I always send an email to my professors about a week before the semester starts that says this:
SUBJECT: Preferred Name
Body:
Dear [PROFESSOR’S PREFIX AND LAST NAME], My name is [YOUR FIRST AND LAST NAME], and I will be attending your course [COURSE TITLE] on [DAYS OF CLASS] at [TIME OF CLASS] this semester. I am transgender and have not yet legally changed my name. On your roster is my name is [LEGAL NAME]. I would greatly appreciate it if you refer to me as [PREFERRED NAME] and use [PREFERRED PRONOUNS] when referring to me. Thank you for your understanding, and I look forward to starting your course this week. Sincerely, [PREFERRED FULL NAME]
Also, look into seeing if your school has a preferred name policy! My school just implemented one last August! It still has some loose bolts so I email my professor’s still anyway but it can be helpful on school IDs and such!
As a prof, this is both overkill and perfect – very polite and very thorough.
I only say ‘overkill’ because I get a lot of email in August and September and would be happy with something that got to the point a little faster:
Dear Professor [name],
I’m in your [course number or title] class, [section number if applicable] this semester. My name on official documents is [legal name], but I would greatly appreciate it if you would use [preferred name] and [preferred pronouns].
Thanks for your understanding, [etc.]
I don’t need to know why, unless someone is comfortable disclosing. I just need to respect it.
(I’ve even had “hey, my name on the list is [name] but I go by [name] and [pronouns] instead. cool?” … But I teach in a very informal department, and while I was fine with it, I wouldn’t actually recommend that course of action as a first contact. XD )
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do you really think it’s a good idea to take military advice from the French
REBLOGGING BECAUSE OF EVERYTHING OMFG
Historically the “style” died in 1914 because the French would wear bright blue and red uniforms and the British said “that’s a bad idea” and the French said “we look great” then they got sniped.
Quoting vines in Rome to see who responds. So far we have:
In the Colosseum, a tour guide was talking about who sat where and when they mentioned that the emperor and some other guy sat in one place, I said “And they were roommates!” And one of the girls on the tour said “oh my god! Zey ver voomates!” In a thick German accent before glaring at me.
And an alcove in the Vatican Museum with nothing in it and I quietly said “this bitch empty” and a British girl yelled “YEET” before realising her mistake and telling me to go fuck myself.
Young girls really are pressured now more than ever to be seen as beautiful and sexy and perfect like IG models and whatever the fuck…..like that’s why you see “me at 14 vs 14 year old girls today” posts……….we didn’t have this constant stream of content like they do…..content telling us to be perfect and to have perfect clothes and sharp eyeliner wings that look photoshopped and shit like that….I mean it’s always been there but not like this…and while I think girls should be able to dress however they want and do whatever they want…..you have to take into consideration the fact that this all stems from a toxic culture where women have to be perfect and beautiful…now at younger and younger ages….and it’s really gross…and the media continues to sexualize and like…make young girls seem older and more appealing than they actually are idk the whole thing makes me so uncomfortable and it’s only going to get worse
And the wildest thing is, people will still try and justify it with the “there’s always been girls that dress older than they are!” argument. Which is true. But it was never the norm. Pre social media, most young girls were allowed be young girls. Here’s Miley Cyrus, Selena Gomez and Lindsay Lohan at 14/15 in 2001-2007. They were arguably the biggest young stars of the time but this is how they presented
They aren’t being styled to look leagues older than they are. They’re allowed to just be their own age and look their own age. Now, here’s Millie Bobbie Brown at 13 in 2018, Veronika Bonell at 15/16 in 2017, Skai Jackson at 13 in 2015, and Caitlin Carmichael at 13 in 2017.
There is a deep problem in our society that this is what people are styling children to look like. They don’t look like children, they look like young adults. They could wear these exact same looks in 10 years and they wouldn’t be questioned because they’re dressed and made up to present as adults. This is what is presented as normal for young girls, this is the image they’re told is the “right” one, the one they should aspire to.
There’s nothing wrong with girls – or boys – wanting to be pretty. But there is a problem with young girls being constantly told that pretty for them means looking over 21 at 13.
There’s nothing wrong with girls – or boys – wanting to be pretty. But there is a problem with young girls being constantly told that pretty for them means looking over 21 at 13.
The magic bra ladies live in a small shop hung with underwear and swimsuits. It is not fancy looking. There are a lot of cardboard boxes. The shop is called Madame Leiberg’s. I sometimes wonder about that. Who was Madame Leiberg? I know my mum got her first bra there, and that it’s where my great-grandmother used to buy her long-line bras and reinforced pantygirdles. It must have been around since at least the 1960s. I can’t imagine the redoubtable figure that was Great-Gran buying her all-important slightly creaky-sounding undergarments anywhere new, so it had probably been there a while before she condescended to grace it with her patronage. 1950s? Earlier? It’s in the middle of the most Jewish suburb of London, and Leiberg sounds German. Maybe the original Madame Leiberg was part of the wave of German Jewish immigrants in the 1930s. Or maybe she never existed at all, who knows.
It’s the most incredible shop.
I walk in. I do not make the mistake of trying to browse. You don’t browse in this place. “What are you looking for?” asks the nearest magic bra lady. She is the junior shop assistant, I think, although I’m pretty sure she’s also the one who fitted me for my first bra a decade and a half ago. She looks like she’s been there since the dawn of time. The senior bra lady looks like she’s been there since before the dawn of time. There is decades of combined underwear experience in this room.
“Er,” I say. This is already going better than the second-last time I was here, when the senior bra lady didn’t even ask the question, just raised an eyebrow and said, “Ah. You’ll want something that fits.”
“Two bras?” I say. “Uh, a dark one and a light one?” Two bras here is an extravagance. I can just about afford it. It’ll pay itself off in cost-per-wear, I tell myself.
I am whisked into a fitting room and ordered to take my top off. I don’t feel remotely shy about it. I never do here. They aren’t interested in what my body looks like. They just want to give me the perfect bra.
That’s why you don’t browse, you see. You know nothing about the perfect bra. They do. They don’t mess around with measurements. I have never seen a tape measure in this shop. They take a look at you and then go and fetch you the exact bra you need from a cardboard box known only to them. It truly is magical.
My magic bra lady examines the bra I’m currently wearing. She checks the label. “That can’t be right,” she says. My bra is a 32C nude t-shirt bra, purchased here two years ago. “Hmm,” says the assistant. She goes and gets me a bra the same size and tries it on me. “Just what I thought,” she says, whisking it off before I have a chance to see what it looks like.
“Take that,” she says, gesturing to the bra I came in with, “and throw it away. Burn it. Never wear it again.”
“Okay,” I say meekly.
“Look, try this.” She puts a 34D bra in the same style on me. I can feel the difference at once. There’s no wire digging into me. The straps fit. “That’s so much bett-” I begin.
“No,” she says. She takes it off me. She puts another one on me. “Here.”
34E. Wow, really? I’m thinking. I knew I’d gained weight but I didn’t realise it was that much. “Perfect,” says my bra lady with satisfaction. “The other one was gapping over the breastbone.”
I look at myself in the mirror. I’ve been unsatisfied with my body lately, if I’m honest. I didn’t expect to stay the same weight forever that I was when I was a teenager, I tell myself. I’m okay being a stone or two heavier; it’s definitely better than the skeletal look I had in the pits of my last major depressive episode when I just stopped eating. Be body positive, right? I look fine. I feel fine. I’m happy. I like how I look naked. I just avoid glancing towards the mirror when I’m getting dressed. Everything seems to sag and roll alarmingly when I try to put clothes on it.
The woman in the mirror looks great. I love the bra. I love her. Nothing is sagging or rolling. If it was it wouldn’t matter, because the boobs are fantastic.
“What else did you want?” asks my bra lady, with a quiet touch of smugness. She knows she’s good.
“Something darker?” I say. “Uh, I have quite a lot of tops with low necklines -”
“Something pretty,” says the bra lady firmly.
She disappears into the midst of the cardboard boxes. When she reappears she is holding three black bras. One has a deep blue-green peacock design, subtle; one is lace; one has an adorable cherry bow. They’re all gorgeous. You can’t buy all of them, I tell myself firmly. I already know I’m going to go for at least two.
She puts them on me one after the other. Square neckline. Scoop. Deep v. The peacock one is possibly the most gorgeous thing I have ever put on my body. The cherry bow is adorable. The black lace only loses out by comparison. My magic bra lady looks satisfied. She’s no fool: she’s brought out two really expensive ones and the black lace one for a cheap option. I resign myself to the inevitable. I am going to spend a lot of money here. Cost-per-wear, I tell myself. Also apparently I have to throw out and possibly burn all my current bras, because it’s very clear from these that I’ve been wearing completely the wrong size.
Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Are there knickers with these?” I ask.
“We’d have to order in from Germany for that one,” she says, gesturing to the peacock bra.
I walk away with three new bras: nude t-shirt bra, cherry bow v-neck, and the peacock one. I also have a matching pair of knickers for the cherry bow one and the peacock knickers on order. I wince at the bill. Two hundred quid, wow, that is a substantial chunk of my budget for the next few months. It’s worth it. I go two years at a time between bra shops so that I can afford to come here when I need new underwear.
My magic bra lady won’t let me wear my old bra home. “You can throw it in the bin here if you like,” she offers. I protest. It has served me well. It deserves a honourable burial in my own personal bin.
I walk home wearing a new bra. It’s comfortable. It fits perfectly. It makes me feel happy about how I look. And I have never been so supported.
Anyway, they are so old-fashioned they barely have a website, but if you are ever in north London and find yourself in need of slightly-pricey-but-genuinely-perfect underwear placed on you by experts in an atmosphere of total soothing competence, you should definitely visit.
So I’m getting married a week today, and I walked into Leiberg’s with my dress and the sentence ‘can you -‘
And now I have a perfectly fitted bustier which matches the dress like it was made for it and fits perfectly and makes my cleavage fabulous and my waist tiny and is SO comfortable.
Magic bra ladies, you guys. There’s nothing like them.
I really like this gif because Stitch does that little squinty thing that animals do when they’re really happy and relaxed and you can tell that he’s having such a superb time playing that little ukulele
Steel Phoenix Studios 