Itıs not that Iım a pacifist. My Cold War childhood pretty much ruined any chance of me becoming a latter day flower child. Iıve certainly tried to be floral but usually end up on the periphery of demonstrations, rolling my eyes as white kids with dread locks hold hand-painted peace sign and swap signatures on each otherıs petitions. The peace movement ainıt no place to be cynical. I would have been an utterly substandard hippie.

The day the bombing started in Afghanistan, hundreds of thousands of people turned out for the Castro Street Fair. It was truly bizarre to watch them get beer buzzed and dance to numbing diva wails in the middle of the streets. Many of them didnıt even know we were at war. I saw leather guys with American flag hankies in their back pockets, like patriotism was some sort of top or bottom fetish activity. The scariest thing was that these guys werenıt kidding. Dozens of men were wearing camouflage with nary a hint of irony.

Iıve pretty much given up on queer folks having radical politics collectively, but itıs been truly spooky to walk through the Castro and see American flags in nearly every business window. Goldıs Gym went so far as to stencil a huge flag on its storefront with the words ³United We Stand.² Every time I walk by, I want to spray paint ³Wake Up² on top of it.

There has been a palpable lack of deep discussion about the events that led to this war. The Middle East has never and will never fit into the fifteen second sound bytes allotted by television news outlets. This is why most Americans have zero understanding of the enormous amount of history involved in the suicide attacks. This lack of understanding has everything to do with why weıre at war.

The night of the bombing, Market Street filled with anti-war people beating drums and screaming chants. They were furious. A friend and I ran down to join them when we heard the drums. As I stood on the corner taking pictures of the passing throng, I cried for the first time since it all started with the September 11 attack. It wasnıt about grief or fear. I was heartened that these rallies provided an outlet for lots of other reactions to the war. Most of all, I was relieved to hear people raising angry voices.

“I do too,” I offered, “but that’s no reason to vote for Junior.” When I pressed her about the Supreme Court, she regurgitated the exact line of reasoning that Bush’s press office had devised: A president isn’t the final say on a matter like abortion.

“I like him,” she said. “I think he’s nice.”

That’s when I understood the single woman demographic that had been bandied about in the press. My niece was part of that statistic. An entire group of women, voting for daddy. Ick!

Which set me off on a sanctimonious lecture about a return to Reagan’s Nazi years.

“I don’t think Reagan was a Nazi,” she said.

I fumed, spouting off statistics about AIDS and how many people died before Reagan even said the word in public. I added that Bush had never said the word in public, either.

She actually used the phrase “liberal media” and said that Bush had been misunderstood.

“I need to end this conversation,” I said, then hung up. I was shaking because I was so furious. How could a member of my own family vote against me? How could a pro-choice feminist vote for someone who was poised to water down every one of her hard-won civil rights victories?

I came to several conclusions based on that phone call. A. I’m terrible at discussing politics with someone who doesn’t agree with me. B. Most of my family members don’t agree with me. C. I should probably avoid politics when I talk to family members.

Iıve been clenched-jaw pissed off for the past month. A therapist might explain it away as denial or some sort of alternate expression of grief, but I can barely watch TV without wanting to strangle someone. I am totally fed up with network televisionıs insistence that we ³come together as a nation² and ³present a unified front.² Itıs the same thing parents tell you when guests are coming over and they donıt want anyone to know how dysfunctional the family is: be quiet and fall in line. Iıve been getting dozens of emails from friends who should know better, asking me to send money to the Red Cross or donate blood. To top it off, people started saying that we needed to put aside our differences and get behind zealots like Bush the Second andJohn Ashcroft. Huh? For those of us who have tasted the bloody policy gloves of these men, this is an alarming concept.

No matter how we feel about the war, we canıt just jettison our politics and jump onto the patriotic parade floats. Even though we are overwhelmed by the tragedies of the past month, we must avoid falling into the mainstream lockstep of jingoism and war-mongering. Our military is still rooting out and discharging queer folks, no matter what clumsy pieces of spin control the Pentagon cobbles together. Celebrities have fallen all over themselves to do public service announcements and benefits advertising their grief and their new projects. Gay celebrities have stepped forward to stump for the Red Cross, which still wonıt take blood from gay men. The Boy Scouts have raised a ton of money from the royalties of ³God Bless America,² which has been in relentless rotation. And Virginiaıs Grand Wizards Pat and Jerry have taken this opportunity to blame the entire thing on a laundry list of non-profit target markets: Feminists! Queers! Granted, they offered up a half-assed apology, but their ideas got enormous media play. The damage was done.

The bottom line is that yes, weıre in a national crisis, but this is no time to go to sleep and trust Bush the Second to do our bidding. Disagreement is not treason. The most American thing any of us could do is ask questions hard questions, questions that canıt be answered inside of fifteen seconds.