there’s this image you’ve created of yourself for years. This narrative you create yourself day after day about who you are. One day realize that that’s not you anymore. And you may blame yourself for not being that person. And you may try to be that person and realize that the attempt only makes you unhappy. Then another day you realize that who you’ve become is not a diluted version of your older self. You’ve simply become someone else. Just as valuable and worthy of your respect. Just different. Then you accept yourself. Then you change again. And it just keeps happening over and over again. Hopefully next time you won’t be so harsh on yourself. Open yourself up to change… even within you.
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los tentaculos de las politicas personales extirpando la libertad de las mentes. De derecha o de izquierda se pelean nuestras mentes, apelando a nuestros miedos, a nuestras fronteras sociales. Un poco defraudada por lo facil que se ha vuelto manipularnos por aquellos que, ironicamente, predican la liberacion de pensamiento. Que se yo? … esto de vivir en un mundo corrupto aun me cuesta aceptar. Todos somos humanos.
Sometimes there’s more female in me than male, those days I call myself a womyn. Sometimes when I’m with other ladies, sharing the special bond that our gender segregation has allowed for us to develop, I feel like a womyn. But never entirely. You see me and you see a woman. But I am in between that gray area that wants it all. Maybe it’s ambition, I don’t know, the need to have more than one gender, or not be confined to any of the two, or simply saying, I am sometimes more female than male, I don’t really want to change anything down there, but I don’t feel like a womyn or a man. But what does it mean to be a woman? There’s an energy to womyn, I don’t know how to describe it, like this aura.. You might see it when you see a group of powerful mujeres dancing at a fandango. That’s how I saw it for the first time, and I realized, “that’s what being a womyn is”. I can’t put it into words but I saw it. And I loved it, I adored it, I felt blessed to witness that presence. “But that’s not what I am” I realized. I’m not one of the guys, though my straight friends for some reason talk to me like I am. So what am I? Personally I don’t like the word “queer”. It might be empowering to many people, to reclaim the word, but I don’t feel very good when I say it. It reminds me of all the discrimination that exists. I don’t like LGBT as much either, I don’t fit in any of these words. I’m what some native american nations used to call “Two-spirit”. But I can’t claim that I am “two-spirit” because I’m not native american, maybe I have some quechuan in me from south america but not from norht america. I am… I am … I am.. I am… this is like trying to define the pigment in my skin, brown and white, and yellow, and even some black somewhere along the line of ancestry, I am just a human being. I appreciate this energy that females possess, but I am not a female, nor a male. I’m a soul. I’m beyond tha binary. Souls have many genders, souls have many colors. I’m a soul. My “queerness” is my spiritual purity.
Mujer que ansias en los labios los labios de otra mujer.
Mujer que derrites tu esencia al tratar de querer imponer
En ti y en tu cuerpo cualidades no natas,
Como aquellas que mienten sobre tu particular interés.
Mujer, aquella que se define con trazos de masculinidad para ser libre.
Esta eres tu. Esa soy yo.
Sometimes I leave Orange County,
in my head.
Go to a place where I can be myself,
where I feel safe.
Sometimes I leave Orange County,
bu truth is, only place I could leave is worse than this.
Lately, I’ve been noticing people’s faces
and I’ve been feeling like they are my own people.
They are not a “them” suffering anymore,
a number or stat, a face among the crowd,
they are one of US suffering, whatever their color may be,
the same struggle is in their eyes.
They don’t teach you this when you learn about the struggle.
It can’t be taught.
It’s something you have to feel.
Your only tool is your sense of empathy.
It grows with the work.
The more you work with people.
The more you see their faces.
The more you work across movements,
the more you learn to identify that little thing inside someone’s eyes that feels a lot like the pain you feel deep in your heart.
Their eyes look like my heart broken, like hope but bitter in the mouth, like tension in the throat, anger with tears. The frustration building up.
The big and ugly, neverending voice saying “why?”
The pain of injustice. It’s something you learn to see and recognize.
And after I saw that in so many people I understood the reason why I decided to do this work.
I don’t fight for the end of injustice.
I don’t fight for what is right
I don’t fight because I should to be a good person in my eyes or in someone else’s eyes.
I don’t fihgt because my conscience tells me to do so.
I don’t fight because it is the correct thing to do
because it will help me get to a better place in life or after life
or because my political ideology says I should,
my fight doesn’t say anything about the quality of my character,
it doesn’t make me feel better,
though it makes me feel whole,
It is true that these factors are present.
But I these are not the real reasons why I fight…
After all this time I’ve opened my eyes to the real reasons why the struggle is worth it.
I fight for my friends. So they can afford to go school, so they can walk their streets in their neighborhoods without being harrassed, so they can get the job they deserve, so they are not picked up and deported to a place away from home.
I fight for my family, so that we have enough to survive and to live, so that we are together again, so that we are together again, so that we are together again, I pray, I fight, so that we are together again.
I fight for my community, so that our kids don’t end up in jail, so that they have spaces to play, so that they can have hope for a better life and not learn to be hopeless like some of us have been at some point.
It’s survival and the hope of a better life we are fighting for.
Don’t complicate it, don’t make it philosophical, political, intellectual, religious, etc.
Don’t taint it with your partisan bushit.
We don’t need any more pandering
or anymore colonizing of our minds.
We need a way in and a way out of all the systems that trap us,
organizing to build power
so our children can be safe and healthy.
I try to remind myself to always fight for real things.
Not ideas.
Lately I’ve been looking at people.
Numbers got on the way before.
Because now I know,
that the number one and the sense of loss,
if paired are just too much.
I walk, eat, work with “them”.
I live among “them”
I am “them”. It used to be “them” before.
I see their pain, I feel my own.
And it needs to stop.
That’s why I fight.
For something real…
for my friends, for my family, for the families in our communities, for all people who have that pain in their eyes which I feel too. For our lives.
today I learned about the history of a place I’ve learned to love and to call home called SantAna. And among beautiful young acitvists I heard one amazing present history in the making/news from one of my communities, that marriage equality came to NY. And I’ve realized the journeys of learning my history from back home (Peru), and to learn the history of my new home (Santa Ana), and the history of a non-geopgraphical community (LGBTQ…etc) have taken me to the point where I can say I know where I came from. I know what other people did so that I could be where I’m at. Or at least I’m on my journey to understanding that. How can we live in amnesia most of our lives? How can we not know our own histories? It determines everything that’s around us; from the parks and schools we go to, to our buildings, to the words we use, to the words we don’t use, to the things we are allowed or not allowed to do. It’s a connection. Almost spiritual. A shared history with those of the past who were in one way or another like us. Former acitvists, former poets, former lgbtq people, former inhabitants of this continent, etc. Our ancestry is not only our “blood” and family ties. My ancestors were from all over the world, from different cultures, and different colors of skin. Maybe it’s because I need to know the history of something to be able to define it. But ever since I learned my histories, I feel like I know myself a lot more.
What do you do when you’ve built a life as an idealist, a dreamer, and you come to the realization that you can’t allow yourself to dream anymore? that you can’t believe that something will change because it’s too painful to know it might not? that you’ve lost hope? how do you redefine your identity, if your friendships, your work, your life, everything was built upon that variable of your character… being a dreamer….
in order to survive, sometimes, you need to get rid of your capacity to dream… because dreaming is a privilege not everyone can afford. sometimes dreaming can be the one thing that keeps you going, but other times it is a curse, a tool with which you can measure the shortcomings of your reality. dreaming… that’s how you want it to be.
And one day it hits you… this is how things are… and it’s never really going to change.
So dreaming only makes you feel worse, dreaming becomes poison in your veins, the wrong pill to take, dreaming becomes denial, killing your will to live, your capacity to survive.
I’m stuck here.
In this world.
In this reality.
And I need to learn to make peace with it.
Because there’s a big chance nothing is ever going to change.
Do we do the underserved kids a disservice when we tell them to dream big? Do we create even more frustration that they might feel? We talk to them about college, about hope, about a better life? but is it feasible?
And I know it is… I’m living proof… But even after college, you just go back to your reality. And wonder if it will be different. And ask life…
and sometimes answer:s: no.
Claudia is thinking of those easter weeks in Peru while growing up, with her family, her tios and tias and cousins sleeping on mattresses on the ground and couches and cushions so we would all fit in my tia’s one bedroom apartment, ocho locos, the heat, the fan, the music from the street vendors and their pirated cassettes and the pan in the shape of a muneco,”pan de dulce, pan de dulceeeee” and my tios who are now gone sleeping in the room all the way on the back, the string from the second floor that would open the door on the first floor if pulled correctly, the water, or the lack of, the time we all got sick from eatinng so many peanuts, the procession, the band, the petals falling on the image of Jesus or on the heads of people under the windows, praying, candles burning on their hands. Walking around el mercado and the best mangos ever. And the tio and the tia are now gone. How did we manage to be all there, family and strangers outside the window with so much faith and so much hope alive? And with every petal another miracle expected or another thank you letter to God. I can hardly feel my pulse anymore. Hope. hope without ritual or family becomes a commodity not everyone can afford. I feel empty. If once a foreigner, always a foreigner… will this foreigner ever find a home.. Not a family… I have a Family, thanks to God that’s all I have… and someday I’ll have my own… but a home?… Home is where your soul is… and mine wanders… travels all over the world, sometimes it wants to get out of my body… maybe home is somewhere else… somewhere where I’m gone.
Purpose: To find out who gives a fuck.
Resarch Question: Who really cares?
Methodology:
I stopped writing to people.
I stopped calling.
I stopped trying.
To see if they would call back.
Results:
My family remained in touch.
and 2 fairly new friends.
Many of my “friends” only call me or contact me to recruit me for events
Everyone else is gone.
Conclusion:
strangers are more reliable than friends.
I spent too much time networking in my new country instead of making friends, losing my friends from my old country and investing my time in the wrong friendships.
I have tons of “recruiters”
My family is ALL I HAVE.
you could be my miracle…
you could be the sea…
you could be the one I will always dream of…
but it would take a miracle…
and it would take going back in time…
to a time when my love was fresh and new…
and not the big void that it’s become…
engulfing me… and my sanity…
you could be my miracle…
I feel empty, like a pair of eyes staring at the horizon…
sunset… never sunrise…
sunset… never sunrise…
…time
all i need is time..
Un poco de vacio enroscado en el pecho.
Me han carcomido las olas que desato el aluvion.
Hay una revolucion, cuentan las lenguas,
pero a mi solo me importa
la lucha en la que vivo por despertar al dia a dia.
Un poco de vacio acumulado en el esofago,
de eso que cual manzana de Adan sube y baja por dentro
como quien fuera ansiedad delimitada
para dormir en la boca del leon no rugiente.
Y un poco de comida para avanzar.
Y no me quejo, tambien me quedan unas cuantas sonrisas.
Las brisas, la arena, la melancolia,
la playa de mis esperanzas
donde caminan los dedos como la mirada hacia el mar
y el horizonte despide el sabor a amargura.
Yo no se, la verdad,
la locura es como la neblina,
poco a poco se impregna sin que puedas verla.
Yo no se.
Hay tantos mundos.
Me levanto. Cuento los dias. Y sigo.
La nube, la tierra, la lluvia las une, son una.
El sol, el reflejo del mar,
Poema, metal y madera, fuego y agua…
Aguaaaa, vida que corre,
Como la mezcla de mis amores
La eliminacion de mis temores,
El enfrentamiento a la realidad.
La lluvia hace al barro,
El barro al mar.
Camino sobre el milagro
De su fusion invernal.
La nube, la tierra
Tus ojos,
Comienzo a divagar.
Te voy despidiendo,
Y te regalo la paz.
La nube la tierra,
El cielo oscuro, sin miedo
Camino con fe, a un paso del hielo.
Y los charcos humedos de las memorias se despejan;
La nube la tierra, el presente me abre las puertas.
Aquis estoy.
Pisando la nube, la tierra, la lluvia,
Andando en el mar.
Me has arrinconado en la sombra de tu verguenza,
las paredes grises encadenando la cadencia de tu risa.
Algun dia sentire que te amare y no me consuela
saber que algun dia dejare de sentirte en mi.
Quiero no creerte,
tal vez no volver a verte.
Quiero y las paredes se abren de repente
la luz rodea mi silueta,
una imagen de mi nariz subiendo por mis letras,
inmiscuyendose,
oliendo la supervivencia.
No se, verso errante.
Como darte forma, no lo se.
Las palabras se han hecho cortas,
las tildes han enmudecido,
se les ha encogido todo deseo de estamparse en un papel.
Repican campanas que anuncian
tu y yo hemos terminado,
repican y repican,
el suenio de tenerte a mi lado
se lo ha llevado San Pablo.
Repican y repican,
las campanas de la Iglesia
anunciando las mentiras que te haran creer.
Y se que aun si te dijeran
todo lo contrario
la verdad es que no me quieres…
la verdad es que no me quieres…
pero mi ego es torre imponente de espalda a la tormenta,
pretendiendo no sera desarraigada de sus tierras
Mentira!
Este suenio fue siempre solo mio…..
Las nubes grises se dispersan.
Un poco de claridad,
una pupila mojada…
la resignacion y el dolor en las manos.
Esta vez… la torre se sento a mirar su desgracia,
su locura, su necedad…
Ya no hay nada que rescatar,
no hubo muertos ni heridos,
Lo que me duele,
mas que el corazon,
siempre es el ego…
Los artistas debemos dejarnos de cojudeces, y empezar a crear en vez de remedar productos importados que no hacen sino reducir la coneccion entre la audiencia y la comunidad que la rodea. En otras palabas, nuestra falta de originalidad conlleva a la creacion de una audiencia alienada que aprende desequlibradamente de otras culturas mas que de la suya. De esta forma, inconscientemente, se apoya el argumento de que nuestra cultura y capacidad de creacion es inferior a otras (usualmente europea o norteamericana). Esta bien ser multicultural y dejar que estas culturas se mezclen con la nuestra y observar las culturas de estos sitios. Pero olvidar lo que podemos contirbuir como artistas desde nuestra cultura y desde nuestro punto de vista, es una falta nacida en sistemas racistas. Dejemos de ser atorrantes y hagamos nuestro trabajo como artistas. CREEMOS! BASTA DE COPIAR!
