Gays on ENDA: No special rights for trannies

Imagine for a moment that you are born into a perfectly healthy body. You are a perfectly good person. For some odd reason, though, you are somehow “different.”

Imagine that, for whatever reason, your body functions more or less like it ought to according to your biology textbook. Something, though, is “off” from the texts. Where, in the majority of cases, opposites attract physically and/or emotionally; you find yourself attracted physically and/or emotionally to people that the textbooks tell you that you aren’t.

This is wrong, you’re told, even though it seems “right” enough from your own perspective, in your own skin and your own mind. You’re told, however, that it’s wrong to the point where you are not only a freak of nature, but you don’t deserve to be a contributing member of society. You’re going to Hell. You don’t deserve to hold a job. You don’t deserve a decent life. You don’t deserve a place to live. You don’t deserve respect from your family or your peers. You’re doomed to die penniless and alone, which is not only one of the warnings you’re given to change your evil ways, but also the guarantee of your fate as a wholly owned slave to a particular set of ideals passed down through your self-appointed superiors.

Every other sentence out of one of the mouths of the aforementioned consists of this:

“Just who the hell do you think you are? Why should we endorse your flouting of our rules and regulations by giving you special treatment? First, you insult us by existing in the first place, and now you expect our respect when you won’t respect our rules in return?”

Indeed, by most, or all, accounts: You are wrong. They never let you forget it. They do their best to drive you either to destruction through self-hate, or redemption through self-denial.

“What the hell?” the “betters” ask, unable to wrap their heads around the idea. How can you have one of those and not want to do this with it? How can you be one of us and not want to do what we do? How do you sleep at night, knowing that you’re not supposed to be that way? All you have in this world is because we’re kind enough to let you keep it. You know that, right?

You’re a “zero” in a land of “ones.” You’re subconsciously deemed incompetent to make your own decisions, legally or financially. You’re not a “real” person, even if all the components are there, right down to the name, face and tax returns. If you’re lucky, you’re not abandoned by your friends and loved ones.

Strangely, though, people like you keep happening. Even with the warnings, and even as illogical as it may seem from the perspective of the biology books and the prospect of the colossal Technicolor frowning-upon one historically gets as such a sexual outlaw, it keeps happening. One generation after another. Your mind, your body, and your soul aren’t really that different from those of your “betters,” if you look past that pesky attraction thing.

Decades go by, and eventually you’ve reached a point where your society has been forced to, at the very least, acknowledge that you might not change to appease them, you shouldn’t necessarily be forced to change to appease them, and maybe you aren’t all that bad, even if you may still be going to Hell (depending on who your pastor is). You’ve got your allies. Through public grappling, exhaustive lobbying and backroom deals with the sexual elites, finally, you’re accepted, albeit grudgingly. Even if you still kinda gross out your peers. Even if they secretly resent you. Even if your being regarded as a human being is still seen as some kind of “privilege” they’ve graciously given your loud, ingrate ass just to shut you up.

In some places it’s no longer deemed acceptable to kill you, rob you, or lock you up in prisons, mental hospitals or community center basements.

And you’re still considered more or less useless because, though you give your time, your taxes, your labor, your brainpower and your legal obedience to your occupational, municipal and federal overlords; you don’t give them the one commodity of all that validates you, in their view, as a real person:

Fresh-squeezed babies. And even if you do make fresh-squeezed babies, they mock you, mock your babies, and sometimes try to kidnap your babies through the courts. Also, you’re lucky if your babies get medical insurance.

But, relative to when you were born, it’s a golden age. Thanks to the blood, sweat and tears of yourself and those that came before you, you’re more accepted than you’ve ever been. You’re more towards “one” than “zero,” even if somewhere in the range of 0.6. Slowly but surely, your rights are, if not affirmed, at least acknowledged as plausibly legitimate (even if as a threat). It’s a time like never before to at least fight for your civil rights in broad daylight.

You’ve yet to be offered a ride on the Human Rights Rocketship, though.

Now, somewhere along the way you and your similarly disposed friends began intermingling with another group. The struggles are the same, and also they’re not. They might be regarded as you were, and still are: Fodder for cheap jokes; targets for violence and ridicule; wrong to the bone.

Deemed unworthy of full personhood. Sick.

Gender outlaws. Put in more or less the same pigeonhole, by the same jerks, for more or less the same reasons.

Sometimes friends just gravitate towards one another. It just happens: People mesh. People find common ground in things. There’s not always a choice, per se, in who becomes your friend or your ally. People just mesh.

Like being a “zero” in a land of “ones.” Like being an outcast. Like feeling threatened, alone, abandoned… wrong.

It’s strange, because you’re not necessarily a stranger to being in costume from time to time. The difference here, though, is that to these particular friends of yours, their bodies are the costume. Regardless of the known cause from a scientific standpoint, regardless of whether you can wrap your head around it and make sense of it, and regardless of whether or not it’s covered in your biology textbooks.
You may have tried, for a time, to take the perfectly good person inside your perfectly good body and align them with the purposes and behaviors assigned to them by others rather than innate; within yourself. You may look, and identify, more or less the same, but wearing a cloak over your personality.

Your friends, though: Their cloak is physical as well as mental and emotional. Theirs has a dimension that’s simultaneously unique and similar to yours, in that the pieces don’t “fit” the way the at-large say they ought to, and they get shit for it.

(Imagine being born into the costume. Wrap your head around it if you can.)

Much like you. And you live more or less in harmony, if not perfect.

One day, the Human Rights Rocketship Consortium gives you a call.

“So-and-so,” the gruff, yet playful voice chimes in, “for the bajillionth time, we’ve reviewed your application for a section on the Human Rights Rocketship, and, on behalf of said rocketship consortium, we’d like to tentatively offer you and yours the Super-Happy Bronze Club seats, sections ‘W’ through ‘Y’. Admittedly, these have always been open, but we’ve just been piling our ironing and unfiled documents on ‘em anyway. We requisitioned some of those Rubbermaid storage containers and those nifty little closet organizers–anyway, we’d like to finally extend to you freaks–er–semi-frea–er–fellow citizens–an invitation to join us and bask in our good graces, and agree to disagree on the whole sodomite sex pervert thing, ’cause you’re all right.“

You exclaim: “Golly gee willikers!” Your heart starts to race. You pee a little.

Wait. Sections “W” through “Y”? What do they need “Z” for, the earthquake survival kits with the little pudding cups and lip balm? The spare tire? What’s the deal? How are we all going to fit?

“Oh… about ‘Z,’ right… uh… there won’t be room for your little friends, the, uh… the drag queens.”

“….”

“We know you’ll understand. See, you always have to highball these things, and, well, we’re willing to overlook your gender-bending hijinks, because at least you dress the part and, hopefully, you won’t sodomize anything in our direct line of vision, right? But these other freaks–people–fellow second cl–uh–folks, we’re just… we wanted to give the Committee someone to knock back down into their place, so they felt good about expending the extra fuel to fly your sorry asses around with us.”

“…?”

“Well, think about it, So-and-so. Do you want a seat on the Rocketship, or are you going to let those freaks hold you back?”

“Wait. You said we were in this together. You want me to–”

“Yes. There’s big danger here. Do you want to get your due or not? The Committee get the slightest whiff of insolence, and they’ll–”

“–Of course I do, but–”

“–And what have they really done for you, anyway?”

“…Not…all…that much?…”

“Right! And why’d you even start hanging out with them? They just showed up one day, right? They’ve been using you, my friend. They’ve been playing you like Weird Al’s accordion. They’re riding on the caboose of your political and ideological locomotive, in my view! Hell, I should know! I’ve been watching it in amusement the whole time from up above!”

“…They’re…just my wacky sidekicks?”

“Pardon the phrasing, but: Damn straight! We need Batman! At the end of the day, there’s no room for Robin! The Batmobile’s a two-seater, my friend, and you shouldn’t let some wannabe take up that seat that could just as easily be taken by your luggage! Rocketship luggage, no doubt! You get what I’m saying?”

“Hells yeah! Who the hell do they think they are, pretending to be one of us?”

“Yeah! What have they ever done for you?“

“Yeah!“

“So, do me a favor, So-and-so. I’m gonna take this proposal back to the Committee. You lose the dead weight, and we’ll talk about filling those seats with you, our new, super-special Human Rights Rocketship Friends. Tell ‘em that we’re going to submit a special request to get ‘Z’ for the coattail-riders. Between you and me, though, it ain’t gonna happen. What I would do, if I were you, is blow enough smoke up their asses until you’ve got tickets in hand and can safely lift off to Space Paradise with us without havin’ ta-break the bad news face-to-face. Can ya do that for me?”

“Deal! Wait ’til my friends…my real friends…hear about this exciting development in history for our–my–people!”

You hang up the phone and call a gathering in the town square.

“Friends! Allies! We’re finally going to have seats on the Human Rights Rocketship! Granted, we’re in coach, and we’ll be ‘probationary members,’ spending a good deal of our time shoveling coal into the afterburners and topping off their space-martinis, but we’ve made it! They’re accepting us as… seat-sitters! On the rocketship!“

The crowd goes… wild enough.

“Now, we’ve hit one snag. The Committee are still hammering out enough tickets so that we can all come aboard. But, there’s a possibility that there won’t be enough to go around.”

The crowd goes… less wild.

“I don’t want to leave any of us behind, you know, but there comes a time when sacrifices must be made. See, we want the maximum number of people to have the maximum number of space privileges, and I think that, well… Shit. Um… Let’s do this: If you’re a gay man, raise your hand.”

Several men raise their hands.

“OK. Move to your left. Lesbians?”

Several women raise their hands.

“OK. Move to your right. Gay men with ‘Y’ chromosomes and lesbians with ‘X’ chromosomes, please keep your hands up.”

Hand height is adjusted accordingly on an individual basis.

“Everybody who does not have their hands raised, please go behind that wall while I compile the list of people who are getting rocketship tickets.”

Looks of bewilderment and confusion appear on the crowd.

A voice calls out:

“That’s bullshit!”

“Look,” you pout, “it’s the only way. It’s got to be some of us or none of us. That’s what’s come down the pipes.”

You’ve blown the strategy, you idiot!

Roars of protest erupt from the crowd, hands-down and hands-up alike.

“Now, hold on,” you belt back, in a fit of fearful rage. “Just who the hell do you think you are?! You expect us to hand you rocketship tickets on a freakin’ silver platter? What have you been doing this whole time, eh? We started this movement. We’re about to get what’s rightfully ours, and we’re not going to let you stand in our way because you think you’re one of us, like you’re entitled to some kind of special rights or something!…”

Blastoff.