Lesbian without a nation.

Before gay rights took hold, dyke culture was in such dire shape that Jill Johnston could cause a stir by titling a book Lesbian Nation. Postliberation, lesbians were freed to be lesbians at last, recognized and respected for pioneering ideologies, collective action, and bad haircuts. Lesbian chic even made us hip. Everyone wanted us in their movies! Soon, though, a storm cloud darkened our happy lesbionic sky.

I first noticed the omens at this spring's Persistent Vision conference celebrating the 25th anniversary of the San Francisco International Lesbian and Gay Film Festival (note the retrospectively quaint name). As the opening plenary speaker, I tried to be inclusive of all the folks who'd gathered there so expectantly. Mighty was the cheer when I proclaimed that the torch of the New Queer Cinema had been passed to transgendered people (Boys Don't Cry, Better Than Chocolate).

When I interviewed several gay filmmakers onstage, they proclaimed themselves to be not gay at all but more than gay: They were "pansexual." Sometime later, as another cheer filled the hall, a skeptical friend whispered to me: "Pansexual? Is that what you say in L.A. when you're trying to get your film financed?"

Hey, c'mon, it's modern. Anyway, unity was our theme! Still, as talk of trannies and pannies excited the crowd, I felt compelled to interject a warning against the fashionable labels that seem to imply our old ways of being are just passe.

It's my Ellis Island theory of gay identity: I told the crowd, "Welcome to the newcomers, but don't forget those of us who are still proud to be dykes." Right? Wrong. No cheers. End of unity. Silence equals what?

Not long afterward the pansexual surge hit a new organization, One Hundred Lesbians. I'd been so excited to hear it was raising money for an endangered species--groups working on behalf of lesbians. Ooh, lesbians only!

The red flag went up when the organization's earnest-lesbian mission specified that all funds be purely from lesbians and to lesbians, with a "biodyke" stipulation that stuck out in our postmodern era of ever-expanding identities. The 100s came under attack this summer by a local rag that "penetrated" an organizational meeting and issued multiple diatribes against "exclusionary" policies.

As the 100s reeled from the hit, I began to wonder what was up. How and why have lesbians become the new untouchables, a class of queer people so repugnant that nobody will befriend us? When we aren't under attack for supporting ourselves (on those rare occasions when we bother to do so), we are busy fighting in support of someone else. In the '70s it was our hetero sisters, whose abortion centers and battered women's shelters needed staffing. Then lesbians dubiously but dutifully took back the night, fighting male-on-female violence. In the '80s and '90s lesbians morphed into a ladies' auxiliary, marching in the battle against AIDS.

Please don't misunderstand me. There's nothing wrong with any of this activity. I think it's all lovely. Really. But in the words of my friend Jewelle Gomez (one of the founders of the 100s), "Even the flight attendant tells you to put your own oxygen mask on first!"

Isn't it a wee bit odd that lesbians are happily accepted as allies for other causes but never get to cash in those IOUs for reciprocal support? Or that lesbians attract only resentment and attack when any attempt is made to put down stakes for ourselves? How can being lesbian be "exclusionary" when being gay or bi, trans or pan, is "inclusive"? Why is being a lesbian with other lesbians a "separatist" act?

I'd continue, but ... see how I've already been transformed into one of those whiny lesbians? And I used to be such fun! Ah, I remember the days when being lesbian was hip and sexy, full of promise, like the Internet before it went bust. I hope there's a new day dawning, and if the sisters can't do it for ourselves, well, c'mon guys, it's time to give us a hand. Consider it a return on investment for an undercapitalized sector.