Ableist Gif! They’re like, so original and shit.

I came across this little gif in my feed today.

It irritated the fuck out of me. My response?

“Yeah, back in the day they used to think epilepsy was demonic possession, too.”

I cannot tell you how much that “Back in my day…” crap makes me twitch. Throw in some ableism, and I’m ready to go ALL CAPS on my facebook feed.

Costume Shopping? Ugh.

Halloween is my favorite holiday. I LOVE dressing up.

However, every year, I learn again just how much a pain in the arse costume shopping is. Seriously, just once, I’d like to walk into a costume shop and discover that all the women’s costumes lacked the “sexy” label.

“What’s wrong with dressing sexy?” a male friend asked.

“Nothing,” I responded. “But I’d rather not spend my favorite holiday tucking boobs back in, and tugging the dress down over my butt.”

That, my friends, is the crux of it.

I want to wear an awesome, well-made costume that is work appropriate. But I’d be willing to sacrifice the “well-made” part if it meant I didn’t spend weeks searching multiple stores and dozens of websites to find what I want at a decent price.

This year? I decided I wanted to be Captain Kathryn Janeway, of the Federation starship Voyager.

Once I decided, I was positively giddy with excitement. I’ve got the lipstick, I can manage the bob, and I’ve got a couple of pairs of boots that’ll work. Now! To find the costume itself.

It shouldn’t be too difficult, I told myself. After all, Star Trek has a huge fandom, and certainly there must be cosplay sites that sell the uniforms, right? And mainstream halloween sites should have them too, right?

Snort. Stare.

Now, while I have found this awesome t-shirt that I absolutely will get soonest, I have emphatically not had the easy time I thought I’d have finding the version of the Starfleet uniform that is worn in Voyager.

In fact, the vast majority of Star Trek costumes I’ve found in the women’s department have been variations on this. Lieutenant Uhura’s costume in the original series: the miniskirt dress.

The rest? The uniforms of operations officers and medical staff. And a Klingon woman. Not a command/bridge staff uniform in sight, save for the miniskirt dress. Call me paranoid, but doesn’t that seem funny to you? A little off?

Search Engine Questions: Civil Air Patrol Membership

I’ve seen this feature on a number of blogs I frequent, and I always enjoy them. I hadn’t planned on adding it to my own. However, one query caught my eye.

“can you join civil air patrol if you’re gay”

Yes. Yes, you can join Civil Air Patrol if you’re gay. And please, do. It is the best organization I have had the honor to be a part of, in my life. I have met many amazing people, and experienced many wonderful things. I have no doubt it would be the same for you.

While CAP is affiliated with the United States Air Force, it is a civilian organization based around love of aviation, community, and volunteerism. Anyone is welcome, no matter what the state of the political climate.

Whoever you are, if you have any more questions about CAP–or if you’d like to talk, about anything, my e-mail is in the sidebar to your right. Feel free to contact me anytime.

Beemer’s Rants: White People: STFU.

I keep seeing white people express shock at John Derbyshire’s blatantly racist “article.” Like, they know that there are a bunch of racist white people out there, but ohmigoodness, they can’t believe he just out and said it! No dog whistles! Shock! How can this be?

For fucking real, people?

Did you really think that racism was over? Did you really think that you’ve been such good allies, calling out racism everywhere, every time, that these people were shamed into the closet?

Give me a fucking break.

Look. I’m white. And I cannot tell you, how many fucking times that other white people, whether or not they know me, have felt perfectly comfortable making a racist comment, going off on a tangent even, saying the most vile, disgusting things to me about people of color.

This ain’t rare. Blatant racism of the Derbyshire-variety happens every day, everywhere. Don’t you fucking dare pretend that it doesn’t.

So. Shut the fuck up about how shocking this is. Get off your fucking fainting couch and call out racism, blatant or covert, wherever-the-fuck you see it.

Edit: And go read Renee’s post.

Nosey Members of the Public

I was at the gas station the other day, waiting in line. A man in line behind me noticed the bruises from my accident last weekend, and asked what happened. I told him, he expressed sympathy, and that was that.

On my way back to my friend’s car, I realized–what if I hadn’t been in an accident? What if my partner abused me? What if I’d been sexually assaulted?

How would I have reacted? How would he have reacted? Would he have believed me, and expressed sympathy in the same way he did for my car accident? Would he have asked more questions?

Frankly, I’m at a loss.

What do you think? Should Random Stranger have asked about my injuries? Was he being rude?

How I Left Christianity Part Eight: Civil Air Patrol

In the midst of my parents’ divorce, and my ensuing alienation at church, I joined an organization called Civil Air Patrol.

Civil Air Patrol is an amazing organization with a rich history–it was founded just one week before the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, by citizens who saw that the United States was vulnerable to an attack, and wanted to do something to protect the country. Its role during WWII consisted of coastal patrols, looking for German submarines, but has evolved to its current three missions: emergency services, aerospace education, and the cadet program.

I wanted to join the Air Force and become an F-15E pilot, and I decided that CAP would help me along the way. It took me some time to convince my parents–my mother, in the way that only mothers can, worried that I’d be sent off to Iraq, and my father wasn’t convinced that I’d be able to take orders and handle a strict chain of command.

Needless to say, I surprised them both.

I rose quickly through the ranks in the cadet program. I joined my squadron’s Color Guard team, increasing my commitment from one day a week and an occasional weekend to three days a week, and many more weekends. I began training to join the squadron’s search and rescue team.

CAP was my rock. It was my one thing, in all my life, that was mine, and only mine. In Civil Air Patrol, I had a purpose. I had potential. I was a good follower, and had the makings of a good leader. I was serving my country. I was surrounded by like-minded people–driven and devoted, and many of my fellow cadets wanted to join the military. Many of the senior members were veterans.

I was closest with the Color Guard team. We practiced several times a week. We were a competitive team–we were aiming for Nationals. The previous year’s team lost at Region, and we were determined to go farther than they had.

These bonds were unlike anything I’d experienced before–they showed in sharp contrast to my relationships with the people at church. Let me explain:

Our Color Guard team won Wing (state) competition. We traveled to Dayton, Ohio, to Wright-Patterson AFB and Wright State University for Region. We won. Nationals were going to be in Dayton. We were so excited.

We made the drive, settled in, and the competition began. One of the first events, the written exam, was my best. We were sitting outside the building…

and I had a seizure. It was my first, since I was a child and it was thought that I had juvenile epilepsy. No one expected it, not the least of all me. One of my teammates remembered my telling her of my childhood disease, and realized what was going on. I busted open my head, bled all over my uniform and the sidewalk. An ambulance was called, and I was taken to the hospital. My team was left behind, to take the exam without me.

I had no idea what was going on–only that I wasn’t with my team anymore, and my head hurt. A lot. I didn’t care–I just wanted to go back to my team and compete. The doctors, Papa Beemer, and one of the senior members in charge of the Color Guard tried to convince to take it easy, to rest, to recover. We had an alternate. He could take over for me, they said.

I was having none of it. We worked too hard to get here. My team needed me. I was going back. I was competing. The doctors were frustrated with me, but Papa Beemer and the Colonel understood. The Colonel called the NCC staff and explained the situation. I had a stitch to close up the wound in my head. I couldn’t wash the blood out for a couple of days. The judges for inspection weren’t to subtract points for the blood. I was going to take the exam as soon as possible.

It was nearing midnight by the time I returned to the dorm on the Wright-State campus where we were staying. My team was watching for me–they met me in the stairwell. They surrounded me, hugging me. Was I okay? They told me what happened. How the drill team from Puerto Rico were the first to respond to their calls for help. How they held me and watched me bleed, and watched me be taken away from them. How they wanted to drop out of the competition to come with me to the hospital.

Wait–drop out of the competition? I was stunned. No way! You didn’t! No, we didn’t, they said. The other senior member that was in charge of our team had convinced them not to–telling them that that’s not what I would have wanted. Damn skippy! They went in for the exam–and did awfully. They couldn’t concentrate, they were too worried about me, and the image of me lying on the ground, unconscious and bleeding, was too fresh in their minds.

Tears were falling all around, by this time. We’re so glad you’re back, they told me. We’re so glad you’re okay. The teammate who would have taken over for me told me it would have felt so wrong, to be standing in my spot. Finally, we were ushered into one of the rooms. We’d been standing in the stairwell the whole time.

It was a long time before I went back to my room, which I shared with a member of the Ohio drill team. We represented the same region, and so shared rooms, meals, and event times. She was waiting up for me. We talked while I got ready for bed. I found out later she checked on me periodically throughout the night while I slept.

The support I received throughout the next couple of days was overwhelming. Cadets that we were competing against, that our Region’s drill team was competing against, it didn’t matter. The Puerto Rico drill team stuck close. We became fast friends. The Ohio drill team shared the Ale 8 we’d brought for them as a present.

We tied for third place overall. We heard over and over that it should have been ours. I knew it would have been, if it hadn’t been for my seizure. There were no regrets, however. We’d placed. We’d stuck it through. We’d made it through some very hard times.

That experience will stay with me for the rest of my life. True friends. True comrades, true teammates.

My NCC challenge coin

Update

First, I’d like to thank everyone who sent well-wishes and good thoughts yesterday. They were bright spots amid a very bad day. It meant a lot to me.

Lots of love to my family as well for being so supportive and caring, especially to B, for taking me downtown to the impound lot, and sitting with me while we waited for the tow truck.

Yesterday was the first time I really got to see my car. Saturday, the only damage I saw was the windshield, so I wasn’t sure how bad it was. My father and I drove by the scene of the accident after he picked me up from the hospital that day, and judging by what was left (my car had already been towed) it didn’t seem like it would be that bad.

It was bad.

To make a long story short: my car’s totaled. Most of the damage was fixable, but the frame was bent, so no dice. I still owe a few payments on it, and I’m going to have to buy a new car. And no matter how much loved ones try to tell me otherwise, I can’t help but worry how I’m going to pay for all of this.

For the most part, I am okay. I’m still finding bruises, but most of those look worse than they are. My right ribcage is giving me some trouble, so I may have cracked a couple of ribs. That’s the worst part. I went to the gym last night, but I took it easy, and my ribs didn’t bother me too much.

I plan to get back to my normal posting schedule tomorrow.

In the meantime, lots of love and support to the patients, staff, and volunteers at Planned Parenthood of Wisconsin. And lots of righteous anger to the terrorists responsible, and everyone who enables them.

Blog Note

This weekend, I had a car accident. It was Saturday morning, on my way to escort for the first time at the clinic. For the most part, I’m alright, just banged up here and there. I have no idea what sort of shape my car is in, however.

LMPD called an ambulance for me, and the EMTs refused to accept my refusal, taking the opportunity to lecture me about any little thing. (Apparently it’s not just epileptics they’ll lecture? Or maybe it’s just me?) Fortunately, the ER staff were more respectful of my wishes, and I was able to get my bruised butt home.

For the record, the wreck had nothing to do with my epilepsy. (Not that I think any of you fabulous people would jump to that conclusion. LMPD & the EMTs, however, did. It was quite evident neither pair knew much about epilepsy. So. Frustrating.)

At the moment, I’m worried about paying for all of this–the ambulance ride, my car repairs or–a new car. Really worried.

So. There’s that.

Today, I’m heading down to the impound lot to get my car released and towed to my mechanic, (more fees, ugh.) so I’ll find out today what kind of financial trouble I’m in.

That also means I won’t be posting today. I’m sorry.

Growing Up Black in America

Melissa Harris-Perry talks to a few black teenagers on their experiences growing up black in the U.S. and their reactions to Trayvon Martin’s murder.

Growing Up Black in America

This is about so much more than just hoodies and baggy pants. Clothes aren’t the problem here. Racism is the problem. Clothes are meaningless. Or, rather, they should be. In a racist world, the “right” clothes can be the difference between life and death for black men in America. And that is not their fault if they choose to wear clothes tagged by racists as threatening. It’s our fault–White America’s fault.

It’s not even the clothes. Are young white men that wear the same fashions targets for suspicion, questioning, and violence? Nope. The clothes are a scapegoat. It’s all racism.

LOL of the Day: Fun With Spam

While checking for comments caught by the spam filter, I discovered I’d been flooded with spam for erectile dysfunction drugs. As I scrolled (and scrolled. and scrolled.) I realized every single one of them had been submitted on one post.

The post?

Santorum’s College Professor Speaks Out

LULZ. Make of that what you will.