Welcome To My Mind

and they even had a book written about them:

“Heh, that’s cute.”

“Okay, that’s cool.”

“Dude.”

like. i’m trans. i have a trans pin on my jacket and a pretty clear HE pin as well (and I know it’s not about how easy the pin is to read: my old one was even more clear and the same stuff happened. every. day.). Yet, every time I go somewhere, I’m called a girl. People use she/her for me. They refer to a group with me in it as “ladies.” Even though I’ve clearly shown what pronouns to use. 

I introduce myself as James and people call me Jane or comment on how ‘that’s an unusual name’ (with the extremely obvious for a girl going unspoken most of the time), and continue to use she/her for me. Sometimes, they ask me how to spell it (they ask me how to spell James.) because they can’t believe a ‘girl’ would have that name.

If I want somebody to stop misgendering me, I have to say out loud that I’m trans, use he/him pronouns for me. I have to remind them every day, every time they misgender me, until they stop. And they never do stop completely. Even if they met me after I came out and have therefore always known me as a guy.

We wouldn’t talk. They’d tell us to do something and we’d just sit there quietly and do it, until eventually they just said “hey, guys, it’s okay to chat while you work!” and then everybody would start talking.

One teacher described it as creepy.

And I just remember thinking, what the fuck did they expect to happen? We’d all been taught from the age of four or five onwards that talking in class was bad. That if we did it, we’d be told off, or punished, or in some instances maybe the entire class would be punished along with us, just to make sure we really got the idea. It was a whole thing.

But now, because we were sixth-formers and therefore ‘grown ups’, we were suddenly expected to flip a switch and be able to talk as much as we liked? The whole reason we were in sixth-form was because we had worked hard, done well at school, and generally followed the rules— but still the teachers couldn’t understand why we didn’t just talk to each other.

Now I’m at uni, and seminar tutors are having a similar problem. People will talk in seminars, but a lot of them will insist on raising their hands and waiting to be called upon first. “Don’t put your hands up, just shout at me!” the guy keeps saying. But they keep doing it anyway.

He lives at the Governor’s mansion on St. Helena island in the South Atlantic. (The final resting place of Napoleon Bonaparte.) He spends his days hanging out on a perfectly manicured lawn with his best friend Fred and his mate Emma. 

Here is a pic of him (left) as a young whippersnapper in 1886.

Jonathan might not look a day over 129, but he is not completely immune to the aging process. He has lost most of his vision due to cataracts. His hearing is still pretty good and he really enjoys listening to people playing tennis. 

Despite his advanced age Jonathan is still a sex machine. His handlers say his libido is quite strong to this day. Here he is posting thirst trap to Instagram. 

After he uses his powers of seduction he’ll get busy with Emma. 

Or Fred.

Did I mention the world’s oldest tortoise is bisexual? 

Coral Avery

[February 2017] Winston, OR