this is going on anon thru someone else bc every time i post about this i get goofball ass comments im honestly just not feeling like dealing with
but the tme/tma dichotomy doesn’t really make sense to me. like, every trans person can be a victim of transmisogyny regardless of gender. that’s just cis/trans 2
also like. idk why people complain abt transandrophobia or whatevs we’ve decided we’re calling it. if transmisogyny is hatred of transfemininity how would transandrophobia not be hatred of transmasculinity?
maybe i have it a lil backward but like. im a butch trans woman and im pretty comfortable with that. not on hormones (would like to be) and i don’t pass or really want to and i don’t care abt dressing feminine. when transmeds do the bit where they say im not really trans because of that, they’re challenging my ability to remain masculine while being transfem. is that not transandrophobia???
im confused and im scared to ask bc everyone i ever see talking about it is kind of an asshole abt it
yeah, this idea that oppression is somehow only aimed at the True, Intended Victims is... very nonsensical.
ive had transmisogyny aimed at me since before publicly ID'ing as trans because i dared to be visibly genderweird and that made me Close Enough to a freak-in-the-transfemme-way for some people. ive seen transfemme people have transandrophobia aimed at them because they dared to be masc in a way that clashes with "fem" characteristics, and that made them Close Enough to freaks-in-the-transmasc-way for some people. it's so unnecessary and counterproductive to pretend these experiences somehow are not real, or it's actually Another kind of oppression (a more "general" one, perhaps), and not the one it clearly is.
im sorry people are assholes, because i fully agree with you here.
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wc 641
(this ask was sent to my insp blog @unforgettablesilhouette so just to keep my writing in one place i copied it here! thank u @houserosaire!)
"What," Nolanel grunted, "are you doing?"
Elliot strengthened his grip on Nolanel’s hand. "You needn't question what you know—it dulls your understanding of the world."
They strode side by side in one of the brackish portions of the city, where the closely paved walkways of the Pillars began to twist into the impaired streets of the Brume. Lights in Skysteel make hung over the path towards the sector's barracks to guide ale-drunk soldiers home, but as soon as the sun fully set, the rest of the road would be lit only by the windows and brazier fires of the shops.
Nolanel tried to jerk his hand away. "Instead of chaffing me, answer me why," he griped.
"I'm fond of you," Elliot declared. "And walking with you remains the highlight of my days."
Sarcasm soothed Nolanel no further. "Let go of me or I will make a scene."
"The Horde would agree to peace sooner."
"Are you more ill in the head than we knew? Do you see anyone else here making some pathetic show of their affections like this?"
"Not exactly. You're also not looking deep enough." Elliot pouted. He tugged Nolanel toward the center of the street to skirt the collection of low tables and chairs that made a bistro's veranda. "The people don't know you here; you've never been here—"
"Baseless certainty will be your death one day."
"Yes, and I'll march to my grave completely blind in the belief it is my salvation! Now stop pretending there are knives at your neck and start looking at the stars. They're beginning to appear."
Nolanel tried to yank himself free again. To his own annoyance, he could never purposefully harm Elliot or allow himself to appear as trapped by sick enjoyment as he was—so his strength was not in him as he lifted his arm and punched it suddenly down. Elliot dipped readily with the force and leaned against his shoulder. Spite prevented Nolanel from enjoying the warmth.
"You may be correct about the people here knowing me, but what of the agents among them? My aether is poisoned with the inner dragon. The Inquisitors need to see no more than that."
"Be realistic! Hypocrisy may be strong among them, but the Inquisition is abounding with inverts. They're the ones who require intervention from a saint—preferably Raphael, what for their tools, lest—"
"Gods, be silent, afore I scream. The Inquisitors do not look above their caste to sell himself as the adored pet of some nobleman with a penchant for uniforms."
Wagging his free hand dismissively, Elliot shrugged, "If the Tribunal were looking for such a pair, they would find more than one here."
Nolanel finally paid attention. The strip was lined with brasserie, cafés, and dwellings, all of them twinkling with activity and rumbling with the voices of men. Of the knights posturing at the rim of counters or alone against walls, few of them lifted their concentrated eyes to him. They watched Elliot.
Others were long engaged in conversation, drink, and games, while women with slack hairstyles prodded those who stepped too close apart. Smoke cycloned behind the windows of one bar, then rushed into the streets as a laborer threw open its door and hollered a greeting.
There were too many alleys and too many people who stood on the lip of their darkness, like effigies of temptation, to feign some occupation while they waited for another to approach.
Nolanel returned Elliot’s grip with force, causing Elliot to laugh. "'Tis not myself I intended to shield, but you, ser. We wouldn't want anyone to think you could be had."
"Still—"
"I know this area, which is why I've brought you to visit de Charlus' little place. He boast the best madeleines. Nevertheless, if anyone offers you a cigar—"
"You're making this worse," Nolanel cringed.
"You'll love it."
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