La Mil Amores

El Rokero Quita V-cards:

Very loud, very fast and left me very sore. It was like having sex with a rabbit in heat. My lonjas bounced all over, I could barely hold my shirt down and this fool couldn’t care less as long as his dick was somewhere in between my legs. I swear he popped out twice and was thrusting in between my left thigh and pussy lip. He made a weird O-face and his sweat kept dripping on me. I wanted him out of my room so I pretended my mom was coming home and he needed to leave. I later found out he was notorious for taking gorditas virginities, so I told him he wasn’t my first and that knocked him down a few notches.

El Footbolista Machista:

This one was older, about 9 years older. Very nice at first ‘cuz I told him HE was my first. He thought himself an expert on vaginas and thought I was tight, so he believed me. He was big and thought that was good enough for any woman. Like “I got a big dick, what else you want from me?” type of guy. He started talking about marriage and babies so I told him he needed to stop all this thinking and that his dick lacked character. And that was that.

The Cholito Who Got Away:

We knew each other since we were sixteen. I had a huge a crush on him. The kind of crush that makes you day dream about making out and holding hands and playing grab ass all day but he had sex with my friend in my back yard and I never wanted to see him again. He was friends with my cousins so I’d still have to see him here and there until I moved. Then I ran into him three years later and he looked fine as ever (like really fine… And grown) and he wasn’t lookin at me like some homegirl anymore either. We ended up getting high and had sex in his car that night. It was A M A Z I N G and a bit harder than I thought it would be. Here I was thinking/hoping I would one day bump into him and show him how I do and here he was turning me inside out. We had sneak-a-boo sex as often as we could. He’d sneak over to my house or I’d sneak over to his and we could go all night! It was dangerous for us to moan in our houses so we’d usually have that breathe hard kind of sex where you have to use a pillow and cringe your teeth when you’re about to cum, it was all good. Until he got a real girlfriend and our sexcapades were over without warning. I’m not gonna lie, that shit hurt.

My Friend:

I got really drunk a few weeks after the Cuddy Buddy break up and I ended up giving my friend head. It was wierd. We’re fine-ish.
If sex makes things awkward, sucking your friends dick just makes shit wierd.

It took me a while to get comfortable with anybody else after my cholo found him self a petite sexy trophy girl, but after about a year I felt like I was ready to mount the ole’ saddle again.

El Enojon:

I don’t know what else to call him except for maybe immature? He threw a fit because he couldn’t get it up and then blamed me for it. This dude had issues and I took it as a sign from the universe that this angry mans penis did not belong in my body. It was my first attempt at sex after about a year so I felt that maybe it was my fault. Like I wasn’t perky enough or I talked his penis straight into flaccidness. It was somewhat traumatizing but I know it wasn’t my fault. Dicks are strange. Almost as weird as their carriers.

El Delicadito:

Diosita mia, this man was sensitive! I know many women complain about men not being in tune with their emotions or their feminine side (myself included) but not every woman wants the same type of sensitivity. I’m more than positive that I made myself very clear to this man and that we understood that our relationship was nothing more than sex. I didn’t want cuddles afterwards, I didn’t need him to hold me while I came and I certainly did not want to hold him, I didn’t want to tell him about my days or even discuss ideas if they didn’t pertain to sex with each other. High-fives, great job, and see ya next time was really what I was looking for. I just wanted him inside me and then out my motherfuckin house. I got a few nice breakfasts out of this but I’m not ever in any kind of mood where I want to deal with waking up next to someone or worrying about some dudes feelings because I didn’t text or call all day. Fuck that. Well fuck that for now, I guess.

There’s been a few others but I don’t feel like they’re worth mentioning really. It’s just basic dick that didn’t leave me with much to say or think about. I don’t feel like my list is long, I hope to meet other men so that I can have more stories to tell. I don’t think I use men to fill any voids, that’s what food is for. I’m just on a never ending quest to find the perfect dick that’ll really satisfy all my needs. But that’s more than likely not to ever happen because my standards are high and dicks are pretty low. Maybe I’ll find the perfect mouth to eat me out all the time instead? Who knows, life is full of wonders and shit fest.

I Believe in Living

 

i believe in living.
i believe in the spectrum
of Beta days and Gamma people.
i believe in sunshine.
In windmills and waterfalls,
tricycles and rocking chairs;
And i believe that seeds grow into sprouts.
And sprouts grow into trees.
i believe in the magic of the hands.
And in the wisdom of the eyes.
i believe in rain and tears.
And in the blood of infinity.

i believe in life.
And i have seen the death parade
march through the torso of the earth,
sculpting mud bodies in its path
i have seen the destruction of the daylight
and seen bloodthirsty maggots
prayed to and saluted

i have seen the kind become the blind
and the blind become the bind
in one easy lesson.
i have walked on cut grass.
i have eaten crow and blunder bread
and breathed the stench of indifference

i have been locked by the lawless.
Handcuffed by the haters.
Gagged by the greedy.
And, if i know anything at all,
it’s that a wall is just a wall
and nothing more at all.
It can be broken down.

i believe in living
i believe in birth.
i believe in the sweat of love
and in the fire of truth.

And i believe that a lost ship,
steered by tired, seasick sailors,
can still be guided home to port.

By Assata Shakur

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Dyke

You can call me Alex or Alexandra

The first time I said I liked girls my voice broke
Everyone turned to me as if I had cursed at the dinner table
My mother told me to go take a shower and think about it 
But mom, you can’t wash off who you are
And yes, I have been thinking about it
A lot

In a small town news spreads like wildfire
I was the walking disappointment in the middle of town square
I had been reduced to it till I was purged of this evil that threatened to claim my soul
No one would sit next to me in class
And everyday after the assembly I was taken aside and told I would burn
Hell had no mercy for those like me 
But people, you don’t tell a sixteen year old child that she is possessed by the devil

And the other day when I went to get my hair cut
They loped it all off
And they said there you like to fuck girls now you can be a man
But a bad haircut doesn’t make me a man 
And all the abuses you can throw at me won’t change who I am
And I stood there with their glares digging daggers into the back of my head
The old man cursed dyke, and the parents covered their childrens eyes
As if I had a disease they would catch if they looked for too long

And they threw a burning stick in my front yard and said burn you deserve to burn
So i did
I burnt
I burnt myself piece by piece till there was nothing left but ashes
But remember you can burn down one Alex, one dyke, one unholy sin but 
There will rise another and another and another 
Till this world will have to change and then 
There will be a dyke at every street corner and 
I will look you in the eye and say how many will you burn?

LIAR!!!

LIAR!!!

You call yourself an activist

Fighting for injustices

You say you’re in touch with your feminist side

YET………

Behind closed doors you’re a lying, cheating, whore

You cruelly lie and pretend

You play games

You claim to be a hard core Xicano

Fighting for OUR cause

How is it then….you can bring a fellow comrade down

You deceive and lie about yourself

Pretending to be into me

Only to let me down

Lied about having a girl friend

Lied about being available

Lied about your calls and texts

You made me promises you didn’t keep

Then excused yourself behind a woman

You are fraud

You are a jerk

Disappointing in so many ways

You have fooled not only me

But many more too

Narratives of Silence

I fail to fear the consequences of exclusion, for those who cannot
deal with the fact that I spit truth and fire with my tongue, were
never meant to be a part of my life

In the battlefield of narratives we can make a conscious effort to
tell truth from our perspective or alter it in our private interest.
The narrative is always in relation to the past and it continuously
reaffirms our identity no matter how tarnished it is. Meaning that in
order to survive, find strength, or safety, we modify the reality of
our past to fit our present needs. However, in modifying our narrative
we oppress and silence those who lived the same experience, never
getting to express their truth–reality as they lived it.

Therefore let us not prioritize the importance of individual memory
but that of a collective memory, preserving the voice of those who’ve
been forced into silence by those who fail to include and/or to listen
to their narratives. Narratives filled not simply by the conjunction
of words, but composed by lived experiences.  And in the face of truth
and justice, if we rely on a single story we become more likely to
rely on those who alter narratives in their private interest to
reflect their present needs because their past in relation to truth
and reality at some point became unbearable enough in the necessity to
lie–a careful and intentional alteration to distort truth for their
own benefit.

The past holds an intangible sense of space that continuously
reaffirms our present identity, but always in relation to others;
therefore creating spaces that are nevertheless highly affective.
Spaces that are shaped by feelings in conjunction to those who once
shared and lived an experience with us, part of a collective truth,
but now choosing to exclude collectivity and asserting power by
imposing silence.

In choosing to silence those who at some point shared a sense of space
in collective truth we transform the past from an intangible space to
one of a reality. The detriment in the pervasive power to exclude
narratives is one that relates to historical erasure based on a
hegemonic stance to maintain power by unmistakably avoiding discussing
truth in a collective manner. And those who are willing to inscribe
into a false consciousness and internalize what they hear as truth
without ever questioning its factuality become manipulated into a
false past and actively participate in the exclusionary visions of
truth for the sake of support, but rendering into false assumptions.
Such narratives might be met with support or resistance. And
resistance usually comes from those who have been silenced and framed
as antagonistic, while support will more than likely come from those
who assume an imaginary neutral position and fail to actively seek a
desire for collective truth.

In the act of unquestionably accepting someone else’s story we are
actively participating in the silencing of someone else’s lived
experience that becomes othered. And if we agree that silencing the
other is an act of violence, the act of failing to listen to a
collective truth is an act of violence itself. There is no neutrality
in the battlefield of narratives, just like there is no neutrality in
the battlefield of social justice–either we chose to oppress or fight
against it. Now ask yourself the following question, how do you
actively participate and perpetuate the cycle of silence?

Re-imagining the Home through Conscious ways of Healing

Like Anzaldua I have attempted carrying home on my back but sometimes carrying home includes carrying a lot more, to the point that it becomes overbearing. I have been divulging in the words of Eden E. Torres the Chicana academic who brought us Chicana Without Apology; however, her words struck me when she began talking about the difficulty in maintaining mental health. And I wondered, what happens when home becomes a threat to your mental health?

I’d like to start with a quote by Friedrich Nietzche—“the most spiritual human beings, assuming they are the most courageous, also experience by far the most painful tragedies; but it is precisely for this reason that they honor life, because it brings against them its most formidable weapons” And what does that mean to a queer Chicana who has struggled with mental health issues from a young age?

Let me take you back. I suffer from a history of mental health issues and I have to protect myself in a way that I am able to maintain my wellbeing not only for myself, but for those who share a home with me too. It is our responsibility to hold ourselves accountable first to stop ourselves from perpetuating trauma within our home through conscious acts of healing. That we must learn to heal to make good use of our pain and our coraje in order to continue fostering loving relationships within the home and for our community.

It is difficult to live within a home where situations or persons continuously harms us through their actions—actions that create a hostile and dehumanizing environment within our home. A part of healing includes being able to set boundaries for our own protection—away from pain. Unfortunately, we have become accepting of pain enough to live with it and re-create it even within our own home. A part of healing and allowing others to heal is a part of setting boundaries to protect ourselves even from the ones we love and the ones that say they love us but do not show it through their actions.

Like Eden Torres states, it is crucial to protect ourselves against overwhelming pain. We would rather become numb to pain—separating us from that experience that brings us so much trauma.

Through these years of pain and suffering I have found music and art to be healing. But I have noticed that I have been coping in ways that numb that pain within me, ways I would prefer not to engage in but because I more than often find myself unable to reach out I’d rather maintain that grief within me. But like Eden states, grief held within is a wound that will not heal and more so now that a normal mourning process has been interrupted by the ordinary need to survive.  And thus I push my grieving behind, thus I push my mental health to the side because I would rather not talk about these issues. Thus I now come out with my story to reach out to other women of color who also struggle with maintaining mental health while striving to construct loving homes and maintain family.

As a graduate student of color in a white-dominant university, I have to maintain my mental health to make sure I wake up everyday to put on my warrior mascara, a mascara that yells CHINGONA as I walk through those halls knowing that people assume I do not belong there. That mascara along with my warrior botas give me strength. Although there are days I would rather not show up to lecture and instead I would rather rage, yell, and scream, which is in itself a form of healing, but I also need to make sure I show-up to work in order to pay my way through graduate school. I do not want to go back to being the person I used to be before a series of years of intense therapy and counseling. I do not want to go back to being that depressed and suicidal person that believes running away from her problems is an easier route.

So I ask you all to be mindful of your mental well-being as well as of others. To those who have attempted to foster a loving home for me, I am not running away from you or our familia, but I need to define those boundaries for my own well being, for my mental health, and simply so I can continue striving rather than just surviving.

Know that I am not pushing anyone away. If anything I hope this serves as a lesson that pushing away the people you love will not create any meaningful change, but if that is your only option then by all means do what is best for your situation. However, I would like to point out that it is not fair to push people that we once loved away from our corazon. That if we are to create family and community we need to accept that people are within their own journeys. That we are not here to judge (which is different from holding someone accountable) but embrace one another for our fortaleza acknowledging that living and waking up everyday is strength passed down from our ancestors. And that the legacies within us, the histories we have endured are not meant to harm one another.

Let us celebrate our existence; look at the strength it has taken us to survive this history and our current situation(s). Look at the strength it has taken people struggling with mental health to continue being here, living. If anything our ancestors embraced both life and death, but we more than often forget to embrace being alive and we would rather continue living as dead, but let us not forget about one another, let us not work against one another. Let us begin to embrace one another through conscious ways of healing. And as Anzaldua states, may we continue dancing in the face of our fears.

I Swore My Heart Away When I Was 14

I Swore My Heart Away When I Was 14.
I remember lying in bed rogandole a la virgencita to please keep my dad safe from harm
hoping for a call I knew I wasn’t gonna get.
Praying I wouldn’t get a phone call that he’s been found dead by some dumpster.
I remember a night in particular when I got tired of praying for him
So I prayed for me.

Le pedi que me isiera no quererlo mas
Que lo sacara de mi corazon

I cried big heavy tears that soaked my pillow and mixed with bugers and saliva.
I woke up the next morning disappointed because I still missed him, con coraje, like every other day but missed him still.
Eventually I didn’t think about him so much and I forgot about my prayers I didn’t cry at night and I could sleep in complete darkness
I had long forgotten my pleas and gone on with my life

Three boyfriends and many sexual encounters later I remembered my prayer.
The one where I begged Mi Morenita to take my heart out and lose it in the cosmos
I realized Im 20 years old and have had 11 men walk in and out of my life, use and dispose of my body. Told them I loved them and hated them all in the same breathe.

I didn’t care to notice when they left or how three boyfriends and eight sexual partners who I’ve never even been with long enough to know their last name had gone through me.

My first boyfriend took my virginty because I guess my eyes said it was up for grabs the moment I let him lay on my bed. We dated two weeks, had sex for about 10 minutes, said see you around and I never cared to see him again

I regretted losing my virginity to him

So I told my second boyfriend he was my first. He was older… Way older. Like ‘ready to settle down and have kids’ ready. He saw me as the type to wife up and use my child bearing hips to carry his off spring. I couldn’t stomach the idea of having his kid and having to keep a piece a piece of him forever. So I didn’t. I ran away as fast as I could from that situation by blaming everything wrong with me on him. Made myself unbearable because it was easier for someone to leave me than it was for me to walk away. Even when I can’t love I can’t leave, the guilt of not being able to give back holds me.

My third boyfriend was accidental. We weren’t meant for each other but when it’s so cold out and someone shows you warmth with their own body, one tends to think thats a special trick no one else can do. To have someone want you for sexual favors makes you feel of use or somewhat important to someone and that can sometimes even make you feel special. It had been a long time since I could make a man happy with just a kiss.

I don’t remember how this ended I just know that it stopped.

After him I didn’t want anymore boyfriends. I wanted to keep thinking i was of use. I wanted to feel wanted. But I didn’t want to love. The trick is to always keep your eyes shut.

I thank my dad for teaching me body parts are just as disposable as whole bodies. He removed his daughter to find happiness while I simply removed my heart.

les escribí una carta a mis padres…

Queridos Padres,

Les escribo con amor y honestidad y siento que esto es la manera mas segura y correcta. Quiero empezar con decirles que los aprecio y los respeto como padres nunca me han dado para abajo y siempre quieren lo mejor para mi. También se que me dieron amor y un techo por muchos anos y eso nunca se me olvidara. Me ensenaron los buenos modales de trabajar duro ser valiente y honesta y humilde con todo ser humano y esos valores nunca se me olvidaran. Eh estado pasando por un camino de confusión y reflexión en este proceso estoy creciendo y madurando como una mujer profesional. Pero con eso también viene el hacer honesta con ustedes no tenia el valor en decirles como realmente me eh sentido Y quien me atraía como persona gay porque no quería causarles dolor y mirarlos tristes. No encontraba la manera de decirles y por eso no sabia como actuar y me alejaba de ustedes y empecé a tomar para sacar lo que traía adentro. Se que en los ojos de ustedes es algo difícil de comprender a un pero yo soy ser humana y sigo haciendo su hija y los sigo amando y queriendo siempre. Espero que me entiendan y no me miren diferente porque ya me canse de vivir una doble vida. Quiera a quien quiera quiero ser libre y poder expresarme y ser sincera con ustedes y darlos a respetar aun mas. Los adoro a todos y espero que después de esto estemos aun mas unidos como familia pero se que tengo que darles tiempo para reaccionar. Aquí estaré esperándolos con mis brazos abiertos los adoro mama y papa siempre!

Con mucho amor y cariño su hija.