derpalicious

begin with “buckle your seatbelts, motherfuckers, because in eight short pages i am going to learn u a thing that i only learned myself about two hours ago, so sit down, shut up, and enjoy the experience of my 4-am-redbull-induced-self-hatred-fuelled-writing-extravaganza”

Seeing it cross my dash again years later, when teaching college students how to write papers is my full-time job, i think it apropos to put on my Authority Hat for a moment and tell y’all, in my role as an instructor of college English courses, where I think this post gets it wrong:

There's a walking path that runs parallel to a road I take to get to my dad's house. There are sculptures set up alongside the path. Some of them are kind of neat, some of them are abstract... and then there's This Fucker.

The Long Horse.

This thing is TALL. Like, I am 5'7" and I sincerely think it might be twice my height. Have a 9 year old for scale:

This thing is way more terrifying up close than it is from the car. The metal bands wrapping around like ligaments, the rust that hints at decaying flesh, the EYES. Imagine you're driving down a semi-secluded stretch of road at night and you see THIS looming at you from out of the darkness:

I have been passing by The Long Horse (actual title of the piece is Uplifted) for years, and every time I see it I think "I need to show this to someone," and every time I forget to stop to take pictures. BUT I DID TODAY. Truly, I feel like it's the spiritual cousin to that super muscular chonkster horse statue, related but opposite.

The rest of the sculptures are kind of neat. I like the motorcycle and the shark and the maple seeds.

Color charts of undifferentiated (top) and specialized (bottom) plumage of different warbler species from Charles Keeler's Evolution of the colors of North American land birds (1893).

And when that happens, whether it's garbage takes about trans people, or ace people, or nonbinary people, or neopronouns, or he/him lesbians, or bi women with boyfriends, or furries, or *what the fuck ever*- remember-

You do not need to quibble over the details. You do not need verbally spar on every hill that dipshits want to die on.

Just stop and ask- hey, does this fucking matter?

Does it matter if some queer people do _____? Does it cause any actual, measurable, material harm? Is this *actually* a problem? Be specific. Beyond just 'it makes me uncomfortable' and 'but that doesn't make sense' - does it actually *matter*?

Because if the answer is no, then who the fuck cares?

I don't care if something is confusing, or illogical, or weird, or makes you uncomfortable. Does it actually harm anyone? No? Then mind your fucking business.

Its not your responsibility to Lincoln-Douglass debate every overzealous puritan and under-informed tween on the complex nuance and inherent political context of the queer experience. Focus on what matters . Ask them what, if any, harm does ____ actually do, and THAT is all you need to address. (Oh you wanna defend ___ spaces? Which spaces specifically? What are you worried about happening? Oh is ____ normalizing ____? Does it? Does that...matter?)

Because even if other people dont like it, Queer People will continue to be weird, messy, confusing, contradictory, illogical, and strange as we all do our fucking best to be ourselves as best we can be. The way we survive and grow and thrive is by giving each other the grace and space to do so, whether or not we deeply, logically resonate with whatever others have going on.

And we don't talk shit about each other. We don't take pot shots at the queers who are queerer than we are. Throwing other queer people under the bus has never made things better.

So. Circle the wagons, close the ranks, and get comfortable rubbing elbows with people who are, you know, freaks and weirdos.

“And we loved it, we were all having a great time, but then he saw my sister and I, and he just got this - this look in his eyes, and then-”

She hesitated, worrying the coarse material between her fingers. “Things got pretty bad after that,” she muttered. “I know it’s silly, but I try to keep - her - comfortable. We don’t know if she can still hear us, or see us, or if she’s even still in here, but I like to think she is. I talk to her when I can, I leave music on when I’m out of the house. I tried to convince my parents to bring her with us when we went to Disneyland, but they didn’t - didn’t really take that well.”

But I know. I think it was me.

In my defense I never intended to start a rumor. Many years ago I worked as a cleaner at the school and one evening I had to transport one of those big floor washing machines from the basement to the second level via the elevator. When the doors opened a very confused looking man stood inside. He was one of those slicked back gym-bro IT guys and made no movement to get out. The elevator wouldn’t fit him, me and the machine so I asked “Where are you going? Up or down?”

He gave me a smug shit-eating grin and said “Down?” in a mocking tone.

It took me a second to realize that of course he wasn’t going down, we were in the basement, but his look and tone annoyed me so much I refused to admit I misspoke and instead said “Yeah, down. I don’t know if you’re going to the second basement”

His smile disappeared “There’s a second basement?”

“Yeah but it sounds like you don’t have access to it so I guess you’re going up? I’ll just wait”

I never thought of it as anything other than a funny story to tell about that time I got so annoyed with a guy that I invented an entire second basement, but it turns out he probably refused to believe a cleaner fooled him and the story spread.