News that makes you say WTF! (74 Viewers)
- Thread starter Ford Prefect
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http://www.theguardian.com/commenti...-to-walk-my-cat-but-turns-out-we-both-love-it
I thought I'd be embarrassed to walk my cat, but turns out we both love it
I’m a queer, non-binary transgender person. I get stared at enough as is. But an extraordinary houseguest convinced me that love trumped my fears
She was enjoying a cigarette on my New York City balcony, the sweet houseguest who reminded me of an aunt. I’d joined her. So, insistently, had the cat.
She remarked on how much Monk loved smelling the breeze, ecstatically rolling from one side of the balcony to the other, pausing only to reach up to find another smell with joy. That was when she asked if I’d ever walked him.
“Of course I could never walk my cat,” I responded. I’m a queer, non-binary transgender person. I get stared at enough as is.
Nigel was a mean, spiteful, cat. I don't know how I'll live without him
Mary Valle
Read more
She looked at me, dropped her chin in seriousness and stared directly into my soul, down to my deepest fibers of self, where childhood and parents live. Her look said, “I believe that you’re better than that.”
She was right. What was I afraid of? I get stared at all the time. As a white person, and someone who is not a trans woman, it’s more unnerving than dangerous. I wasn’t afraid of being hurt. I was only afraid of being laughed at on the streets of New York with my cat.
But this was about more than the cat.
I grew up almost believing it when my father told me that I could never be as good as him. According to him, anything I do that is praiseworthy is only because of his genes, and any way in which I mess up is only due to my own personal moral failings. When my houseguest looked into my soul, it helped me complete the process of realizing that he’d always been wrong.
Monk helped. When he’s purring, on his back, between two people with all four limbs ridiculously spread, it’s easier to talk about difficult things.
She was my parents’ age. When we met and she wrote my pronouns down, I was at first taken aback. Why wouldn’t my pronouns seem natural enough to be able to remember? Then I noticed that she was writing with care – she was writing it down because she wanted to be sure to get it right. I was no longer offended; I was touched.
She had traveled to hopefully see her adult children. She’d mapped how close they lived. She called them in advance to let them know that she’d be staying a seven-minute walk away.
She’d been here for days, waiting for them to say yes, that they would see her. Based mostly on what hung delicately and heavily in the air between us, I knew that we had things that are hard to speak of in common, the kind of familial hurt that requires years of healing to overcome.
She said, “They’re my children. I will never give up on them.” She said, she will come back as many times as she needs to, until they say yes.
I thought, I wish my dad would do something like that, just once, for me – something, anything, without expectations, just with love. The longer she waited for her children to say yes, the more of her pain I wanted to heal.
Each conversation we had, Monk would walk right in. He’d walk right on in, throw himself dramatically onto the floor between us, flip onto his back, start purring and ask for belly love. And the hollow where my father should be, the shape of his absence, started to blur a bit. Love does exist. When she left, she gifted me the most thoughtful housegift I’ve ever received, a first-person account of a trans woman of color available only in the UK.
Why wouldn’t I walk my cat? I know he’s just a cat. He’s just a cat, and I am the only person who ensures his wellbeing. He’s just a cat, and he’s the one whose fur collected my tears when my partner broke up with me. He’s just a cat, and when he greets me at the door when I come home from work, my soul is glad. Why wouldn’t I walk my cat, if it were something that would enrich his life a fraction of the amount he enriches mine?
Is masculinity so fragile I can’t even walk my cat?
The guy at the pet store showed me the harnesses. He pointed to the skull and crossbones one: “This one’s most popular.” I looked at him, then at the pink harness, and decided to go a little bit easy on myself, to compromise in that moment and walk Monk in the butchest harness they had. I said, “I am already walking my cat.” He gave me a pointed look, lowered his voice, and agreed quietly, “Yeah.” He reached for the skulls and bones. “Here you go. Good luck, dude.”
I did the research. Cats typically need adjusting to get used to the feeling of wearing a harness. Monk didn’t seem to notice his. Apparently he’s a natural.
I brought him to the sheltered park across the street, under some large trees. I found a four-foot stump to sit on. First, he stayed in my lap. Soon, he was walking around, smelling. Then he lifted his tail with confidence, and led me to the next tree. He rubbed himself on it. He rolled around in the leaves, reveling. White tourists exclaimed in German accents and took photos from a distance without asking – of the cat. They paid no mind to his trans, non-binary human. Then Monk found the bushes, with the sounds of the birds and who-knows-what rodents rustling in the underbrush, and all of a sudden he was walking me. I’ve never seen him so alive.
Not bad for a first walk, I thought. We had survived.
I have my houseguest to thank for learning to trust an adult who is my parents’ age but can see the best in me. I have her to thank for showing me I can be brave enough to know people will laugh at me and do something anyways. I have her to thank for seeing that I deserve to feel valued as myself, and for showing me that opening my heart like that can end in more love, not less.
The next time she visits, we can walk Monk together.
I thought I'd be embarrassed to walk my cat, but turns out we both love it
I’m a queer, non-binary transgender person. I get stared at enough as is. But an extraordinary houseguest convinced me that love trumped my fears
She was enjoying a cigarette on my New York City balcony, the sweet houseguest who reminded me of an aunt. I’d joined her. So, insistently, had the cat.
She remarked on how much Monk loved smelling the breeze, ecstatically rolling from one side of the balcony to the other, pausing only to reach up to find another smell with joy. That was when she asked if I’d ever walked him.
“Of course I could never walk my cat,” I responded. I’m a queer, non-binary transgender person. I get stared at enough as is.
Nigel was a mean, spiteful, cat. I don't know how I'll live without him
Mary Valle
Read more
She looked at me, dropped her chin in seriousness and stared directly into my soul, down to my deepest fibers of self, where childhood and parents live. Her look said, “I believe that you’re better than that.”
She was right. What was I afraid of? I get stared at all the time. As a white person, and someone who is not a trans woman, it’s more unnerving than dangerous. I wasn’t afraid of being hurt. I was only afraid of being laughed at on the streets of New York with my cat.
But this was about more than the cat.
I grew up almost believing it when my father told me that I could never be as good as him. According to him, anything I do that is praiseworthy is only because of his genes, and any way in which I mess up is only due to my own personal moral failings. When my houseguest looked into my soul, it helped me complete the process of realizing that he’d always been wrong.
Monk helped. When he’s purring, on his back, between two people with all four limbs ridiculously spread, it’s easier to talk about difficult things.
She was my parents’ age. When we met and she wrote my pronouns down, I was at first taken aback. Why wouldn’t my pronouns seem natural enough to be able to remember? Then I noticed that she was writing with care – she was writing it down because she wanted to be sure to get it right. I was no longer offended; I was touched.
She had traveled to hopefully see her adult children. She’d mapped how close they lived. She called them in advance to let them know that she’d be staying a seven-minute walk away.
She’d been here for days, waiting for them to say yes, that they would see her. Based mostly on what hung delicately and heavily in the air between us, I knew that we had things that are hard to speak of in common, the kind of familial hurt that requires years of healing to overcome.
She said, “They’re my children. I will never give up on them.” She said, she will come back as many times as she needs to, until they say yes.
I thought, I wish my dad would do something like that, just once, for me – something, anything, without expectations, just with love. The longer she waited for her children to say yes, the more of her pain I wanted to heal.
Each conversation we had, Monk would walk right in. He’d walk right on in, throw himself dramatically onto the floor between us, flip onto his back, start purring and ask for belly love. And the hollow where my father should be, the shape of his absence, started to blur a bit. Love does exist. When she left, she gifted me the most thoughtful housegift I’ve ever received, a first-person account of a trans woman of color available only in the UK.
Why wouldn’t I walk my cat? I know he’s just a cat. He’s just a cat, and I am the only person who ensures his wellbeing. He’s just a cat, and he’s the one whose fur collected my tears when my partner broke up with me. He’s just a cat, and when he greets me at the door when I come home from work, my soul is glad. Why wouldn’t I walk my cat, if it were something that would enrich his life a fraction of the amount he enriches mine?
Is masculinity so fragile I can’t even walk my cat?
The guy at the pet store showed me the harnesses. He pointed to the skull and crossbones one: “This one’s most popular.” I looked at him, then at the pink harness, and decided to go a little bit easy on myself, to compromise in that moment and walk Monk in the butchest harness they had. I said, “I am already walking my cat.” He gave me a pointed look, lowered his voice, and agreed quietly, “Yeah.” He reached for the skulls and bones. “Here you go. Good luck, dude.”
I did the research. Cats typically need adjusting to get used to the feeling of wearing a harness. Monk didn’t seem to notice his. Apparently he’s a natural.
I brought him to the sheltered park across the street, under some large trees. I found a four-foot stump to sit on. First, he stayed in my lap. Soon, he was walking around, smelling. Then he lifted his tail with confidence, and led me to the next tree. He rubbed himself on it. He rolled around in the leaves, reveling. White tourists exclaimed in German accents and took photos from a distance without asking – of the cat. They paid no mind to his trans, non-binary human. Then Monk found the bushes, with the sounds of the birds and who-knows-what rodents rustling in the underbrush, and all of a sudden he was walking me. I’ve never seen him so alive.
Not bad for a first walk, I thought. We had survived.
I have my houseguest to thank for learning to trust an adult who is my parents’ age but can see the best in me. I have her to thank for showing me I can be brave enough to know people will laugh at me and do something anyways. I have her to thank for seeing that I deserve to feel valued as myself, and for showing me that opening my heart like that can end in more love, not less.
The next time she visits, we can walk Monk together.
Fan tries to hit female referee with penis...
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/referee-penis-spain_564b1971e4b06037734aa090
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/referee-penis-spain_564b1971e4b06037734aa090
So Dartmouth are apologizing to violent BLM protesters because independent media coverage isn't just mindlessly coddling them anymore 
http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2015/nov/17/dartmouth-official-apologizes-to-black-lives-matte/
http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2015/nov/17/dartmouth-official-apologizes-to-black-lives-matte/
So Dartmouth are apologizing to violent BLM protesters because independent media coverage isn't just mindlessly coddling them anymore
http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2015/nov/17/dartmouth-official-apologizes-to-black-lives-matte/
http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2015/nov/17/dartmouth-official-apologizes-to-black-lives-matte/
EDIT: Jesus Christ that's a terrible web layout.
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