Why? Because as people of color and Muslims in the US know too well, white supremacy and Christian supremacy push whole communities to take accountability, feel shame, and point fingers of blame on each other when one, two, or twenty people of color and/or Muslims kill or hurt anyone. It is painful that people in Boston suffered. That stands alone. As all human suffering always does.

Yet, it is also an important week for this country to look at what we see or do not see about race and ethnicity. For decades, immigrant communities (particularly of color) have been trying to talk to the rest of us about how white supremacy functions with ethnicity and ethnic bias in a way far deeper than we are usually willing to see in the U.S.

'White Ethnics' are an interesting example of this. Let's start with that term itself. It is contested, but has also changed over time. Most would agree that it has often referred to blue collar, 'white' immigrants from Central, Southern, and Eastern Europe.

In the 19th century most would agree that white ethnics were poorer than other 'white' people, but we generally moved up the class ladder a great deal in the 20th century. Currently, the term 'white ethnic' seems to be used mostly for Slavic (Eastern European) people, and those white people who are perceived by other white people as talking louder - acting 'wilder', more 'clannish' - and being poorer than other whites. Those who stick to their families, hold onto cultural traditions and symbols from home, and/or are more recent immigrants to the US.

What stereotypes do these sound like? That's right. The more 'white ethnics' play out the roles and markers that the white supremacist mind sees as the qualities of 'people of color', the more alienated we are from mainstream culture, and the more marked we are as 'white ethnics' and 'other'. That's why I think bias against 'white ethnics' is surely ethnic bias, but mostly it is just a by-product of white supremacy.

I also speak Czech and German. I grew up in a privately 'white ethnic' home - with a Polish grandfather at home with long fingernails who cooked 'weird smelling' things and with white, US American neighbors who would ask my mother: "How many people exactly live in your house?" Our house was decorated to replicate Central Europe, and my mother was privately an incredible instiller of cultural memory, symbol, religion, and language. As an adult, I pretty much replicate (for good, bad and ugly) the patterns of my mother. In public and in my work, I identify my white privilege and use all the tools that I can to fight for liberation for all people.

Also, right inside the front door of my home, stands a five foot charcoal paint sketch of the face of a traditional 'Babushka' - the classical grandmother image of all Slavic people. Every day I wear at least 3 pieces of jewelry that remind me of my culture, and my ancestors. Yet, as a writer, I have probably written only three published pieces where I talk explicitly about immigration, ethnicity, and whiteness together.

When I was 15, I was a pretty confused and messed up teenager. My parents had the resources to send me 'back home'. I lived in Prague for a year, learned Czech, and traveled to visit relatives. My Czech drinking buddies called me "Imperialistka" (little female imperialist) because of my white, US American father.

I saw how Eastern Europe was being degraded economically and environmentally by Western Europe: how poor most people were and how many queer, women, and kid's lives were being lost to human trafficking and sexual slavery. I saw how Western Europe used the white supremacist tropes of 'wild', 'clannish', 'stupid', and 'ethnic' to excuse violating Eastern Europeans, especially Romany (Gypsy) people. I experienced what many Slavic women experience their whole lives - being one of 'the dark ones'. I learned how the oppression of Slavic women and queers is still connected today to the witch burning times and the way Pagan practice was driven underground in Eastern Europe.

I came back a different young woman. I longed to live in Prague again, and had the privilege to go back when I was 18; only to realize that the life I wanted as an out dyke could not be safely lived there at the time. I left Eastern Europe with the throbbing daily pain of knowing that my queer Slavic brothers, sisters, and siblings of all genders could not just leave as I could, flee the homophobia as I did. I try to honor them through my work every day, always keeping them in my memory mind's eye.

Why does any of this matter besides being my own story of becoming politicized? Besides naming what a privilege it is to 'get in touch with your culture'? Because somehow a Polish second generation queer's experience is the same as a young Chechen immigrant guy? No.

Because somehow this 'lets white ethnics off the hook' of being accountable for white privilege and colluding in white supremacy? Actually, the opposite. When I watched the statements of many Slavic people this week, I was clearer than ever how we different our experiences are and how the majority of us have collectively sold ourselves to the dreams of domination and power by intentionally positioning ourselves to push people of color down in order to move up.

The Czech government issued a statement saying 'We are not Chechens'. The bombers own uncle, Ruslan Tsarni, talked about how Tamerlan and Dzhokhar Tsarnaev had not only brought shame to the family, but shame to the entire ethnicity. Tsarni was then praised for his statement of 'character' and 'collective responsibility' by mainstream news circuits. Acting like we believe that lie that this was 'all of us'. This country is saying we should be ashamed to be Slavic this week.

I am not ashamed of my poor and pagan Slavic grandmothers. I am not distancing myself from them. No, they can keep all that spiritual poison. I'm trying to be able to sleep at night.

Instead, what does pain me is that generally Slavs have not learned the lesson that instead of folding to fear and distancing ourselves from anything besides white, nationalist rhetoric we could stand on the side of justice. That side would be in solidarity with people of color, poor people around the world, and Muslim communities being targeted by hate. It would mean using our experiences to move to action against white supremacy and xenophobia.

It would mean 'doing the right thing' by an international marginalized community, but to us specifically it would also mean not being on our knees begging all the time for equality on a ladder of whiteness when we are precariously hanging by the lowest rung.

It has been time - for a long time - for us to use our own histories of joy and art-fueled resistance and organize to re-position ourselves politically in a mass-based way. Yet, we have stood so often on the side of the oppressors. This week made me commit, yet again, to being part of changing that.

(Babushka clipart via Bigstock)

We live in the South, and as a leader within Southerners On New Ground (SONG) I have had the opportunity to witness the stories of thousands of LGBT people, and part of what that means is that I do not get to pretend that gay marriage does not matter to our base, to our people. I have participated in the sheer joy of how people are connected through love, desire and family, and I reject none of the love that all that brings to our people.

In the sea of loneliness that homophobia & transphobia can make, can we dismiss the ways we find each other... the forms that takes? Can we judge the ways queer & trans Southerners find each other? At SONG, we say "no." We have followed the path of what this has meant for so many of our people, we have watched, and sometimes, we have participated.

There are many leaders I care about and respect who have been praying out in the cold around the place the Supreme Court meets. Gathering and praying. I think I understand why they are there.

And yet, the strongest part of the story of queer liberation is the part where we have refused to choose 'some' over 'others'. When we have not written a story of LGBT people as 'normal' or 'assimilated'.

Liberation is not normal. It is wild and free. It pays no price to be what it is. I won't give up on it, I can't. I hope you won't either. There are dawns to come that will look like nothing we can even imagine. But we can't get there if marriage is the end game, the last stop we take together as organized LGBT community.

Inside the movement, we have argued about the marriage issue for years. Because of SONG and other queer liberation work - work that has changed my life - I believe the way forward is not the same old fight of picking sides. The question, instead, becomes: how do we move from the push for a US-based civil right for some, to the struggle for liberation for all?

That question cannot be answered with political opinions alone; it must be answered with the kind of leadership in our movement that moves as spirit moves - holding history, making meaning, holding differences so significant they burn our hands, and transforming us all through shared struggle.

I will be honest, I am not quite sure how to be a leader like that yet, or how to build with many of you to become those leaders. But, I know we have to try, and I hope you are willing to try too.

None of these are intrinsically 'white culture' characteristics or ideas, of course, but this is clearly a working class white, and union-led space. Living in the South, I am distinctly aware of how different it would look and feel if this were happening there, and I think how it looks and feels is important because the issue reflects a majority of who lives in these communities, but not everyone who lives here. I think it is important that elements of mass movement reflect the people who are directly affected, and these people are definitely directly affected. In fact, every single person I met told me stories of how they are directly affected by the bill in some way: "I was homeless before, I am on disability now, but if the bill passes I will go back to the streets", or "I am on Chemo for my cancer and I will lose my healthcare if the bill passes." There are also folks who talked about what they described as the 'domino effect' of employment' - where home health care workers would lose their jobs if the bill passes because their employers would lose their benefits.

What I see among many of the white working class people here is a major change of heart and a re-politicization. This is best exemplified by a huge sign that a middle-aged white man in a worn winter jacket was holding this week at the Capitol that read: "I voted for Walker and I am SO sorry." This man was not marching with the crowd, he was standing by a blockade, facing marchers as we flowed past him, as though he wanted us to read it and accept his apology. I read his face as determined, yet humble.

Of course, it is not only white people here, and I could not and would not speak to what this experience is for people of color. Shameka Powell, from North Carolina, and currently living in Madison, WI says: "The media is not showing us, but there are people of color in this fight, and we have been in it since it started." What I have seen is masses of mostly white people in the crowd, while a mix of white folks and people of color speak from the podium from positions of authority. I have seen crowds of white people step back to show respect as dignified African-American union shop stewards come through, carrying flags. I have heard women of color leaders in Madison who have rarely been given voice and power they deserve, speak to tens of thousands from the main stage. I have seen class struggle unite white students in hoodies with Black fully-uniformed police and firemen. I have seen the realization that 400 wealthy Americans own more of the US than half of our population does dawn on people who I have known my whole life and have not necessarily shared politics with. I have seen an entire town engaged in struggle - kids, teens, elders. Teachers, firefighters, people with mental illness. I have been passed platters of home-made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and I have eaten pizza called in to Ian's Pizza by Egyptian youth and people from more than 25 countries, and every one of our fifty states.

I feel hopeful about political transformation. I feel hopeful not that all of the oppression in our movements has ceased, but I feel hopeful that we are seeing common interests here in Wisconsin. That some of these working class white people are hearing that maybe what many folks of color, LGBTQ people, people with disabilities, and low income people have been trying to tell them about where a culture of greed, wealth, and hate are taking us as a country may be true. Some of them are listening, and are ready to change, and transform their role in this country, starting with their work in this uprising in Wisconsin. Cindy Breunig, a Queer organizer from Wisconsin, told me about being at a Union Rally in the first week of this battle: "There were so many people there--mostly white folks in hunting gear, and Green Bay Packers hats. When the crowd was asked how many of them were at a rally for the first time in their life, I would say about 85% of the room raised their hands."

So, if this is true, what is the role of white folks who have been in social justice movements a long time in supporting these white folks to change and transform? Where are we willing to meet these folks, and what do we have to say to each other? We have a lot to say to each other, I think. We have to ask some important questions, and ask ourselves how much hope, patience, and commitment we have in us. Are folks in the LGBTQ community ready to work with working class people who may not currently support gay marriage, in order to fight the rich to save our right to live, work, and survive? Are we willing to struggle alongside them, not to silence ourselves, but to engage them respectfully in the vision of building broader? Are we willing to stop assuming they are the enemy long enough to get curious about what is happening in Wisconsin?

We have learned from Movement history that building relationship and struggling together in the trenches can yield powerful change. Are we willing to meet at what we share, and build from there? Maybe we start learning to become family around economic justice and class warfare, as I could not help but feel that when they played the song "We are Family" from the podium to more than 50,000 people this weekend, that the whole scene would have been just a little better with some drag queens in sequined down vests. In short, we here as queers, and more of us are needed.

There is so much we can gain from taking leadership in this struggle. This is clearly exemplified by the occupation of the Capitol. To be there is to heal some part deep inside that has been alienated from public space. As a queer person, I often speak to the level of alienation we feel as a community around public space: we are told it is not for us, that we sicken and pervert it, that we should be tolerated in it only if we pretend to be straight, or something other than we are. But, to be in that Capitol right now, to come out of the cold and into the warm light of signs everywhere, and to hear the humming of hundreds chanting, to go upstairs and sit in the 'Family Space', and watch parents rock their kids in big old rocking chairs--is to feel Movement space in public space. It feels something like the US Social Forum, except bigger, and with fewer workshops. I actually was not overcome with emotion being here until I stood on the rotunda of the capitol, in week 3 of this sustained struggle, and hugged another white queer woman I know in Madison who is an organizer here. I just said: "Thank you. I am so proud. Thank you for your organizing.", and she looked at me kindly, with that Midwest friendliness in her face, and said: "What are you thanking me for? I just took 2 days off to shower, eat, and make love to my girlfriend!" I smiled and told her that I would guess that it has been amazing and also not been easy for a queer woman to lead in this space in some ways. She nods and we talk about how the wash of other emotions and the importance of this struggle has carried her through tense times, when people come together who are not used to working together. I walk out of the Capitol with her, into the snow, chanting: "Whose House? Our House."

Queer People: This House, this Capitol, is Our House. They have no right to tell us it is not our struggle, not our place, not our fight. We are workers as much as anyone else, and Queers in Madison are some of many leading a historic moment in our name.

Photo via Intern Jake

However, 14 days ago something different happened in Madison. Consider the quote from my life-long friend, Twyla Clark, on the ground in Madison this week:

One thing everyone should know is all the different kinds of people who are here with us, who are us. People meditating; teachers who shut down the Madison Public School District for 4 days, who when they had to return to work had parents standing outside the next day holding signs that said: 'I am here for Ms. Butler', and 'I am here for Mr. Jones', representing them; Vets and cops in uniforms; 800 students who walked out from a local high school; an entire March of Librarians, and children, children, so many children and families."

This is not a reflection of some vague notion of "coalitional" movement building - this is people who are very different from each other, want different things, and who have a common interest. This is a recognition that the fight over the consolidation of wealth, resources, land, air, and the rights to our own bodies is being waged between less than 5% of the global population and... the rest of us. That means all the categories of people that Twyla named above, and more. There is no human being not affected.

First, remember the part of the bill in Wisconsin that has gotten the most attention has been the part about collective bargaining, which is very important. However, the impact of this bill for poor people (particularly in relation to Medicaid and Medicare) is huge. If our community thinks everything that affects poor people does not affect us, we need to do more reading on how many of us are poor. We are disproportionately poor, particularly in trans and gender non-conforming communities and communities of color.

Second, consider this other quote from Twyla:

I wish you could be in the capital right now and see how this space that we have known our whole lives has been transformed. I was there studying at 10:30pm last night and there was art, signs, all these people, and information everywhere. The space really reflects the chant we have been using about the Capitol: 'Whose House? Our House!'

She points to the fact that the Capitol occupation is very much about reclaiming public space. As LGBTQ people, we are systematically pushed out of public space - discouraged from being ourselves at our workplaces, our kids' schools, at the grocery store, and in our local and state governments. Why do so few of us run for public office? Why are so many of our activists who do not work in LGBTQ-specific areas closeted? Because we have been sent a clear message: public space is not our space. We are not "the Public."

We are not the only community sent this message.

Immigrants are told something similar every time we open our mouths and speak a language that is not English. The systems of our towns are set up so that on every street, every bus, and every glittering downtown poor people are sent the same message: you do not belong here, this place is not for you.

This week people in Madison are saying that class warfare is real, it needs to be faced head on, and to do that we must reclaim public space. This month, people all over the Middle East are saying this, and so much more. Are we ready to recognize that this struggle (like so many struggles) is our struggle?