Queer as in Fuck You

Remember when Lil Nas X beautifully explored his sexuality, seduced and killed the devil to the banger of all time, and instead of cheering on this openly gay and proud Black artist for his artistry and fighting back against respectability politics, suddenly said respectability politics was all the Queerest Place on the Internet cared about? Hm. Wonder what happened there.

Now take this logic and apply it to things like ADHD, autism, clinical depression, and other less visible/divergent disabilities. You cannot think your way out of feeling.

Clint: …

Clint: Kill the Black Widow…

Fury: Kill the Black Widow! So who the hell is that?

Natasha: *sitting in the corner eating a kitkat* …

Clint: …

Clint: Natasha…

Fury: Oh great! Not only have you not killed her, you’ve given her a nickname!

Clint: And a kitkat

Fury: …

Clint: She’s never had one before

Natasha: *tearing up* It’s really good

Clint: Can we keep her? Pleeeeeaaaassseeeee?

Fury: This is SHIELD, Barton. We are not in the business of hiring international terrorists!

*in the background*

Hydra dude 1: Yooo hail hydra, man!

130 favorite horror movies: (98/130)

"my name is karen, my mother's name is catherine, my sister is alice, and I'm buried in the cemetery!"

[Images ID: An 18 part Twitter thread by Michael W. Twitty (@KosherSoul) that reads the following:

1) How does someone like me experience #Antisemitism? Anti-Jewish sentiments and behavior can reflect the different variants of people expressing their displeasure with Jews as a people, sub-ethnicities and as a sect of religious practices of cultural or social stances.

2) Wearing a kippa, having a beard or wearing tzitzit...or fringes intended to remind me to observe the commandments often signify my Jewishness but that's not the only way people might identify me as a Jew and treat me differently in a negative way.

3) I was slapped in a grocery store by a man who grinned as he said "oh sorry didn't see you there..." and my kippa fell off. I was so shocked I didn't know what to do.

4) A white woman called me a "kike" in a parking lot dispute and when I called her out on it, the cops threatened me with arrest for "escalating," for calling her anti-Semitic. They were Black and no help to a fellow brotha.

5) A former landlord demanded I let workers in and around on Saturday and demanded that I be there to let them in even though I reminded her it was Shabbat. The city gvt of Rockville. Md didn't care.

6) I was attacked on the metro by a large group of fundamentalist Christians and their children mocked me and attempted to spit on me and my prayerbook. They preached about how awful Jews were...over they figured out I wasn't Muslim. Nobody intervened.

7) People might think I am Muslim if I wear an African or Asian style kippa which might resemble the kuffi. I desperately needed to charge my phone at Union Station & a very rude older white man who worked there demanded to know what I was doing & he told me to get me "fuckn terrorist ass" out

8) Getting my ID for research at the library of congress...the woman taking care of me demanded to know why I was Jewish. She then said, "I bet you're a damn Republicans too..." and shook her head with pursed lips.

9) The first and last time I prayed at a station with my tefillin I had more than one person with a walkie talkie come up to me and ask what I "thought" I was doing and why I had strange things on me and if they were dangerous.

like you would you even bother to ask...

10) I mentioned during a presentation for the Folklike festival that the folks in my synagogue made the same dish but with different ingredients and context & the curator for food ripped the mic out of my hands & told the crowd they were misinformed & that it had nothing to do with the Jews

11) Antisemitic and Anti-Jewish in my world is having a cop pull us over on Tisha B'Av & hold a gun to my head, its being told not to "bring up that Jewish angle" or having an editor turn down The Cooking Gene because I mentioned I was Jewish & them telling me "America wasn't ready"

12) Its being harassed and questioned on the train about why I am not a Christian or people hoping that I'm really "Messianic." Or ppl thinking they are funny at work calling em "Little Amish boy."

13) Its having another landlord threaten you over building a Sukkah. Its having a kippa off and being perceived as just Black while some white dude talks about the "the fnn Jews..." are the problem behind everything...

14) Its being asked "Do you have to wear that here?" (Kippa)

Its people seeing this beard and a headcovering and experiencing intersectinal isht at an airport...

Its people questioning my Jewish identity because they only frame Jewish identity as one identifiable type.

15) Its saying "I'm Jewish," and having people burst out laughing.

That one...

They can't hide the fact that bc I'm not a caricature that they think I am ridiculous in my current incarnation as a complex and nuanced American.

It hurts really bad.

16) Its people coming into my social media saying "I heard you were a Zionist. Are you a Zionist? Explain yourself." I never said a word about the matsav but I say Jewish and they say that.

17) Its people assuming that Jewishness takes me out of my consciousness as a person of color. Its people assuming real Black ppl can be Christian or Muslim but not Jews. Its people trying to tell me what Jewishness is about to justify de-centering me as a Jew.

18) I 'm going to close it here. Shver tzu tzayn a Yid.

Hey, Jumblr! Seeing anything familiar in this piece? (Bolding by me)

So that "no other minority" thing? Not true. Unfortunately, it shows that the problem is bigger and more widespread than is often assumed.

I have spent much of my adult life arguing with the Democratic Party.

I have questioned candidates. I have questioned policies. I have questioned priorities. I have sat in meetings, attended conventions, organized communities, and participated in countless conversations where disagreement was not only expected but necessary. Politics, after all, is not a religion. It is an ongoing argument about how we ought to live together.

Questioning the party is not new for me.

What is new is the growing realization that the questions themselves have become unwelcome.

That realization has been slow and, at times, painful. It did not arrive through a single election cycle, a single candidate, or a single controversy. It emerged through years of watching a political movement increasingly define itself through the language of inclusion while becoming less comfortable with disagreement. It emerged through countless conversations in which difficult questions were acknowledged but not answered. It emerged through the subtle but unmistakable feeling that belonging was no longer rooted in shared values, but in ideological compliance.

As a Black woman, that feeling is difficult to ignore because it carries echoes of a much older story.

Over the last several years, I have watched the Minnesota DFL increasingly define itself through the language of identity. Diversity, equity, inclusion, representation, belonging these words appear everywhere. They are repeated in speeches, campaign materials, conventions, and community meetings. Yet the more frequently I hear these words, the more I find myself wondering whether we have confused representation with liberation and symbolism with solidarity.

The contradiction became impossible for me to ignore as conversations unfolded around Hennepin County Sheriff Dawanna Witt. To be clear, this is not an argument against criticism. Public officials should be questioned. They should be challenged. Accountability is not oppression, and disagreement is not discrimination.

What troubled me was something else entirely.

What troubled me was watching people who proudly place Black Lives Matter signs in their yards, who speak passionately about protecting democracy, who insist that we must believe Black women, suddenly abandon those principles when confronted with a Black woman they disagreed with.

The issue at hand was the federal immigration enforcement surge that swept across the Twin Cities. People were angry. Fear was real. Communities were frightened. But what I could not understand was why so much of that anger became directed at Sheriff Witt, a county sheriff who neither created federal immigration policy nor controlled federal immigration enforcement.

Yet as I listened to accounts from those present, I heard story after story of people literally turning their backs as she spoke. Not debating her. Not questioning her. Not engaging her. Turning away from her.

There was something profoundly symbolic in that image. A Black woman standing before a crowd that regularly invokes the language of justice, inclusion, representation, and solidarity, only to be met with a gesture of rejection. And I found myself wondering what happens when our slogans collide with our actions. What does it mean to proclaim that Black lives matter, that Black women should be believed, and that democracy requires listening, only to dismiss the experiences of Black women when those experiences become uncomfortable?

And I found myself wondering what happened to all of the slogans.

Where were the lawn signs?

Where were the declarations that Black lives matter?

Where were the calls to believe Black women?

Where was the insistence that democracy depends upon listening, especially when we disagree?

Because democracy is not tested when we hear voices that affirm our existing beliefs. Democracy is tested when we encounter voices that challenge them.

What unsettled me most was not the treatment of Sheriff Witt alone. It was what followed.

What struck me was not disagreement. Disagreement would have required engagement. It would have required listening, asking questions, and taking seriously the experiences that were being shared. Reasonable people can witness the same event and come away with different conclusions. That is not what troubled me. What troubled me was the absence of any real effort to grapple with what Black women and Black elders in my community were trying to communicate.

In the days that followed, I listened as people shared their experiences of what they witnessed. I listened to Black women describe their discomfort. I listened to elders whose commitment to civil rights, coalition building, and community organizing stretches back decades reflect on what they had seen and why it troubled them. These were not people looking for an argument. They were not demanding agreement. They were asking a simple question: Can we talk honestly about what happened?

That is the question I cannot shake. Not because everyone must agree about what happened, but because so many people seemed unwilling to even examine why Black women and Black elders walked away with the same sense of unease. What I witnessed was not a debate. It was a refusal to engage. And I keep returning to the same unsettling thought: What does it mean to invite people to share their lived experiences if we have already decided which experiences are worthy of our attention?

What troubled me most was not just the treatment of one sheriff. It was the realization that many of the same political spaces that insist Black voices matter often appear uncomfortable when Black people exercise independent political judgment. Blackness is celebrated when it confirms the movement’s assumptions. Blackness becomes suspect when it complicates them.

This is not a new phenomenon. Black Americans have spent generations navigating institutions that welcomed our participation while attempting to regulate our autonomy. Historically, this took obvious forms: legal exclusion, segregation, voter suppression, and discrimination. Today the mechanisms are more subtle, but the underlying question remains remarkably similar: Who gets to determine which Black voices are legitimate?

That question has been sitting heavily on my mind because I increasingly see a form of politics that claims to celebrate diversity while quietly narrowing the range of acceptable thought. The expectation is rarely stated outright. No one hands you a list of approved opinions. Yet the boundaries become clear enough. Certain conclusions are rewarded. Certain questions are discouraged. Certain forms of dissent are interpreted not as disagreement but as moral failure.

As a Black woman, I find that deeply unsettling.

I have spent much of my life watching other people project their expectations onto Black bodies. I have watched institutions tell us who we should be, what we should prioritize, and what forms of expression are acceptable. What I did not expect was to encounter a progressive version of the same instinct. Different language. Different intentions. The same impulse to determine which forms of Blackness deserve validation.

Increasingly, it feels as though support is conditional. Representation is conditional. Solidarity is conditional.

We are told Black lives matter, but I find myself wondering whether what is actually meant is that Black lives matter when they remain politically useful. Black voices matter when they affirm prevailing narratives. Black women matter when they arrive at approved conclusions. Once disagreement enters the picture, the celebration often fades.

The irony is difficult to ignore. Movements that speak passionately about dismantling systems of power can become remarkably uncomfortable when marginalized people exercise power in unexpected ways. Organizations that champion diversity often struggle with genuine diversity of thought. Communities that celebrate authenticity can become suspicious of anyone who refuses to perform the identity they have been assigned.

This realization has forced me to confront an uncomfortable truth. The political tradition I inherited taught me that coalition building requires humility. It requires accepting that people who share your values may disagree about solutions. It requires the ability to remain in relationship with those who challenge your assumptions. What I increasingly see instead is a politics of litmus tests a politics where belonging depends less on shared principles than on ideological conformity.

That is what grieves me.

Not that people disagree. Disagreement is healthy. Disagreement is necessary. What grieves me is the growing sense that many institutions no longer know how to hold disagreement without interpreting it as betrayal.

And so I find myself asking a question I never expected to ask of the Minnesota DFL: If your commitment to Black voices disappears the moment those voices challenge you, what exactly is it that you are committed to?

Because there is a difference between supporting Black people and supporting a particular performance of Blackness.

There is a difference between representation and agency.

There is a difference between inclusion and obedience.

My heart is absolutely broken 🌹

Rest In Peace Bonnie Tyler, you will be so missed ♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

For the first three episodes all we know is that there’s a shadowy figure hacking the Warehouse that Artie is desperately pretending isn’t going to get in, and we watch them very clearly get in.

Then comes episode four and Claudia is, one) Claudia (young, female, looks like shit, semi-crazy), two) in the Warehouse, and three) kidnapping Artie with electrified handcuffs.

We spend the next 35 minutes going from thinking she’s going to kill Artie, to thinking she’s actually psych ward insane (that picture did her no favors), to thinking she’s very tragic in the way villains are tragic, back to insane, so on and so forth.

Like, that whole performance, both the writing and Allison Scagliotti’s acting, is so good. Because as you’re watching you’re getting a very complete picture of this character, even as she’s getting more sympathetic or we understand what’s going on more, you still kind of get the feeling that we could be watching her villain origin story. And we literally don’t settle out of that until Joshua is saved.

And like, in hindsight? Everything she was doing was, maybe not rational, but it made complete sense, the logic checked out and while it was extreme it wasn’t irredeemable or anything. It’s crazy because despite your first impressions watching the episode she’s still the same character we see through the next five seasons, just incredibly desperate, and running out of time, and dying.

So it’s like, there’s two completely different images you get of this character from this episode and they’re both true to her, it’s literally just a difference in circumstance.