Check out the trailer for “I am the T,” a documentary in the works about the lives of seven trans guys in seven different countries. These men are doing incredible work and hoping to increase visibility of trans lives on an international scale — and they need your help to make it happen. If you’ve got the means, consider donating to their Indiegogo campaign here.
We Are the Youth is based on the online photojournalism project that shares the stories of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer youth in the United States. Through portraits by photographer Laurel Golio and “as told to” personal essays by writer Diana Scholl, this book captures the incredible strength and diversity of LGBTQ youth.
When I’m dating a man I’m no longer bisexual
Just like when I’m at home, I’m no longer employed
Or when I’m not studying I’m no longer a student.
Mmm object impermanency
From Gay Monopoly to Twinkees and Trolls: View our collection of gay and lesbian board games from the 1970s, 80s, and 90s.
A Bay Area theatre company has done what Hollywood so often claims is impossible: casting not one, but two disabled actresses to play a disabled character.
(Left to Right): Peter Buffett, Jimmie Briggs, Joe Ehrmann, Tony Porter,
Dave Zirin and Moderator Eve Ensler.
Again, no startup founder made the decision that insurance companies shouldn’t treat trans people equally by default. But by expecting trans people to take the lead in working around that decision, they reveal their own complicity with it.
This is my first 9/11 in New York.
For some time I’ve been wanting to ride the subway around
looking for the Statue of Liberty
& Ellis Island
& the 9/11 memorial.
These great tragic things—
these catalogs of sad stories,
of power and hurt and how we got here.
This propaganda made of everyone’s tears
awash in gunpowder.
I keep complaining that New York is a difficult place
for my imagination,
that it never can reach beyond the money
and the skyscrapers.
This summer I watched love stories come and go
and people talk and talk about justice,
and my friends swallow their whole hearts
and talk about how New York
is a difficult place for their grieving.
It’s been a summer of endless love.
Not that any of us
are in love and loving it
but that it is at least an endless love,
that we are in love and hating it,
and having trouble stretching our imaginations
beyond all this hurt and how we got here.
I keep falling in love & saying this will be the last time.
After this time we will both take off our clothes
and say yes I saw you like this, naked,
and we probably can’t walk side by side
without remembering the way this story ended
the way it began
or wanting to hold hands
and choke each other
but there are things other than
all this love to do
and the mournings after.
My friends keep telling me they accidentally
broke someone else’s heart.
I ask if they at least returned all the pieces.
Heartbreak in New York is so familiar like an old friend.
It is all over the train lines,
as visible and annoying as bed bugs.
The subway is a great catalog of great sad stories
moving and swishing around this great sad city.
It is the perfect place to site a national tragedy.
It was a perfect target for that plane:
the falling bodies,
the gift shop,
the two beams of light,
A perfect story.
Ground zero empty
in a city full of monuments
to great sad stories.
A crater where the two ventricles in the
heart of New York City
used to be.
There is something so grounding
in believing the sacredness of your own tragedies.
I watch heartbroken people in this city hurt each other
and cry and beat their fists against the wind.
I watch America invent a heart
call it New York,
beat its fists against the whole entire world.
Like I’m sorry,
it hurts to be me.
This is why I bombed your whole country.
Heartbreak is torturous.
This is why I tortured all of your people.
It is hard finding room to breathe
under all these splintered glass ashes.
It is why I funded an open air prison,
called it Israel,
suffocated an entire people.
It is hard to hold all these people and their stories
in my borders.
It is why I keep killing them.
It makes me sad that you don’t call anymore.
It is why I wiretapped all your conversations.
Like I’m sorry
I lost something
and I never learned to grieve it
so I’m going to build a haunted house,
call it Guantanamo Bay.
Like watching your every move
is my way of showing you I still love you.
Like I keep patting you down
hoping you’ll sleep with me again.
Like I keep sending you love letters
that you call drones
and it kills me that you never read them.
This story is so convincing
because we have all lived it
because it is heartbreak
because it doesn’t matter what America does
because America had its heart broken
and it was called New York City
and there were two perfect pieces
that stretched up to the sky
that got blown to bits
that the War on Terror
is just America totally afraid of its own sadness.
Falling in love isn’t so different from suicide
or from the bodies falling from the two halves
of New York City’s heart in 2001.
Victimhood is a kind of chain reaction.
There are tears at the nucleus of every empire,
salty and fresh like the center of a heart exploding
into a mushroom cloud.
It is the new Manhattan project:
instead of bombs at the center,
we are making great catalogs of sad sad stories
and selling them for blood.
This is the story of empire
and how we got here
and all the evenings we spent crying alone along the way.
Mourners sift and come through Ground Zero
with candles lit like they are trying to burn old love letters.
And we’re all mourning together for America
because it gives us a place to put all the tears
we are trying to shed for ourselves.
A nation is built from the hearts of very sad people
searching for arms,
broken and refilled with gunpowder and uranium,
because it is hard for them to imagine
beyond their own grieving.
Because there is no sadness that has this kind of hollow
when you bury yourself Zero-deep in it.
Because we are so afraid of living with our own sadness
that we keep killing everyone else.