Last year I wrote about what happened at Pride when a couple of kids didn’t understand why us older folx were so bitter about Reagan.
This year, I have something a little softer.
Someone who looked a little older than me came up to the booth wearing a pink t-shirt proclaiming him one of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, San Francisco chapter. As I was ringing him up, I asked if he’d been involved for a while.
“Yes,” he said, “for a bit,” in that way us middle-aged people do when we’re sort of wincing and feeling old.
“Okay, well,” I said, sitting at my register in my queer booth full of queer clothes and patches and pins, topless in public for the first time. (I had pasties on for my own comfort bc I was working, but I live in the city of the Naked Bike Ride, and I took full advantage). My baby brother and both of my partners ran around behind me, my brother wearing a loose tank top that makes his scars visible.
“I need to tell you that you all helped keep me alive.”
He blinked at me as I continued, “I was a kid in high school in the early 90s. I lived in the middle of nowhere in Pennsylvania, and what you all were doing was so loud and so out there that even I heard about your work. It was one of the things that kept me alive. So thank you, and please thank the rest of the Sisters.”
I heard about them through people in my parents’ church complaining about them, and then I sought more information through the beginning of the internet, through newspapers, through anything I could find. I found the cover of Newsweek that one of the Sisters was on. I read about their “exorcism” of fundamentalist preachers whose books sat on the shelf in my parents’ basement and probably still do. I saw how loud and colorful and unapologetically queer they were.
The knowledge that someone was out there, so full of defiant joy, refusing the shame that people kept trying to put on them? Oh, that kept me alive. I saw them, and I knew I could make it through. I wrapped my hands around that knowledge, and I held on so tight.
It took me a long time - a long, long time - to unwind most of it for myself and get to the point where my fat butch ass was sitting bare-chested in the July breeze, looking up at him as he held out his arms and said “you’re actually giving me chills.” I answered, “I mean every word. You helped keep me alive. So thank you.”
I never know what to say when people come up to me in public and tell me that I helped them or changed their life in some way. I appreciate it, and I genuinely love the people who apologized for “fanpersoning” at me last weekend, I just never know what to say. I’m incredibly grateful that the Sister I spoke to was incredibly gracious, saying “usually we give blessings, but I feel like you blessed me.” Another member of the party let me pet their tiny dog, who was not very interested in me, and that’s okay. It was an overwhelming day. Then, they moved on.
Me? I’m still sitting with the fact that I looked last weekend into the faces of people who didn’t know they were holding my head above water, and that I got to tell them the work they do matters. It’s a rare thing to get to tell someone, “You saved me,” and I’m treasuring it.
Last weekend, I wore my new battle vest with nothing underneath it, unless it was too hot, and then I just sat in my chair, chatting and ringing ppl out with my skin free to the air. I decided last year that top surgery isn’t for me, but that also I’m going to love this body unapologetically, and it’s no less a transmasculine body because the soft new dark hair on my belly isn’t accompanied by pink scars along my ribs.
I didn’t get here on my own. I got here because someone else cut through the undergrowth ahead of me so I could take another step forward. Here I am, decades later, still taking step after step, one at a time, and trying to lay paving stones behind me.
Last weekend was another step along that way, another step through unwinding the fear and shame and sadness that my parents and their church built into me. Another step out of hating myself for hiding parts of myself for so long, for acting out in other ways to distract people from my queerness, for feeling so much guilt when other people tell me I’m brave, because I know how much of myself I hid for how long because I was a coward, because I was afraid.
Great news, SAG-AFTRA has created an influencer hub for anyone trying to figure out what they should or should not be doing as a person who makes things on the internet during the strike.
Bad news, I have already SEEN WITH MY OWN TWO EYES people in fandoms I talk about and participate in spreading misinformation that these guidelines are only for union influencers. This is not true, it’s for all of us.
Solidarity in this case looks like no organically talking about, cosplaying from, accepting brand deals to promote works from struck companies. I am begging, covered in blood and sweat, I have run all the way here I have been running for years, listen to the official union sources and act accordingly or be prepared for the people who make those things you love to view you quite differently.
no really, squeeze it. Does it feel like it’s got sand in it? is’s sharpening sand. Stab the tip of your needle into it back and forth and it’ll help put a sharp edge back on a pin or needle that’s been blunted by use, or has a little bit of rust on it. It can’t fix anything worse then a little of either, and won’t work on something REALLY blunted, but its a lifesaver.
also it is a pepper
It’s not a pepper and it’s not for sharpening!!
It may seem like it should be a pepper, since that would go better with the flavour of a tomato (and the mass produced modern ones are admittedly more pepper shaped), but it is and has always been a strawberry. Here are some antique emery strawberries, which are much more strawberry shaped, and some of them have seeds.
And it’s for cleaning needles, not sharpening them. I can’t imagine how jamming a blunt needle point around in a bunch of loose grit could possibly sharpen it in any significant way, and all the historical sources I’ve seen only talk about cleaning.
“Every sewer’s work basket or work box should contain an emery bag, as shown in Fig. 2, through which to push a needle when it becomes rough, squeaks, or sticks in the material. An emery bag is usually shaped like a strawberry and consists of a rough denim bag filled with emery powder, which is a very hard material used for polishing metals. Such a bag may be purchased for 5 or 10 cents in any store that sells sewing materials. Needles often become rusted from the perspiration of the hands or from being left in damp places. The beginner may use a small emery bag to remove rust; or, a small piece of emery paper may be used instead.”
“An emery bag is inexpensive and is useful to keep needles polished and smooth. If the hands perspire and it is difficult to push the needle through the cloth, running the needle through the emery will relieve the condition.”
“It was very hot to sit and sew. The needle would get sticky in spite of all the little emery strawberry could give it, and Beth’s fingers had never felt so clumsy and uncomfortable.”
This patent from 1873 mentions an emery slab for sharpening pins, which is quite different from a cushion, and which sounds like it actually would work for sharpening.
“C is a slab of emery or other sharp and fine grit, for sharpening needles or pins”
Then later down the page it also says
“E is an emery cushion, secured in the body of the holder A, and is used for polishing needles and keeping them smooth.”
So. Strawberry for cleaning. Not pepper for sharpening.
Gentle reminder - modern sewing tools are made from treated or plated metal, or stainless steel. In terms of human civilisation, this is a wild advance of technology. Needles are some of our oldest tools; rust was formerly ubiquitous, and attacked every form of everyday metal. A rusty needle tears fabric, or worse, stains it. The luxury and technology of rustproof needles and pins - forgotten in a few generations of human memory - and yet it is remembered in the strawberry. Memory is stored in the strawberry!
Look, if you’re starving in a post-apocalyptic wasteland and suddenly someone is like ‘oh I have tons of food and it just happens to be meat do you want some lol’ you CANNOT act surprised when it’s people. You simply CANNOT.
There are times and places where it is realistic to expect NOT to be served people. For example, in a pie shop underneath a barber shop. THEN you can be all 'OH GOD IT’S PEOPLE.’
If you are in a post-apocalyptic wasteland and are suddenly served a really good meat pie, you have to know it’s people. Do you see any cows? No, they all apocalypsed. It’s your neighbor.
If you’re served food in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, ask yourself these questions first:
Do I trust the person feeding me?
Is this meat fresh, and if so, have there been any livestock non-apocalypsed recently?
Have I seen Kevin within the past week?
Am I willing to commit the penultimate culinary taboo? (The ultimate culinary taboo is putting pineapple on pizza, a crime I regularly commit)
when gerard way sings “the broken, the beaten, and the damned” and when kermit the frog sings “the lovers, the dreamers, and me” they’re talking about the same people btw
will never forget when i worked in a fast food joint. some customer wrote like “86 cherries” on their mobile order, as like a pretentious way of say no cherries, but the store was run by a bunch of high schoolers who are working their first job so they collectively went “why the fuck does this guy want 86 fucking cherries” and like piled them onto his milkshake
so when i made this i didn’t expect ANY notes so i feel like an asshole now for not explaining. so incase you check the notes, 86 in restaurant terms means “unavailable or out of stock” but has kinda morphed into “omit” or “leave out”. but none of us had worked in a restaurant before, also why would you not just say “no cherries” it’s the same amount of characters to type
Man ordering food: I work in the restaurant business ;)
Children working at restaurant: this guy must really like cherries. Got something in your eye there sir
