Sport Is Not Safe For Intersex People. Ive Known This Ever Since I First Heard About How The Olympics

Sport is not safe for intersex people. I’ve known this ever since I first heard about how the olympics has treated intersex athletes. Especially intersex people who aren’t white. Hell, I have a whole pretty popular post that still gets reblogged about how much the high level sporting world has hurt and ruined the lives of intersex people. But I’ve been reminded again of this in the past few days. It’s so fucking hard and crushing to see people all over talk about how people like you are disgusting, cheaters, freaks and more.

I’ve been playing competitive soccer for years, since I was about 12. I’m obviously not an Olympic level athlete, or anywhere close, but I’d say I’m pretty good at my position and have put in countless hours over the years to get to this point. I grew up watching Christine Sinclair score goals for Canada and I screamed so hard with happiness my voice gave out when I watched as Stephanie Labbe made an amazing save in penalties to win Canada the gold at the Tokyo olympics. Like a lot of kids, I’d sometimes dream of standing beside them, triumphant on the podium. But it seems that that dream isn’t one intersex kids are allowed to have. Because god fucking forbid we be athletes, or even worse, good athletes. God fucking forbid we are better in our sport than another person, because a target is painted on our backs. Especially, especially for intersex women who aren’t white.

Intersex people in sport aren’t allowed to be strong or talented. We aren’t allowed to be world class athletes. The world doesn’t want us to exist, but especially not in sport.

It makes me so fucking angry. Because much as the dream of competing in the olympics will never materialize for most kids, it’s still a dream that’s allowed to exist. Intersex kids don’t get to dream of the olympics the same way, because the sporting world hates us.

A small comic about Palestine I created to appeal to more passive family and friends

Anyways if you have the money I urge you to donate to Ibraheem Hadi, a Palestinian who contacted me and whom I promised to highlight in relation to this comic:

gofundme.com

Donate to Help me and my family to evacuate from Gaza, organized by Devlin Downs

Title: "Urgent Relief: Support Ibrahim's Family in Gaza Amidst Devastation" … Devlin Downs needs your support for Help me and my family to

Otherwise there is always a need for eSims to keep Gazans connected

“Are you the witch who turned eleven princes into swans?”

The old woman stared at the figure on the front step of her cottage and considered her options. It was the kind of question usually backed up by a mob with meaningful torches, and it was the kind of question she tried to avoid.

Coming from a single dusty, tired housewife, it should’ve held no terrors.

“You a cop?”

The housewife twisted the hem of her apron. “No,” she muttered. “I’m a swan.”

A raven croaked somewhere in the woods. Wind whispered in the autumn leaves.

Then: “I think I can guess,” the old woman said slowly. “Husband stole your swan skin and forced you to marry him?”

A nod.

“And you can’t turn back into a swan until you find your skin again.”

A nod.

“But I reckon he’s hidden it, or burned it, or keeps it locked up so you can’t touch it.”

A tiny, miserable nod.

“And then you hear that old Granny Rothbart who lives out in the woods is really a batty old witch whose father taught her how to turn princes into swans,” the old woman sighed. “And you think, ‘Hey, stuff the old skin, I can just turn into a swan again this way.’

“But even if that was true – which I haven’t said if it is or if it isn’t – I’d say that I can only do it to make people miserable. I’m an awful person. I can’t do it out of the goodness of my heart. I have no goodness. I can’t use magic to make you feel better. I only wish I could.”

Another pause. “If I was a witch,” she added.

The housewife chewed the inside of her cheek. Then she drew herself up and, for the first time, looked the old woman in the eyes.

“Can you do it to make my husband miserable?”

The old woman considered her options. Then she pulled the wand out from the umbrella stand by the door. It was long, and silver, and a tiny glass swan with open wings stood perched on the tip.

“I can work with that,” said the witch.