I don’t understand why love and inclusivity aren’t the norm

This is something I posted on tumblr just now, that I am posting here as well in case I ever need to access it again. I included my tumblr tags at the bottom.


 

I legit do not understand the pushback against het aces, any more than I understand the pushback against aces in general. But then, there’s a lot I don’t understand about the pushback on basically anyone.

I think what I don’t get the most is why anyone at all (but especially anyone whose gender identity, sexual orientation, nationality, ancestry or ethnicity, etc, is something that is not the “default” or “universally accepted” in their context or culture) build their little boxes and tell other people NO YOU AREN’T ALLOWED TO FEEL THE THINGS! YOU DON’T HAVE AS MANY BAD THINGS AS I HAVE SO ONLY I CAN FEEL THE THINGS!

It’s mind boggling to me. We are human beings. We are complex. We have life experiences and opinions and hopes and dreams and situations and environments and illnesses and disabilities and mental illnesses and mental challenges and socioeconomic situations and nationalities and ancestries and religions and so many other things, that all build together to make us who we are as individuals.

No matter how a person was born, it does not mean they have no right to feelings nor that they suddenly stop being a human being nor that their life experiences couldn’t have included trauma which manifests in a variety of ways nor that they couldn’t have lived a life free of trauma. No single piece of them being something unexpected or something that someone else doesn’t understand doesn’t invalidate anything about them.

Complexity is not something to fear, it’s something to embrace.

And measuring a person solely on the negative experiences makes no sense to me. YOU DIDN’T HAVE ALL THE TRAUMA IN YOUR BACKGROUND? THEN YOU CAN’T HAVE ANY FEELS. ONLY PEOPLE WHO ARE TRAUMATIZED CAN HAVE HUMAN EMOTIONS! That thought process is so bizarre to me. Telling someone they can’t feel bad because someone else had it worse is like telling someone they can’t be happy because someone else might be happier. Really? So we can only exist in a constant flux of comparisons relative to those around us? Is there a finite amount of human emotion allowed in this world and we’re supposed to divvy it up based on what other people assume about each other and not based on our natural human reactions to our natural human lives?

Trying to tell another person they aren’t allowed to feel a certain way or identify a certain way or react a certain way makes absolutely no sense to me. How do you know what their life experiences were? How do you know the context of their situation? How do you know all the reasons, big and small, that led to them being where they are, and identifying how they identify, and believing what they believe? How can you be so certain that your experience is so much more valid than theirs, by judging them based on one or two aspects of their holistic self?

Does skin tone alone, across the entire world, mean every single person with that skin tone is going to live the exact same life and have the exact same experiences and know the exact same people and have the exact same thoughts and follow the exact same belief system and like the exact same people and things? Of course not. Same with sexual orientations, gender identities, and so much more beyond that.

I just don’t understand. And I especially don’t understand why people feel the need to do to others what they say has been done to them. Isn’t that all the more reason to show empathy and compassion? Isn’t that all the more reason to be inclusive? And yet I feel like the places that are designed to be “most inclusive” tend to be the most exclusive of them all, with the little boxes some communities build and defend as if their identity is threatened by the very idea of something that doesn’t quite jive.

But to me, that is akin to the people who say they’re against gay marriage because they think it threatens marriage as an institution. If your marriage is so fragile that someone else’s happiness, completely and totally unrelated to your own, could somehow break it apart, then perhaps your marriage needs attention on its own because that is very worrisome.

And if your identity is so threatened by other people identifying in a way that is separate from your own, then that is also very worrisome, and I hope you have time to do some soul-searching and come to terms with who you are and find confidence in it, because trying to tell other people how to feel or how to act or how to identify won’t help you in determining those answers for yourself. So please stop trying to project your insecurities on others; it’s unhealthy for you and I worry for you, and it’s upsetting for the recipients and I worry for them. Everyone is wonderful as-is and no one should feel unsettled or insecure or unwanted or unaccepted simply by being who they are. Simply by becoming the person they were born to be.

I wish people would love each other and themselves more, and stop finding reasons to disengage. This world is beautiful and so are its people in all their complexity. And one of the most rewarding parts of being a human being is our ability to connect with other human beings; to overcome barriers in order to find common understanding, and to work together to make the world a better place than how we found it. Negativity and exclusivity are never the answer; people shouldn’t be demonized for displaying them because they have their own life experiences that led to them reacting that way, but ultimately that negativity and exclusivity is simply a hurdle on the journey to a more holistic, inclusive life. It isn’t the end of a story; it’s only the beginning. And the more we can all work a little harder to remember that the person on the other side of that conversation, or insult, or difficult topic, or screen, is another human being just like us, then the more we can work collectively toward a day where people aren’t told they aren’t allowed to feel a certain way or exist a certain way simply because somebody else doesn’t understand it.

 

Winter Prayers – another old original story

Winter Prayers

By Ais

        When Jessica was seven, her father walked out of the house and never returned.

        She stood by the door, her hands pressed against the cold glass, her breath fogging her view of that large world beyond. She was certain that if she waited long enough, if she looked hard enough, if she was a good enough little girl… He would be there. She longed to see his tattered brown briefcase, his work-worn smile. She wanted to see him wave again, like he used to, with just the slightest of twitches in his upraised hand and a sparkle in his eyes she could see even across the lawn.

        She wanted to hear him laugh.

        She wanted to see him smile so kindly at her when she asked him why the world existed as it did. She wanted to see him again, hug him again, cry on his shoulder again…

        But no matter how long she waited, no matter how many years passed, her father never returned.

        She watched for him still, her faith as strong as a disbeliever turned religious. She knew that she just wasn’t looking hard enough. Her father was down that street, inside that café, across that stadium… Everywhere she was, her father was. He was waiting for her to find him.

        He was waiting, for her.

*        *        *        *

        “Jess…” his voice struggled to free itself from his throat but came out as a groan. “Jess…” The second time was barely better.

        She stood by the window, staring out at the postcard lawn with its twinkling snow and feathers of bunny prints. The wind was soft, but still it found the strength to howl quietly against their house. She could feel the impact of the air against the windowpane, struggling to claw its way inside and turn her body as cold as her heart felt right at that moment.

        No one.

        No one was down the street, and no one had been for three hours.

        No one.

        “Jess…”

        She needed him. Why wasn’t he there? She loved her father and he left. She wanted him back. It wasn’t fair… It wasn’t fair…

        “Jess, just… give it up…” Rowan groaned into his pillow.

        For six years he had been with Jessica. Every morning on the anniversary of her father’s disappearance, she waited five hours instead of the normal two, and she looked four times as hard when she went into the city.

        He had tried to tell her he wasn’t coming back.

        Everyone had.

        But Jessica refused to listen. She told them she was her daddy’s girl. She told them he loved her. She told them they could never understand what it was like every night…

        “He always rocked me to sleep and read me stories. He kissed me goodnight when I got afraid during the night…” Her broken whisper was barely louder than the muted wind from outside, but the way her voice cracked and trembled under the power of her words betrayed her intense need. The litany fell from her lips like it did every year, and like always she waited for her prayer to be answered.

        Every year she stood there.

        Every year…

        Religiously.

        Rowan shifted on the bed, his body so comfortingly encased in cozy blankets and fluffy pillows that he didn’t want to leave. Already he could feel the chill of the air against his bare arms, the way the cold from outside seeped through their shoddy window and pressed frost-laden kisses against his exposed skin. His face always felt the coldest in the morning, especially around his right eye.

        But that was the way it had been for years, ever since that accident…

*        *        *        *

        It was during the same year that Jessica’s father left her when nine-year-old Rowan was walking through city alone. No one remembered why no one was there with him, just that he was alone with nobody to hold his hand and lead him through the streets. The sky was dark, Rowan says, but many claim it was the middle of the day. Rowan says it was raining and he was cold, so cold, but others think it was so sunny that they recall being burned. Rowan says he was on 12th street but others protest it was 11th.

        The story changed each year, individual by individual, detail by detail, until the tale of Rowan’s accident became nothing more than a gossiped half-truth of a time long ago and a boy now long dead.

        Rowan refused to acknowledge the others with his story, for he was certain he was right. Much like how Jessica insisted her father would return seventeen years later, Rowan knew he was right and everyone else was mistaken.

        So it was on 12th Street at night in the cold, hard rain when nine-year-old Rowan was walking down the street alone. He was humming a tune he liked very much. He was forgetting the words and inserting his own. He was singing off-key and listening to his echoing footsteps and the voices reaching back to him from alleyways as he passed.

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She Flew – an old original story, from 2006

She Flew

Ais

Thursday 2/16/06

Sometimes she whispered her dreams. Words so quiet they barely surfaced into reality, breath a hush behind them all. She let her eyes drift closed, her mouth lie open and lax, and in the rustle of the sheets on her rising and falling chest, she let herself go.

Colors and moments, shifting around her like ballroom dancers while she stood still. She watched, but could not participate; admired, but did not create. Let the indigo of her sunrises and crimson of her seas blend together, and in the deep violet haze that resulted, she lifted brush to sky and painted. Clouds of hunter green and mountains shaded yellow; white-as-ghost nights and moon the exact hue of charcoal beneath the grill, just before the fire goes out and the red fades away.

Her unicorns rode the sky and dragons flew on land, and all the animals spoke perfectly but the humans were silent, curious; watchful and patient but never understanding. Silk fell from clear skies for rain, and thunder broke in the distance when the sun was at its zenith. On the darkest, cloudiest of days, the birds sang clearest, and in their melodies the ancient lore of mermaids could be heard, drifting along the sea breeze to settle in their throats.

She was the conductor in her orchestra of light, and the sound of the sights was enough to make almost anyone mute. She had turned her chair catatonic, and brought her grandmother to life. Dancing across the stage were fireflies, and in the sky crashed turbulent waves. She held her hand aloft and there was a chaos of motion, but when she moved it to the side there was silence.

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Hufflepuff Pride, motherfuckers!

Anonymous asked: Ais. I hear that you’re a harry potter fan. What house are you in?

lol does it show just how much of a nerdy Harry Potter fan I am, that at this question I thought to myself, “Well, I can’t sort myself on this. Only the Sorting Hat can do that. And of course Gryffindor seems like a cool choice and Ravenclaw seems great for intellect but I bet I’m probably actually Hufflepuff. But I’d better get the official answer on this.”

So I went to pottermore and made an account and went through the sorting and…. I got Hufflepuff.

Which, ngl, my first reaction was, “Man! LAME. How’d I get the lamest house?? I knew I’d get the boring one!” So first I was gonna try taking other HP tests to see if I was sorted somewhere else on random internet quizzes, but I mean. Pottermore is Pottermore. I gotta go with that one. That’s the official answer.

Then I figured maybe I should read about Hufflepuff to make myself feel better about this, and after I read the pottermore wikia article on it I feel much better! I’m okay with being Hufflepuff! I mean, it’s the sort of house people dismiss and overlook but I resonate with what it said about Hufflepuffs and why they are the badger (”Our emblem is the badger, an animal that is often underestimated, because it lives quietly until attacked, but which, when provoked, can fight off animals much larger than itself, including wolves.”) also Hufflepuffs have all these cool pieces of history to it like did you know that the world authority on magical creatures AND the founder of Hogsmeade are both Hufflepuff? Plus, then I saw that John Green is also a Hufflepuff! ESTEEMED COMPANY, MY FRIEND.

And then these two Buzzfeed articles were like YEAH HUFFLEPUFF and now I’m like FUCK YEAH HUFFLEPUFF PRIDE, MAN! I don’t care if I’m in the House that people are dicks about! Me and my people aren’t dicks back, that’s all that matters! You look down on us all you want Hufflehaters! Honey badgers don’t give a shit!

So that’s the story of how I am a really big fucking Harry Potter nerd who also now suddenly has major Hufflepuff pride XD

btw my wand is Larch with a unicorn core, 10 inches, slightly yielding… which sounded cool to me because YES UNICORN (I don’t care that phoenix feather is fancier, although dragon heartstring would’ve been cool– but Remus fucking Lupin has unicorn core wand and that makes it fantastic to me <3) but when I started to read the overview of what all the wand stuff meant and I got to the meaning of the wand length I was like MAN I FEEL INSULTED lol But then I read the meaning of Larch and saw that info about the unicorn core so I’m all good now ❤

…I wonder if you thought I would answer with just the house name XD I bet most normal people would. BUT OH WELL GONNA HUFFLE IT UP OVER HERE AND TRY TO BE UNNECESSARILY HELPFUL OHOHUFFLE <– my new laugh. Not to be confused with my new dance: the OHOHUFFLE SHUFFLE.

I’ll be done now. Don’t mind me. Gonna be chillin in the only common room that hasn’t had an intruder in over 500 years because we’re fucking boss down here.