As I was looking for coverage on the internet later that night, I found the disturbing news I'm the kid I always lusted to be. I left the conservative Midwest to find what I thought was my home in protest blocks, short haircuts and sex parties. I thought I'd be so happy I could fuck myself with the silicon cock of freedom in the trannie fag-boy-cunt I call home and make a revolution. I've found gender works like that. Too bad the revolution doesn't…

I was pumped for the World Economic Forum protests. I was ready for an all-out-take-back-the-streets-take-back-the-night-take-back-your-pocketbook with my body on my streets. I blocked my calendar from any pesky interferences from sex parties, drag king shows or hot dates. I was mentally prepared, if necessary, to be arrested with other anti-capitalist radical kids. I thought they would have had my back through the always painful ordeal.

But the day came and went and I was let down by what seemed to be a cop-permitted black banner parade past Starbucks and The Gap; and I went home with my kids for some processing over lentil soup and dumpstered muffins. I was partially unsettled that we hadn't made enough noise and gotten enough visibility to get the national media attention that WEF deserved.

However, I know I wasn't the only one of my kids who let out a silent sigh of relief at not having to deal with the cops and their violent ways, a situation complicated by our gender variant identities. I always went into street protesting having made the decision to get arrested if necessary, acutely aware of the history of added violence against gender queers and gender variants throughout history. I did it anyway because I somehow always felt assured that the non-gender queer protesters would have my back and give me strength.

of the arrest of Dean, a trannie boy violently arrested and brutalized for peeing in the men's room at Grand Central Station, right about the time my trannie ass walked through on my way to the six train home. After his press release about his arrest, I closely followed the dialogue on the indymedia website. Part of me was not surprised at the number of people who had no clue about trans issues, but I was comforted that these people were supportive and trying to understand.

These supportive activists and trans allies were darkly overshadowed by the various classist, racist, and transphobic activists making comments in response to Dean's case. Multiple activists stated, "If 'she' had 'F' on 'her' license 'she' should have gone to the women's room," expressing sentiments resembling, "If he didn't have a penis he wasn't a real man and shouldn't have been there anyway," or "If he's so set on being a man and going into the men's room, why would he have been scared to go to the men's prison." The implications of these statements extend far into offensive, patriarchal, power-structured, privilege base thinking.

The ability of "fellow" activists to completely disregard any race or class analysis they have done of the systems of power thus far, simply because they have not yet deconstructed gender as an oppressive system, made it apparent to me that I as a transgendered person am not as respected or accepted as the movement would like me to think. I slowly, sadly realized that the majority of the movement had just put on a happy face and really hadn't embraced a self-critique on gender.

They may let girls sit in the driver's seat now, but this even made me see that they don't do it because they recognize their privilege and oppression in existing in the prescribed "M" box; they do it as a gesture of their liberalism. And when gender variants mess up those boxes, the “men” in their tokenized step aside, just don't know how to open the car door for us. I guess I was fooled by the liberalism of privileged white boys. They showed me they don't have my back when the cop's harassing my people because of their oppressive power privilege.

I say sisters and brothers check yourself and I'll check myself too. Let's look how deeply power has scarred us, in what forms "the man" dominates, and how the movement must be beyond pink and blue.

After this event I took a step back and retreated into my day-to-day activism of zine making, fucking, and living gender queer. I thought the time was right for me to do some activism this weekend, and ventured out with my fellow queers to do street theater in demonstration against the darned Reverend Fred Phelps who came to New York City to protest various NYC organizations and blame them for the WTC events because of their inclusion of queers in their organizations. (www.godhatesfags.com- this dude's loony).

I thought would be in a fairly safe space because I was with fellow queers. I had retreated from organizing with anti-capitalist white bio boys who call me "she" (although some of them are fabulous, this has not been my experience with most). My fellow genderqueer friends were doing demonstrations as a takeoff on Phelp's disturbing protesting and rhetoric, in a comical street-theater way.

We were lumped together by my favorite NYPD with other "gay and lesbian" organizations from the city who had come out to protest. I was saddened by the misogyny that was seeping from many protesters mouths as they called Phelps "pussy" and "stupid cunt", and made classist remarks on the uneducated, incestuous, Midwestern lives of the Phelps supporters.
As Phelps brought out his upside down American flag, I laughed to myself thinking, I fly one of those too. As my friends and I were on the front lines of the small barricade calling back ironic distortions of their homophobic rhetoric, we were belted by the Phelps version of the “Star Spangled Banner”, which included rockets blowing up queers. This over-the-top homophobia was so absurd it was almost comical to me, someone coming from the Midwest, acutely aware that these notions really are held by some people in this country.

Then the "fellow" "queer" organizations behind me covered their hearts and started singing the REAL version of the “Star Spangled Banner” back at Phelps. I went out of my mind trapped in this barricade, my face being a front line representation of this song based on the prosperous war that solidified white people's imperialist claim to another population's land. A country which made it's wealth off of slavery by stealing entire nations from Africa, and now uses that money to kill women and children and keep them locked in their homes so that we can have nice sweatshirts and cheap oil to drive our cars. This song is our cry that it is okay to be queer? I certainly hope not. That song and that flag have nothing to do with who I fuck and how I identify. If this is the queer revolution, I want out.

My heart is now stone cold, a conflicted state of emptiness. The queer movement is no longer my home.
The anti-racist/capitalist movement isn't either. It seems I'm standing on the doorstep of communities that can't accept me and my "kind" no matter what group I'm standing with. I'm a radical youth anti-racist-anti-capitalist-feminist-sex-positive-trannie-gender-queer-leather-kid. Like so many of my hyphenated ambiguously complex kids, I am wandering virtually alone, wondering why the movements that are supposed to free me and my kind, have failed me so completely.

So now I feel trapped, delving now into the sex radical revolution I need, sporting my anarchist clothing, and critiquing their politics when I can. But I find myself looking back to where I came from; where I never really safely was; where I just passed through invisible, like so many of my trans brothers and sisters and hirsters; where I am dismissed as idealist by my fellow queers; where my body isn't wanted in the revolution; where my fellow bodied don't want the revolution.

For a second I think, maybe I can just turn back, and ask them to take me in, and teach them all about myself and hope it helps them understand gender and we'll all be trans allied revolutionaries and… this is just not the way it can be. It is not my job to educate the revolution because they haven't tried to get it themselves. And the capitalist based "gay" movement can't afford to hear what I have to say.

So I have dumpster dinners with my fellow tranarchist friends, and dream of a day when I can strap down oppression, strap on the dildo of revolution, and fuck the ambiguous pain away.