What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

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.

STOP IT’S BEEN MONTHS. MONTHS!

AHAHAA, GOTTEM

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZTdQuxw52/

but y'all. the way he said "brutus is an honourable man" - each and every time it changed just a little. it was the full condemnation Shakespeare wanted it to be. it started off slightly mock sincere. barely trying to cover the sarcasm. by the end...it wasn't a threat, it was a promise.