The biggest LGBT rights rally in America since the commencement of Obama’s administration. Read more on CNN. Enjoy the photos!

Yours truly at the White House.

Say, Malaysians, when are you going to speak up?

Reading a collection of essays on indigenous rights kept reminding me about the similarities the movement for indigenous rights have with the movement for queer rights. In an essay by Kirk Endicott*, where he lists an amazing number of oppressive policies the federal and state government practices against the Orang Asli and indigenous groups of Borneo (i.e. low compensation for snatching land away, destructive Islamic missionary initiatives, and a Jabatan Hal Ehwal Orang Asli that is made up of Malays), the struggle of the Orang Asli and other indigenous peoples around the world, in their act of revolution against the hegemonizing nation-state, reminds me of an inspiring manifesto I had once read. Finding it today, again, I want to share a touching paragraph on the politics of reclamation and self-identification – one that, if sometimes seems more confrontational than conciliatory, restores faith in the self-worth of the community. In the indigenous communities that most of the time lack proper access to infrastructure and education, such a manifesto, I hope, renews some hope for coalition building (perhaps not at the expense of making invisible the diversity within the coalition) so that our Original Peoples are included in Najib’s farcical 1Malaysia.

A paragraph from the manifesto of Queer Nation.

“AN ARMY OF LOVERS CANNOT LOSE

Being queer is not about a right to privacy; it is about the freedom to be public, to just be who we are. It means everyday fighting oppression; homophobia, racism, misogyny, the bigotry of religious hypocrites and our own self-hatred. (We have been carefully taught to hate ourselves.) And now of course it means fighting a virus as well, and all those homo-haters who are using AIDS to wipe us off the face of the earth. Being queer means leading a different sort of life. It’s not about the mainstream, profit-margins, patriotism, patriarchy or being assimilated. It’s not about executive directors, privilege and elitism. It’s about being on the margins, defining ourselves; it’s about gender- fuck and secrets, what’s beneath the belt and deep inside the heart; it’s about the night. Being queer is “grass roots” because we know that everyone of us, every body, every cunt, every heart and ass and dick is a world of pleasure waiting to be explored. Everyone of us is a world of infinite possibility. We are an army because we have to be. We are an army because we are so powerful. (We have so much to fight for; we are the most precious of endangered species.) And we are an army of lovers because it is we who know what love is. Desire and lust, too. We invented them. We come out of the closet, face the rejection of society, face firing squads, just to love each other! Every time we fuck, we win. We must fight for ourselves (no one else is going to do it) and if in that process we bring greater freedom to the world at large then great. (We’ve given so much to that world: democracy, all the arts, the concepts of love, philosophy and the soul, to name just a few gifts from our ancient Greek Dykes, Fags.) Let’s make every space a Lesbian and Gay space. Every street a part of our sexual geography. A city of yearning and then total satisfaction. A city and a country where we can be safe and free and more. We must look at our lives and see what’s best in them, see what is queer and what is straight and let that straight chaff fall away! Remember there is so, so little time. And I want to be a lover of each and every one of you. Next year, we march naked.”

For the rest of the manifesto, please visit here.

*Kirk Endicott, with his wife, Karen Endicott, have published a book on the egalitarian social relationships, including gender!!, in the Batek community of Malaysia. He has also edited and written several works on indigenous rights and the Orang Asli and indigenous communities of Malaysia. His bio page can be read here.

Here’s an article that I found extremely interesting and important in reminding us that the movement for equal rights can sometimes be (dangerously) dominated by those of us already in privileged positions, if we are not careful and aware of our own politics when advocating for a certain position. To quote a favorite historian and queer rights activist of mine, Tim McCarthy, who tells a predominantly gay and lesbian audience, “Let’s not throw the trans (or insert any minority part of the LGBTQ community, such as the black, hispanic, asian, low-income, immigrant, etc. LGBTQ community) people under the bus!”

By LZ Granderson
Special to CNN

Editor’s note: LZ Granderson is a senior writer and columnist for ESPN The Magazine and ESPN.com, and has contributed to ESPN’s Sports Center, Outside the Lines and First Take. He is the 2009 Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD) award winner for online journalism and the 2008 National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association (NLGJA) winner for column writing.
LZ Granderson says criticism of President Obama by the gay community has gone too far.

LZ Granderson says criticism of President Obama by the gay community has gone too far.

(CNN) — Far from flowing rainbow flags, the sound of Lady Gaga and, quite honestly, white people, stands a nightclub just outside of Wicker Park in Chicago, Illinois, by the name of The Prop House.

The line to get in usually stretches down the block, and unlike many of the clubs in Boystown and Andersonville, this one plays hip-hop and caters to men who may or may not openly identify as gay, but without question are black and proud.

And a good number of them are tired of hearing how the gay community is disappointed in President Obama, because they are not.

In recent weeks, one would have thought the nation’s first black president was also the nation’s biggest homophobe. Everyone from Oscar winner Dustin Lance Black and radio personality Rachel Maddow to Joe Solmonese, the president of Human Rights Campaign, the country’s largest gay advocacy group, seem to be blasting Obama for everything from “don’t ask don’t tell” to Adam Lambert not winning American Idol.

In their minds, Obama is not moving fast enough on behalf of the GLBT community. The outcry is not completely without merit — the Justice Department’s unnerving brief on the Defense of Marriage Act immediately comes to mind. I was upset by some of the statements, but not surprised. (After the Tuskegee Syphilis Study, President Ronald Reagan’s initial handling of AIDS and, more recently, Katrina, there is little that surprises me when it comes to the government and the treatment of its people.)

Still, rarely has criticism regarding Obama and the GLBT community come from the kind of person you would find standing in line at a spot like The Prop House, and there’s a reason for that.

Despite the catchiness of the slogan, gay is not the new black.

Black is still black.

And if any group should know this, it’s the gay community.

Bars such as The Prop House, or Bulldogs in Atlanta, Georgia, exist because a large number of gay blacks — particularly those who date other blacks, and live in the black community — do not feel a part of the larger gay movement. There are Gay Pride celebrations, and then there are Black Gay Prides.

There’s a popular bar in the heart of the nation’s capital that might as well rename itself Antebellum, because all of the white patrons tend to stay upstairs and the black patrons are on the first floor. Last year at the annual Human Rights Campaign national fundraiser in Washington, D.C. — an event that lasted more than three hours — the only black person to make it on stage was the entertainment.

When Proposition 8 passed in California, white gays were quick to blame the black community despite blacks making up less than 10 percent of total voters and whites being close to 60 percent. At protest rallies that followed, some gay blacks reported they were even hit with racial epithets by angry white participants. Not to split hairs, but for most blacks, the n-word trumps the f-word.

So while the white mouthpiece of the gay community shakes an angry finger at intolerance and bigotry in their blogs and on television, blacks and other minorities see the dirty laundry. They see the hypocrisy of publicly rallying in the name of unity but then privately living in segregated pockets. And then there is the history.

The 40th anniversary of Stonewall dominated Gay Pride celebrations around the country, and while that is certainly a significant moment that should be recognized, 40 years is nothing compared with the 400 blood-soaked years black people have been through in this country. There are stories some blacks lived through, stories others were told by their parents and stories that never had a chance to be told.

While those who were at Stonewall talk about the fear of being arrested by police, 40 years ago, blacks talked about the fear of dying at the hands of police and not having their bodies found or murder investigated. The 13th Amendment was signed in 1865, and it wasn’t until 1948 that President Harry S Truman desegregated the military. That’s more than an 80-year gap.

Not to be flip, but Miley Cyrus is older than Bill Clinton’s “don’t ask, don’t tell.” That doesn’t mean that the safety of gay people should be trivialized or that Obama should not be held accountable for the promises he made on the campaign trail. But to call this month’s first-ever White House reception for GLBT leaders “too little too late” is akin to a petulant child throwing a tantrum because he wants to eat his dessert before dinner. This is one of the main reasons why so many blacks bristle at the comparison of the two movements — everybody wants to sing the blues, nobody wants to live them.

This lack of perspective is only going to alienate a black community that is still very proud of Obama and is hypersensitive about any criticism of him, especially given he’s been in office barely six months.

If blacks are less accepting of gays than other racial groups — and that is certainly debatable — then the parade of gay people calling Obama a “disappointment” on television is counterproductive in gaining acceptance, to say the least. And the fact that the loudest critics are mostly white doesn’t help matters either.

Hearing that race matters in the gay community may not be comforting to hear, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

The opinions expressed in this commentary are solely those of LZ Granderson.

This wonderful story on the social construction of gender is a MUST-READ for everyone.

A Fabulous Child’s Story

by Lois Gould

Once upon a time, a baby named X was born. This baby was named X so that nobody could tell whether it was a boy or a girl. Its parents could tell, of course, but they couldn’t tell anybody else. They couldn’t even tell Baby X at first.

You see, it was all part of a very important Secret Scientific Xperiment, known officially as Project Baby X. The smartest scientists had set up this Xperiment at a cost of Xactly 23 billion dollars and 72 cents, which might seem like a lot for just one baby, even a very important Xperimental baby. But when you remember the prices of things like strained carrots and stuffed bunnies, and popcorn for the movies and booster shots for camp, let alone 28 shiny quarters from the tooth fairy, you begin to see how it adds up.

Also, long before Baby X was born, all those scientists had to be paid to work out the details of the Xperiment, and to write the Official Instruction Manual for Baby X’s parents and, most important of all, to find the right set of parents to bring up Baby X. These parents had to be selected very carefully. Thousands of volunteers had to take thousands of tests and answer thousands of tricky questions. Almost everybody failed because, it turned out, almost everybody really wanted either a baby boy or a baby girl, and not Baby X at all. Also, almost everybody was afraid that a Baby X would be a lot more trouble than a boy or a girl. (They were probably right, the scientists admitted, but Baby X needed parents who wouldn’t mind the Xtra trouble.)

There were families with grandparents named Milton and Agatha, who didn’t see why the baby couldn’t be named Milton or Agatha instead of X, even if it was an X. There were families with aunts who insisted on knitting tiny dresses and uncles who insisted on sending tiny baseball mitts. Worst of all, these were families that already had other children who couldn’t be trusted to keep the secret. Certainly not if they knew the secret was worth 23 billion dollars and 72 cents – and all you had to do was take one little peek at Baby X in the bathtub to know if it was a boy or girl.

But, finally, the scientists found the Joneses, who really wanted to raise an X more than any other kind of baby – no matter how much trouble it would be. Ms. and Mr. Jones had to promise they would take equal turns caring for X, and feeding it, and singing it lullabies. And they had to promise never to hire any baby-sitters. The government scientists knew perfectly well that a baby-sitter would probably peek at X in the bathtub, too.

The day the Joneses brought their baby home, lots of friends and relatives came over to see it. None of them knew about the secret Xperiment, though. So the first thing they asked was what kind of a baby X was. When the Joneses smiled and said, “It’s an X,” nobody knew what to say. They couldn’t say, “Look at her cute little dimples!” And they couldn’t say, “Look at his husky little biceps!” And they couldn’t even say just plain “kitchycoo”. In fact, they all thought the Joneses were playing some kind of rude joke.

But of course, the Joneses were not joking. “It’s an X” was absolutely all they would say. And that made the friends and relatives very angry. The relatives all felt embarrassed about having an X in the family. “People will think there’s something wrong with it!” some of them whispered. “There is something wrong with it!” others whispered back.

“Nonsense!” the Joneses told them all cheerfully. “What could possibly be wrong with this perfectly adorable X?”

Nobody could answer that, except Baby X, who had just finished its bottle. Baby X’s answer was a loud, satisfied BURP!

Clearly, nothing at all was wrong. Nevertheless, none of the relatives felt comfortable about buying a present for a Baby X. The cousins who sent the baby a tiny football helmet would not come and visit anymore. And the neighbours who sent a pink-flowered romper suit pulled their shades down when the Joneses passed their house. The Official Instruction Manual had warned the new parents that this would happen, so they didn’t fret about it. Besides, they were too busy with Baby X and the hundreds of different Xercises for treating it properly.

Ms. and Mr. Jones had to be Xtra careful about how they played with little X. They knew that if they kept bouncing it up in the air and saying how strong and active it was, they’d be treating it more like a boy than an X. But if all they did was cuddle it and kiss it and tell it how sweet and dainty it was, they’d be treating it more like a girl than an X.

On page 1654 of the Official Instruction Manual, the scientists prescribed: “plenty of bouncing and plenty of cuddling, both, X ought to be strong and sweet and active. Forget about dainty altogether”.

Meanwhile, the Joneses were worrying about other problems. Toys, for instance, and clothes. On his first shopping trip, Mr. Jones told the store clerk, “I need some clothes and toys for my new baby”. The clerk smiled and said, “Well now, is it a. boy or a girl”

“It’s an X”, Mr Jones said, smiling back. But the clerk got all red in the face and said huffily, “In that case, I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir”.

So Mr Jones wandered helplessly up and down the aisles trying to find out what X needed. But everything in the store was piled up in sections marked “Boys” or “Girls”.

There were “Boy’s’ Pyjamas” and “Girls’ Underwear” and “Boys’ Fire Engines” and “Girl’s Housekeeping Sets”. Mr. Jones went home without buying anything for X. That night he and Ms. Jones consulted page 2326 of the Official Instruction Manual. “Buy plenty of everything”, it said firmly.

So they bought plenty of sturdy blue pyjamas in the Boys’ Department and cheerful flowered underwear in the Girls’ Department. And they bought all kinds of toys. A boy doll that made pee-pee and cried, “Pa-pa”. And a girl doll that talked in three languages and said “I am the Pres-i-dent of Gen-er-al Mo-tors”. They also bought a story-book about a brave princess who rescued a handsome prince from his ivory tower, and another one about a sister and brother who grew up to be a baseball star and a ballet star, and you had to guess which was which.

The head scientists of Project Baby X checked all their purchases and told them to keep up the good work. They also reminded the Joneses to see page 4629 of the Manual, where it said: “Never make Baby X feel embarrassed or ashamed about what it wants to play with. And if X gets dirty climbing rocks, never say “Nice little Xes don’t get dirty climbing rocks.”

Likewise, it said: “If X falls down and cries, never say, “Brave little Xes don’t cry”. Because of course, nice little Xes do get dirty, and brave little Xes do cry. No matter how dirty X gets, or how hard it cries, don’t worry. It’s all part of the Xperiment.”

Whenever the Joneses pushed Baby X’s stroller in the park, smiling strangers would come over and coo: “Is that a boy or a girl?” The Joneses would smile back and say, “It’s an X”. The strangers would stop smiling then, and often snarl something nasty – as if the Joneses had snarled at them.

By the time X grew big enough to play with other children, the Jones’ troubles had grown bigger too. Once a little girl grabbed X’s shovel in the sandbox and zonked X on the head with it.

“Now, now, Tracy”, the little girl’s mother began to scold, “little girls mustn’t hit little -” and she turned to ask X, “Are you a little boy or a little girl, dear?”

Mr. Jones, who was sitting near the sandbox, held his breath and crossed his fingers.

X smiled politely at the lady, even though X’s head had never been zonked so hard in all its life. “I’m a little X”, X replied.

“You’re a what ?” the lady exclaimed angrily. “You’re a little B.R.A.T., you mean”.

“But little girls mustn’t hit little Xes, either!” said X, retrieving the shovel with another polite smile. “What good does hitting do, anyway?”

X’s father, who was still holding his breath, finally let it out, uncrossed his fingers and grinned back at X.

And at their next secret Project Baby X meeting, the scientists grinned too. Baby X was doing fine.

But then it was time for X to start school. The Joneses were really worried about this, because school was even more full of rules for boys and girls and there were no rules for Xes. The teachers would tell boys to form one line, and girls to form another line. There would be boys’ games and girls’ games and boys’ secrets and girls’ secrets. The school library would have a list of recommended books for girls and a different list of recommended books for boys. There would even be a bathroom marked BOYS and another marked GIRLS. Pretty soon boys and girls would hardly talk to each other. What would happen to poor little X!

The Joneses spent weeks consulting their Instruction Manual (there were 246 and 1/2 pages of advice under “First Day at School”), and attending urgent special conferences with the smart scientists of Project Baby X.

The scientists had to make sure that X’s mother had taught X how to throw and catch a ball properly and that X’s father had been sure to teach X what to serve at a doll’s tea party. X had to know how to shoot marbles and how to jump rope, and most of all, what to say when the other children asked whether X was a boy or a girl.

Finally, X was ready.

The Joneses helped X button on a nice new pair of red-and-white checked overalls, and sharpened six pencils for X’s nice new pencil box and marked X’s name clearly on all the books in its nice new book bag. X brushed its teeth and combed its hair, which just about covered its ears and remembered to put a napkin in its lunchbox.

The Joneses had asked X’s teacher if the class could line up alphabetically, instead of forming separate lines for boys and girls. And they had asked if X could use the principal’s bathroom, because it wasn’t marked anything except “BATHROOM”. X’s teacher promised to take care of all those problems. But nobody could help X with the biggest problem of all – other children.

Nobody in X’s class had ever known an X before. What would they think? How would X make friends?

You couldn’t tell what X was by studying its clothes – overalls don’t even button right-to-l eft, like girls’ clothes or left-to-right, like boys’ clothes. And you couldn’t guess whether X lad a girls’ short haircut or a boy’s long haircut. And it was very hard to tell by the games X liked to play. Either X played ball very well for a girl, or else X played house very well for a boy.

Some of the children tried to find out by asking (tricky questions, like “Who’s your favourite sports star?” That was easy. X had two favourite sport stars: a girl jockey named Robyn Smith and a boy archery champion lamed Robin Hood. Then they asked, what’s your favourite television programme?” And hat was even easier. X’s favourite television programme was “lassie” which stars a girl dog played by a boy dog.

Then X said that its favourite toy was a doll, everyone decided that X must be a girl. But hen X said that the doll was really a robot, and that X had computerised it, and that it was programmed to bake fudge brownies and then clean up the kitchen. After X told them that, the Other Children gave up guessing what X was. All they knew was they’d sure like to see X’s doll.

After school, X wanted to play with the other children.

“How about shooting some baskets in the gym?” X asked all the girls. But all they did was make faces and giggle behind X’s back. “How about weaving some baskets in the arts and crafts room?” X asked the boys. But they all made faces and giggled behind X’s back, too.

That night, Ms. and Mr. Jones asked X how things had gone at school. X told them sadly that the lessons were okay, but otherwise school was a terrible place for an X. It seemed as if Other Children would never want an X for a friend.

Once more, the Joneses reached for their Instruction Manual. Under “Other Children”, they found the following message: “What did you Xpect? Other Children have to obey all the silly boy-girl rules, because their parents taught them to. Lucky X – you don’t have to stick to the rules at all! All you have to do is be yourself. We’re not saying if it be easy.”

X liked being itself. But X cried a lot that night, partly because it felt afraid. So X’s father held X tight and cuddled it and couldn’t help crying a little too. And X’s mother cheered them both up by reading an Xciting story about an enchanted prince called Sleeping Handsome, who woke up when Princess Charming kissed him.

The next morning, they all felt much better and little X went back to school with a brave smile and a clean pair of red-and-white checked overalls.

There was a seven-letter-word spelling bee in class that day. And a seven-lap boys’ relay race in the gym. And a seven-layer-cake baking contest in the girls’ kitchen corner. X won the spelling bee. X also won the relay race. And X almost won the baking contest, except it forgot to light the oven. Which only proves that nobody’s perfect.

One of the Other Children noticed something else, too. He said: “Winning or losing doesn’t seem to count to X. X seems to have fun being good at boys’ skills and girls’ skills”.

“Come to think of if, said another of the Other Children, “maybe X is having twice as much fun as we are.”

So after school that day, the girl who beat X at the baking contests gave X a big slice of her prizewinning cake. And the boy X beat in the relay race asked X to race him home.

From then on, some really funny things began to happen. Susie, who sat next to X in class, suddenly refused to wear pink dresses to school any more. She insisted on wearing red-and-white checked overalls – just like X’s overalls, she told her parents, were much better for climbing monkey bars.

Then Jim, the class football nut, started wheeling his little sister’s doll carriage around the football field. He’d put on his entire football uniform, except for the helmet. Then he put the helmet in the carriage, lovingly tucked under an old set of shoulder pads. Then he started jogging around the field, pushing the carriage and singing “Rock a bye Baby” to his football helmet. He told his family that X did the same thing, so it must be okay. After all, X was now the team’s star quarter-back.

Susie’s parents were horrified by her behaviour, and Jim’s parents were worried sick about his. But the worst came when the twins, Joe and Peggy, decided to share everything with each other. Peggy used Joe’s hockey skates, and his microscope, and took half his newspaper route. Joe used Peggy’s needlepoint kit, Peggy started running the lawn mower and Joe started running the vacuum cleaner.

Their parents weren’t one bit pleased with Peggy’s wonderful biology experiments, or with Joe’s terrific needlepoint pillows. They didn’t care that Peggy mowed the lawn better, and that Joe vacuumed the carpet better. In fact they were furious.

It’s all that little X’s fault, they agreed. Just because X doesn’t know what it is, or what it’s supposed to be, it wants to get everybody else mixed up, too! Peggy and Joe were forbidden to play with X anymore. So was Susie, and then Jim, and then all the Other Children. But it was too late; the Other Children stayed mixed up and happy and free, and refused to go back to the way they’d been before X.

Finally, Joe and Peggy’s parents decided to call an emergency meeting of the school’s Parents’ Association, to discuss “The X Problem”. They sent a report to the principal stating that X was a “disruptive influence”.

They demanded immediate action. The Joneses, they said, should be forced to tell whether X was a boy or a girl. And then X should be forced to behave like whichever it was. If the Joneses refused to tell, the Parents’ Association said, then X must take an Xaminiation. The school Psychiatrist must Xamine it physically and mentally and issue a full report. If X’s test showed it was a boy, it would have to obey all the boys’ rules. If it proved to be a girl, X would have to obey all the girls’ rules, and if X turned out to be some kind of mixed up misfit, then X should be Xpelled from the school. Immediately!

The Principal was very upset. Disruptive influence? Mixed-up misfit? But X was an Xcellent student. All the teachers said it was a delight to have X in their classes. X was President of the student council. X had won First prize in the talent show and second prize in the art show and honourable mention in the science fair and six athletic events on field day, including the potato race.

Nevertheless, insisted the Parents’ Association, X is a Problem Child. X is the Biggest Problem Child we have ever seen!

So the Principal reluctantly notified X’s parents that numerous complaints about X’s behaviour had come to the school’s attention. And that after the Psychiatrist’s Xaminiation, the school would decide what to do about X.

The Joneses reported this at once to the scientists, who referred them to page 85759 of the I nstruction Manual. “Sooner or later,” it said, “X will have to be Xamined by a Psychiatrist. This may be the only way any of us will know for sure whether X is mixed up or whether everyone else is”.

The night before X was to be Xamined, the Joneses tried not to let X see how worried they were.

“What if” Mr. Jones would say. And Ms. Jones would reply, “No use worrying”.

Then a few minutes later, Ms. Jones would say, “What if” and Mr. Jones would reply, “No use worrying”.

X just smiled at them both, and hugged them hard and didn’t say much of anything. X was thinking, What if? And then X thought: No use worrying.

At Xactly 9 o’clock the next day, X reported to the school Psychiatrist’s office. The Principal, along with a committee from the Parents’ Association, X’s teacher, X’s classmates and Ms. and Mr. Jones waited in the hall outside. Nobody knew the details of the tests X was to be given, but everybody knew they’d be very hard, and that they’d reveal Xactly what everyone wanted to know about X, but was afraid to ask.

It was terribly quiet in the hall. Almost spooky! Once in a while, they would hear a strange noise inside the room. There were buzzes. And a beep or two, and several bells. An occasional light would flash under the door. The Joneses thought it was a white light, but the Principal thought it was blue. Two or three children swore it was either yellow or green. And the Parents’ Committee missed it completely.

Through it all, you could hear the Psychiatrist’s low voice, asking hundreds of questions, and X’s higher voice, answering hundreds of answers. The whole thing took so long that everyone knew it must be the most complete Xaminiation anyone had ever had to take. Poor X, the Joneses thought Serves X right, the Parents’ Committee thought! Wouldn’t like to be in X’s overalls right now, the children thought.

At last, the door opened. Everyone crowded around to hear the results. X didn’t look any different; in fact, X was smiling. But the Psychiatrist looked terrible. He looked as if he was crying!

“What happened?” everyone began shouting. Had X done something disgraceful? “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised!” muttered Peggy and Joe’s parents.

“Did X flunk the whole test?” cried Susie’s parents. “Or just the most important part?” yelled Jim’s parents. “Oh, dear”, sighed Mr Jones. “Oh, dear”, sighed Ms. Jones. “Sssh”, sssshed the Principal. “The Psychiatrist is trying to speak”.

Wiping his eyes and clearing his throat, the psychiatrist began in a hoarse whisper.

“In my opinion”, he whispered – you could tell he must be very upset – “in my opinion, young X here -”

“Yes? Yes” shouted a parent impatiently. “Sssssh!” sssshed the Principal.

“Young Ssssshhh here, I mean, young X” said the doctor, frowning, “is just about … “. “Just about WHAT? Let’s have it!” shouted another parent. “Just about the least mixed-up child I’ve ever Xamined” said the Psychiatrist. “Yah for X,” yelled one of the children. And then the others began yelling, too. Clapping and cheering and jumping up and down. “SSSSSHH!” Ssshed the Principal, but nobody did.

The Parents’ Committee was angry and bewildered. How COULD X have passed the whole Xamination? Didn’t X have an identity problem? Wasn’t X mixed up at ALL? Wasn’t X any kind of misfit? How could it NOT be, when it didn’t even KNOW what it was? And why was the Psychiatrist crying?

Actually, he had stopped crying and was smiling politely through his tears. “Don’t you see?” he said, “I’m crying because it’s wonderful! X has absolutely no identity problem! X isn’t one bit mixed up! As for being a misfit – ridiculous! X knows perfectly well what it is! Don’t you, X? the doctor winked. X winked back.

“But what IS X?” Shrieked Peggy and Joe’s parents. “We still want to know what it is!” “Ah, yes”, said the doctor winking again. “Well, don’t worry. You’ll all know one of these days. And you won’t need me to tell you.” “What? What does he mean?” some of the parents grumbled suspiciously.

Susie and Peggy and Joe all answered all at once. “He means that by the time X’s sex matters, it won’t be a secret anymore!”

With that, the doctor began to push through the crowd towards X’s parents. “How do you do?” he said, somewhat stiffly. And then he reached out to hug them both. “If I ever have an X of my own,” he whispered, “I sure hope you’ll lend me your instruction manual”.

Needless to say, the Joneses were very happy. The Project Baby X scientists were rather pleased too. So were Susie, Jim, Peggy, Joe, and all the Other Children. The Parents’ Association wasn’t, but they had promised to accept the Psychiatrist’s report and not make any more trouble. They even invited Ms. and Mr. Jones to become honorary members, which they did.

Later that day, X’s friends put on their red-and-white-checked overalls and went over to see X. They found X in the back yard, playing with a very tiny baby that none of them had even seen before. The baby was wearing very tiny red-and-white-checked overalls.

“How do you like our new baby?” X asked the Other Children proudly. “It’s got cute dimples,” said Jim. “It’s got husky biceps, too”, said Susie. “What kind of baby is it?” asked Joe and Peggy.

X frowned at them. “Can’t you tell?” Then X broke into a big, mischievous grin, “It’s a Y!”

Source: http://www.indymedia.ie/article/76475

Upon arriving on campus, I was the wide-eyed idealist looking for a revolution to spark. And that was what I didn’t find in my first few months at my university.

Activism was dead, someone told me. And he had the written proof. In Yale, the LGBTQ community are facing the same lethargy when it comes to rallies and protests. Organized rallies, no doubt, still find hundreds of supporters as we’ve seen with the nationwide Prop 8 rallies but any other political activism finds a mere handful of “radical queers” screaming chants and holding up signs. It was the same on my campus. “We are way pass that age,” someone wrote.

My sense of radicalism and political activism for the queer movement flickered out and died. I had to grapple with another identity – being gay and accepted. But that was when things began to change. Slowly, as more discussions took place within the Gender and Sexuality department and among transgender allies who are “tired of standing on the shoulders of gay and lesbian activists”, there began a call for more inclusion within the gay and lesbian community on campus. It is time that political activism included more people than just gay and lesbians. Discrimination is not over for the transgender community. And marriage isn’t everything. No doubt the ongoing work seeking marriage equality is one that is must be done, but at the same time, there are a growing number of individuals who feel that “Yes, we’ll fight for the equal right to marry. But we don’t necessarily like it.” A discourse begins to take shape. “Striving for equality shouldn’t be just an equality within a heteronormative model. Let’s move beyond there.”

Activism is reborn. Here comes Queer.

This is how I choose to identify — I am queer. It is a renewed sense of pride in the fact that we are different – in terms of how we view sexuality and gender – and that we are happy staying that way. Yes, we want equal and fair treatment. Yes, we want an end to discrimination. But no, we are not necessarily going to live within the heteronomartive model that has been set up. Some of us don’t want to get married. Some of us, who identify as males, and like other males, do not necessarily identify as gay. Some of us think that sexuality and gender are not two separate things. I am not heterosexual, but also, I am not a “man” – a stable, gendered, and performative body that is regulated through a political and social discourse.

We’ve change the group name on campus from LGBTSA to QSA – Queer Students and Allies to reflect the inclusiveness we wish to encourage in the discussions that go on. In some ways, activism is rekindled. People have fought to continue anonymous HIV testing, to ensure gender-neutral housing policies, and most importantly, to see that the university is committed to making as many of its social spaces and records gender-neutral. We are definitely seeing some spark of revolution return.

In the following video, historian and eloquent public speaker Tim McCarthy, tells us why we should not allow queer activism die. He is a wonderful speaker with great talent – his speech brings the listener on a turbulent journey through the comings-to-be of queer theory and politics in the United States and how milestone events such as the Stonewall riots have played a role in how we view the queer rights movement today. I won’t spoil the punch line/thesis of his speech, but he asks: What sort of queers are we when we forget who got us here today to be able to so casually dismiss our identities as part of other things?

The only reason why I can organize my identity politics around the axis of art, for example, owes a lot to the great work done by queer activists before me. Understanding that, knowing that, inspires me to organize my identity politics around the axis of being … queer, queer, queer!

The video is here.