i should prolly know by now if you answer nsfw related questions but i couldnt find it so hopefully im not crossing any lines in asking???
anyway i run a forcemasc blog on a different acct and as a long time big fan of the transformation kink community ive been on a bit of a crusade to introduce more bipoc into the genre in ways that dont objectify or overly sexualize them on the basis of their race and anyway i had a fun idea for a piece of art in the genre of forcemasc and nerdification i wanted to draw
i feel like theres the whole trope about Black nerds kinda as the overcompensation to the exaggerated Black swagger expectations that portrays them in very odd ways divorced from their Black identity but also on the flip side so rarely do you see Black nerd culture even framed as nerd culture stuff like underground hip hop for instance so my idea ive been toying with is to take a somewhat prudish Black "girl" who grew up with parents playing earth wind and fire in the home and likes bey but isnt in the bey hive and likes conscious rap but kind of dismisses underground hip hop out of hand for being too filled with losers obsessed with banging chicks tm who gets transformed by hip hop magic into a nerdy horny Black boy in a MF Doom t shirt who defends underground hip hop for its bars and its beats and it genre conventions and defends hip hop about trying to score because every other genre of music is allowed to be sexual
the core idea out of the way ig i wanted to check in with some ppl who know better than i do and ask what i maybe should avoid in playing with this concept so as to not paint the character before or after in a bad light or so as to not put my whole foot in my mouth in making it to begin with??? and also what bands you might recommend/points you might make
like specifically ig when im making this i wanna toe a line where im not making it seem like im dismissing what misogyny does exist in the genre or smthn in fact to an extent i wanna kinda not engage with that too much to begin with bc its already a held preconceived notion a lot of folks have that rap/hip hop is somehow especially misogynistic which its not and like i said again i think i want to emphasize in sone regard that Black music should be allowed to be horny and sexual in the same ways other music is allowed
This might be one of the few times I think you should just... Leave this one to the Black queer and trans writers đ I see what you're saying, and it is an ambitious project! Lot of intercalating themes here. But I'm not sure how comfortable I would feel reading this story from a nonblack author. But I can't stop you, that's just me!
okay im hearing ya loud and clear and i figured that might be the case
to a certain extent i do want something like this to exist in the world written by someone who can do it justice though not just bc i think there should be more bipoc representation in the kink community that arent objectified or oversexualized on the basis of their race but also bc a lot of underground hip hop is OBJECTIVELY nerd core like lupe fiasco and inspectah deck are incredible nerds and it drives me crazy smthn like big bang theory is considered nerd core and yet i can p much guarantee mf doom read more comics while he was alive than all of the writers for that show combined
but i do know full well id be outta my depth so follow up question ig is should this exist and can you or your followers suggest anyone i can commission to make it happen???
I donât usually post about acquisitions from the NYC Trans Archives, but this one is too cool not to share. We recently obtained 1 of the 2 known remaining copies of the censored 1933 German booklet âWie erlange ich eine vollendete BĂŒste?â (âHow do I achieve a perfect bust?â). It advertises an early estrogen compound using a patient who was assigned male at birth.
The text shows that not only were hormones readily available to trans people in the 1930s, but actively advertised to them. Nazis targeted this specific book in the 1930s, leaving only a few copies left in existence. This text, along with hundreds of other rare trans books, zines, and ephemera, will be available for viewing next year when NYCTA opens to the public.
She was intersex and raised as a boy for most of her life in Kenya. Then the bleeding started.
When 18-year-old Roberto first experienced menstruation, she was terrified. Born intersex and raised as a boy, she had never been taught about periods, let alone how to manage one.
Before that terrifying day, Roberto had spent her entire life in a quiet village in Kisii County. Her parents never disclosed anything about her intersex identity, partly because they did not fully understand it themselves, and partly due to the stigma surrounding differences in sex development.
Roberto grew up playing football with boys, dressing like them, and following all the expectations of male childhood. Yet, as she entered adolescence, she began noticing subtle changes in her body that did not match those of her peers.
She occasionally experienced discomfort, mood shifts, and physical traits she could not explain. With no information about intersex bodies or reproductive health, she simply brushed these feelings aside. Conversations about menstruation were reserved for girls, leaving Roberto completely unprepared for what was coming.
âI thought I was bleeding to death, but I could not tell anyone, not even my mother,â she recalls. âI used an old T-shirt and hid it under my mattress.â
It was only years later, after meeting a community health volunteer who worked with intersex and gender-diverse youth, that Roberto finally shared her experience. The volunteer explained what it meant to be intersex, helped her understand her body, and connected her to a safe support group.
Through these conversations, Roberto slowly began embracing an identity that felt more aligned with who she truly was. She chose to use she/her pronouns because it was the first time she felt seen, understood, and comfortable in her own skin.
âIt felt like breathing freely for the first time,â she says. âLike I could finally be myself without fear.â
The hidden reality of intersex menstruators
Robertoâs experience reveals a little-known truth: intersex individuals who menstruate are often invisible in menstrual health policies, education, and aid programmes.
While Kenya, and Africa more broadly, has made progress in addressing period poverty among girls and women, intersex people are left behind, navigating their cycles in silence and shame.
When 23-year-old John first experienced menstruation, it was not a typical âcoming-of-ageâ moment. Instead, it became a confusing and isolating chapter defined by stigma and secrecy.
Growing up in South Nyanza, John lived in a household and a wider community that neither understood nor accepted their identity, let alone their menstrual health needs.
âI bled in silence for years, and yet I could not talk to anyone,â they recount. âMy mother kept asking why I was not ânormalâ, but I was too scared to explain something I did not even fully understand myself.â
Intersex persons like Roberto and John are often excluded from the conversation about menstruation.
âThis is despite the fact that they suffer in silence,â says Margret Mogaka, a reproductive health advocate at the Kisii Teaching and Referral Hospital (KTRH).
Although the Kenyan government launched the Menstrual Hygiene Management Policy in 2019 to promote menstrual equity, intersex individuals are not included.
âMenstruation is still framed as a female-only issue,â says Mogaka. âThis excludes not only trans men but also intersex people, many of whom menstruate and need the same support.â
She adds that many public schools, clinics, and community programmes assume only girls need menstrual products or information.
âThis makes it nearly impossible for intersex menstruators to access sanitary pads or counseling without facing ridicule.â [...]
This is what I think about every single time I see people talking about period poverty, or helping women in places like Palestine access menstrual products.
It's obviously extremely important. But how often do those resources actually teach intersex and trans people who menstruate and aren't living as women? We likely can't even say because no one ever thinks about it.
As with so many issues caused by misogyny, all feminists can agree it's an extremely important issue UNTIL trans and intersex people point out their exclusion. And then suddenly people being unable to work or go to school because they are bleeding all over themselves isn't actually an issue, even though if you are living as a man it is then even MORE of an issue because it's not a problem you are "meant" to have.
Transmasc, nonbinary, and intersex inclusion in feminism, reproductive and menstrual activism, must not optional.
Your donation here goes directly to covering my motherâs medical expenses and feeding my little siblings. If I disappear, please donât forget them.
Don't donate to World Central Kitchen because even after their members were murdered by Israel, the founder Jose Andreas still collaborated with Israel and recently they served displaced Israeli settlers bombed by Iran and Hezbollah
I'm going to use this as a jumping off point to mention the AM Radio for Every Vehicle Act.
It's... pretty much what it says on the tin. Some car manufacturers are phasing out AM Radio from their cars so they can replace them with their own streaming services - this bill seeks to make them a mandatory feature.
As somebody whose day job is in radio, I totally agree that the amount of ads and the quality of the ads is ridiculous. Personally, I don't find radio to be an amazing source of political news broadcasting.
But do you know what it is really good at? Providing emergency broadcasts during extreme weather events.
When power and internet is down, radio can be one of the only sources of information, and it's helped provide lifesaving information during these times.
(Plus, at least in my area of the country, emergency weather alerts override and interrupt programming when broadcast - even during pesky ads!)
So if you want to toss your signature in support, you can head on over here.
I want to make it clear I'm not an expert in this legislation or anything - this is just the stuff I know through working in the industry.
AM radio can be one of the only available and reliable sources of local/regional news, weather and traffic, emergency or not. Not to mention community broadcasts.
(Plus, have you listened to any podcasts lately? Itâs literally six minutes of ads on either end)
Also you can build an AM radio receiver out of little more than scrap. Are you going to? No, almost certainly not, but the point is that the technology is simple, cheap, robust and repairable.
i checked wikipedia to see if this was real and not a tumblr lie. wikipedia said it was true but i still just couldn't quite believe it. so then i checked the imdb summary for the pilot and OH MY GOD IT'S REAL
I'm not seeing any naked adults in that screenshot...
...There's something deeply messed up about how breasts, which are used by our species to feed babies, are considered to be so perverse and obscene that a child should never see them.
There aren't any naked people in the entire video clip. There's some people that you'd probably see less of their skin on a beach, but only because on a beach they'd probably be wearing a bikini top as well as whatever else they have on. And this is New York City, where toplessness is legal regardless of gender or assigned sex.
Toplessness for breasts is legal in most places in the US, unlegislated in almost all that remain, and only illegal in two states: Ohio and Tennessee.
This is because topless equality has been a basic push from feminists for literally decades, until Radfems and NeoCons bonded over wanting a trans genocide less than a decade ago.
It's literally why the "no tits on tumblr" and other lesser SESTA/FOSTA consequences* like it were so jarring. It set back FORTY. YEARS. OF PROGRESS in the rights of people with breasts or perceived as women to wear the same clothes as people without.
Do not let conservatives lie to you about this. The majority of people in the us and the VAST majority of States recognize the right of people to not wear a damn shirt. It isn't obscenity, it isn't even nudity, it's just something pericis men are allowed that everyone else isn't.
Y'know.
Basic sexual discrimination.
*Y'all aren't still on that "it was the Apple app store that caused the tit ban" shit, right? It was the literal US federal government. To be fucking clear.
hello hello I'm currently working to write a book on intersectionally-inclusive transfeminist theory & I wanna see what topics people are interested in being discussed!
(no emails or info other than your responses are collected & you don't need an account)
there's a little extra fun question after it but it's not required in order to submit your response
I'm avoiding sharing individual answers out of respect for people's privacy (though idk if anyone would even care tbh, it just feels like the decent thing to do), but I do want to address this response:
I have the PERFECT book recommendation!
The Terrible We: Thinking With Trans Maladjustment by Cameron Awkward-Rich, one of my favorite authors :)
it deals with the intersection of sanism and transness specifically (& he is a Black transmasc author himself, re: some of the other parts of this response that I didn't include)
It was a Tuesday in 1981 when the San Francisco police kicked in the door.
Inside the small apartment, they expected to find a hardened criminal. They expected a drug kingpin. They expected resistance.
Instead, they found a 57-year-old waitress in an apron.
The air in the apartment smelled sweet, thick with chocolate and something earthier. On the kitchen counter, cooling on wire racks, were 54 dozen brownies.
The police officers began bagging the evidence. They confiscated nearly 18 pounds of marijuana. They handcuffed the woman, whose name was Mary Jane Rathbun.
She didn't look scared. She didn't look guilty.
She looked at the officers, smoothed her apron, and reportedly said, "I thought you guys were coming."
She was booked into the county jail. The headlines wrote themselves. A grandmother running a pot bakery. It seemed like a joke to the legal system, a quirky local news story about an older woman behaving badly.
But Mary wasn't baking for fun. And she certainly wasn't baking for profit.
To understand why Mary risked her freedom, you have to understand the silence of the early 1980s.
San Francisco was gripping the edge of a cliff. A mysterious illness was sweeping through the city, specifically targeting young men. Later, the world would know it as AIDS. But in those early days, it was just a death sentence that no one wanted to talk about.
Families were disowning their sons. Landlords were evicting tenants. Even doctors and nurses, paralyzed by the fear of the unknown, would sometimes leave food trays outside hospital doors, afraid to breathe the same air as their patients.
Men in their twenties were wasting away in sterile rooms, dying alone.
Mary knew what it felt like to lose a child.
Years earlier, in 1974, her daughter Peggy had been killed in a car accident. Peggy was only 22. The loss had hollowed Mary out, leaving a space in her heart that nothing seemed to fill.
When the judge sentenced Mary for that first arrest, he ordered her to perform 500 hours of community service. He likely thought the manual labor would teach her a lesson.
He sent her to the Shanti Project and San Francisco General Hospital.
It was a mistake that would change American history.
Mary walked into the AIDS wards when others were walking out. She didn't wear a hazmat suit. She didn't hold her breath. She saw rows of young men who looked like ghostsâskeletal, in pain, and terrified.
She saw "her kids."
She began mopping floors and changing sheets. But soon, she noticed something the doctors were missing. The harsh medications the men were taking caused violent nausea. They couldn't eat. They were starving to death as much as they were dying of the virus.
Mary knew a secret about the brownies she had been arrested for.
She knew they settled the stomach. She knew they brought back the appetite. She knew they could help a dying man sleep for a few hours without pain.
So, she made a choice.
She went back to her kitchen. She fired up the oven. She started mixing batter, not to sell, but to save.
Every morning, Mary would bake. She lived on a fixed income, surviving on Social Security checks that barely covered her rent. Yet, she spent nearly every dime on flour, sugar, and butter.
The most expensive ingredientâthe cannabisâwas donated. Local growers heard what she was doing. They began dropping off pounds of product at her door, free of charge.
She packed the brownies into a basket and took the bus to the hospital.
She walked room to room. She sat by the bedsides of men who hadn't seen their own mothers in years. She held their hands. She told them jokes. And she gave them brownies.
"Here, baby," she would say. "Eat this. It'll help."
And it did.
Nurses watched in amazement as patients who hadn't eaten in days began to ask for food. The constant retching stopped. The mood on the ward shifted from despair to a quiet sort of comfort.
Mary Jane Rathbun became "Brownie Mary."
For over a decade, this was her life. She baked roughly 600 brownies a day. She went through 50 pounds of flour a week. She became the mother to a generation of lost boys.
She washed their pajamas. She attended their funerals. She held them while they took their last breaths.
She did this while the government declared a "War on Drugs."
By the early 1990s, the political climate was hostile. Politicians were competing to see who could be "tougher" on crime. Mandatory minimum sentences were locking people away for decades.
In 1992, at the age of 70, Mary was arrested again.
This time, the stakes were lethal. She was charged with felonies. The district attorney looked at her rap sheet and saw a repeat offender. He threatened to send her to prison.
One prosecutor famously whispered to a colleague that he was going to "kick this old lady's ass."
They underestimated who they were dealing with.
They thought they were prosecuting a drug dealer. In reality, they were attacking the most beloved woman in San Francisco.
When the news broke that Brownie Mary was facing prison, the city erupted.
It wasn't just the activists who were angry. It was the doctors. It was the nurses. It was the parents who had watched Mary care for their dying sons when the government did nothing.
Mary turned her trial into a pulpit.
She arrived at court not as a defendant, but as a grandmother standing her ground. The media swarmed her. Reporters asked if she was afraid of prison. They asked if she would stop baking if they let her go.
Mary looked into the cameras, her voice gravelly and firm.
"If the narcs think I'm gonna stop baking brownies for my kids with AIDS," she said, "they can go fuck themselves in Macy's window."
The quote ran in newspapers across the country.
The court didn't stand a chance.
Testimony poured in. Doctors from San Francisco General Hospital wrote letters explaining that Maryâs brownies were medically necessary. Patients testified that she was an angel of mercy.
The charges were dropped.
Mary walked out of the courthouse a free woman. But she didn't go home to rest. She realized that her personal victory wasn't enough. As long as the law was broken, her "kids" were still in danger.
She needed to change the law.
August 25 was declared "Brownie Mary Day" by the San Francisco Board of Supervisors. It was a nice gesture, but Mary wanted policy, not plaques.
She teamed up with fellow activist Dennis Peron. Together, they opened the San Francisco Cannabis Buyers Clubâthe first public dispensary in the United States. It was a safe haven where patients could get their medicine without fear of arrest.
But Mary wanted more. She wanted the state of California to acknowledge the truth.
She campaigned for Proposition 215. She traveled the state, despite her failing health. She spoke in her simple, direct way. She didn't talk about liberties or economics. She talked about compassion. She talked about pain.
She forced voters to look at the issue through the eyes of a grandmother.
In 1996, Proposition 215 passed. California became the first state to legalize medical marijuana.
It was a domino effect. Because one woman refused to let her "kids" suffer, the public perception of cannabis shifted. The Economist later noted that Mary was single-handedly responsible for changing the national conversation.
She never got rich.
She had always joked that if legalization ever happened, she would sell her recipe to Betty Crocker and buy a Victorian house for her patients to live in.
She never sold the recipe. She never bought the house.
Mary Jane Rathbun died in 1999, at the age of 77. She passed away in a nursing home, poor in money but rich in legacy.
Today, over 30 states have legalized medical marijuana. Millions of people use it to manage pain, seizures, and nausea.
Most of them have never heard of Mary.
They don't know that their legal prescription exists because a waitress in San Francisco decided that the law was wrong and her heart was right.
They don't know about the 600 brownies a day.
They don't know about the thousands of hospital visits.
Mary didn't set out to be a hero. She told the Chicago Tribune years before she died, "I didn't go into this thinking I would be a hero."
She was just a mother who had lost her daughter, trying to help boys who had lost their way.
She proved that authority doesn't always equal morality.
She proved that sometimes, the most patriotic thing a citizen can do is break a bad law.
Every August, a few people in San Francisco still celebrate Brownie Mary Day. But her true memorial isn't a date on a calendar.
It is found in every oncology ward where a patient finds relief. It is found in every dispensary door that opens without fear.
It is found in the simple, quiet courage of anyone who sees suffering and refuses to look away.
Mary taught us that you don't need a law degree to change the world. You don't need millions of dollars. You don't need political office.
Sometimes, all you need is a mixing bowl, an oven, and enough love to tell the world to get out of your way.
Sources: New York Times Obituary (1999), "Brownie Mary" Rathbun. San Francisco Chronicle Archives (1992, 1996). History.com, "The History of Medical Marijuana." Weird Everything, FB december 12, 2025
Edited To Add: The wiki entry should be in here vs the history.com link - so here you go.
It was a Tuesday in 1981 when the San Francisco police kicked in the door.
Inside the small apartment, they expected to find a hardened criminal. They expected a drug kingpin. They expected resistance.
Instead, they found a 57-year-old waitress in an apron.
The air in the apartment smelled sweet, thick with chocolate and something earthier. On the kitchen counter, cooling on wire racks, were 54 dozen brownies.
The police officers began bagging the evidence. They confiscated nearly 18 pounds of marijuana. They handcuffed the woman, whose name was Mary Jane Rathbun.
She didn't look scared. She didn't look guilty.
She looked at the officers, smoothed her apron, and reportedly said, "I thought you guys were coming."
She was booked into the county jail. The headlines wrote themselves. A grandmother running a pot bakery. It seemed like a joke to the legal system, a quirky local news story about an older woman behaving badly.
But Mary wasn't baking for fun. And she certainly wasn't baking for profit.
To understand why Mary risked her freedom, you have to understand the silence of the early 1980s.
San Francisco was gripping the edge of a cliff. A mysterious illness was sweeping through the city, specifically targeting young men. Later, the world would know it as AIDS. But in those early days, it was just a death sentence that no one wanted to talk about.
Families were disowning their sons. Landlords were evicting tenants. Even doctors and nurses, paralyzed by the fear of the unknown, would sometimes leave food trays outside hospital doors, afraid to breathe the same air as their patients.
Men in their twenties were wasting away in sterile rooms, dying alone.
Mary knew what it felt like to lose a child.
Years earlier, in 1974, her daughter Peggy had been killed in a car accident. Peggy was only 22. The loss had hollowed Mary out, leaving a space in her heart that nothing seemed to fill.
When the judge sentenced Mary for that first arrest, he ordered her to perform 500 hours of community service. He likely thought the manual labor would teach her a lesson.
He sent her to the Shanti Project and San Francisco General Hospital.
It was a mistake that would change American history.
Mary walked into the AIDS wards when others were walking out. She didn't wear a hazmat suit. She didn't hold her breath. She saw rows of young men who looked like ghostsâskeletal, in pain, and terrified.
She saw "her kids."
She began mopping floors and changing sheets. But soon, she noticed something the doctors were missing. The harsh medications the men were taking caused violent nausea. They couldn't eat. They were starving to death as much as they were dying of the virus.
Mary knew a secret about the brownies she had been arrested for.
She knew they settled the stomach. She knew they brought back the appetite. She knew they could help a dying man sleep for a few hours without pain.
So, she made a choice.
She went back to her kitchen. She fired up the oven. She started mixing batter, not to sell, but to save.
Every morning, Mary would bake. She lived on a fixed income, surviving on Social Security checks that barely covered her rent. Yet, she spent nearly every dime on flour, sugar, and butter.
The most expensive ingredientâthe cannabisâwas donated. Local growers heard what she was doing. They began dropping off pounds of product at her door, free of charge.
She packed the brownies into a basket and took the bus to the hospital.
She walked room to room. She sat by the bedsides of men who hadn't seen their own mothers in years. She held their hands. She told them jokes. And she gave them brownies.
"Here, baby," she would say. "Eat this. It'll help."
And it did.
Nurses watched in amazement as patients who hadn't eaten in days began to ask for food. The constant retching stopped. The mood on the ward shifted from despair to a quiet sort of comfort.
Mary Jane Rathbun became "Brownie Mary."
For over a decade, this was her life. She baked roughly 600 brownies a day. She went through 50 pounds of flour a week. She became the mother to a generation of lost boys.
She washed their pajamas. She attended their funerals. She held them while they took their last breaths.
She did this while the government declared a "War on Drugs."
By the early 1990s, the political climate was hostile. Politicians were competing to see who could be "tougher" on crime. Mandatory minimum sentences were locking people away for decades.
In 1992, at the age of 70, Mary was arrested again.
This time, the stakes were lethal. She was charged with felonies. The district attorney looked at her rap sheet and saw a repeat offender. He threatened to send her to prison.
One prosecutor famously whispered to a colleague that he was going to "kick this old lady's ass."
They underestimated who they were dealing with.
They thought they were prosecuting a drug dealer. In reality, they were attacking the most beloved woman in San Francisco.
When the news broke that Brownie Mary was facing prison, the city erupted.
It wasn't just the activists who were angry. It was the doctors. It was the nurses. It was the parents who had watched Mary care for their dying sons when the government did nothing.
Mary turned her trial into a pulpit.
She arrived at court not as a defendant, but as a grandmother standing her ground. The media swarmed her. Reporters asked if she was afraid of prison. They asked if she would stop baking if they let her go.
Mary looked into the cameras, her voice gravelly and firm.
"If the narcs think I'm gonna stop baking brownies for my kids with AIDS," she said, "they can go fuck themselves in Macy's window."
The quote ran in newspapers across the country.
The court didn't stand a chance.
Testimony poured in. Doctors from San Francisco General Hospital wrote letters explaining that Maryâs brownies were medically necessary. Patients testified that she was an angel of mercy.
The charges were dropped.
Mary walked out of the courthouse a free woman. But she didn't go home to rest. She realized that her personal victory wasn't enough. As long as the law was broken, her "kids" were still in danger.
She needed to change the law.
August 25 was declared "Brownie Mary Day" by the San Francisco Board of Supervisors. It was a nice gesture, but Mary wanted policy, not plaques.
She teamed up with fellow activist Dennis Peron. Together, they opened the San Francisco Cannabis Buyers Clubâthe first public dispensary in the United States. It was a safe haven where patients could get their medicine without fear of arrest.
But Mary wanted more. She wanted the state of California to acknowledge the truth.
She campaigned for Proposition 215. She traveled the state, despite her failing health. She spoke in her simple, direct way. She didn't talk about liberties or economics. She talked about compassion. She talked about pain.
She forced voters to look at the issue through the eyes of a grandmother.
In 1996, Proposition 215 passed. California became the first state to legalize medical marijuana.
It was a domino effect. Because one woman refused to let her "kids" suffer, the public perception of cannabis shifted. The Economist later noted that Mary was single-handedly responsible for changing the national conversation.
She never got rich.
She had always joked that if legalization ever happened, she would sell her recipe to Betty Crocker and buy a Victorian house for her patients to live in.
She never sold the recipe. She never bought the house.
Mary Jane Rathbun died in 1999, at the age of 77. She passed away in a nursing home, poor in money but rich in legacy.
Today, over 30 states have legalized medical marijuana. Millions of people use it to manage pain, seizures, and nausea.
Most of them have never heard of Mary.
They don't know that their legal prescription exists because a waitress in San Francisco decided that the law was wrong and her heart was right.
They don't know about the 600 brownies a day.
They don't know about the thousands of hospital visits.
Mary didn't set out to be a hero. She told the Chicago Tribune years before she died, "I didn't go into this thinking I would be a hero."
She was just a mother who had lost her daughter, trying to help boys who had lost their way.
She proved that authority doesn't always equal morality.
She proved that sometimes, the most patriotic thing a citizen can do is break a bad law.
Every August, a few people in San Francisco still celebrate Brownie Mary Day. But her true memorial isn't a date on a calendar.
It is found in every oncology ward where a patient finds relief. It is found in every dispensary door that opens without fear.
It is found in the simple, quiet courage of anyone who sees suffering and refuses to look away.
Mary taught us that you don't need a law degree to change the world. You don't need millions of dollars. You don't need political office.
Sometimes, all you need is a mixing bowl, an oven, and enough love to tell the world to get out of your way.
Sources: New York Times Obituary (1999), "Brownie Mary" Rathbun. San Francisco Chronicle Archives (1992, 1996). History.com, "The History of Medical Marijuana." Weird Everything, FB december 12, 2025
Edited To Add: The wiki entry should be in here vs the history.com link - so here you go.
See, the issue with ISFF and the whole pedophile situation is that she keeps equating being a pedophile to being "marginalized".
Because, while yes, Paraphilic disorder diagnosis', and the idea of the pedophile, have been used to oppress people (see homosexuality and transgender "Paraphilic disorders" and how people treat black and brown Men), what we know as a "pedophile" is too damn spefic to really recognize as a like...oppressed group.
Pedophile (the child predator) are protected all the time. Defended by people (via victim blaming) and governments (child marriage). Not exactly victims.
Pedophile (the paraphile) experience things that like...aren't unique to being a pedophile. You want people to be against thought crimes? Support those with intrusive thoughts, help others realize what being reactionary is, etc. Hostility towards what happens in others brains just reads as ableism (OCD intrusive thoughts).
Pedophile (the accusation) is a Boogeyman used by racists and transphobes to trick people into thinking it's the first one. The answer to go against this one, then, is to just...advocate against racism and transphobia.
Pedophile is meant to prompt you to talk about murdering people to make oppressing people easier, she (or her friend at least), was right there. But they're not an oppressed class because like...the people being oppressed by it are neurodivergent, trans, black/brown, and gay people. And In reality, people love the actual pedophiles (sex offender)
Everything isff has said, in theory, makes sense, but is done poorly in practice. Example: radqueers. This is just radqueer rhetoric down to the whole "we and the queer community must band together".
Summary: Advocating against reactionary reactions, reminding ourselves that actual, systematic persecution of the "enemy" will injury the marginalized no matter what, and advocating against thought crimes will help everyone. Pedophiles are not oppressed and are not marginalized, to compare that to being a communist during the red scare is, uh, incorrec. trans and gay people are called pedophiles to oppress us further (made even worse if they're black and brown even if they're cishet).
And don't take me as defending ISFF and her friends because she fucking hates trans men and also keeps acting like Pedophiles are the same as how they treated communists during the red scare, which says a lot about how she views oppression (again, not surprising, she hates trans men LMAO)
While you choose gifts and decorate your home, I am fighting just to stay conscious. My blood is disappearing, my body is shutting down, and my family is still sleeping in the cold with no roof above them. If you can spare even a little, your donation could be the difference between my death and one more day of life.
Share this and speak about us. In Gaza even a small action from you becomes a lifeline for someone like me. Your voice travels farther than mine ever will.
twitter is having a rare beautiful moment. a trans woman posted about hating trans men and instead of everyone defending it and saying it's "punching up" or something they're seeing it for what it is: transphobia
Untitled @penguincheweditshandsoff - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
