The more lesbian literature you read and the more authors you become familiar with, the more you’ll be able to see just how many of them are completely unacceptable to terfs, swerfs, and all of the other ghoulish bottomfeeders that have been flapping around since time immemorial, and just how much lesbian art and history they have to cauterize and denigrate in order to build their shitty little sandcastles.
Joan Nestle, founder of the Lesbian Herstory Archives? Unacceptable. Adores trans people, trans expression, let trans women join the archives, did so much writing on lesbian as a third sex, goes into raptures when she describes the first time she heard Leslie Feinberg speak. Leslie hirself? Anathema. No one thought terfs were more full of shit than hir. Ze went to bat for Cece McDonald until hir dying day. Judy Grahn, dyke poet laureate, who wrote that being transgender was the beginning of “a vast evolutionary step”? Get out of here, traitor. Willyce Kim, the first Asian lesbian poet to be published in the US, with her glorious, punchy, powerful, genitally dubious erotica centered on the sacred history of sex workers in the lesbian world? Setting a bad example; traitor. Minnie Bruce Pratt? Delusional traitor. Ivan Coyote? Became a traitor as soon as they decided they were no longer comfortable with going by she. Jewelle Gomez, author and director of the Horizons Foundation? Traitor. Storme Webber, two-spirit poet and professor? Barbara Smith, who fought to include minority sexualities when the mainstream gay and lesbian movement left them behind? Guess.
And I love that long quote I found from Joan Nestle about Dworkin, it says it all:
“I think many of the women who turned into sex thought-police were truly concerned about violence against women, and had their own horrible experiences: a very deeply experienced vulnerability and a frustration with how to make this culture responsive to the well-being of women. Those are their best motives. But I think they took the wrong way. I think that what came in there was perhaps a lack of exposure to other sexual energies, to other sexual ways of being. And there were some women who just are fervent, who are arrogant in their sense that they think they know how to protect women. I'm thinking of women who make careers out of stimulating an anger we all feel, and that anger and that pain is where they've decided to make their culture. And I've decided to make a culture out of another side of it, which is sexual exploration and celebration. And I think both sides are needed. I felt the censorship coming from their side, not from my side. Andrea Dworkin's books are all in the Archives. I would never say, 'Keep her books off the shelf.' But they would say, 'Keep Joan's books off the shelves.'"
9K notes · View notes
Inspired by @anonymousalchemist's amazing Fic, a crack in the heart where the fear shines out. If you love the concept of Jon stumbling into Nightvale, definitely give it a read!
Comic Transcript Beneath the Cut:
[ID: Eight Page comic between Cecil, a radio host, and Jon, an archivist. Cecil is a white man with undercut, white hair, a slight build, wearing purple and white clothes. Jon is a brown man with shoulderlength, greying black hair, slight build,wearing green and black clothes. They hold their conversation in the recording studio of the Night Vale radio station.
CECIL: You look like you have questions. Listeners, my guest is standing over me right now. He mostly looks confused, and tired, and like has spent a long time with too little sleep and too much worry. And he looks angry. But not a hot anger, more like an anger like banked coals, or the anger of simmering water, formless and directed only by the vessel it is in.
JON: It’s—no. I don’t have a question. Well, I have a lot of questions, but, nevermind. Go on.
CECIL: No, go ahead! Ask.
JON: Alright, fine! I just don’t understand how you, well, how you have a boyfriend!
[Silence, but this time with a different energy]
CECIL: Well, there comes a time in every man’s life, when he sees a handsome scientist—
JON: Not like that! I mean like… I don’t understand how you are what you are and still...still have love? Still be capable of love? You’re the same as whatever I am, you’re more powerful than what I am, I’m pretty sure you’re also of the Eye, and you seem happy with it, which, great! Great for you! Great that you're having a great time! But how on earth does that square with having a boyfriend?
[Silence, with a third, entirely distinct energy]
CECIL: In the immortal words of one of the quintessential dance tunes from the 1990s performed by Haddaway, “What is love? Baby don’t hurt me.”
CECIL: What is love, listeners? What is it about the nature of love that makes the threat of harm so integral to its existence? If we were to pry open the human heart from its delicate cage and carefully carve into it with a scalpel, we would find no evidence of love. If I were to open my skull and scoop out the throbbing electric fat-and-protein jello that we call a brain, there would be no evidence of the feeling I have when Carlos smiles at me.
CECIL: And it was because of that love that when Carlos lay in Lane Five of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, when Carlos dove into the featureless black cubes that made up the condos, when Carlos was stranded in the desert otherworld, only reachable by call, text, or tumblr message, that I was afraid. That Carlos, perfectly imperfect Carlos, would be gone, only to exist in my memory, and that no amount of watching could save him. Love is not the antithesis of fear, listeners. It is the preamble to it.
CECIL: I broadcast these words to you at their pre-appointed times because I love Night Vale, just as many of you, sweet citizens, love Night Vale. And I broadcast because I fear for Night Vale. I fear, in the non-immortal words of my past self, for anyone caught between what they know and what they don’t yet know that they don’t know.
CECIL: The tragedy of our lives is that we are alive, and that our lives are so fleeting , the soap bubble of existence on top of a cruel and uncaring dimension full of untold horrors that invade our dreams and waking nightmares. But like a soap bubble, our lives are iridescent , and it is because of that fragility that they are.
CECIL: Do you have someone to hold at night? Pull them close, and fear for when they are gone. Be thankful you have someone to fear for.
9K notes · View notes