More than a blog, less than a zine...

This crap is getting out of control.

18 Jun 2013

“Outside of our yard the tiny unincorporated community of Tip Top hugged us tight between the mountains of Springville and Mudfork. Tip Top had (and still has) the unique boasting point of being the steepest grade on the Norfolk and Southern railroad in the state of Virginia, hence its name. But all that mattered to me was that it was home to everyone on earth that I knew and loved. I couldn’t conceive of the bigness of the world, or the smallness of my place in it yet. I didn’t know, and couldn’t imagine a world that existed beyond the limited scope of my home and the community that encompassed it. Of its beauty and danger.”

Another exerpt from my book.

I had been pouring out my heart in zines and letters to pen pals before I got my first mix tape. It was from a girl named Aren and it changed my life completely. Contained on the brightly decorated 60-minute cassette were songs by Bikini Kill, Bratmobile, Team Dresch, Lydia Lunch, and Huggy Bear. I felt the chords rip through me, reflecting the rage I had been stifling. I was angry at my school for ignoring the daily bullying I dealt with. I was angry with my family for being so blindly narrow-minded, I was angry with myself for feeling so sad and tired all the time. Riot grrrl music felt right to me – the roughness what I was missing from the music I’d been listening to. Those songs were healing in a way I couldn’t have articulated then. They made me feel more alive, less numb, and they encouraged me not to accept the abuse of my peers or the neglect of the adults in my life.

(As always, please feel free to reblog/repost.)

(tw: death, funeral stuff)

“After the funeral, people filed out from the back to pass Justin’s body so they could pay their final respects on the way to the exit. This allowed people to file past Justin’s coffin for a final goodbye, and helped maintain some semblance of order. We were the last people to file out, and my mom leaned down and kissed Justin goodbye. I did the same thing and was struck by the fact that this was the very last time I’d see my brother, dead or alive. The dam of emotions I had been holding back broke momentarily, and Georgia caught me in a huge hug. She said that after the burial, we’d go to lunch if it was ok with my mom, and with something to focus on, I tried to take slow deep breaths so my heaving sobs would eventually subside.
Justin was buried at Grandview, the same cemetery that almost everyone in our family was buried in. The ceremony was short, and Georgia and I left early to go to Shoney’s, and while I remember worrying specifically about what to order, I can’t recall what I actually did. I was nervous to cost too much money. We didn’t talk about my brother or the funeral or my family and it felt like coming up for air after having been underwater for a long time. When I realized that Georgia wasn’t looking for any particular response and that she’d just wanted to do something kind for me, it was easier to eat, smile, and function. She drove me all the way back home to Baptist Valley, and I spent the rest of the day reading and sleeping.”

16 Jun 2013

“It would be easy for me to write an “it gets better” letter to you. To tell you how awesome my life is right now and how if I hadn’t stuck it out through the hard stuff, I wouldn’t be here today. I’d even be sort of right.

But that’s patronizing bullshit, and I don’t think it will help you right now.

It’s easy for older queers and trauma survivors (and ex-junkies, disabled folks and other refugees from the island of misfit toys) to forget about how things felt when they were in the trenches. I get that – one of the great things about being an adult survivor is that your present is sometimes the most powerful distraction you have against your past.

What I want to tell you, who might be holding this book, dealing with abuse, accessibility, molestation, addiction, internalized homophobia, racism, or bullying based on your (real or perceived) gender or sexuality is that there are things you can do to make it better. You have choices.

That might be the most powerful, important thing I can tell you. It’s the thing I wish someone had told me.

You have choices. You get to take an active role in how your life turns out. And your life doesn’t have to look like what people told you. You don’t owe anything to anyone – least of all the people who hurt you.”

(please feel free to reblog/share/etc.)

Sage posted an update video on this indiegogo for my book! But I don’t really know how to imbed stuff correctly. It’s on the update page.

Repost this and get everyone the feels!

Lisa’s mom would sometimes watch me overnight. This meant getting to play with Lisa and Sean for hours, until her mom would call Lisa in to get her hair cornrowed. When I tried to do this to my hair at home, the braids fell out. I was convinced that Lisa’s hair contained a magic that mine lacked, and I begged Ms. Crouch to cornrow my hair. She’d call me a dumb little white girl and tell me that my hair wouldn’t hold. Then she’d line us up against the back of the couch while she pulled Lisa over to do her hair and watch Knight Rider. No one loved David Hasselhoff more than Lisa’s mom. If we talked while Knight Rider was on, she’d smack us with her comb and turn the volume up. I felt secretly excited to be included in the smacks. It made me feel like part of the family and almost made up for not being able to get cornrows.

(Fund mah book!)

14 Jun 2013

(Source: jmayday, via thismightwork)

So, listen. Rather than harangue you everyday for money, I’m just going to repost the link to our indiegogo page with a paragraph or two from that book I wrote. That way, you won’t get bored of me. Maybe you’ll like something I wrote and decide to donate. Maybe you’ll like something I wrote but don’t have any extra dollars, (I know that feeling) but you’ll repost it. Maybe you won’t like it at all, but since I know you to be kind, I hope you’ll keep your criticism constructive.

“There was a fine line that you walked, being around Steve. He was short-tempered and moody until two beers in. Then he was easier, his lanky legs and arms seemed to hang more loosely from the coiled spring of his body. He’d change out of the oil streaked clothes he wore home from his job as a mechanic and shower. He’d emerge from the bedroom, hair wet, with a cigarette or a joint in one hand and a beer in the other.
What we did in the evenings largely depended on his moods. If he was in a good mood, and the chemical balance of beer and cocaine made him easy to be around, we might play inside – watching horror movies or playing video games or retreating to Hazel’s room for Barbies. Otherwise, we’d stay outdoors as long as we could, until the sky turned dark, illuminated only by lightening bugs until the streetlights came on and our parents called us home for bed.”