fabiochiu/medium-articles huggingface dataset:
Videogames, beyond the binary, and we still need to do better
By: Robyn Tyrfing
Tags: Transgender, Nonbinary, LGBTQ, Gender, Videogames

So, seven years ago I wrote some articles centered around transness for an independent videogame website. I wrote that we needed to do nonbinary genders better with a conclusion that I’ve had such high hopes for a future where nonbinary genders are handled better. Time moves forward, that inexorable force giving us no choice but to advance as well, and it’s disappointing to say that we really… Haven’t done much better.

Certainly we’re more inclusive, there’s many independent games that either don’t assign pronouns to the players or ask for pronouns. There’s a few mainstream games that do the same as well. Even some AAA titles allow players to choose their own pronoun choices. What’s the holdup, though, why isn’t this industry standard? If we can make our own character why can’t we choose our pronouns, or why can’t all spoken dialogue utilize they/them pronouns?

This is written in the wake of a very popular game’s release, and that game stands as the poster child of “We Need To Do Better.” Cyberpunk 2077 had mentioned as early as 2019 that we’d be getting nonbinary character options. We learned later that this wasn’t exactly the case, and that Cyberpunk 2077’s extensive gender options mostly applied to genitalia. Gender is more than genitals and voice, especially when the nonbinary perspective is concerned. Resources are freely available on this topic, and professional educators with teaching qualifications and lived experience exist if you need a human to look at your content. If we’re going to keep telling stories and trying to include everyone in them then we need to do better, and I still believe we can do better.
Non-Binary Lesbians Exist — And Are Valid
By: Hijabi Of Colour
Tags: LGBTQ, Lesbian, Nonbinary

For as long as I can remember, I have had some gatekeeper commenting that my identity as a non-binary lesbian somehow does not exist. I used to get really upset and internalize it, but now I realize I do not need anyone else to tell me I am valid in order to be so.

Before I go on to tell you why non-binary lesbians exist and are valid — let me define what it means to be non-binary and a lesbian.

Being non-binary means that you identify outside of the gender binary — you are not masculine or feminine presenting. This, however, does not mean that someone non-binary cannot present as masculine or feminine, it just means we are not exclusively either or.

Being a lesbian means that you have an attraction to women. Traditional definitions state that this attraction is women to women — however, I argue that this is not the case.

Non-binary lesbians have a place in our community. Just because someone does not identify exclusively as a woman, it does not mean they cannot be a lesbian. In my case, I identify mostly with my feminine side, but still have masculine moments — and I have an attraction to women. Therefore, a lesbian is the best term to describe my sexual orientation.

Labels are not to be used to exclude people — but rather help us explore our gender identity and sexual orientation. Using labels to exclude people is anti-LGBTQ and should be treated as such. We need to include all identities and orientations in our community — except for harmful ones, like pedophiles also known as minor attracted persons (MAPs).
no. 23 — My Woman by Angel Olsen. The first time I heard Angel Olsen was…
By: Jenna Sylvester
Tags: Angel Olsen, Album Review, Nonbinary, Music, Personal Essay

The first time I heard Angel Olsen was on my first date with my partner, James. He drove to my college, we went on a walk, and then we saw Moana in theaters. On the drive there in his family minivan, he played My Woman, which had been released two months earlier.

James and I met on tinder, and most of our conversations revolved around music. He was the first person I dated who knew from the outset my pronouns were they/them. Really, he was the first person who had only known me by those pronouns. He was the first person I had introduced myself to as non-binary, my family and friends still in various stages of adjusting to my new preferences. After our first date, I looked up Angel Olsen and watched her video for “Shut Up Kiss Me” on repeat. James and I hadn’t kissed yet, our first date ending in a deeply awkward fist bump situation, but already I felt surprisingly comfortable with him. This album always reminds me of those first weeks of our relationship; the giddy rush to see each other as often as we could, driving next to him with the Barack Obama[1] scented air freshener that mingled with the smell of cigarettes and weed.

The first time I saw Angel Olsen live was with James and his mom. We saw her at the 9:30 club in DC where I accidentally bought a $20 cider. The next time I saw her was several years later, on what I still remember as a really lovely night. It was my second to last show before quarantine hit, and some acquaintances had saved seats for me and James, which was honestly the sweetest thing I could think of to do for someone at a sold-out theater show[2]. After the show, James and I got food at a late-night café, and it felt like those early days of our relationship. I felt comfortably giddy, excited at the possibility of being known by someone knew. Only this time, I felt grateful to be loved by someone who knew me completely, not just the possibility of it happening.

This album always has a special place in my heart. About two months after James and I started dating, we went long distance. I went to New Zealand for six months, and although we talked and exchanged letters often, this album reminds me of the anxiety I felt being away from someone I liked so much. Now, as I quarantine for two weeks in order to safely see my family for Christmas, having freshly said goodbye to James for our month apart, I’m re-listening to the album and feeling nostalgic and grateful. James and I haven’t been apart for this long since I went abroad, but we have a lot more going for us this time around, and I know it’ll be fine.

Listen to this album here
no. 22 — Art Angels by Grimes. I have a complicated relationship with…
By: Jenna Sylvester
Tags: Album Review, Nonbinary, Music, Review, Personal Essay

I have a complicated relationship with Grimes. I love her music, and loved the niche she created for women to produce and create grunge pop music. But I hate Elon Musk, and I especially hate that Grimes said in an interview that when a man “comes inside you, you become in their thrall- how it’s an attack on your feminist freedom”[1] and then proceeded to have Musk’s weird robot child a year or so later. I’m glad she found love, I’m thrilled she’s happy with her family. That does not change the piece of shit egotistical maniac that Elon Musk is, nor does his relationship with Grimes absolve him of his incessant wrongdoing. But this post is not about Elon Musk, even if it currently feels impossible to separate Grimes the artist from c, Elon Musk’s girlfriend. [2]

Before Musk came into the picture, I loved Grimes for her weird, eccentric ability to enthrall you in her world. I liked that she made an entire album holed up in a windowless room while on drugs. I liked that she took the strange, roundabout route to the end product of her songs. I liked that she was outspoken on being a woman in the music industry, even if those statements seem moot now. I liked that she allowed herself to daydream about faeries and robots and artificial intelligence, while still staying rooted in how technology affects our world on a daily scale. I still like those things about her, but now I view them in a different light.

The only time I’ve seen Grimes live was at Osheaga, the same festival where my friend Rowan and I had panic attacks to Radiohead’s set. Rowan had food poisoning that day, and coincidentally, so did Grimes. She kept ducking behind speakers to vomit in the middle of her songs, apologizing to the crowd for not being as upbeat as she usually would be, despite still running around with seemingly high energy. I think this was the end of her year-plus world tour where she only ate spaghetti and subsequently had health issues. Regardless, it was a really cool show.

Despite her child with evil asshole Elon Musk, I still have a massive crush on c. I see her as kind of a hero of underground talent. She started doing something just to mess around — making beats, experimenting with sounds and songs and recordings, and through that, she became something new. As someone who is constantly frozen by imposter syndrome and self-doubt, I really admire and envy that quality. As young women, we’re often taught to doubt ourselves, our talents, and our abilities. But c seemed to exist outside of those boundaries.

I don’t know if I still consider that to be true. She felt like an authentic emblem of a feminist wave in music. I don’t know if her current politics / boyfriend discount what she meant to me in the past or not. Regardless, I love this album. Give it another listen if you haven’t lately.
no. 19 — A Moon Shaped Pool by Radiohead
By: Jenna Sylvester
Tags: Radiohead, Album Review, Nonbinary, Music, Personal Essay

I actually didn’t really like Radiohead until a few years ago. I mean, I liked them, I knew the words to most of their songs, but my mom is a Super Fan, so my enjoyment seemed small in comparison. She’s seen them live almost 30 times, travelling overseas and across the U.S. She’s dedicated. And because of that, Radiohead always seemed like my Mom’s band[1]. I never really had my own relationship to the music.

Despite the fact that my very first boyfriend and I bonded over Radiohead when we started dating. I still remember he told me his favorite song was “Idioteque”, which I pretended to know very well. At least I knew enough to not reply with “Creep” as my favorite song. And despite the fact that I woke up to “Everything In Its Right Place” every day for two years as my alarm in high school, despite the fact that a girl I had a crush on would put “Hunting Bears” on every time she was in my car, leaving me to associate that song with her for the rest of my life, Radiohead never felt like a band I liked until I had a panic attack at one of their live shows.

My friend Rowan and I had travelled to Montreal with my mom and my sister to go to the Osheaga music festival. Rowan had food poisoning, and neither of us are big festival people. I hate crowds, I get anxious about lack of comfort and bathrooms and access to water. It was hot, crowded, and loud. Radiohead was headlining, and my mom wanted to get good seats towards the front[2], but Rowan was exhausted, and I noticed she was losing steam. I asked her if she wanted to leave, go on a walk and go back to my family closer to when Radiohead started, and she agreed. Much to my mom’s distress, we separated, and almost as soon as we did, the overwhelming anxiety of the day hit and we both started crying. At first, I was just crying because Rowan was crying, but then it evolved.

Soon, we were both sobbing on the sidewalk. Radiohead started their set, and I laughed through my anxiety attack when they played “Burn the Witch”. There’s a lyric in that song that goes “this is a low-flying panic attack”, which I thought was a deeply funny soundtrack to have in the background of my and Rowan’s collective undoing. We missed Radiohead’s entire set that day, but we had a good cry that brought us closer together as friends. Another bonus was that after that day, A Moon Shaped Pool felt like the first Radiohead album that I had context for outside of my mom. It felt like mine.

While that feeling of ownership hasn’t extended to all of their songs, it’s certainly gotten larger with time. Every time I’ve seen them live I’ve been with my family, and I’m happy to have something I can enjoy both within and without the context of my family. “Present Tense” is my favorite song on this album. It has a beauty that I don’t hear in a lot of earlier Radiohead songs. I also really love Thom Yorke’s most recent solo album, Anima. It came with a short movie that my mom and I watched together, and I loved hearing her insights on it all.

Listen to A Moon Shaped Pool here
Hard Pills: A Non-binary Physicist’s Blog on Life and Learning
Tags: Self-awareness, Nonbinary, Life Lessons, Privilege, Anxiety

Hello and welcome! I’m thrilled that you’ve happened upon this little corner of my Brainspace. Let this post serve as an introduction to the blog and the reason it came into being.

Many people are quick to shy away from conversations about grief, pleasure, or shame: some of the most fundamentally human experiences. Personally, I don’t believe in the stigmas that we as a collective associate with these feelings. I decided to start writing as a way to communicate what I’ve learned from both my delightful and harrowing experiences, diving into these topics with a focus on candid self-reflection.

My own story endures patterns of psychological abuse, explodes into bursts of euphoria, crawls between anxiety-induced affronts, and always wakes up finding solace in the many forms that love takes.

Photo by Anshu A on Unsplash

If this blog could have a name, it would be called Hard Pills, taken from the expression “A hard pill to swallow.” I find that frequently in life, there are no easy answers. Oftentimes, reality doesn’t even pretend to have an undercurrent of fairness to it all. Such was the case when a close friend of mine passed away from leukemia in the fall of this year.

Emotionally, I’ve reached the highest mountain and fallen through the deepest chasm, with the mountains growing taller and the chasms digging deeper each year. This is typical for most of us, as our experiences are not absolute, but relative.

Usually the most effective way to learn is through experience; to sail these emotional crests and troughs. But it shouldn’t take all that. Our collective critical thinking and introspection can help one another navigate the world so that we don’t have to do it alone.

We should not be alone in our pain as we should not be alone in our joy. Within the past few months, I’ve lost more of myself than I can even recall. But I believe there’s a beautiful potential rising from the ashes. I often find myself searching for such flickers of hope on social media. Sometimes it’s a simple text post, and sometimes it’s a drawing that carries more insight than I could ever put into words. By sharing these reminders that you are seen, that you are worthy, that you are valid in your existence, and receiving such overwhelmingly positive feedback, I’ve realized I’m not alone in the feeling of being cast adrift. We all have some desire to feel grounded, and if not grounded then tethered, preferably in the company of others.

With these stories, I’d like to explore recovery, subconscious prejudice, sexuality, privilege in all its forms, abuse, and other taboo subjects we’re usually too polite to bring up.
no. 17 — I Can Hear The Heart Beating As One by Yo La Tengo
By: Jenna Sylvester
Tags: Album Review, Nonbinary, Music, Yo La Tengo, Personal Essay

I’m almost positive I heard about Yo La Tengo because a barista I befriended in high school posted one of their songs on Facebook, and I, trying desperately to be cool and make friends with the older baristas at my favorite coffee shop[1], listened and loved it[2]. I also think my old high school art teacher had this album on his class playlist.

I remember my first summer home from college, I sat in my childhood bed and illegally downloaded this entire album. It took me the better part of a day to individually put each song into a YouTube to mp3 converter, download it with my horrible hill-town wifi, name it, and place it in the right order. It was a labor of love that made me miss LimeWire. While I downloaded it, my dad was putting the screens into my windows to prepare for summer. Living in Western Massachusetts meant cool nights and massive, buzzing moths flinging themselves at the screens to try to reach whatever light I had on in my room late at night.

That summer was bittersweet. My core group of friends from high school and I were all still close, and we spent the whole time migrating from one of our houses to the other. We knew it was the end of an era, but we didn’t know just how long it would last. I think that was the last summer our group was that big- since then we’ve splintered and scattered.

One night we all went camping, sleeping in tents in the woods behind my house. We went on a night hike to the power lines, we built a fire and got drunk and fell asleep sharing sleeping bags. Later that summer, a friend was plucking at a guitar and starting singing Stockholm Syndrome. His voice was quiet, it felt somber and reflective, nostalgic for a time that hadn’t happened yet but was looming close. I’m still swarmed with that feeling whenever I listen to that song. I think of unrequited love and unfiltered anxiety. I miss my friends, even the ones I haven’t spoken to in years. Despite how out of control my emotions were, it felt easier to be around other people then. Now, my social anxiety has overtaken me. The idea of camping with my friends feels like it requires months of planning, especially in the middle of COVID.

To me, this album is the coffee shop I spent hours at every day that no longer exists. It’s the long drives through farm towns and sitting in my friend’s driveway crying out our pent-up emotions. It’s the friendship I had with people I rarely speak to anymore. It’s the comfort I felt despite the anxiety, depression, and disordered eating that plagued me. It’s an idealized version of the past, but an ideal I felt even when it was my present.

You can listen to the album here
It is time
By: Kris Van Gelder
Tags: Short Story, Transgender, Coming Out, Nonbinary, Lgbtqia

Lake Constance, Germany

The lights flickered. Water dripped from a leaking faucet, reverberating against the stone walls. A draft, coming from under the barred door, cooled the air beyond the point of comfort. A thin pallet of straw with a raggedy blanket, laid abandoned at the far end of the cell. A single bucket, filled to the brim with human waste, soured the air of the enclosed space.

In the middle, sits a man, knees tucked to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs. He doesn’t utter a word. He’s never had a voice before, so why should he now. There was a time, when he was momentarily freed from his prison. When he was allowed to walk among the people, even if they could not see him. But his freedom was short lived. His voice, his existence hidden. His prison so far underground, that it seemed his jailer forgot him. His jailer used to come and visit him. But as time progressed, her visits became less frequent. But he could tell, that every time she came, her face was a little more weary, her defenses a little more guarded. At times, it seemed like she wanted to free him. She’d slip her hand into her pocket, fiddling with the keys and momentarily draw them out. Her eyes would wander to the lock. To the man in the cell. But then she would blink. And the keys would disappear, back into the folds of her clothes.

She used to talk to him too. Tell him stories of the outside world. She’d tell him about her family and about her life. But she stopped doing that too. Now he wonders if he’s been forgotten. If he’ll die never seeing the light of day again. It’s been too long since she last visited. He feels his life fading.

The light above finally expires and darkness descends. He struggles to breathe, feels his lungs fill up with the darkness. The walls shake with the voices of anger and dissent, settling dust upon the ground. As his head sinks forward and his eyes flutter shut, he hears the distant echoes of footsteps. But he cannot amass the strength to care anymore. With a shaky breath, he allows his lungs to expand one last time.

…..

He awakes to the dawn of a new day. Feels the warmth of the sun on his face. He sees his jailer smile as she dissipates into the morning sun. Deep down, he knows she’s still there, a tiny part of himself as he embarks on this new life of freedom.

“It is time,” she says.
no. 18 — Bury Me At Makeout Creek by Mitski
By: Jenna Sylvester
Tags: Album Review, Nonbinary, Music, Mitski, Personal Essay

What is there to say about Mitski that isn’t already in the hearts and minds of her listeners? She’s a fucking genius. I feel like she’s a goddess, and I’m sorry for literally deifying her but how can you not?? Especially now that she’s disappeared off the internet, it feels like she swooped into the world, shook it up with her music, and then dissipated into the clouds, leaving us to try and process it alone.

I was introduced to Mitski’s music by my friends Morgan and Ryan. I distinctly remember them saying, “if you want to cry you should definitely listen to Mitski.” They were right! It didn’t hit me all at once how fantastic she is. I listened to her music and liked it, but I didn’t become a True Fan until I saw her live. I piled a ton of friends in my car and drove an hour and a half to see her play a free show at College Park in 2016. It was some random radio festival event and there were insanely few people there. My friends and I were up at the front[1]. The whole crowd was dead silent. I didn’t take my phone out to film any of it. There were no flashes from cameras. It felt like a group meditation[2]. Once I saw her in person, I understood the hold she had over so many people.

I could write a million different essays on Mitski’s performances, her albums, her narrative storytelling through impeccable lyricism, and her disappearance/banishment from social media platforms. Mitski is a national treasure. I love the way she puts together her songs so thoughtfully- always making sure that she can play them regardless of what instruments are available, just in case there’s a sound or amp failure that leaves something unusable. I love that she went to school for music, layering her songs with meaning that I, a mere mortal, don’t understand until I look it up[3]. Her performances, especially on her Be The Cowboy tour, are intricate, professional, and almost painfully well thought out. She’s a master at her craft.

Bury Me At Makeout Creek was the first Mitski album I listened to, but I love every single one of her albums. There’s never a Mitski song that I skip, unless I’m feeling too vulnerable to listen at that moment and don’t have the time to cry. She doesn’t post on social media anymore, but she did just announce a new project that I cannot wait to become obsessed with. Mitski fucking rules.

Listen to her music here
TransMasc Got Pack
Tags: Sexuality, Transgender, Nonbinary, LGBTQ, Gender

What are the different kinds of packers?

If you thought packing was as simple as shoving a plastic penis in your pants, you’d be dead wrong. There are three main different types of packers to choose from when in the market.

Of course there is the simple and humble packer which is simply a soft silicone pal to stuff your pants. These are referred to as soft packers and usually are used only to achieve a natural bulge, alleviation of everyday dysphoria, or a combination of both. Soft packers can be made out of non-silicone material, and can either be detailed to appear exactly like a cisgender man’s genitals, or be as simple as a vaguely shaped object to place in your pants.

Next up we have stand to pees. These are packers that can be part soft packer or part pack and play, usually. They’re basically hollowed out to a degree so that a transmasculine person can use the device while in the restroom so that they can, as the name notes, stand to pee.

Lastly, pack and plays are packers which are used for sexual activities, to put it bluntly. Regular packers are inherently flawed as they can be anatomically correct for a flaccid penis. Sexual activities can cause distress for trans people, something that is personal and different to each person. Because of this, many different packer manufactures have sought to make sex comfortable for transmasculine folks.

Mimicking an erect penis, pack and plays boast their length in the title, commonly. They more than often need a rod to help them achieve an erect stiffness to them. Sometimes, they come with a mechanism to simulate ejaculation which usually can be achieved by squeezing the shaft of the packer.

Another common feature of a pack and play is the inclusion of a method to stimulate the wearer. This method may be a vibrator (used in the Joystick by Transthetics), or a bumps and ridges that pleasure the bottom growth a transmasculine person will develop during HRT. The bumps and ridges may be built into the packer itself (see FreeToM prosthetics), or may be built into the rod inserted into the packer (as is the case with Peecock products).
no. 14 — American Idiot by Green Day
By: Jenna Sylvester
Tags: Album Review, Green Day, Nonbinary, Music, Personal Essay

Green day was my first concert. Billie Joe Armstrong was my second love[1]. I used to write “I ❤ BJ” on the inside hem of my skirts and pants in sharpie, just because my love for Billie Joe could not be contained within my tiny seven-year-old body. You might be thinking, “Jenna, if you’ve loved Green Day for so long, why didn’t you write about it earlier?” Great question! The answer is because the Great Green Day Revival of 2015 was definitely more impactful than any of the previous 15 years of loving them, despite having been in the mosh pit for my second ever concert at age eight, which was also Green Day.

Green Day is half the reason I met my friends in college. I started school a semester later than everyone else in my class, so it felt like everyone else had already made friends. I knew exactly one person at school, and they introduced me to a group of people who were all already friends with each other. I don’t know how it started, but eventually I wormed my way in by bonding over Green Day with two of the people from the group. We would pile into each other’s dorm rooms, sitting side by side on the lifted twin bed, watching every single Green Day music video available. I remember my first birthday at college, we ordered Indian food and sat watching Green Day documentaries until 2am. When they learned it was my birthday, they slid a Billie Joe Armstrong card under my door. It was perfect.

Eventually I became friends with everyone in the group, forming relationships outside of a shared obsession with Green Day. Those people are some of the smartest, kindest, and most emotionally intelligent people I’ve known. Without having met them, it would’ve taken me much longer to figure out who I am and what kind of impact I want to have on the world. I’m so fortunate to have met them.

I know that our obsession would occasionally alienate people[2] who didn’t love Green Day as much as we did, but I felt so gung-ho about this revival phase because I saw it as a bridge to being friends with people I admired. As a kid, the album I was most obsessed with was American Idiot. During the revival, I rediscovered all their earlier work. While I spent most of my adolescence groaning about the terrible albums post American Idiot, during the revival I decided I admired how into rock opera they got after American Idiot turned into a Broadway show[3]. I grew newfound appreciation for how authentic Billie Joe Armstrong is and has always been, writing songs unabashedly proclaiming his love for cross-dressing, for his bisexuality, and his politics. Green Day has aged better than I think anyone expected. Also, Jesus of Suburbia fucking SLAPS and I stand by loving American Idiot, Wake Me Up When September Ends included.

You should listen to American Idiot again if you haven’t in a while. Here’s a link.

Also, through a wild series of events involving a gas station attendant and fate, I own one of Tre Cool’s used drumsticks! This is the coolest thing I will ever own, hands down. It’s full of chips because he drums so hard. It’s…. tre cool.
How Existential
Tags: LGBTQ, Coming Out, Nonbinary, Transgender

Photo by b40deep on Unsplash

It’s really hard to articulate just how much of an existential crisis being trans is. There are so many other voices detailing transness, with the hope of reaching other people who are beginning their journeys. And despite all these available voices, we’ve all had a hard time expressing how being trans is a question of what it means to be human.

As someone discovering their feminine self and expression, I’ve had to ask myself this massive, near-impossible-to-answer question: What does womanhood mean to me? What has it meant to me when I haven’t realized it until now? What could it mean now that I’m acknowledging it?

A theory exists about the cultural concept of gender in the Kingdom of Buganda, present-day Uganda, in the 19th century. There were two classes: the workers and the nobility. The nobility were seen as male and the workers were seen as female — no matter their sex.
Overflowing with Gratitude
By: Justin Dickens
Tags: Thanksgiving, Self Love, Nonbinary, Divorce, Gratitude

I am grateful for a never-ending list of people in my life, who fully support me, and want to see me be who I truly am. All the close friends who are basically family, my actual family, all the friends who’ve reached out to me even though I was terrible at keeping in touch with them over the years, and even the people I’ve basically never meet that messaged me with affirmations. I am immersed in love. Life hasn’t been easy of late, but I am aware of how privileged I am to be on this life journey with so much love. I am thankful to all the people who never gave up on me, and picked me up when I wanted to give up on myself. A few of you have been there at my worst. I’m especially grateful for you.

What I’m most grateful for is myself. That probably sounds selfish, but I think it’s true. I’m grateful for this moment, and this day, where I don’t understand why, but I just feel full of gratitude. I survived. I’m still surviving, and dare I say it, I think I seek a future where I could be thriving. Maybe I already am. Maybe it’s all perspective. All I know is that today, I feel grateful to be here. I have no regrets, nor sadness about the moments I didn’t get to live. I’m just happy for this opportunity. I’m grateful for the choice I have given myself, the opportunity to move forward. Through gratitude I feel forgiveness, acceptance, and more at peace. I’m still afraid, but I’m grateful to be on the journey, knowing that the fear is what tells me I’m heading the right direction.

This morning, I ventured into the mountains with some friends. It was hard. It was tiring. And, I would have been fine with giving up and going home. We basically walked our bikes through an uphill slog in fluffy unpacked snow. I wanted to stop, but at the same time, I didn’t. I needed to literally push through the morning. I needed a reset. I needed time to check-in with myself. By the end of the trip, in addition to feeling thankful for all the loving people in my life, I felt grateful for what I now realize was self-love creeping back into heart.
Katanya, Ini Seperti Lumba-Lumba yang Bukan Ikan
By: Lpm Dassein
Tags: Nonbinary, Diskriminasi, Gender

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Golden eyes
By: Luci Tenebris
Tags: Poetry In Form, Poetry Writing, Nonbinary, Poetry, Poetry On Medium

Eyes of gold,

They glimmered in the sun.

As if they were worshipped,

By the gods above,

The beauty

Yet,

The beast.

The beauty they held

As bright as Helios.

Just like the sun,

They dropped liquid gold,

They’re eyes envied

By the humans below.

And treasured,

By the gods above.

The beast that held them,

As ferocious as a lion,

Pouncing upon any that treaded it’s way

Killing all that got close.

For this was a beast in chains,

A beast with walls around it’s heart

And hate in it’s thoughts.

For this beast was chained,

And bound.

With a promised freedom that never came.

And yet,

It was a combination of the beast,

And the beauty.

That made them so entrancing.

For they’re eyes tell a tale,

That no poet in the past could tell of,

And no bard could sing of.

They’re golden eyes,

Much like a waltz.

A waltz between the beauty,

And the beast.

(P.S. I use they/them pronouns because the character is non-binary.)
I Want to Live, Now. Thanks.
By: Jay Almond
Tags: Gender Dysphoria, Life Stories, Transgender, Depression, Nonbinary

‘It’s strange,’ the Doctor says, looking at the results. ‘It’s very strange,’ he says, turning to look me in the eye.

I’m speechless, trembling, perched on an uncomfortable chair in a tiny consulting room at the hospital. Yet again, I see my life unravelling.

He’s considered one of — if not the — best Gastroenterologist in the entire State.

‘To recap, you have Primary Biliary Cirrhosis. An auto-immune condition…’ he starts as I nod. I know this. My body is killing the lining of my Bile Ducts in my Liver. I turned up to my General Practitioner complaining of fatigue. I was just so tired, always tired. It turns out it’s hard to be happy or energetic when your body is at war with itself every single day. ‘… seldom affects men,’ he continues. ‘Especially not men as young as you…’ his voice drones back. I close my eyes. I know this. It normally manifests in women in their fifties. Not men in their thirties.

He’s like a bad Oscars presenter, dragging out the time he has in the spotlight. Nothing he is saying is new to me — I was diagnosed months ago. They’ve cut out part of my Liver, sent it to a lab to double-check. The disease is advanced. Eventually, my entire Liver will be nothing more than a lump of scar tissue and it will cease to function. If the medication they’ve given me doesn’t work, I have less than a decade before I need a transplant. It’s 2018. The chances of me surviving an organ transplant are acceptable, but if I could buy time before that happens, medical advancements would help me dramatically.

I stroke the notebook I’ve brought into the meeting with me. Inside it, I’ve written a prayer to a God that I’ve not believed in for almost as long as I’ve been angry at Him.

All it says is: ‘Please, God, my children deserve a dad.’

It’s a feeble little prayer, but it is mine and it is heartfelt.

I know the odds. The medicine they’ve put me on has almost zero chance of working. It doesn’t tend to work on those with advanced disease. It doesn’t tend to work on those who are young. It doesn’t tend to work on males. I need to roll triple sixes on the cosmic dice of luck to get out of this.

‘…and all your results and trending downwards,’ he finishes, looking at me and raising his eyebrows. ‘That’s good, Bradley. It means the medicine is working.’

I look up at him, surprised. I’ve beaten the odds again. I still have a marriage. I haven’t had a Bipolar episode in years. I’m not descending into an addiction to drinking or drugs. I haven’t attempted suicide in years. I’m able to function in society with no problem.

And now the medicine works?

I begin crying. There’s no foreplay, no easing in. I suddenly have two thick streams of tears running down my cheeks, bending away at my smile before dropping onto the notebook in my lap.

The Doctor flusters around, desperately trying to find a box of tissues. ‘This is quite unorthodox, unusual…’ he mutters to himself, grabbing the box and handing it to me. ‘You’re a very emotional man, Bradley.’
no. 7 — Midnight Matinee by Brass Bed
By: Jenna Sylvester
Tags: Album Review, Nonbinary, Music, Brass Bed, Personal Essay

If you read the earlier posts (no worries if you didn’t), you’d know that my mom used to run an online music magazine and get hundreds of unsolicited CD submissions mailed to our house every month. Once the shelves in her office were full, the CDs piled into the living room shelves. Then, they’d be stacks on the office floor. Finally, they filled huge plastic bins that we kept in the basement. Even after my mom no longer ran the magazine, bands would send CDs and EPs and singles, hoping to be reviewed by my mom and her team of writers.

When my friends and I were really bored, or when I was tired of listening to the same three albums over and over, we’d go down into the office or the basement and rummage through the CDs, hoping to find something good. A lot of the time, whenever we slid the CD into the DVD player and blasted it over the TV speakers, the music was not great. But every now and then, we’d find gems.

Brass Bed was the first band I found out of those piles that I loved. It really felt like I picked them like a needle from a haystack. I loved them a little extra because they were a band my mom didn’t know; I found them before she did, which made them more special. When your mom is a music expert, you gotta find your niche somewhere. I found that niche in the pop guitar, horns, and unexpected do-op, almost country-like harmonies that back what is ultimately an indie-rock band. At the time, this album was only a few years old, and searching their band name on google yielded almost no results. Now, though, they have multiple albums out, a tiny desk, and enough fame to be found on all major streaming platforms. However, they still feel like my little secret.

I’m not sure what it is that makes Brass Bed feel different from other bands. Maybe someone who understands music theory can tell me, but when their song Olivia comes on shuffle while I’m driving around, I still lose my damn mind. If you listen to any song on this album, listen to Olivia. Some songs are for rainy days, some for sunny days, some for winter and some for summer. This song is for anything and everything. It is perfect for all weather. Any time I’m in an ok mood, this song cheers me up. Any time I’m in a good mood, this song matches it. Maybe it’s the horns, or the way the song stops right when it reaches its groove and grows in a new crescendo. Or maybe it’s just rad. If you listen, let me know what you think.

You can listen here
Love Letters (Spoken Word Video)
By: Paint A. F.
Tags: Self Love, Transgender, Nonbinary, Spoken Word, Poetry

This is a poem from my chapbook "Heavy Backpack" published in 2017. All of these clips are from that time or from as far back as 2012, in part representing who I was when it was written.

You can find my poetry books, ongoing projects, podcast features, top surgery fundraiser & socials at Linktr.ee/PaintAF

the poem:

If love letters are sent to the wrong address does the emotion still reach you?

Envelopes sit unopened, waiting, begging; are they really lost?; Just think they are ignored, forgotten about. If love letters get forwarded, your name is spelled wrong, do they ever make it to you? If god stamped my soul with a name and I changed it does he think that I rejected him, or is his love still filling out a void I want no part in, hoping his love won't drown me- that I have built a boat somehow and I am rising out of this pit filling up with god's love when there is a portal at the bottom draining away all that was meant for me, threatening to consume me.

Can the name I was given at birth sting a little less as others praise her beauty? Can I let it wrap around me like a mask while I pour cement on my feet so that this real never rises to the surface again, so I can survive being the perceived me... wrap god's love around my neck so I am pulled to the surface again, the flesh of my feet left bleeding on the bottom hoping this sacrifice will be enough for the beast.

Why didn’t I consider these things when I decided to become me?
no. 6 — Either/Or by Elliott Smith
By: Jenna Sylvester
Tags: Album Review, Mental Health, Elliott Smith, Nonbinary, Essay

Does anyone else have an album that symbolizes when they firsts started romanticizing mental illness? Because this is mine. It marks the beginning of my tumblr days where I would send anonymous messages to girls with eating disorders, telling them how jealous I was of their “resolve”. Despite that, I don’t fault this album.

I remember pre-gaming some “party” in a friend’s bedroom, taking sips of liquor I stole from my parents. I took a few inches from every bottle, mixing gin, tequila, bourbon, and vodka into one flask, hoping that if I spread it out, my parents wouldn’t notice. It worked, but at what cost? I still want to gag at the thought of that concoction. The night of the party, I had mixed it with flat ginger ale. I felt light and stupid and like there was some deep gloom just on the edge of the next day, and the only thing that would keep it at bay was to ignore it and drink and be with my friends.

My main problem was that I wanted to be mysterious. I wanted to be the manic-pixie-dream-girl who was fun and bubbly but held deeper, darker secrets that made her interesting. I wanted to be the main character in a John Green novel. Sometimes I think I manifested my mental illnesses by wanting to be like that, but realistically, I saw the MPDG as the only acceptable form for the anxiety and depression I felt. It had to be packaged and digestible, otherwise it was Too Much.

Either/Or was the album I loved while these thoughts formed solidity. Listening to this album these days makes me feel almost melancholic for the person I was at that time. I was deeply uncomfortable but didn’t know it yet. My main coping mechanism of powering through it was still working- that wouldn’t crumble for another few years. Even though I know I felt pressured, anxious, and awkward, I feel like this time was the calm before the storm. It wasn’t, I’d been anxious since at least seven years old, but this is right before the anxieties combined with puberty and expectations and peer pressure. I want to go back and comfort who I was, but there’s nothing I could say that would alter the course of what I became. I don’t think the younger me would listen to anything I would have to say now.

The first Elliott Smith song I loved was Between the Bars. Then Say Yes, and then 2:45am. I would try and stay up until 2:45am as often as I could, so I could post the lyrics on myspace and seem cool. I still sing the song to myself whenever I see the time, whether morning or night.

Elliott Smith is kind of the king of depression and mystery, especially when the events of his death are still disputed, but I’m glad I had him to keep me company while I grew into the same emotions.

You can listen to the album here
no. 5 — Is This It? by The Strokes
By: Jenna Sylvester
Tags: Album Review, Nonbinary, Music, The Strokes, Personal Essay

Is it predetermined for every alt/indie kid to love this album? Because it feels like it is. These songs have been stuck in my head all day just thinking about writing this post.

The Strokes were my foray into alternative music. Granted, this is like the most baby step you can take, but until getting into them, I mostly only listened to what my parents liked plus a smattering of pop music. My friend Ella was the reason I started listening. I remember her bat mitzvah, she had the best soundtrack playing the whole day. From Cake to Ingrid Michaelson, I remember being deeply impressed (as if I had any basis being impressed) and wanted to write down every single artist I heard. We had health class together that year, and in between her doodling beautiful art on our coursework and giggling at body parts, she would show me music.

This is also the year I started going on tumblr, which definitely helped my alt music education. But mainly I attribute my love for this album to Ella and her bat mitzvah. I know she also showed me the song What Ever Happened from another one of their albums, and I was amazed to know they even had another album. I was in the habit of listening to the same things over and over again and never looking to see if the artists I loved had more things than the one album I knew of. I liked to repeat the classics. I listened until I had the lyrics memorized. Whenever I heard a new song, I listened until I knew the lyrics. Or I’d read the lyric book while I listened. I’m still the same way- I tend to approach songs like poems. I want to dissect them until I know the meaning behind all of it. I look into the artist’s life to see what the words could allude to aside from the obvious. It’s a creepy kind of devotion, one that has definitely landed me in some weird examples of being a super fan. But that’s why I was an English major, right? Love those deep dives into the hidden symbolism. It makes me feel important to think I have some special insight into the artist’s meaning.

Is This It is a classic Strokes experience. All the songs kind of sound the same, but they all sound great so it doesn’t matter. I can put this on and it’ll always feel like a bop. I see The Strokes as the bridge between my earlier music tastes and what would eventually become my underground phase. Underground in the sense that I pretended my music taste was better than everyone else’s because it wasn’t on the radio. AKA I became deeply pretentious. That’ll be the next phase of posts, too. Cannot wait to dunk on my younger self who thought they were all high and mighty for liking The Strokes.

You can listen to the album here
no. 3 — The Hazards of Love by The Decemberists
By: Jenna Sylvester
Tags: Album Review, Nonbinary, Music, The Decemberists, Personal Essay

I fuckin’ hated The Decemberists until I saw them live. My mom dragged me to the show, and about halfway into playing the Mariner’s Revenge Song, they brought out a massive cardboard cutout of a whale, which galloped around the stage pretending to eat every member of the band. After that, I was hooked. So hooked, that I think I put their entire discography on a mixtape for a middle school boyfriend[1]. Early Decemberists has way too many rape fantasies for me, but in their later years they’ve kind of calmed down on that. The Hazards of Love is a narrative album, telling the harrowing, spooky story of two lovers, one kidnapped by a rake who poisoned his children, and the other held captive by a mother so caring that she turns evil.

The Decemberists are pretty well known for these kinds of fantastical stories that they weave into their songs. Along with banjos and keyboards and Colin Meloy’s pleasantly nasal voice. But this album goes above and beyond their other stories. This album is 17 songs, almost an hour long. It’s a lyrical epic. And though I don’t listen to the Decemberists very often anymore, this album is still one of the most dramatic and well-executed things I’ve ever heard.

The song that means the most to me is The Hazards of Love 4: The Drowned, the very last song on the album. When I was eleven, my father and I went to Montana to celebrate the life of my cousin who had died the year before in an accident that left my family in a state of shock for years. While there, we were with everyone my cousin had befriended during his too-short life. It was the first encounter I had with death, but to see all of the people who cared about my cousin, all the people who had travelled across the country to be together in celebration of him is one of the most moving things I’ve ever witnessed. I grew especially close with one person in the group, and though he was a solid ten years older than me, he seemed to share my taste in music. Until he told me how much he loved this song, I hadn’t given it a second thought. Now, every time I listen to it, I feel like I’m back in Montana, surrounded by people who knew and loved my cousin. I never got to know him too well; his death impacted my world more than his life had. But listening to this song, and this album, brings back the feeling of love and support I found on that trip.

If you don’t have the patience to listen to the whole album, or if you do listen but don’t get the story (it took me reading the entire lyric book multiple times), I highly suggest listening to this last song. It’s worth it.

You can listen here.

[1] Sorry, Jacob. But also can’t believe you never even LISTENED to those carefully crafted CD’s!!!