talking at me, not talking to me

there were some middle age white communist dudes passing out literature at the hollywood farmers market today. one of these fuckers invoked harvey milk in an attempt to draw common ground after i had begun speaking about the legacies of black feminist marxism within this country.

excuse me sir, my first reaction is anger.

*how dare you make assumptions about my political identifications. you might as well call me a lesbian (a low down dirty shame on you). you are listening to the words i am saying. no no. you are looking at me and assuming i am at best a leftist leaning dyke with some complimentary economic views that you might be able to sway into organizing ranks for your leader bob avikian.
you need to sit down and think about a few things.

another smug asshole scraping from the barrel of identity politics. i am wiser than i look.

*why is harvey milk standing in as a the placeholder for the common ground of our conversation? and does it make you feel good about yourself that you can get out there in the middle of hollywood and preach the gospel, you aint trying to hear it from anyone but yourself?

youre up there riding on an awfully high horse to be considered a comrade.
dont get it twisted.
those persons constituted into subjects in the aftermath of the recognition of your own privilege are making you feel real good about your solidarity capabilities.
and i bet you call yourself an lgbt ally.

my second reaction is anger tempered with a bit of saddness.

the rich historical and contemporary litany of great organizing work being done by and for queer folks engaged in a struggle for economic justice reaches far closer to my heart than that of a post-sean penn harvey milk symbolism.