I love abortion access and queer and trans people and alt people and the earth and mother nature and free universal healthcare and women and people of colour and immigrants and birth control and feminism and drag queens and kings and leftists and all animals and being kind to each other <3
Happy disability pride month to everyone who suffers from disabilities of any kind, physical or mental, you guys are strong as hell and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, you’re awesome (this totally isn’t being said by someone who may be biased since I have ptsd but it’s not any less true)
June 12, 2016. Putting a date on this for when it gets reblogged months from now by people who think the post is about something from 30, 40 years ago.
I am a survivor of the Pulse nightclub shooting, having grown up in Orlando and just turned 20 a month prior. If you didn’t know, there were several families who refused to claim the bodies of their relatives due to their sexuality. One family even had their relative’s name removed from the memorial. Murdered by the same hate with which their families reject them in both life and death.
Many, many people celebrated Pulse. We were told we deserved it. That it was God’s punishment for our sin of loving the same sex. We are sent messages like these I received in 2018:
We in the community often call the victim count 49+ to include the survivors who couldn’t live with the pain.
The event was never officially declared a hate crime or targeted homophobic attack and is rarely listed as one in databases.
At our vigils for those slaughtered, Extremist Christian groups showed up to protest, holding signs like this:
ID: Me kissing a woman I was casually seeing in front of an angry looking man with a “Sodomy is Sin” sign.
Please understand how much more than just a mass shooting this was. We are still to this day harassed and told we deserved it by some.
This year was the sixth anniversary. The first couple years I received dozens of messages checking in on me on 6/12. Year 5 got enough news coverage for people to think to reach out to me. This year it was my therapist, the woman I kissed in that photo, and a couple of other gun violence survivor friends. People are forgetting already.
spencer reid x pre-school teacher!reader
description: the fbi visits your classroom for the day and your students are very interested
wc: 1.2k
Preschool mornings have chaotic energy. It's a hustle of finger paint, missing shoes, and fifteen 4 year olds trying to talk at the same time.
You get used to mess, being a preschool teacher. But today, the energy in the room shifts completely when the heavy wooden door swings open, and a tall man in a slightly rumpled suit steps inside.
He looks entirely out of place among the mini plastic chairs and colored alphabet rugs. He's clutching a leather satchel and his hazel eyes wide as he takes in the vibrant noisy room. Behind him stands Penelope Garcia, beaming in a bright green blazer, practically buzzing with excitement.
"Hi, everyone!" Garcia sings out, waving out her hands enthusiastically. "We're from the FBI!" A collective "ooooh" from the kids makes you smile.
You stand up, brushing a stray speck of yellow glitter off your dress, and smile. "Welcome! Class, this is Miss Garcia and Special Agent Reid. They're here for Career Day to tell us how they help keep people safe."
Spencer clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looks down at a stack of flashcards in his hand. "Uh, actually, Miss Garcia is a Technical Analyst, not a field agent. And my title is Supervisory Special Agent, though-"
"He's a super-brain spy, kids," Garcia cuts in smoothly, throwing an affectionate arm around Spencer's shoulders. "And he's very excited to be here."
Spencer flushes, his eyes darting to you. "Uh.. yes. I brought visual aids."
You can't help the soft laugh that escapes you. "Well, Agent Reid, the floor is yours. Why don't you sit right here?" You gesture to the only available seat near the font - a bright yellow plastic chair.
Spencer stares at the tiny chair for a long second. You can practically see his brain calculating how his six foot one frame is going to fit. With extreme care, he folds his long legs and you bring a fist against your mouth to prevent from spilling out a laugh.
A little boy named Clyde scoots closer to him. "Mister policeman," You're quick to gently remind your students to call adults using their appropriate title names.
"Clyde, his name is Agent Reid, I think he would rather be called that." You bend down to meet his height. Spencer's hand touches your shoulder and it startles you a bit.
"I'm so sorry for scaring you, but it's totally fine," he says your name, keeping his stare on you for a bit before Penelope clears her throat. You stand up and move to the side to let him guide the class.
"Go ahead, Clyde." Spencer smiles at him, his hands clasped together as he leaned towards him. You were certain he was going to fall off the tiny chair if he moved even a little bit closer.
"What does FBI mean?" His little hands going up to his face, squishing his cheeks upwards that made it more chubby than it actually is. "FBI means the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It was actually founded in 1908 by Attorney General Charles Bonaparte. What's more interesting is he was the grandnephew of Napoleon. Bonaparte."
You intervene gently, hoping you weren't being rude to interrupt his question and answering moment. You offer Spencer a sympathetic smile before talking to him. "They might want to hear a little bit about what you do everyday, Spencer. In kids terms, just to make it easier for them to understand."
Spencer blinks, his eyes locking onto yours. The look of panic from his furrowed eyebrows melts into something softer at your comforting tone. He swallows hard and nods.
He puts his flashcards away in his satchel. "Well, my job is like solving a big puzzle. Imagine you come into the classroom and someone took the goldfish crackers. I look at the clues left behind, it could be crumbs on the table or a footprint in the sandbox. To figure out who took it, I use my brain to help people who are lost or scared."
A little girl with pigtails raised her hand. "Mister policeman, do you have a badge?"
"I do." Spencer carefully pulls his FBI credentials from his jacket pocket, holding it out. A dozen tiny hands instantly reach out to poke the gold seal. He doesn't pull away, instead a smile forms on his face as he watches their eyes light up with wonder and excitement.
"Do you a carry a juice box in your bag?" another child asks, pointing to his satchel. "No, mostly books and case files," Spencer replies, his voice drops to a gentle tone he gets when he's comfortable. "But did you know that reading books actually changes the way your brain works? It creates new pathways, which makes you better at solving puzzles."
For the next twenty minutes, Spencer completely captivates the room. He manages to explain behavioral analysis through the lens of sharing toys and understanding feelings. Garcia watches from the back, leaning against the cubbies with a soft, knowing smirk on her face as she looks between you and Spencer.
When it's time for them to go, the children groan in unison. "Alright, friends, let's give a big thanks to Agent Reid and Miss Garcia," you lead, and the classroom erupts into a chorus of high-pitched thank yous.
"Thank you Mister Policeman and Miss Garcia!" Even though you said 'Agent Reid', they still called him that.
Spencer awkwardly but carefully lifts himself out of the tiny chair, smoothing down his tie. Garcia gives you a quick, warm hug. "You are an angel for handling this many tiny humans daily. I'm leaving Spencer's card on your desk. For.. legal verification of our visit. Obviously." She winks, entirely unsubtle, and heads for the door.
He stands still behind you, his satchel slung over his shoulder. He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit you've quickly learned to recognize.
"You were amazing with them," you say, stepping closer to him. "Not many people can switch from serial killer statistics to a goldfish cracker concept that quickly."
Spencer's cheeks turn red again, a soft smile turns up at his lips. "Thank you. I was significantly more intimidated by them. They're unpredictable, but you're incredible at what you do. The patience and emotional intelligence required to manage a classroom of this development stage is amazing."
'Well, it helps when I have FBI agents dropping by to assist," you tease softly. Spencer's breath catches slightly, his eyes dropping to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes. "I, uh.. Garcia wasn't lying about the card. It has my personal cell phone number on the back. In case you have any follow up questions about federal law enforcement or... anything else."
"I might just have a few questions." you give him a warm smile. He gives you a small smile, his dimples showing. "I look forward to answering them."
With one last look, he turns and walks out the door, tripping slightly over a plastic building block on his way out. He recovers with a quick embarrassed wave. You watch him go, walking back to your desk to put away the card in your purse and heading towards the front of the classroom to see your kids giving you cheeky smiles.
Spencer reid i needed to see you tie up your beautiful hair with that goddamm hair tie you kept on your wrist in season 5. Please tie up your luscious locks into a cute little bun or ponytail. Please.
you have to consciously unlearn racism and continue to watch for it because it will come out without realizing. because so much of society is structured around it. shrugging and going "i dont care" or "i dont know how else to say it" means you are okay with being racist and hurting other people with how much you dont give a shit about them.
i think we should be ridiculing them more for this. you don't get to try and go all "queer website" when your staff likes to go on nuking sprees targeting the trans fem users
okay well the thing is You’re a spark in the dark and my clothes all caught aflame you should feel how i feel when somebody says your name on im a car speeding down the boulevard without a break and i want you more than any stupid song could ever say im a heart made of wax and im melting in the sun im a thread on your shirt that is coming undone i feel right i feel wrong i feel totally insane and i want you more than any stupid song could ever say…….
Just watched Adam Conover (of Adam Ruins Everything) make such a solid point that I think we should spread far and wide. Yes, having AI write your emails is lazy, sure, but people love being lazy. We need to really emphasize that sending AI emails (or using AI responses on social media, or publishing AI flyers, or or or) is rude.
It's rude. You're making someone take their time to read something you couldn't bother to write. You're telling them they were so unimportant you couldn't be bothered to actually take the time to say something yourself. And frankly, you're lying about it while you're at it.