Keep Ya Head Up

When the fears start to reveal themselves, but your no longer afraid you’re just so sad it took you this long to understand. Then the tears run down your face because of all the pain you put yourself through, and you wonder how you managed to pretend you were so strong when clearly you were wrong. It’s like a self-inflicted wound that gives you ecstasy, but drains and brings along so much pain after the fact. But no one is there to kiss your scars, and until you find a way to love yourself in the aftermath of this craziness you’ll never allow anyone to come close enough to. You’ll spend your life pretending. Not trying to pretend, but you’ve become so disoriented that any idea of comfort or love fills the void he left when he took your most prized possession.

You go over and over it in your mind, blame falls on yourself each time. Because society tells you it’s your fault you got drunk, and that you wanted it. So you feel at a loss and things no longer feel the same. You’re in search of an emotion you can’t describe or never had, see he took away that chance too. You begin to look for that love and connection in every encounter you have. Although with each encounter you feel more and more drained and your energy and aura are no longer the same. Some will lie and you’ll fall for it, and it will make you feel even more lost when you discover your illusions have fallen ill. It becomes so bad to the point you feel it’s best to be alone, but the inner innocence that is still left in you tells you that there is more out there, there must be.

The dreamer in you believes in hope that someday women won’t ever have to go through this, and men will cherish the creators of this world. That the patriarchal society will someday break, and things go back to the natural order. That people won’t judge what they won’t ever come close to understanding being that, that person can’t even begin to figure themselves out, because a big piece of them was taken. Losing all self-worth one day I hope they will begin to see their true selves. I hope one day I’ll be able to see my true self.

Are Pictures Preferred Because They Can’t Talk Back To You?

Do you all realize what has happened?

Photos, films and still life displays are being favored over the living, breathing human individuals themselves.

These captured moments in time – immortalized forever – reminding us of the “good old days” when everyone could actually work and function together for a more just and historically accurate education, one that represented us all.  These frozen and professionally edited images take us back to a nostalgic time, back to when we once respected each other, when we once felt safe around one another, back to when we once trusted each other.

We go back and reminisce because currently those sentiments no longer exist.

In the Tucson Ethnic Studies community in the year 2013 that is gone now.
And rather than work hard and attentively to regain back what has been lost with honesty, humility, dignity and a sense of moral values we cling on to physical objects that allow us an escapist type sense of comfort; looking to the past, obsessing with the past, fetishizing the past.

As if the present and future growth of this community is no longer important.

I don’t want to be part of any movement that uses disillusionment as a coping mechanism to unacknowledged and unresolved forms of gender violence.

What a waste of energy that must be, to uphold a glossy paper and roll of film movement – a voiceless shadow movement toured around the country rather than upholding the actual local community base itself that is absolutely hurting right now.

That is not building, that’s just showcasing to unaware spectators all of our faces that are no longer present, our mouths that are no longer open, and our eyes that no longer see truth.

Attn: Voices Needed

Voices Needed

Because that one time at the bar you felt it was okay to go up my skirt with your hand

Because my drink made me sloppy drunk with a few sips

AND you took advantage

Voices Needed

Because community peeps for ‘social justice’ feel that it’s okay to support a rapist instead of their semillas

Because that movie tells ‘our’ story ‘so beautifully’

AND semillas need sunlight to grow… NOT… shade…

Voices Needed

Because young girls can get raped because they ‘drank too much’, ‘wore that dress’ and ‘were looking for action’

Because those beautiful wombyn find ways to stop their breath

AND they need to keep on…going….

Voices Needed

Because sexism, misogyny, and patriarchy are ‘not a big deal’ and make us ‘lose focus’

Because movements need to keep moving and ‘your shit is a roadblock’;  ‘you’re a manhater’

AND we raise and love men

Voices Needed

Because our stories continue to be questioned

Because we are told, ‘Police report please’ and ‘be consistent with your story’

AND our traumas, our fears are carried so deep inside us nothing… comes… out

Voices Needed

Because I can go on and on with these stories

Because you think you know who wrote this yet it is not who you think because these stories. feelings. are common…

AND they need to be STOPPED. SUPPORTED.

KEEP USING YOUR VOICES.

WE HEAR YOU!

Dress

She used to wear a dress

                And her dolls watched as she danced

                                And the sun smiled upon her, and her light was bright

People would come and go

                And tell her she was pretty

But HE stayed

                Told her she was pretty too

                                Wanted to show her just how much

HE liked the way her dress was easy

                HE could go in and out

                                Unseen

                                                Not even her dolls watched

But she could feel it ALL

                She could feel her light go out

                                Every time she wore a dress

 

Then HE turned into SHE

 

SHE saw her

                Small and scared

                                And told her she could help

SHE held her in the dark

                Told her not to tell

But she could still feel it ALL

                She lost her light there in the dark

                                And began to disappear

Then days turned into months, and months turned into years

 

She didn’t own a dress

                And never slept in the dark

She learned to live without having to feel anything

                Until

She met the one who turned her light back on

                The one who told her it was ok to be pretty

                                The one who held her hand when things turned black

And with this love, her light began to shine again

                But

She was still afraid of the dark and never wore a dress

             But

She was still afraid of the dark and never wore a dress

Borders borders

When I went through the border I heard a man

speak his name, speak for his freedom and the freedom of those around him

and I saw a soldier standing behind him

who was there to kill, disappeared, repress, impoverish, murder, steal, lie, thieve, die

sometimes too, everyday inside he died, that soldier, I saw it in his eyes

soldier funded to stand there, given money, by a government that I “have” somehow to call “my own”. 

… I Pledge Allegiance…

But I can’t I can’t I cant I cant I cant I cant I cant I cant

 

When I saw that man and heard his sweet voice and saw the look of recognition between the people, their hearts and their lives,

then I felt my spirit renew, I felt my heart come alive,

I felt the pains of the people, I saw the pains of the ages, and I saw all of Life speak together

and their song was beautiful,

and the deeper it went their lives intertwined with that of the suns’ life, the plants, the bats, jaguars, agua y oro tambien

 

…..

Borders borders

 

When I came through the border aiport security of the land called “US”, I felt screaming silently and erased

though not erased

 

That

I am not the murderer. 

Not the one who goes to other countries with paid boots and guns to [insert propaganda]

No not me

And I am not the one who thieves, who goes and pays for bullets to go into the bodies of children in lands maybe I’ve never seen.

Not me.  No not me.

I’ve seen the bodies of children afraid of bullets marked USA-made

I’ve seen those kids and I loved them, I laughed with them, I told them all I could,

I don’t believe they should be murdered, I don’t believe in the destruction of their bodies or Hearts or Minds

I believe they should live the depths of their lives, I believe they should live the magic of their childhood, and the magic potential of their lives.

 

And I am not the one thinking that raping lands and lives for money is worth the profit$, and fuck the deaths and fuck the depths of the losses.

Not me. Not me.  I feel that loss, I see it, I watch it as the earth has started to bleed onto our feet

While the rich line their pockets with forgotten denials that

they don’t have the right to thieve/profit of/f our communities, to thieve/invest themselves in the stealing of our lives, our dreams, our visions sometimes even too.  They don’t have the right to thieve/profit of/f the loss of another, off water, off the earth…

 

And I want to scream into the well that I see you liars

you thieves

you stupid capitalist imperialist bastards who forgot where home is

you jerks who took my water bottles and threw it in the trash, who made me take off my shoes, put my shit on a belt, open my bags for you, put my hands up inside a machine,  made me watch every foreigner get doubled fingerprinted and photographed, and told me You were “keeping the skies safe,”

I want to say to you that the border has long been reached. 

The Emperor with

No Clothes

has been spotted,

has been spotted,

spotted,

spotted,

and I’m screaming that I see you, and I don’t Pledge Allegiance

 

I don’t lie for you, my “US” government, I don’t excuse your behavior, I don’t cover for your forced and constant “mistakes,”

I won’t put my hand over my heart for the rulers/thieves/liars/murderers/sick capitalist imperialist bastards

I would rather give my allegiance to those of this life who are striving for Life

Because my heart still feels So Much Love

And Because I still do believe in the visions

 

I am not the one who behaves like my Rights obligates me above all others,

and my Right to profit, and my Right to lie in your face and make you behave like you’re the criminal.

That’s not me.  That’s not that man I saw standing in front of a soldier calling for the right of the people to live in peace.  That’s not her I saw striving with eyes so wide open, with heart open striving bent on the strength of her vision.

I don’t Pledge Allegiance.

I want Liberation.
I want Liberation.

 

The other week in Tucson I gave $5 to a man who looked like he could use it,

and he cried and hugged me and spoke of Robin Hood,

and we spoke about the idea of Robin Hood, (hey we need more Robin Hoods)

and when I told him I wished him the best

He gave me a depth of a look

and he told me, “Everyone says that to me.  I’ve just stopped listening.”

And my heart felt a fracture, felt to be precariously shackled to a depth opening beneath my feet.

And I felt like something slipped between us two and said “That’s just the way it is.  Somethings can never change.  That’s just the way it is.”  Came to haunt us two, and beg for our votes, and told us not to trust each other, and told us we could never be free of this Hell called U.S.

instead

instead of us two, three, all of us, us us us, we one.

 

I want this stupid Fucking “US” government to stop thinking it has the right to make the most money

Because I hate the costs of the deaths

And Because I love the

Depth of the Lives

Fuck you Haiku

My lungs bear the brunt
Incest, Rape, Violent gendering
No smoke inhaled soothes

Men Threaten

Men like to threaten, to loom over us
to show they’re bigger
stronger
I’ll beat you to a pulp, little girl.
They use their loud voices
push tobacco-scented
onion-flavored
beer-laden
breath in your face and
I’ll show you who’s boss. Who da fuck you think you are, bitch?
worst thing you can call a man
“a girl”
“womanly”
“feminine”
“C’mon, ladies” — sneering football coach/drill sergeant — the biggest insult

 

Men say threatening things on your blog
and send revolting pictures
horrible pictures
of other women
beaten cut bloody headless bruised and battered
This could be you, watch out, stay in line
don’t speak your mind
STFU
stop speakin
truth-telling
challenging the WAY IT IS.

 

yeah, yeah, I know women threaten people too
women hit each other, are cruel and sharp and fuck you up.
But but but
we all know the but
women-hating is what societies are built on
it pumps men up, makes them men
to put women in their place.
threaten us with extinction
Who the fuck do you think you are, bitch

 

And yeah, yeah, I know it’s not all men,
there are good men.

 

But if you are breathing on this planet
if you are hearing my enraged words
you know a man like this
he’s in your family (he’s in mine)
he’s at your work (he’s at mine)
he’s watching you across the library (he’s watching me)
he’s bullying you on Facebook (he’s bullying me)

 

change it. stop accepting it
To the good men:
say no to woman-hating woman-silencing  speech
no laughing at wife-beating jokes
“rapeable” is not a compliment
step in when other men act badly
stand next to us, the women
and say not in my name.

 

men can change
But they sure do like to threaten us

 

Womyn

Artist: Amy Hagemeier

Soundless Song of the Corn Maiden

She stood there
at the top of the mountain overlooking the valley
The city and all its people inside.
A skin tight black dress flowing

flowing,

breathing,
as she stares up to the cosmos and brings down her
clenched fists- and soon the sky burst forth and you heard
that first damning sound of thunder while the acidic scent
of moisture in contact with earth entered your nostrils,
as she cries out in pain,
“Bring on the storm!
I, simply known as Malinche, who rides the winds as swift
as justice, am opening up these vaults
of pure and utter chaos!”
Forever ripped apart to the seams by the fires of judgment,
silence and betrayal- she held up her staff and the
darkness roared as the murderous heavy clouds
made their way towards each and every individual
down below the valley.
Swiftly.
Hearts panicked, breathing stopped, thoughts reconsidered-
Those who heard in the distance that tell-tale sign
of the coming storm.
She alone-
this lonely, lost, little girl-
all by herself
Caused this anxiety in men among men
For the truth.
Her truth-
would eat everyone alive with her.
But silently- like an echo,

like a kiss

She sees the valley below and sees the deep shadows surrounding it,
deeper than her own.
Perversely anticipating that first rip.
Sticky, oozing, iron and uranium shadows.
Parasitic shadows
that would strive off the chaos of the storm-
ride these winds untouched to later feast upon
the rotting carcass of this once vibrant community down
below the valley.
She stops,
she breaths,
she lets go.
She flies. Away, away, away and beyond.
Her fabrics turn amber and her smile is that
of the sunset now- the most beautiful time of light
before it disappears to the night.
The mysterious, shifting, reinventing and forgiving night.
She is at peace with her mountain, with her valley
with her storm.
As the clouds slowly disperse
to welcome in a cleansing rain that soaked
into the minds of those with parched souls. 

Girl Code, Responsibility, Accountability and In Lak Ech

I didn’t believe my friend when she was raped.

……

The last few years in Tucson have been a struggle to survive. With the battles in our communities and legislation targeting brown people of color on indigenous land – we have nearly killed each other and the work and the fight and the fighting has made us all sick – susto. It deserves writing that will never end now that it has started. Through it all, I now reflect on two moments when I know I fucked up. I monumentally fucked up and hurt other women. When it first happened, she was and we all were sorting through statements and over ‘what does this mean to this movement’ shit. She may have at first said something(s) and later they changed which isn’t uncommon with sexual violence and doesn’t delegitimize what happened to her or her voice at any given moment. Sexual violence is haunting and what happened to me with a family member fifteen years ago took me almost a year to tell anyone about. My mom. She knew and never questioned me aloud, but my family raged in confusion. My grandparents led my smear campaign.

‘The divorce and custody battles were just really hard on her she has got to be making this up for attention. Her father, our son would never do this.’

But he did and I still can’t name it. I never filed a report, never told a counselor, I didn’t bring it up in custody hearings, and haven’t explained to my friends who insist that I masturbate but I DON’T FUCKING WANT TO because touching my naked body disgusts me (for a number of reasons) and I haven’t talked about it with anyone the way I go over it with myself. I’m sure it accounts for my inability to have physical intimacy, even hugs are uncomfortable when they’re unwanted and they’re usually unwanted.

After this past summer I even wondered if it’s why V couldn’t force a sexual connection or some shit with me. I questioned myself over and over.

The loneliness of something I can’t even verbalize that was happening in my subconscious made me suicidal about things I could verbalize and understand like break ups. So my moment of attempted overdose or short episode with antidepressants seem unusually common and associated with the moments they took place in but I’ve come to understand that I carry my trauma everyday regardless if I acknowledge it and it shapes my behavior and response.

……

When she said she was raped, she didn’t use that language, in those first days she didn’t say to me, “I was raped”. She told me and one of my best friends at the same time.  I refuse to go over details of what was said and will limit my details because the space to go over this with all of us – belongs to her. Arguably some friends (a word that has become interchangeable to also include: community member, co-worker, social justice acquaintance) thought they probably just had sex, that some of what happened was consensual and she didn’t want to follow through with it and so it was date rape, which apparently isn’t rape-rape in our disgusting shaming language for those who drink alcohol or like to fuck. There is nothing wrong with liking to have sex. We were all friends, all us comadres, going through a lot of shit in Arizona – we deserved to get dressed super cute and go out for drinks. There were nights we drank A LOT. I was going through a break up and thought I was going to die, as usual. Reflecting on the time we had as comadres, a tight inseparable group, it forever transformed me. My home girls, mujeres, had my back and I mostly healed that break up and got through it because of them and jäger bombs. We always took care of each other, took cabs, three or more of us, had our usual spots, and didn’t fuck around with guys. We went together and left together and slept over at each other’s places.  On “Chican@ prom night”, a huge night for our community, it was different. We didn’t carefully plan our night besides our outfits; we’d be with hundreds of our friends and community members.  I suppose we assumed we’d be safe. That there was no way something could happen to any of us around movement men we worked with. We didn’t plan designated drivers or anything like that, the night was predictable except for the predatory behavior of one, who now, obviously had a plan for his night.

We all went to a film premiere and then to a local bar for drinks and dancing.  He was a creep. He was drunk and sloppy and grabbing on women half his age, he wanted to dance; he wanted to celebrate and be the center of attention. Women’s attention. I left before they did. We asked around about rides and getting people home and left.

In the next two days I found out something went intolerably wrong, and I didn’t know what to think of it all. There were talking circles and whispers and meetings and time moved slowly but it  also went quickly. Inescapably slow and quick, so I have a hard time remembering each day. I think for the most part there were young women who never believed her (and still don’t), young women who always have, and those of us who thought nothing at all — who wanted to be neutral.

Neutral on rape.

The privilege of not knowing what to do and checking out. Checking out was easy. There was so much work to do as usual. Subtlety, my best friend and I combined the work we had been doing with work that needed to be done along lines of gender and sexual violence. She was more on point than I was (usually) and I basked in her energy and kind of said “fuck off” to everything else.

……

A month later after some unnecessary drama, I chose to think what everyone else in Tucson seemingly thought and I pulled the same shit my grandparents had done to me and like my former male teachers and people I looked up to,  my only concern was Ethnic Studies. What does this mean for our comunidad, our fight? In my eyes, she did something that allowed for me to minimize her almost instantly and we fought over email exchanges that were cc’d to other young folks and that was that. I was Team Ethnic Studies (how the fuck did that happen and why wasn’t  I just team myself?).

Folks around the country would call me as a respectable mujer and ask if they could show the film to raise money, they heard there was controversy and wanted to hear it from me. I would call one of my teacher/mentor from the movement and let them know and usually my answer was “yes– Yes, if I were you I’d show the movie.” I’m really struggling now with how sick it all sounds because it was all sick. But I was willing to do anything for Ethnic Studies, ANYTHING. I would’ve then and I will do as much now as long as I’m not negotiating anyone’s dignity in the process.

I remember when he called me, from Save Ethnic Studies, in a panic. He knew then the power I held so he manipulated me and convinced me she was enemy #1.

I’m just a man and I have no say in this, but you’re trucha and if she gets this around, she has eighty some page report on our community. This will destroy us.

Of course he needed me to engineer a solution, a way to exploit young people in the name of social justice education. And I was a pawn in this modern nationalist epic novel. I could be the down ass trucha home girl who was loyal to her Raza, gets arrested, cooks comida, works with the young students and is never mentioned in a history book twenty years from now. This is all so romantic to a young organizer. And I loved everyone involved in this fucked up mess. I even sat down with two women I thought would jump me with words, one being the perpetrator’s partner (I realize I haven’t mentioned that yet, yes he had/s a partner which complicated the situation even further) and tried being – neutral. When we met, she gave me a gift, a fox and chocolates. My friends told me not to do it; she wanted me to be a bridge. I am a bridge in so many ways, I understand that. If I could make peace I would but only recently have I realized that I can’t now and I couldn’t then. Even if my education taught me that I could change the world, I can’t take on every task or every hit that comes my way.

But I still did. I tried to organize a meeting with everyone at the table – all the comadres at least. Like, ‘let’s sorts this out as women.’ I was still in this mentality like it was a women’s job, my job,  to sort through shit, find what was good and exemplify behavior for our community. I do this now, but I also do shit that exemplifies anger and lust and human shit. And CAN WE TALK ABOUT HOW it’s not just my job to give a shit because I’m identified as a woman? So in the end, this was all silenced. She went away, literally – she moved out-of-state and out of the country and slowly the whispers became softer and softer. Our community dragged itself forward but this became the norm for all of us. Everything that happened then and since deserves endless words and stories or lessons for future generations and this generation right now.

……

During Freedom Summer, organizing became mundane and everyday. There were moments of hope and of accomplishing what we once had but what happened and was silenced will also be told.

I had a long emotional affair that was overdue to become physical and at summer time it did. When I kissed V I thought of my friend. In feeling like a slut – it was the same friend who named us both sluts after all, I would think of her. I would also think of his girlfriend. My political analysis of what we owe one another shifted in moment’s time. When he tried to fuck me when we were drunk it was because over all of this that I was able to know anything at all about consent and that I can change my mind. I CAN CHANGE MY MIND. When I’m drunk or he’s drunk or I can change my mind whenever the fuck I want. Or I can say no or I can say yes to this and no to that and seriously HE JUST SHOULDN’T HAVE TRIED WHEN I WAS DRUNK to begin with.

……

L and C are now my friends. I think.

L and I had lunch, she poured over journals and emails and texts. We spent a day together too, she’s been around now. It makes me feel alive. It is because of her resilience and resistance that I gather the will to act. When I hug her I don’t understand how she even lets me touch her. Hug her, to be around her glowing smile or share words with me… words to share with any of us.

C, she came to an event recently, she donated ten dollars to malintZINE. She hugged me. I thought her text messages were strategy, to get me to have lunch with her, so she can rip me apart, deservingly, although that’s never been her style. If she wanted to give me a regañada, I would sit and answer whatever she needed me to for her healing. She said she respects me still. I don’t understand. I lent her a book. My copy of Junot Diaz’s This is How You Lose Her.

“The half life of love is forever”

Maybe these things mean not much to anyone other than myself; possibly them. I have and will continue to reflect on these past few years and my own behavior. It is through my reflection that I need to account for what has happened and document. Accountability to me is speaking my truth. Acknowledging the ways in which I can and need to grow. Responsibility is challenging myself to behave in ways that will cause growth to happen. I have a responsibility to L and C to do work from here on that moves towards – NEVER AGAIN. It wasn’t through ethnic studies that I learned in lak ech, tu eres mi otro yo. But through two ethnic studies alumni, both younger than me, who offered me forgiveness and room to grow. Creating some Chicana girl code of accountability and responsibility. To taking care of each other and never assuming anyone else will.  To loving other women and loving yourself.