Ok, everybody out of my pants!
That means you, Mr. Bush, Mr. Roberston, Mr. Ashcroft, Mr. Schwartzenneger, Ms. Dunlap.
And you, too, Mr. Richardson, Ms. Madrid, Ms. Boxer, Mr. Kerry, Mr. Edwards.
I am a modest person and there's nothing down there that's any of your business.
I've been kidnapped! It's a coup! It's a coup! It's a coup!
I am bisexual. I'm comfortable understanding, and standing up for, every political and religious issue in this country, pertaining to reproductive organs.
There's nothing you've got that I haven't seen, or loved.
When my daughter was dying, I was handed a leaflet by the hospital.
It warned, "you are in danger of a miscarraige."
It went on to say what steps I needed to take to try to prevent losing my baby.
One of these emphatically stressed that I not allow anything to invade my body.
So, when the doctor started poking around, it was all I could do to keep from kicking him in the head to protect my child.
The maternal instinct, in my case, was a fierce and savage thing.
I'm feeling that way now.
Put down the speculum, camera, cross, patriot missle and walk away from the stirrups, before I kick your brains out!
For the first time in history, our so-called "representatives" have legislated against a necessary medical procedure.
This administration is calling for ammending the Constitution, contradicting their advocacy of states' rights.
Medical clinics get their funding jerked, if they advocate using protection!
Schools are forced, with federal funds, to preach "abstainance only," as though normal, human sexuality was the most depraved, perverse and twisted aspect of humanity.
A state governor, who assaults women, implies Gay and Lesbian marriages will cause civil "chaos," as if married Gays and Lesbians will behave like he has!
The current administration discovered feminism, for ten minutes, as a pretext for bombing Afghani women out of their burhkas, but have ignored women's plight there since.
And, rumor has it, the Senate may pass "Laci's and Connor's law," named for Laci Peterson and he fetus, which would make harming a pregnancy, even in the first trimester, a crime, potentially punishable by death.
Hello?
Look, I'm an ugly, old woman, with bad teeth.
I doubt reproductive or marriage issues will ever affect me directly again.
But that doesn't mean justice is none of my business.
I remember the sacred embraces.
I remember the healing of intimacy.
I remember patting my tummy and whispering to that flicker of life, whom I nicknamed, "tadpole."
I remember the hope and purpose I felt as I hung nursery curtains, researched parenting, tried to quit smoking.
If you think I don't know how to love, you don't know what love is.
I was, I suppose, lucky that my pregnancy ended before a much more traumatic, late-term procedure was required.
I barely survived the psychological trauma of what I did go through; I can't imagine the horror of anything worse.
I was lucky to have married twice.
My first wedding was to a Lesbian, on Venice Beach, California, at sunset, on my grandmother's quilts.
My second marriage, the only legal one, was to a man, in a Unitarian Universalist church basement, on the Vernal Equinox, during a rainstorm, wearing a thrift store wedding gown.
I know something about motherhood and I know something about love.
And regime change begins with my pants!
I have a dream that, one day, our children will be judged, not by the configurations of their genitalia, but by the content of their character.
I have a dream that, one day, little breeder boys and girls and others will be able to hold hands with little queer boys and girls and others and sing, in the words of the old, Drag Queen anthem,
"I am what I am.
I don't want praise;
I don't want pity.
"I bang my own drums.
Some thinks it's noise;
I think it's pretty. . . .
"It's my life that I want to have a little pride in,
"My life and is not a place I have to hide in!
"Life's not worth a damn till you can shout out,
'I am what I am!'"
Keep the U.S. out of my pants!
