I ran across this story from Vanessa Guerrero on Instagram recently. She originally posted it to Twitter a few years ago; here’s the full text:

Living in LA, I’ve lived in many a neighborhood in which police helicopters circle all day and they don’t do anything except be loud an annoying. You know what improved the morale and safety of my neighborhood in less than two weeks?

A new taco stand. I’m 1000% serious.

In general street food vendors on a block means more pedestrian foot traffic round the clock, if they’re open late, that’s more eyes in a neighborhood. Additionally in an area with many dark empty storefronts, literally adds light and vitality to the area.

More of the neighborhood is meeting each other waiting in line for nearby tacos. I met people three houses down I didn’t know. It feels like we’re all only now getting to know each other, over a torta and some soda.

They also posted up at a bus stop and out open until 2am. Meaning people waiting for a bus stop are not longer waiting alone in the dark. There’s a noticiable air of camaraderie, safety and enthusiasm.

Street vendors did more for our neighborhood than the city ever did.

City planners had left the area in disrepair. The vendors literally CLEANED THE BLOCK. THEY PICKED UP TRASH THE CITY NEGLECTS.

I’m serious when I say in the area they posted up, it’s markedly cleaner. This is not the work of the local waste removal services. This is taqueros.

I love this. In her book The Death and Life of Great American Cities, Jane Jacobs wrote about the importance of “having eyes on the street” and foot traffic to building successful neighborhoods:

A city street equipped to handle strangers, and to make a safety asset, in itself, out of the presence of strangers, as the streets of successful city neighborhoods always do, must have three main qualities:

First, there must be a clear demarcation between what is public space and what is private space. Public and private spaces cannot ooze into each other as they do typically in suburban settings or in projects.

Second, there must be eyes upon the street, eyes belonging to those we might call the natural proprietors of the street. The buildings on a street equipped to handle strangers and to insure the safety of both residents and strangers, must be oriented to the street. They cannot turn their backs or blank sides on it and leave it blind.

And third, the sidewalk must have users on it fairly continuously, both to add to the number of effective eyes on the street and to induce the people in buildings along the street to watch the sidewalks in sufficient numbers. Nobody enjoys sitting on a stoop or looking out a window at an empty street. Almost nobody does such a thing. Large numbers of people entertain themselves, off and on, by watching street activity.

Tags: books · cities · Jane Jacobs · The Death and Life of Great American Cities · Vanessa Guerrero

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The way people bristle at the Oscars and so-called ‘Academy politics’ are not without merit. The history of the Oscars does not, and should not, tell the whole story of American film history, let alone world film history. The Oscars are less a national referendum on the state of the film industry and closer to the electoral structure of the Iowa Caucuses, in terms of quirks and selections made by a small, privileged group of voters. Rarely an objectively great film wins. The Best Picture winner is more tied to recency bias of ‘the last good movie’ the members of the voting committee have seen due to media blitzes and publicity campaigns by the competing film studios. When considering what gets platformed as “Oscar-worthy,” one must keep in mind that much of the struggle is for films to simply get their foot in the door and be noticed. This is especially the case with trans narratives. 

Trans rights in the United States are in the midst of being targeted by the second Trump administration’s rapid succession of executive orders, a barrage of reversals and denials that are celebrated by the American right-wing. Such dark times make the significance of recent trans narratives like The People’s Joker and I Saw the TV Glow feel all the more of a respite. Then there is the “cause célèbre” of Jacques Audiard’s musical crime melodrama Emilia Perez. In addition to the film netting the most Oscar nominations this year (13), its lead Karla Sofía Gascón became the first trans actress nominated for Best Actress in a Leading Role. But compared to more digestible liberal pablum like the Oscar-winning Chilean film A Fantastic Woman (2017), which was nonetheless an effective showcase for the talents of trans actress Daniela Vega, who plays a trans woman rocked by the death of her male lover, Emilia Perez has gotten polarized responses from the trans community. This is largely due to the perception around the film as a playground of trans stereotypes, with the eponymous Emilia living a double-life and trying to outrun her violent, murderous past as a Mexican drug lord after medically transitioning. Then came the numerous revelations of racism, ableism, and islamophobia from Gascón’s past social media posts, that have quite possibly jeopardized the film’s Best Picture prospects. The fallout surrounding Gascón’s social media could also function like a meta-critique on Emilia Perez; a film that awkwardly and unconvincingly tries to humanize its trans protagonist—treated with utmost valor in her efforts to make amends for her crimes—that ultimately gets unmasked as vacuous pandering by Gascón’s real life ‘trans villain reveal.’ It underscored just how cynical and insincere the whole endeavor has come across to the trans community…but Emilia Perez may still win Oscars. The relationship between the trans community and the Oscars has long been a cumbersome one. However, there are significant figures and films tied to the trans film image and trans cinematic cultural production that have their own place in Oscars history. 

Often at the margins of popular culture and society at-large, trans film images were most visibly utilized by Hollywood to present a ‘challenging’ acting role. Transness on-screen has consistently been over-represented by cis male actors in dresses and wigs and cis female actresses wearing chest binders and butch haircuts. Such performances get Oscar nominated, and even win, but Warhol superstar Holly Woodlawn was the first trans actress to campaign to be nominated for Best Supporting Actress for her role as a cis woman in Paul Morrissey’s Trash (1970). Her grassroots Oscar campaign, which included collectible pins and promotional photoshoots, got the attention of Oscar winners like My Fair Lady director George Cukor. But alas, she did not secure the nomination. Still, the 1970s were a time where films with trans subject matter were getting attention from the Academy. While Sidney Lumet’s Dog Day Afternoon (1975) and its “ripped from the headlines” tale of a bank robber seeking to fund his lover’s sex change operation was seen as a hallmark of 1970s cinema, it was predated by the Spanish film Mi Querida Senorita (1972), which was nominated for Best Foreign Language film. Mi Querida Senorita is about a provincial spinster who transitions into a man and seeks romance with his former maid (played by Pedro Almodóvar regular Julieta Serrano). The film, despite being a precursor to the work of Almodóvar, has been strangely lost to time. 

In the last decade, non-binary and trans performers like Mica Levi and Anohni have been nominated for Original Score and Original Song, but Angela Morley, also known for her collaborations with avant-garde pop musician and composer Scott Walker, was the first known trans individual nominated for her contributions on the scores for The Little Prince (1974) and The Slipper and The Rose: The Story of Cinderella (1976). Morley continued to work in film and television as a conductor and composer, netting three Emmy Awards. Morley and the great electronic musician Wendy Carlos have been hailed for their ‘below the line’ contributions to music in film, illustrating that trans labor in film production extends beyond what is in front of the camera. As for the question of direct representation, trans people have often turned to documentary films over scripted narratives to present their lives more authentically. But historically, and somewhat surprisingly, the Documentary Feature category severely lacks trans representation. 

Despite the fact that Jennie Livingston’s Paris is Burning (1990) is canonized as one of the great documentaries, it was not nominated. Also not nominated was Kate Davis’s award-winning Southern Comfort (2001), about cancer-ridden trans man Robert Eads. This makes Yance Ford’s Oscar nominated Strong Island (2017), which was the first time a trans person was nominated in the Documentary Feature category, all the more powerful to consider. Strong Island is Ford’s meditation on the injustice of his brother’s murder, and his approach to confronting the systemic racism of where he grew up, featuring striking close-ups of his face and direct addresses to the viewer. In times where state and reactionary violence are fueled by not only the contemporary American administration, but oppressive far-right initiatives across the globe, speaking out on injustice in this confrontational manner might be how trans non-fiction will unfold in these upcoming years. 

Even before the Gascón controversy, I believed that Emilia Perez could not have been released at a worse time, airing on Netflix after a Presidential election that saw unprecedented and highly coordinated attacks against trans people in national ad campaigns. Now, amid the immediate impacts of Project 2025 and anti-trans executive orders, the film feels even more radioactive. Yet, I find myself less invested in whether or not it wins anything. It would make sense for the same organization that honored Green Book (2018) and Crash (2004) to also reward Emilia Perez. Still, it says something that—even by accident—trans film images, subject matter, and labor were recognized by this complicated institution dating back to the 1970s. Trans people have always been part of the story of film, in both narrative and production. Whether or not the Academy recognizes those contributions, trans cinematic cultural production will continue, much like trans life continues despite and against this rising current of fascist transphobia. 

Caden Mark Gardner is a film critic from Upstate New York whose work has appeared on Film Comment, the Criterion Collection, MUBI and Los Angeles Review of Books. He is the co-author of Corpses, Fools and Monsters: The History and Future of Transness in Cinema.

Kendrick Lamar's album DAMN. was one of my favorites of 2017. I thought about his song HUMBLE. again after it made an appearance in his incredible performance at Super Bowl LIX. He begins the song by talking about what he's overcome in his life to get here. The sacrifices he's made, his success against the odds, how hard he works, are all there in the first verse. He's performing at a football game I'm told is an important one! He's the best! And in the chorus, he admonishes himself a bit. "Be humble," he repeats for a while. "Sit down. Be humble." Kendrick himself confirmed in an interview with Rolling Stone that this is a song written by him, for him.

Who are you talking to in the chorus– yourself?
Definitely. It’s the ego. [...] I’m looking in the mirror.

Our society pounds this drumbeat of humility as an ideal we're all supposed to aspire to. But society also makes it clear that this ideal isn't for everyone. The most powerful man in the world is an exaggerating blowhard. The media and the public spent decades rewarding him for this braggadocio. If there's some kind of penalty that comes with a lack of humility, who experiences it?

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie gave a speech (which became an essay) titled "We Should All be Feminists." It's the only TED Talk I can think of that made it into a song as a sample. “We say to girls, you can have ambition, but not too much. You should aim to be successful, but not too successful. Otherwise, you would threaten the man.” Yes, I know this part of the speech by heart (thanks Beyoncé). Adichie argued that humility is a must for women and girls. Without it, they face the loss of relationships, a loss of support, even a lifetime of rejection.

Society doesn't limit these penalties to women, of course. I'm no stranger to accusations of being cocky or even arrogant. I've heard similar stories from BIPOC friends and colleagues. We're supposed to be happy with what we get. We can't celebrate too hard, whether it's in the end zone or on a tennis court. Demanding more, even our fair share, is being ungrateful for what we already have.

The attack on DEI from the white minority might even be a part of this. Should we have accepted poor representation as being enough? Why should we diminish how hard we worked to get to where we are? Would any of this have kept racists and bigots from moving to steal even more?

the curse of humility

Insisting we humble ourselves is a societal rule that's only selectively enforced. This is why I say that humility is a trap.

There's no right way to be humble. "Being humble" is a vague rule with no clear standard. Saying positive things about ourselves, no matter how humbly, may still earn criticism.

Instead, we should be clear and honest about what it took to get us to where we are. We're not monks! We don't need to aspire to a puritan notion of meekness.

It diminishes our power and worth. Self-deprecation is a plague on our souls! What does it do for us? Why do we use it as a signal for how likable a person is? Why must we diminish ourselves before others will deem us noble or good?

Instead, think about the impact humility may be having on you. Appreciating your own worth doesn't make you conceited or vain. Society tells us in many ways that external validation is the only praise we're allowed to crave. Anyone on social media knows how fleeting validation from others can feel. It can create a feedback loop of emptiness when we don't have a steady stream of it.

Humility is not a virtue. The opposite of humility is pride! LGBTQ+ folks especially know the harms of conforming to society's demands. Pride is not the vice that dominant culture declares it to be. It's a celebration of difference, of specialness, that humility wants to suppress.

Instead, change the narrative that pride means arrogance. Kendrick himself says it on the song PRIDE., which comes right before HUMBLE. on the album: "I can't fake humble because your ass is insecure."

humility is the real vanity

In modern society, humility is the true arrogance. It's become a belief that we have to sand off our edges if we want to get inside. Letting go of humility doesn't mean becoming a braggart. It might instead help us love ourselves a little more.

Doechii is one of my favorite artists of 2024. After she won a Grammy, the blog Hearing Things shared an interview with Doechii and the journalist PapiCleve. He asks, "what advice would you give to your younger self, that you wish you had heard when you were growing up?" Doechii thought for a moment before replying.

“I literally have no advice for myself. I ate that. That little girl is exactly who she needed to be, to be here right now. I’m fucking perfect. I ate that. No notes. Ten outta ten.”

It can feel daunting when we face the odds stacked against us. If you are doing what you can to dismantle oppression and help you and our communities thrive, you are perfect. Why should anyone be humble about that?

The City of Seattle chose to build an entire area meant for enjoying a walk along the water that marginalizes 25 percent of its population. by Mindie Lind

This story appears in our Spring Art + Performance 2025 Issue, published on March 5, 2025.

Back in December, after returning from my honeymoon in Paris, my husband and I settled back into our downtown Seattle apartment overlooking the waterfront—proud of our little city. There’s something about living a few blocks from Pike Place Market that makes it easy to see that, like Paris, Seattle has its cute shops, sights, and (dare I say) culture. I am aware this is not a popular opinion, but living downtown RULES. I love being within strolling distance to everywhere; especially as a person with a disability, I am obsessed with how easy it is to get around. Me, my husband, our cat, and my big-girl city vibes.

So when we returned to the States to find that Overlook Walk—an elevated pathway connecting Pike Place Market to the waterfront—was finally finished and open to the public, I was so pumped to see what they’ve done with the beautiful new city feature, built where the viaduct (RIP) once was. My husband and I have been nosy neighbors about its progress over the past year—we’d walk over to it a few times a week, seeing what looked like paths swirling down the new structure, exclaiming, “Oh my god, those look like ramps, those are gonna be ramps!” Good on Seattle, I thought.

The New Waterfront has promised to make downtown the most pedestrian-friendly version of itself. The fancy overlook walk has worked to “restore connectivity downtown … connectivity between people and place, past and present, sea and shore.”

So what did they finally make? As we walked closer and closer, I thought: “No. They didn’t! Those look like… it’s… stairs.” I quickly realized that the new feature centered massive staircases in every place a ramp could have very easily gone. And worse, the only adapted solution was behind the action. Elevators. Banished to the back of the park. We headed toward them, my back to the vista, steam coming out of my ears. We waited to cram ouselves into a tin can. The whole vibe is to enjoy the park—at least give us an elevator made of windows.

As a person who takes daily walks downtown, I want to help you imagine something: My husband and I are shopping at the Market for dinner, we head toward the pretty way home, where we can look at the sun setting and the stunning views. Suddenly, the walk is interrupted. The ramp we are on ends in stairs. Stair after stair. “Oh, look,” my husband exclaims. “There’s a ramp!” “A ramp that leads you to more stairs,” I reply. Fake ramps. Fake access. Entire sections completely closed off as I am exiled to the other way—separated by back-entrance
elevators and interrupted by ableism.

It shouldn’t surprise me—I’ve been doing life without legs for 40-plus years. But I was stunned and enraged. I watched this thing being built from the beginning, I was its biggest fan. Before the stairs went in, I was so hopeful, I yearned for its potential.

Of course we’d put a beautiful new inclusive structure along our waterfront! We’re Seattle, after all! We are a big, modern, tech-forward city with lots of money, seeping with progressive ideals, right? Nope! For some reason, the City of Seattle chose, on purpose, to build an entire area meant for enjoying a walk along the water that marginalizes 25 percent of its population.

The freaking Colosseum is accessible, and that was built in the first century.

It’s lazy work, and any architects who are operating in this way are simply shit architects. We know better—we know that sticking a crappy elevator in the back is dated and ableist, right? So how did we let this happen?

When I was much younger, my older brother, an architect at the time, took me aside to tell me how cumbersome the ADA makes his job. How “keeping up with code” was a burden that I, and others like me, put on him with our existence, and how finding a place to throw an elevator in after you’ve completed all your designs was an annoying afterthought.

I didn’t fully digest the insulting ableism of his complaint until later in life—after learning about universal design.

Universal designers include access within their design, so spaces are equitable, simple, intuitive, and can be used by all people, without any additional adaptations. UD architecture generally looks better because they aren’t just pinning a very important element on at the end, as an afterthought. It’s fluid, inclusive, and stunning. And you already see it all the time: stairless entries, curb cuts, or no curbs at all! What can be harder to imagine, maybe, is sets of ramps and stairs so imaginatively designed that they are used in lock-step with one another as part of one design goal, to be used by all people. So that no one is going the other way, and no matter who you are, you experience the space in the same way.

The Overlook Walk is massive, as surely was the budget. Certainly, finding an inclusion solution was possible. I saw it with my very eyes, as it was being built.

There are no ADA police for this kind of oversight, so of course, it’s up to us crips, the marginalized, to say something to, do something. So that’s what I’m doing here, stirring the pot the only way I know how. I am always gonna write about it ’cause that’s what I can do. And you know the worst part? My favorite thing to do when I write is to take a stroll. Motherfuckers.

In the outpour of heartbreak that flooded the internet after David Lynch’s passing, some of the most vocal mourners were sex workers.

The post Why So Many Sex Workers Love David Lynch appeared first on Autostraddle.

Over 80 openly queer musicians and bands have taken the NPR Tiny Desk "stage."

The post Every Queer Tiny Desk Performance, Ranked appeared first on Autostraddle.