I have to go on a business trip, early tomorrow morning--today, in a few hours, I guess--to a city where I have no friends and I can hope for no more than toleration, with a colleague who tolerates me. So I can't sleep, of course. And so I'm afraid I'm going to write a sermon on toleration, which has something to do with MWMF, and more generally with how transsexuals are treated in the lesbian community, and still more generally with how all of us are treated by society-at-large.

Tolerate. "Tolerate." Don't tolerate me.

"Tolerate" is "As long as you don't make waves, I'm not going to hurt you." "Tolerate" is "Keep very quiet, I'm trying to restrain these others, but if you're outrageous, you bring it on yourself."

"Tolerate" is the closet. It's the worry that someone is going to know, and then what happens? "Tolerate" is the weapon of fear, of oppression, of "Be good if you know what's good for you," of veiled threats.

"Tolerate" is history rewritten, until Stonewall becomes a polite conference between middle-class white (oh! ahem. <mumble> err, gay) men in business suits meeting with the authorities to redress the unfortunate lapses in behavior on the part of duly-appointed officials, instead of a bunch of outraged and outrageous drag queens fed up to the hilt with sometimes toleration and knowing that throwing a heel at a cop is damned good theater, instead of a revolt of the underclasses, and what good does outrageous behavior do, anyway? What was Stonewall?!

"Tolerate" is a transsexual who hadn't quite built up the courage to come out to her father, dead in an auto accident, buried in a three-piece suit with shorn hair in a funeral for the family only, while her brother frantically clears away any evidence, the wrong name on the tombstone, and no closure, ever, for those who loved her for herself, who never read an obituary for her, who wouldn't have recognized her if they'd been welcome to mourn.

"Tolerate" is what you accept from your family, because you're in them and they're in you and it's better than rejection, isn't it? And you can't imagine your mother saying "My daughter's lover is such an amazing woman" in a voice filled with pride as she gossips with her best friend. "Tolerate" is the terrible haunted look in your mother's eyes when, together, on a visit home, in the grocery store, you run into one of her friends, "Oh, Sue! You remember my ... child?" and knowing you can never go home, never humiliate them by living in the same city with them ....

"Tolerate" isn't a boot to the head, only the threat of it. "Tolerate" is slow strangulation, with an immaculately dressed executioner wearing a sorrowing (professional) smile, and "I'm so sorry, but you really, really shouldn't have drawn attention to yourself," as your sight fades to black and the noise of your heart threatens to overwhelm the world.

"Tolerate" is "Omigod, lookatthem, what they're doing! I hope they don't see me, if they don't see me I can't be hurt, please don't see me!" and the pain of knowing that someone else was hurt and you did nothing.

"Tolerate" is getting married, having babies, a job, the right kind of house, the right kind of car ... a spouse for whom you feel nothing except gratitude for the camouflage, a life lived lying, lived doing what's right because if you don't, then why should they tolerate you?

"Tolerate" is acknowledging, however silently, that you're just a freak, not normal, not a real person, that however strongly you feel, you're just wrong.

From your family, yes. Not from friends; if all they can manage is toleration then you know they're not friends, and they aren't even allies, because they have the power to tolerate and all you have is an attempt to feel grateful, a sickly smile, and an upset stomach.

"Celebrate" is your friends, overhearing as you walk in the door, "God, you're gonna love her, she's this completely amazing dyke ..." It's "That's so different from how I grew up ... no, you first, I want to hear this!" It's your name, in tones of surprised pleasure, on the telephone when you haven't talked for weeks.

"Celebrate" opens doors as "tolerate" builds fences (and electrifies them, and posts warnings in case you don't take the hint).

Me, I'm off to be tolerated for a few days--because I'm awfully good at what I do, even if I'm a freak and hard to ... tolerate. I'd suggest that you, reading this, should find a friend. And celebrate.