#but like that's fine

[thebisexualwreckoning]

Assorted thoughts on culture, generational trauma, racism, queerness and where they intersect for me

My family is from Bangladesh. Or they used to be. All of my great-grandparents were born there. At least 3 of my grandparents were born there as well. My mother travelled there on the back of trucks transporting hay. The town, practically the village, my father grew up in, is in Bangladesh.

There's this story my mother tells me. When I was around three years old, we were in a Bengali restaurant in New York and I was so happy to meet fellow Bengalis that I immediately started to speak Sylheti. They gave us a discount for that. called me Khuki and told my parents how nice it was to speak in the language of their home with someone once again.

Another time, another restaurant. This one is in London. I'm not three anymore. I don't speak Sylheti anymore either. They say I forgot because I had no one to speak it with. I don't even speak proper Bangla. It's now Bengali with a dash of Hindi. This time when we enter the restaurant, I don't approach the servers. They approach us and say how nice it is to find a fellow Bengali in the wild. We complain about how we're tired of white people food. My mother wishes she had macher jhol. The servers tell her to wait and bring out a plate of their own dinner. She cries as she eats it. Tears of joy and solidarity.

I'm twelve years old and for the first time, I decide to relearn my culture. I join a summer class, pencil in hand, ready to learn how to read and write all over again. I want to read my mother's magazines, the Feluda comics that she read out loud to me as a child. It paid off, but not in the way I expected, my mother fighting with my father, grabbing hold of my hand two days later as we boarded the aeroplane back to her father's house.

I'm 13 years old, on anti-depressants that I forgot to take some days, neurodivergence diagnosed, and learning more about myself each and every day. I come out as bisexual to my mom but do not tell her about my genderfluidity. Afraid of what she'll think when the daughter she always desired turns out to not be her daughter at all. We call my brother in Canada. He tells us about the people who shout slurs at him in the metro. We do not tell him that we are afraid that someday the slurs will turn into bullet wounds.

I'm fourteen years old, and my father's come to visit. It's his birthday so we travel to his parents' house. more than 4 hours away from ours. They greet us with barbed wire words on my grades, my brother's weight, my mother's inability to be a good wife. We smile through it all. I wonder how they can be so cruel. The people who cared for me when I was a child. The woman who named me now my worst enemy.

I'm fifteen years old now. My Bangla is clearer. Sharp vowels and clear consonants. It will never be rounded syllables of my childhood ever again. I learn of the Bengal partition in school. Learn how people killed each other in the name of freedom. I want to scream, "Amra shobai ek." We are all the same. We share the same culture, the same language but in different dialects, the same history. Stop killing, please. I'm tired of the violence and hatred, I say. This war started before I was born, will it continue after I'm dead as well?

I gathered the courage to google LGBTQ+ laws in Bangladesh today. And I realised something. I love my culture. I love my roots. I love this language, my ancestors, and every family member, even though sometimes I feel like there are too many to count. But I do not love what they have made of it. I saw the words splashed across the newspaper headlines, Anti - Queer laws still in place, Being gay is punishable with a life sentence in prison, a gay man is stoned to death in public and no one does anything to stop it. I do not cry. I've been doing nothing but crying for too long now.

Instead, I'm writing this. I'm writing this to tell everyone that it isn't over. I'm writing this to tell everyone that if I'd been born 413 km to the west exactly, I wouldn't be alive to write this post right now. I'm writing this because I am tired of our stories going untold, buried under layers of propaganda and zealotry. I'm writing this because people think my being Hindu, my being Indian, my being Bengali means that I cannot be queer.

Well sorry to prove you wrong. Because I'm still here. And I'm still kicking. And as long as I'm alive, I'm not going to stop. Neither will the thousands of others like me, telling their stories in a thousand different ways, fighting for their people in a thousand different ways.

So this one is for those still kicking.

We're Here

We're Queer

And we're ready to fucking fight.

[butchfalin]

the funniest meltdown ive ever had was in college when i got so overstimulated that i could Not speak, including over text. one of my friends was trying to talk me through it but i was solely using emojis because they were easier than trying to come up with words so he started using primarily emojis as well just to make things feel balanced. this was not the Most effective strategy... until. he tried to ask me "you okay?" but the way he chose to do that was by sending "👉🏼👌🏼❓" and i was so shocked by suddenly being asked if i was dtf that i was like WHAT???? WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?????????? and thus was verbal again

[carefulzombie]

gf fandom in 2016: if you so much as hint - even jokingly! - about the nature of ford and bill’s relationship being anything other than platonic (and even then you NEED to give a disclaimer that bill is manipulating him!) then you support abusive relationships

gf fandom in 2024:

[taffywabbit]

they should invent a new type of "staying in bed for 2-3 hours after you wake up repeatedly opening and closing apps on your phone" where it makes you feel awesome and energized and emotionally fulfilled

[blueskittlesart]

read that post blacked out and woke up with this on my computer. crazy. stay safe out there everyone

[menlove]

like can you imagine if you, as a housed person, said "oh man im really struggling financially right now I can't pay my bills- my electric is going to be cut off, my car might get repossessed, and I definitely can't afford to get a new laptop after mine broke"

and someone who had a lot more money than you said "I can help you!" and you were like"oh my god great thank you so much-" and then they just offered to take you to olive garden. and you say "hey man that's really nice but I'm actually okay on food right now, I really just need to pay some of these bills. I already got food somewhere else (foodstamps, friends, food pantries) and I really just need money. if you can't do it that's fine but I don't need food"

and the rich person said "you must not really need money or be poor then or else you'd take me up on my offer. I bet you were going to use that money on drugs anyway"

that's what yall sound like when you refuse to give homeless people money & just offer to buy them food

food is great! if you need it and that's what you're asking for. unfortunately food doesn't buy clothes, hygiene products, shelter, pay a phone bill, or yes even buy drugs or alcohol if you're going into detox and can't do so safely without literally dying

[hinamie]

10 years later

[artistic-cocoon]

Saw someone on twt say they wanted to see Percy drawn like Yusuf Dikec and I couldn't help myself

[mausolealdrift]

its baffling seeing people on here being all shocked about how other ppl didnt have sex or do drugs or drink or go to parties etc etc in high schools like. sorry i was too busy getting bullied to do all of that stuff i guess. why are you surprised that there’s losers on the cringe loser website

[kanakori]

i had to

[crookedtines]

I finally took the time to photograph my vintage dip pen nib collection, and I need to share with you all how wonderful and diverse their designs are.

These two are my favorite. Just look at them! One of them is named Gorille and the other Mephisto, but to me they're little pumpkins.

And of course you gotta love the Pinocchio nib. You get to write with the nose of a tiny guy! Just not something you get to do anymore.

[mellosghosts]

in my heart this joke is in the movie, but unfortunately im afraid only we, hughjackmaniacs, would get it 🥀

[hellishattempt]

nanami kento comes home on a saturday afternoon, hands full of groceries and hair freshly cut. in the distance, he hears his precious wife humming along to her favorite soundtrack. you must not have heard him come in. he smiles to himself, setting the groceries on the counter, but not unloading them. that can wait. right now, he wants to hold you.

he slips out of his shoes, padding quietly to the laundry room where you are folding towels. you have your back to him, headphones lodged in your ears. as nanami gets closer, the music bleeding from your headphones becomes audible. he chuckles softly. no matter how many times he tells you it's bad for your ears, you insist on listening to your music at just below full volume.

snaking his arms around your waist, you jump at the sudden contact. nanami presses his chest against your back as you take out your headphones, leaning into his touch. you sway in silence for a moment, nanami resting his chin on your shoulder. when you turn to face him, your expression changes at the sight of his hair.

"your hair," you state dumbly. "you cut it."

"yes," your husband muses. "is there something wrong with it?"

"no, no!" you assure nanami, studying his hair. "i just wasn't expecting it. you normally have me do it, which you know i don't mind doing."

"i know, but i didn't want to bother you on your cleaning day."

your expression softens at his words. nanami, your ever loving, ever caring husband, always thinking about you before himself. you reach one hand up, smoothing the hair down the back of his neck. as you bring your hand up, the freshly cut hair pricks your palm, and nanami lets out a low hiss.

you immediately apologize, pulling away. "did that hurt?"

"yes, but it's okay. it felt... good," nanami confessed. "... do it again. please." his voice is thick and demanding, and you obey without hesitation.

this time, you use just the tips of your fingertips to graze his undercut, beginning at the base of his neck. his breathing quickens as you continue to to run your hands through his undercut, going up and down, switching from one hand to both, thumbs caressing the sides of the cut. the laundry room fills with his melodic whimpers and faint groans. his eyes are shut tight, teeth digging into his bottom lip.

"fuck..." he cusses lowly.

"you okay, nani?" you giggle, stopping momentarily. his eyes flash open, pupils blown. "kento?"

"let's go to the bedroom," he insisted, grabbing your hand and dragging you towards the master bedroom. you barely have time react before nanami pushes you back on to the bed, practically ripping your leggings off.

"kento, what are you doin-" you try to protest, his hands clamping around your wrist and bringing them down to grip his hair. his head disappears between your leg, lips latching around your clit. involuntarily, your fingers tighten around his sharp undercut. he moans into your cunt, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure through your body.

from then on, nanami kento always got an undercut.

[cryptocism]

"just as I did, in 1983."

you'd never know my favourite parts of the show are the fucked up insane bits when my first instinct is to draw the cheesiest thing imaginable

[thepixelatedcactus]

flying the original character artist flag with pride

[mothwriter]