Experience Tumblr like never before
The Netherlands - 2001 ~ Belgium - 2003 ~ England - 2003 ~ Wales - 2003 - Spain - 2005 ~ Canada - 2005 ~ South Africa - 2006 ~ Norway - 2008 ~ Sweden - 2009 ~ Iceland - 2010 ~ Argentina - 2010 ~ Portugal - 2010 ~ Denmark - 2012 ~ New Zealand - 2013 ~ Brazil - 2013 ~ France - 2013 ~ Uruguay - 2013 ~ Luxembourg - 2014 ~ Scotland - 2014 ~ Greenland - 2015 Finland - 2015 ~ Ireland - 2015 ~ USA - 2015 ~ Colombia - 2016 ~ Germany - 2017 ~ Malta - 2017
A recap of which countries have legalized same-sex marriage and when. Did some of these nations surprise you in their decision? Maybe you were thinking of some of these countries as more culturally conservative - sometimes, for better or worse, politicians misrepresent their people’s real wants or interests. I know that’s true, such as the misrepresentation of Americans by our new administration - but I told myself I wouldn’t get political.
Same-sex sexual contact is illegal in 74 countries, and many others still contain stigmas against the LGBT+ community. While progress is always being made, certain examples of homophobia divide us even more. The murders, tortures, and outings of gay men in Chechnya have continued. On October 4, the United States sided with Saudi Arabia, Egypt, China, and other countries to vote against the United Nations act to ban the death penalty for homosexuality. In Egypt, on September 26, a group of young concert-goers held up a rainbow flag to represent homosexuality. They were later charged with “public indecency” and “contempt for religion”, among other things.
People, these hateful and homophobic actions must stop. Homosexuality is not, and must never be, something that is scorned or punished in such brutal and horrendous ways. Stories like these are all over the news these days, and it is absolutely our job to discuss them and their causes. October is LGBT+ History Month, and as compassionate, conscientious members of society, we have to stay aware not only of dates and places, but of what the community has to say about itself and it’s members.
We love. We are literally being imprisoned and murdered for loving people. How dare this glorious world call itself all that it is, when such hate and ignorance are filling my feed? What must we do so our children will feel that much more comfortable to love the people they do?
Educate yourself. Speak up for others. Stop the hate.
In the darkened corner of a spicy club, two people. Green skirts and navy tees. He ought to be focusing on his band members, the drums and claves and maracas and musicians with the music in their soul, pumping out a rhythm that sparks those high-up lights meant for Navidad. The noise will wake the neighbors’ kids, whose mother works long hours in a bustling sweatshop, the noise and voices holding no joy like the sunshine of the meringue band. She works hard for the children she has raised, and to keep them away from the fascination of her home in La Vibora.
The lights are bright and warm: not blinding, calm like a happy day. He can just avoid the spotlights shining on him and his friends, who practice long and play longer, drink and have fun and remember what their mothers taught them. The women on the block, the one’s too young to be raising a child or a husband, scoff and assume they will flirt. Uncertainty.
It is loud and hot and sexy, but no one feels threatened. It’s just fun, and those who know each other know. Xenophobia, like in the rest of the neighborhood, where all are foreigners in La Ciudad de Nueva York.
In the darkened corner of a spicy club, two people. He leans in, singing along to her. His cowbell sharp and sassy like the slips and flicks of her fingertips. She pays him no mind, her curls and lips and hips smiling for no one but herself. Dark chocolate shards and caramel brooks. Bubbly and laughing, taunting him. Caution, but intelligent humor.
Quick feet, flashing eyes. Wink, smirk, arched brow, blissful eyelids.
She is dancing fast beside him, her movements all her own. He will not contain her, and she will not indulge. The hard-working Mexican, her eyes bright as the muddy mangoes her father brings home to her, telling her the stories and memories of his childhood with the family’s orchards, lush before fire took them, and his family starting new and happy until fire took her, and left him with a daughter who is slipping away to a better future, that girl who is slender in a green dress, her long curls churning, her feet outpacing his self-esteem. Friendly, platonically, and he doesn’t take the blow.
Her voice clear, singing along to the rhythms, she won’t give him any satisfaction of hearing her voice compliment his cultures’ words, the sunshine of a music that others mistake for merengue, when Puerto Ricans have a culture all their own, and stereotypes are easy, especially for a young man who wanted more as a descendant of slavery, who felt trapped in a place like that, whose differences keep her wondering. Wondering like the histories of his skin that differs from the music that is like sunshine. Subtle in the darkened corner of a spicy club.
Sleeveless green like los flores, navy tee shining behind eyes like estrellas. Loving wisdom hidden by twinkling humor, shining down on simple happiness.
Xenophobia, racism, hostility, friendzone? Feminism, she dances.