Epilepic Dyke Activist

What happens to sex-ed when there's overwhelm?

I’m having more seizures. Two this week. That’s a 100% increase.

Last night, at a kinda remarkable event my friend Jenny took me to, I got to hear from a group of activists about their focus on freeing Palestine from Israel. Freeing and protecting the land, the people, the olive trees, the children, from the annihilation of an entire people being carried out by Israel and the United States.

One part of the evening included groups sitting together to talk about how we might move forward. I was blessed, really, to be in a group that included a Jewish elder old enough still to have, as his only form of long-distance communication, a land line. Man did I ever fall in love with him, sweater wrapped around his shoulders, as he wept for Palestine, wept in relation to his feeling of lack of ability to create meaningful change, and as he took a pen to write down the phone numbers for our Congressperson Pat Ryan. He’s going to be our spokesperson for Ryan. He’s going to call Ryan, from his landline, and make an appointment for our small group (we may grow it to a huge group) to visit Ryan, visit Ryan and maybe not leave ‘til Ryan stops acting like he doesn’t get it. Til Ryan commits to stopping the genocide.

I am late - very, very late - to this table.

**

Remember when we first started learning about Greta Thunberg?

Did you see the photo of Thunberg, now 22, being kissed by activist Dr. Jane Goodall?

(If you haven’t, I recommend watching Famous Last Words: Jane Goodall, on Netflix.

Also, as it happens, Jane Goodall has/had a perfect last name.)

**

Thunberg. Read with me, from Al Jezeera: ‘Turkish journalist and Gaza Sumud Flotilla participant Ersin Celik told local media outlets he witnessed Israeli forces “torture Greta Thunberg,” describing how she was “dragged on the ground” and “forced to kiss the Israeli flag.”’

https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2025/10/4/greta-thunberg-mistreated-by-israeli-forces-in-detention-activists-say

**

I told my small group last night that I’ve hesitated to get involved with the liberation of Palestine from Israel. Mostly to do with capacity. With epilepsy. With the fullness I have because of other activist pieces I hold close, other activist pieces I work hard on.

(Can “activism” be called “love”? I’m trying that on.)

Last night, as I watched the man a little older than I cry, I realized too that I’ve held back from engaging with the liberation of Palestine because I am afraid.

**

At the outdoor table last night (there also was another outdoor table filled with a small group, and indoor tables filled with small groups, and pews filled with small groups. in other words, there were quite a number of us), our conversation turned to fear when a particularly beautiful white, cis, straight woman in particularly beautiful clothes, said aloud that she found herself afraid of being activist.

Others nodded.

The woman - bravely - talked about how she was afraid she’d be hurt by the powerful forces rising here in the U.S., the powerful forces rising globally.

I responded, and I guess I was not telling the truth, that I was not afraid. I said that, as a forever activist, as a 66 year old dyke, as a white woman, I had made the choice, had for decades made the choice to not be afraid.

I was lying. I didn’t know it at that moment, so maybe it wasn’t actually lying, but I do now, so know I was. Lying.

**

I was sitting there with the she-could-be-on-a-magazine cover- beautiful straight, white, cis woman who kept mentioning her boyfriend (I’d noticed him earlier in the evening. A man also white, cis, straight, and beautiful), and realize now that I was trying to push her away because I was feeling like didn’t belong in their world.

In other words, I was othering her. Them.

And so I lied about not being afraid. I wanted to distance myself from her. I did distance myself from her. By lying.

**

There are things about myself that, when I see them, cause distress. This is one example. The way I can other others, to keep a certain distance from closeness.

From belonging.

Like I’ve been doing with Palestine.

**

Where am I right now, with this writing?

I’m wanting to say that

1. I’m human.

2. I other people. It’s not a great quality of mine.

3. I get scared. Very scared.

4. I get scared when I have a seizure. They terrify me. Each one brings the question right up close about whether I’m about to die.

5. Jane Goodall and Greta Thunberg are heroes.

6. I’m an activist. A brave one. And also, I stand at the sidelines, looking in, afraid to enter.

7. I’m going to call my new, older friend, the tender man with the landline, and talk to him on the phone he’ll answer only when he’s home, and close by it. I’m going to let him know how much I appreciated meeting him last night, how much I’m looking forward to going to Pat Ryan’s office with him (Pat Ryan will be at his home base here in my part of NYS the week of Oct 20th. Please go visit him, in person if you can, and get him to forget about his Jewish funders and get the fuck on the right side of justice and demand an immediate end to our country -mine, and yours - providing the bombs that have killed hundreds and hundreds of thousands of our Palestinian family members. The bombs that are falling right now, killing and maiming more.

8. Jane Goodall recognized our oneness. I’m seeing about stepping into her footsteps.

9. The gorgeous straight woman at the table last night who was brave enough to talk about her fear… she is my relation. I’m stepping into her footsteps too, even though I’m jealous of some of what I’ve made up about her.

10. I belong. We all do. We all belong.

**

Grateful to you, Jenny, for taking me with you last night. You did extra work to help gain me a ticket, and also to drive us. I love you. Thank you for opening the door to my way in to join in the activist community who has, forever, being working to liberate Palestine from the hands of (some) Jewish Israelis, and (some) American Jews.

And the flotilla. When I stop writing and have walked my dog, I’ll read more, then more, about these global citizens, members of my, of our, community.. I’ll become less afraid to join in the movement - late as I am - toward justice.

**

What does all this have to do with sexuality?

I’m pondering that question.

With love.

(I have to walk my dog, or I’d spend time talking about Jenny, how she made a 16 panel chalk-drawing walkway right in front of my house, each of the 16 panels a suggestion of something we can do with our bodies/souls while we remember Monica Goods. Monica Goods who would’ve been 16 this year if she hadn’t been killed by a local police officer. Justice still has not been brought. Want to know more? Go here: #justiceformonicagoods. Photo by Jenny.)