For decades, conservatism has preached a gospel of “individualism,” disdaining the idea — which is backed by considerable scientific evidence — that humans are deeply interdependent pack animals whose survival depends more on cooperation than on individual striving. That right-wing gospel is being rapidly exposed as not but silly, but meaningless and even dangerous in the age of coronavirus.
The body of Scott Johnson, 27, was found at the bottom of beach cliffs in 1988. Police ruled it a suicide.
However, later inquiries concluded he had been killed in a hate crime. This also drew attention to other cases of homophobic killings around Sydney’s beaches in the 1980s.
Scott Price, 49, was arrested at his Sydney home on Tuesday.
“What’s happening now is young people are saying, ‘Oh, part of my job today, besides being a gorgeous 17-year-old young person, is to not hate gay people, is to not be racist, is to not call someone a ‘fag’ or anyone a ‘bitch.’ I’m not going to be a misogynist like my weird uncle who spouts off at Thanksgiving dinner. Like, that’s one of my jobs, is to not repeat this.’”
On May 8th, editors and creators in the comics industry awoke to an announcement in The New York Times that Oni Press—publisher of Scott Pilgrim, among other beloved indie books—would be merging with Lion Forge, a publisher largely built by black creators, and its parent company Polarity.
It was the kind of business maneuvering that rarely makes headlines outside of the comics industry. But inside the industry, layoffs from the merger kicked up a stir that has yet to die down: several of those jettisoned in the merger were queer women and women of color. Among others, the casualties from Lion Forge included their editor-in-chief Andrea Colvin and associate editor (and Eisner award-winning cartoonist) Christina “Steenz” Stewart. Those laid off from Oni Press included its one black editor, Desiree Wilson, while executive editor Ari Yarwood resigned a week later.
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In Mississippi, being a conservative white woman is embraced and those who turn from those beliefs risk abuse, rejection or public humiliation
“I love you,” Chera Sherman’s mother told her before driving away in her Jeep Cherokee, leaving her daughter, then 19, bawling fat tears in front of her boyfriend’s home in Laurel, Mississippi.
It was 1994, and Sherman had made the life-altering mistake of falling in love with Jerry Breland, a lanky, black 19-year-old she’d met through a friend back when she worked at Kmart.
Her mother had finally told her stepfather about their six-month relationship earlier that day after a local cop pulled Breland over while he was driving his girlfriend’s yellow Sunbird. When her stepfather heard she was violating his code against race-mixing, he drove to her job to tell her she had to move out.
“White men aren’t going to want you,” her father told her.
In a new book, Hugh Ryan explores the untold history of queer life in Brooklyn from the 1850s forward, revealing some unlikely truths.
One recurring theme in his research that fascinated Ryan was how Brooklyn’s rise from rural backwater to New York’s second city mirrored the rise in interest in sex and gender studies and – sadly – the rise in homophobia, bigotry and abuse.