I am exhausted. I woke up at an embarrassingly early hour Thursday morning in my hometown of Dallas, Texas to attend a parade. No, it was not Dallas’ pride parade (we do ours on the third Sunday in September to commemorate the ruling from Judge Barefoot Sanders that first negated the Texas Sodomy Law). Nope, I woke up at 6 a.m. to hoof it downtown to celebrate the Dallas Maverick’s winning the NBA Championship.
Am I a huge basketball fan? Do I love all things sports related? No, and nuh-uh. But I do love Dallas. Like, a LOT. And how many times does one get a chance to stand outside jammed up against 200,000 of their fellow citizens in over 100 degree weather and watch everyone be HAPPY to be there? Watch them NOT maim each other or shout insults at one another? I figured not too often so, I went.
As far as parade floats go I give it a solid meh. I mean I’ve been to pride parades in Los Angeles and San Francisco, so I know what a good lookin’ float is supposed to look like. Continue reading
I thought about blogging about the Slut Walk that is taking place in Dallas tomorrow because it’s important. And because I know how to be a feminist. I know the chants, I have the t-shirts, I am on all of the email lists, and most importantly I am passionate about ALL human rights, but especially the ones that pertain to me specifically. Writing about and being a feminist is easy for me because I was given a simple and direct path to becoming one. You read Manifesta (and many, many other books), join the Feminist Majority Leadership group at your University, participate for 4 (ahem, 6 for me) years and when you graduate the FMF will keep
tabs on you informed until you tell them not to.
But writing about the SW would be taking the easy road for me. When I started blogging for Queerious last week I found myself struggling to come up with something to write about from my queer perspective. Because I don’t feel like I have one. Other than being physically and emotionally attracted to women I have no idea how to be gay. Continue reading