Somedays, if bitterness were a whetstone, I could be sharp as grief.

I would like to do another piece of fiction dealing with a number of issues: Lesbian parenting, the 1960's, and interracial relationships in the Lesbian and Gay community.

I am a bleak heroism of words that refuse to be buried alive with the liars.

I know the anger lies inside of me like I know the beat of my heart and the taste of my spit. It is easier to be furious than to be yearning. Easier to crucify myself in you than to take on the threatening universe of whiteness by admitting that we are worth wanting each other.

Well, I do not want to be tolerated, nor misnamed. I want to be recognized.

I have always wanted to be both man and woman, to incorporate the strongest and richest parts of my mother and father within/into me - to share valleys and mountains upon my body the way the earth does in hills and peaks.

I agreed to take part in a New York University Institute for Humanities conference a year ago. . . .