Rubyfruit Jungle

by Rita Mae Brown

There are no lower orders. There are no lesbians or transgender people or fill in the blank. There are only people, a wild mix of energy, different abilities, colors ranging from ebony to bleached white. We’re everything and everybody. I don’t even believe in male and female, it’s a sliding scale and we are hag-ridden by a binary culture: male-female, black-white, straight-gay, rich-poor, and so it goes. The gradations are infinite and the silliest mistake of all is to define people by material possessions. It’s even worse if people define themselves by money.

Think about it. Once you buy into a definition of yourself that has been made by others, you’re a victim. Victims draw great strength from banding together and declaring a common oppression and a common (always glorious, of course) culture. Perhaps, but you’re still a victim.

The most revolutionary thing you can do is be yourself, to speak your truth, to open your arms to life, including the pain. Find your passions.

You have to do some of the things everybody does or people don’t like you.” “I don’t care whether they like me or not. Everybody’s stupid, that’s what I think. I care if I like me, that’s what I truly care about.”

He followed the herd, like any dumb beast, vaguely realizing he was unhappy.

“Oh great, you too. So now I wear this label ‘Queer’ emblazoned across my chest. Or I could always carve a scarlet ‘L’ on my forehead. Why does everyone have to put you in a box and nail the lid on it? I don’t know what I am—polymorphous and perverse. Shit. I don’t even know if I’m white. I’m me. That’s all I am and all I want to be. Do I have to be something?”