i grew up in a biracial household where Blackness, white passing, and whiteness were all intertwined, as a neuroqueer, bigender, autistic child with high justice sensitivity, but low hierarchy awareness. being late-diagnosed, i didn’t have names for a lot of my experiences, but looking back, it all makes perfect sense. none of the labels i’ve used are choices i’ve made. they are simply acknowledgements of what always was.
Framing gender, sexual, and relational preferences as choices does real harm. These choices are the result of a culture built around a specific origin story, that by now is clearly a failed metaphor. When the beauty of human variation has been forced through binary tunnels for centuries, who we are has to make a choice as to whether or not to question imposed binaries and let oneself become observably nonconforming, without role models or a shared language.
It’s the conformist power structure that forces the human being to prune themselves or be pruned, or risk the consequences of noncompliance. The choice is whether or not to allow oneself to be who they know themselves to be—and no one should be forced to make that choice. Calling the decision to do so a choice is a cruel trivialization of a life-or-death ultimatum.
You have to understand that growth requires belonging, and belonging requires recognition. A child who is loved is recognized, every day. A child who is recognized accurately, every day, by their community, grows to understand themselves in community. Belonging to the whole community, a child learns what their strengths and frailties are; and the community learns how to reciprocate with that specific child.
On the other hand, a child who is viewed with mistrust because some characteristic does not conform to imposed role options is neglected. Even if they get their material needs met, a child that is not recognized misses out on growing up belonging. If the whole community fails to recognize them, without knowing it they have imposed a completely different growth arc, shaping that child indelibly. A community that knows no differently ascribes this different arc to the common deviation metric of the day—which never includes the complicity of the community, or the imperfection in the lens being used to observe it.
The community that recognizes the value of human variation to the well-being of the collective will be delighted with a child’s specific qualities, and growing up with a community that is delighted by your presence has consequences, for the better.
The community that has a narrow tolerance for human variation that deviates from a small set of imposed categories that don’t map well onto the human organism will have difficulty experiencing delight in their children’s growth. They may go so far as outsourcing child rearing en masse, raising children in environments with few real role models, and without the belonging that comes from recognition.
Delight is like a vitamin, depriving a child of real-time reciprocal delight has real consequences, not for the better.
In the wake of centuries of binary training that twists our nature into prescribed shapes, given a window of opportunity, what looks like a decision to choose a nonbinary gender, a sexual preference that’s not prescribed in the dominant origin story, or a relational orientation that deviates from the cultural median, is more like an acknowledgement than a choice.
Acknowledgement is a moment of recognition. It is the delight that we reflect back to our child through our eyes, that allows one’s inner light to grow alongside one’s outer presentation. It’s an acknowledgment that should never have been framed as a choice. That moment of acknowledgment should always be celebrated, and never trivialized as a choice from a menu made on a whim.
i passed 3 tween girls doing a coordinated dance for tiktok on a walk
recognition: that’s me.
memory: when i was a kid, i wanted to play jump rope and hand-clapping games with the girls, instead of kickball and four-square. the boys were always trying to win, and would spike the ball; girls were smiling at each other, clapping hands and hugging.
i tried a couple of times to fit into these girl groups, but it was awkward, and i just gave up. i went to a different school every year, but that aspect of social life was always the same, as was my inner sense of association.
it was like not being allowed to be myself.
my tendency is to laugh at my first impressions.
something in my history casts a sinister spell
that even the simplest question disperses.
delightful surprises arise when i go
beyond the first brush of my eyes.
followup questions are the love language
in my dialogue with life.
be honest:
is culture the ability
to sing the same songs together
in joyful abandon
with your neighbors?
is culture
a shared recipe,
or a coordinated
childcare plan?
is culture the fact that you’ve shopped
at the same Target,
or are recovering from the same expectation
to sit still and keep quiet?
is culture the purchase
of the right brand,
that signals casual,
but not struggling?
be honest:
what is culture,
to you,
and who
is left out?
are you
feeling proud
of your culture,
right now?
what opportunities to participate
in the culture you identify with
have you passed up because
you were too busy?
what happens
when no one
shows up
to cultural events?
be honest:
do the ones
who pay
your paycheck
have your back?
does your work
fulfill the standard
you set for yourself
at 20?
does access
to the levers of power
make your
family happier?
does the time you spend
at work compensate you
for the time you’ve lost
with your family?
be honest:
what the fuck
are we, as people
who love, doing here,
right now?
On June 29, 1776, five days before Philadelphia’s Declaration was signed, a different founding took place three thousand miles west, on the shore of a California lagoon. Spanish soldiers and Franciscan friars said the first Mass beside a creek they named Arroyo de los Dolores, the Creek of Sorrows. Within months they had raised a fort near the Golden Gate and a mission a few miles inland—the Presidio of San Francisco and Mission San Francisco de Asís, later known by the name of that creek: Mission Dolores. And the labor for these projects was largely coerced from people whose ancestors had inhabited the land for countless generations.
The people known today as the Ohlone were actually some forty or so autonomous tribelets, each with its own territory, leadership, and law. Ohlone people had built more than four hundred shellmounds along the bay, some rising sixty feet, structures that were at once home, cemetery, and land claim. They moved by season through a landscape they actively cultivated—burning grassland to keep it productive, harvesting acorns, shellfish, salmon, and waterfowl in cycles refined over centuries—sustaining one of the densest Indigenous populations found anywhere north of Mexico. Their relationship to this land had never required ratification—there was no separation between land and people. The Mission and the Presidio projects forced people who knew no other home to build temples to institutions determined to erase them.
In exchange for their life, an Ohlone person was baptized, becoming a neophyte, and was bound to the mission, forbidden to leave without permission, punished for infractions as small as missing Mass. Their forced labor built the mission itself: making and stacking tens of thousands of adobe bricks, tending thousands of sheep and cattle, working looms that turned wool into cloth, and breaking the land into parcels for an imposed agriculture from a different place. Disease did even more damage than coercion: measles moved through the mission’s population in repeated waves; birth rates fell far below death rates; the cemetery behind Mission Dolores today holds roughly five thousand unmarked Indigenous graves—a population lost within the span of a single lifetime.
The conviction of the Catholic Church that their goals and methods were universal and ageless, (justifying all means of human cruelty), were not strong enough to sustain the mission system when the Spanish Empire withdrew their sponsorship. In 1834, just 58 years after the founding of Mission Dolores, (the span of one lifetime), the mission as an institution ended, while returning nothing to the people who had built it.
California’s statehood in 1850 made things worse: a second wave of violence during the Gold Rush, the Californian genocide, arrived alongside eighteen treaties negotiated with California tribes and then never ratified by the U.S. Senate. The Muwekma Ohlone, whose homeland spans the East Bay, remain without federal recognition to this day, despite a documented, unbroken lineage—acknowledged by history and by their own persistent community, but absent from the one federal category that would formally recognize either.
Despite the cruel realities of forced separation of a people from the systems that sustained them for millennia, the spirit of the people of this place did not break. In 2011, Ohlone organizers occupied a construction site in Vallejo for a hundred and nine days to stop development on Sogorea Te’, an ancestral village and burial ground. The occupation was successful in a real sense: the land was transferred to a federally recognized tribe, (albeit one with no connection to the site—because no local Ohlone group has received the Federal recognition that would grant them entitlement—another chapter in the long history of erasure that began in1776).
Rather than wait on a system built to keep failing them, the organizers founded the Sogorea Te’ Land Trust the following year around a mechanism that doesn’t depend on federal recognition at all: the Shuumi Land Tax, a voluntary annual gift from non-Indigenous residents of Lisjan Ohlone territory, moving resources by relationship instead of by law. The trust now stewards more than a dozen sites across the Bay, including ground reclaimed from an eighty-year parking lot in West Berkeley that sits on the same shellmound lineage this history began with. It has raised the first ceremonial arbor built in the region in over two hundred fifty years, and it is developing a cemetery to properly reinter ancestral remains still displaced since the mission era—a direct answer to the unmarked graves still lying behind Mission Dolores.
Two nations mark two hundred fifty years on this stretch of coast this year. One does it with fanfare, with a holiday, and a dream of equality that was never written to include everyone. The other has spent the same two hundred fifty years proving that survival doesn’t require a declaration at all—only language kept alive in secret when it couldn’t be kept alive in the open, land bought back one parcel at a time when it couldn’t be returned outright, and innovative ways around the systems imposed on them from outside.
Join me in celebrating 250 years of Ohlone pride.
Education builds bridges to new understanding. (educare: to bring up; to nurture). Indoctrination burns bridges and prevents new ones from being built. (endoctriner: to instruct; to imbue with an idea or opinion). Education makes the world bigger. Indoctrination keeps one sequestered in a silo.
The reason anti-woke folks rail so hard against indoctrination is that they were shaped by indoctrination that was presented as education; and in the absence of actual education, it’s easy to conflate the two, or confuse one for the other. Their impulse to resist indoctrination is sound. The target of their ire is misplaced.
The people who built these systems often believed in them completely—which is exactly what makes indoctrination so effective. You don’t need cynics at the top. You need true believers who’ve never crossed the bridge themselves.
That’s how the confusion between indoctrination and education perpetuates itself—not through deception, but through unexamined inheritance.
‘woke’ just means ‘educated, and ready to cross the bridge when it presents itself.’
‘anti-woke’ just means ‘bridges are dangerous: it’s only safe in the silo.’
Good for you, for recognizing the importance of education, and the power of indoctrination to limit education’s reach. If you’re sitting with the anxiety of a world widened beyond the scale of what you were prescribed, just reach out. Folks are here for you—just over the bridge.
to be woke is to have a visceral sense of justice, as reliable as the senses of sight, hearing, smell, touch, taste, and cognition—that allows one to recognize that the current language of justice is inadequate, as justice is not applied equitably across all who would access it; and to participate in creating language that leads to equitable application.
to be a woke ally is to recognize that one lacks the visceral sense of justice; to believe those who experience it; and to use the other senses to fill the gap, trusting that the language will mature if allowed to do so—to be blind, but willing to coexist with the sighted.
to be anti-woke is to deny the existence of the visceral experience of justice; to belittle those who would enrich its language—to be blind, to deny the existence of sight, in the most literal sense, and to refuse to coexist with the sighted.
only a person who has had the sense of justice bred out of them can own humans or force them through contract into unpaid labor; deny them equal access to the right to vote; justify and continue to fund genocide; or accumulate wealth while others starve.
knowing that the path of the ally is available, one follows it to redemption.
never suspecting that justice is lived experience, the whole world becomes one’s adversary.
I recently received pushback from the usual channels when I posted about decolonizing the gender binary. As is my way, I went looking to history to see if I was being unfair to white guys. What I found was pretty clear, and it’s not just related to race (like gender, a relational construct), but more about power.
Gender flexibility tends to appear in cultures where gender is understood as a relational/functional/spiritual category rather than a biological one. The binary hardened historically where:
Each of these systems borrowed legitimacy from the one before it, passing the same externalization cost forward in an unbroken chain.
What’s lost if we only recognize the one narrative? We miss that the relational/functional/spiritual frame for gender is much older than the biological one—many traditions that include multiple genders are thousands of years old. The binary as a rigid universal is, relatively speaking, a recent and geographically specific imposition.
And in many countries around the world where gender and sexual binaries are strictly enforced after the supposed retreat of colonialism, it’s not a return to some older tradition. Many of the countries with the most prescriptive gender codes had some of the most complex and dynamic relationships to gender in pre-colonial times: they are literally continuing to do the colonizers’ work. It turns out that the gender binary’s effectiveness as a sorting mechanism is often seen as more important than recognizing a history that embraces human variation.
So yeah, it’s looking like mostly white guys. I look enough like a white guy that I don’t have any trouble pointing out this information. My inner white guy can handle it. I choose to transcend the binary. How? Understand the history of the sorting mechanism, and for whose comfort it was designed—and then decide whether your discomfort with dismantling it is really yours, or just the mechanism doing its job.