I will be here when he has been erased. I will be here, telling stories, loving my wife, protecting my friends and family, cherishing joy and kindness and diversity. I will be here. He will not. It is only a matter of time.
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