I would like to announce a death in the family
Today loved ones we bury a friend, daughter, sister, lover, and visionary who
has selfishly taken her own life for the sake of her dreams
You may approach
If you dare--
this broken alter to share fond memories of the girl you once knew
give thanks for moments of laughter
respects for moments of pain
pauses-- that validate the space shared
but be mindful that this is a new kind of sanctuary
and all these illusions will too be buried
packed tightly into a treasure chest
nuzzled closely beneath her bruised ribs
these memories
suffocated by insecurities rooted in comparison and
ignorance founded upon capitalism
will finally be put to rest
instead, if i may propose
we take this time,
while her soul is suspended in purgatory to speak new truths
ones that once buried will resurrect our dear friend
bringing her forth form the soil
time will breath life into these truths
multiplying and manifesting their roots deep into the land of our ancestor
both slave and oppressor runs through these veins
with this understanding
no one goes guiltless
there will be an emergence of a spirit
beauty will radiate from her being
rivers of life from her womb
stars of love will shoot from her eyes and
her feet will guide the way of her divine purpose
her heart, though scared
will sing songs of freedom to caged birds
reminding them not to believe the shadows
that allude to bars and low ceilings
but to transcend and take flight
her hands will heal freedom
love liberation
and embrace truth
my friends
this is a death that i have long awaited
finally the soul who had believed the lies of a distorted reality has passed
yet we can nurture a planted seed to life
the sun has warmed the earth soaked with our tears
the moon will crystallize them
and just when we thought we had lost something so precious,
the earth will give birth to something wonderfully sacred
something that we all helped create
don’t wallow in disparity
don’t fear blood that gives consciousness
soon the fruit of our work will be birthed
that crippling jab in your side is nothing more than labor pains
a bitter foretaste of the miracle to come
push harder
pleasure is misunderstood without pain
take a deep breath
air is necessary for growth
Take a deep breath.
--Love
Monday, April 25, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Stay Up
Stay up for the stars. Bright futures through bars
Magic School Bus type of cars swerving through the hood,
watchin’ cops helpin’ when they should, smilin’ cause they could,
protecting- I wish they would.
Stay up above the line.
Break the mirror reflecting time
stopped by mama smokin’ dimes, women strippin’ for a shine,
babies sexin’ when they’re nine, kids stealin’ to look fine.
Stay up beside the truth, potential in your youth.
Freedom for fantasy, pencils for sanity, lyrics preaching fire that burns beyond the choir,
fingers to hold, fists to unfold,
faces growin’ old, stories bein’ told.
Stay up with the trend, and drive by it with your friend.
Know what they do but be only you.
Feel the pain and use it, don’t abuse it.
See the world with you in it, healthy, happy, that home-run hit.
Crush their comments with what’s honest, trust you without the complex.
Grab your shovel and get digging ‘cause your treasure is worth seeking.
Glitter, gold and faces don’t pay for how you live more, it’s a power only you store.
Don’t let bolts and bullets stop moves, let your smile come and unlock you.
Stay up mothers
Stay up fathers
Stay up kids
Stay up
..Salaam..
J
Magic School Bus type of cars swerving through the hood,
watchin’ cops helpin’ when they should, smilin’ cause they could,
protecting- I wish they would.
Stay up above the line.
Break the mirror reflecting time
stopped by mama smokin’ dimes, women strippin’ for a shine,
babies sexin’ when they’re nine, kids stealin’ to look fine.
Stay up beside the truth, potential in your youth.
Freedom for fantasy, pencils for sanity, lyrics preaching fire that burns beyond the choir,
fingers to hold, fists to unfold,
faces growin’ old, stories bein’ told.
Stay up with the trend, and drive by it with your friend.
Know what they do but be only you.
Feel the pain and use it, don’t abuse it.
See the world with you in it, healthy, happy, that home-run hit.
Crush their comments with what’s honest, trust you without the complex.
Grab your shovel and get digging ‘cause your treasure is worth seeking.
Glitter, gold and faces don’t pay for how you live more, it’s a power only you store.
Don’t let bolts and bullets stop moves, let your smile come and unlock you.
Stay up mothers
Stay up fathers
Stay up kids
Stay up
..Salaam..
J
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Different Seasons, Same Journey
Today I realized that I have reached a new level of adulthood. My 'Legalize L.A.' t-shirt has been replaced by slacks and a tie; the Cuban flag pinned to my bedroom wall has been removed to make room for framed pictures of friends and family; the piles of dirty clothes that once hid my desk are now contained in a hamper that matches my furniture set. (I am one step away from joining a fight club)
It is interesting how much life can change. So many of the things I purchased years ago have been buried in plastic containers. As I organize the junk that has taken over my closet, I remember how much I 'needed' to buy the official Barca soccer bag. It is sobering to see how wrong I was, and frightful to consider how wrong I still am.
Teaching high school has provided a unique perspective of 'growing up.' I see kids everyday who are excited and nervous to begin applying to college. Hearing their questions constantly causes me to flash back to a time when college was some distant, grown up dream. A dream that existed somewhere between playgrounds and cubicles. How little things change.
In those moments that I feel 'grown up,' I see my students' innocence in me. Their excitement and nervousness towards undergraduate life is mirrored in my emotions towards graduate life: the childlike curiosity of the unknown.
Sometimes I wonder if I have at all matured since I was 17 - different seasons, same journey. It will be interesting to find this post buried within long neglected digital containers. Maybe then I will have a new perspective.
-Matt
It is interesting how much life can change. So many of the things I purchased years ago have been buried in plastic containers. As I organize the junk that has taken over my closet, I remember how much I 'needed' to buy the official Barca soccer bag. It is sobering to see how wrong I was, and frightful to consider how wrong I still am.
Teaching high school has provided a unique perspective of 'growing up.' I see kids everyday who are excited and nervous to begin applying to college. Hearing their questions constantly causes me to flash back to a time when college was some distant, grown up dream. A dream that existed somewhere between playgrounds and cubicles. How little things change.
In those moments that I feel 'grown up,' I see my students' innocence in me. Their excitement and nervousness towards undergraduate life is mirrored in my emotions towards graduate life: the childlike curiosity of the unknown.
Sometimes I wonder if I have at all matured since I was 17 - different seasons, same journey. It will be interesting to find this post buried within long neglected digital containers. Maybe then I will have a new perspective.
-Matt
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Dear God
Dear God,
Bakit? Why? They say you are a kind God, a loving God, but my God, why?
A white man comes one day. He gathers the children and he preaches fear into the depths of their hearts. He stands up on the stage, all the closer to you dear God, and they sit at his feet where he declares through a hoarse voice and a fountain of saliva the sinners belong. He recklessly swings his sword, slaying all visions of a God that liberates and loves and cares for humanity, without ever opening a page to read the truth.
“You must fear God. If you do not repent you will spend eternity in the fiery pits of Hell. Do you want that? You know how hot it is right now? Imagine living for eternity in a place 1,000 times hotter without a break. Is that what you want? That’s what you will get if you don’t follow my path. You are poor, but I bought a $2,000, that’s American dollars, plane ticket to come here and sacrifice my safety in this terrorist country…all to save YOU!”
The fat white man, with a slurred southern English accent and a lack of breath, continued. He forced the children to stand. He ushered them into a circle, and he demanded they repeat his prayer.
“God, I am a bad person. I am a sinner. I need you. I want to spend eternity with you. I am yours.”
He congratulated them for their “big steps” toward you, dear God, and every ounce of his power paraded around the center of the circle to “bless” the new Christians. He patted the children’s heads with his sword and then told them each “Now, with God, you will be able to live a rich life in this place of poverty you call home.” As quickly as he stormed in, his Land Rover fled the school grounds surely taking him back to his life across the sea where you are white and a friend of the rich. Where he doesn’t need to look at or speak to or smell the children.
Bakit? Why, dear God?
The children write you letters. Letters of desperation, exposing truths only you and they know, yet your face remains invisible and your hands must be preoccupied in a far off land, where people have money to tithe, because the children are alone.
“God, I wish you would take my life early. Bring me to heaven where there is food.”
“God, I try to be a good son, but my dad is still angry with me. I don’t know why. I do everything good, but he says I make him drink and when he drinks he hurts me.”
“God, they don’t understand me. They say because I get angry with you that you don’t love me and I will burn. I don’t want to burn, but I don’t see you here.”
“God, my mother is in the city looking for work and I am here as a boarder and they treat me like a slave. I’m so tired God. I hate it here, but my mother says she doesn’t have enough money to take care of me.”
And so the letters go, and the teacher’s responses crumple those pains into little balls to be burned in the night trash, a glimpse of life for the sinners. “God is giving you these bad things because He is teaching you a lesson. You are meant to live the lives you are living. It’s for a reason, don’t complain about it. You need to be grateful.” And so the children retreat into themselves, and I watch their spirits crumble as they internalize their suffering and realize you are a powerful God who dominates morality and politics and the peace within one’s being.
These children grow, and the world is stubborn, refusing to change. After all, the children are told they can’t change anything because it is your world and the injustices that flood the earth are lessons to be learned and punishments to be received. So, the children grow hopeless and idle and their dreams of change dwindle to flickers of bitterness until there is nothing left to be felt. So like leaves dried by the sun they fall, weak against the mighty forces of time, unable to be revitalized with water. Trampled by all that life is they disintegrate into the land without a fight.
-With hope in my heart
Bakit? Why? They say you are a kind God, a loving God, but my God, why?
A white man comes one day. He gathers the children and he preaches fear into the depths of their hearts. He stands up on the stage, all the closer to you dear God, and they sit at his feet where he declares through a hoarse voice and a fountain of saliva the sinners belong. He recklessly swings his sword, slaying all visions of a God that liberates and loves and cares for humanity, without ever opening a page to read the truth.
“You must fear God. If you do not repent you will spend eternity in the fiery pits of Hell. Do you want that? You know how hot it is right now? Imagine living for eternity in a place 1,000 times hotter without a break. Is that what you want? That’s what you will get if you don’t follow my path. You are poor, but I bought a $2,000, that’s American dollars, plane ticket to come here and sacrifice my safety in this terrorist country…all to save YOU!”
The fat white man, with a slurred southern English accent and a lack of breath, continued. He forced the children to stand. He ushered them into a circle, and he demanded they repeat his prayer.
“God, I am a bad person. I am a sinner. I need you. I want to spend eternity with you. I am yours.”
He congratulated them for their “big steps” toward you, dear God, and every ounce of his power paraded around the center of the circle to “bless” the new Christians. He patted the children’s heads with his sword and then told them each “Now, with God, you will be able to live a rich life in this place of poverty you call home.” As quickly as he stormed in, his Land Rover fled the school grounds surely taking him back to his life across the sea where you are white and a friend of the rich. Where he doesn’t need to look at or speak to or smell the children.
Bakit? Why, dear God?
The children write you letters. Letters of desperation, exposing truths only you and they know, yet your face remains invisible and your hands must be preoccupied in a far off land, where people have money to tithe, because the children are alone.
“God, I wish you would take my life early. Bring me to heaven where there is food.”
“God, I try to be a good son, but my dad is still angry with me. I don’t know why. I do everything good, but he says I make him drink and when he drinks he hurts me.”
“God, they don’t understand me. They say because I get angry with you that you don’t love me and I will burn. I don’t want to burn, but I don’t see you here.”
“God, my mother is in the city looking for work and I am here as a boarder and they treat me like a slave. I’m so tired God. I hate it here, but my mother says she doesn’t have enough money to take care of me.”
And so the letters go, and the teacher’s responses crumple those pains into little balls to be burned in the night trash, a glimpse of life for the sinners. “God is giving you these bad things because He is teaching you a lesson. You are meant to live the lives you are living. It’s for a reason, don’t complain about it. You need to be grateful.” And so the children retreat into themselves, and I watch their spirits crumble as they internalize their suffering and realize you are a powerful God who dominates morality and politics and the peace within one’s being.
These children grow, and the world is stubborn, refusing to change. After all, the children are told they can’t change anything because it is your world and the injustices that flood the earth are lessons to be learned and punishments to be received. So, the children grow hopeless and idle and their dreams of change dwindle to flickers of bitterness until there is nothing left to be felt. So like leaves dried by the sun they fall, weak against the mighty forces of time, unable to be revitalized with water. Trampled by all that life is they disintegrate into the land without a fight.
-With hope in my heart
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Female First
I thought I could be anything
until she told me
the V in my vagina meant victim.
Victim to a system quick to use, abuse, and obscure my potential
without ever knowing
my name.
I thought I could go anywhere
until she read me the sign that said
"Women Hours"
and the time had passed
where my window of shame,
pain, and blame was open.
The cars I cannot drive and the
hello's I will never meet
repulse me.
shhhhhh
I thought I could share my opinion
on democratic sound waves that
advertise availability to all,
but she just told me
I've been muted.
My whole damn life
I've been muted?
By him and he
who compliment me
and all that he sees
only to flip the switch of my smile
with the mute button dial
dismissing the truth that I speak.
All because he can.
He can because we let him.
I thought I could touch everything
but illusions soft like silk
float through calloused fingers
told to be pretty
but believing that titties are all that really
matter.
I grab and reach and strain
to touch a token to take me
far from this fate, but
his wall is too high to climb
alone.
I thought I could be loved
until she told me it doesn't exist
in the way that I dream.
It all comes down to you
on your knees, posing how he pleads-
guilty.
because that's the name of the game.
She’s guilty and he wins.
He’s guilty and she sins.
I thought I could be me
until they saw me as female first.
Salaam,
J
until she told me
the V in my vagina meant victim.
Victim to a system quick to use, abuse, and obscure my potential
without ever knowing
my name.
I thought I could go anywhere
until she read me the sign that said
"Women Hours"
and the time had passed
where my window of shame,
pain, and blame was open.
The cars I cannot drive and the
hello's I will never meet
repulse me.
shhhhhh
I thought I could share my opinion
on democratic sound waves that
advertise availability to all,
but she just told me
I've been muted.
My whole damn life
I've been muted?
By him and he
who compliment me
and all that he sees
only to flip the switch of my smile
with the mute button dial
dismissing the truth that I speak.
All because he can.
He can because we let him.
I thought I could touch everything
but illusions soft like silk
float through calloused fingers
told to be pretty
but believing that titties are all that really
matter.
I grab and reach and strain
to touch a token to take me
far from this fate, but
his wall is too high to climb
alone.
I thought I could be loved
until she told me it doesn't exist
in the way that I dream.
It all comes down to you
on your knees, posing how he pleads-
guilty.
because that's the name of the game.
She’s guilty and he wins.
He’s guilty and she sins.
I thought I could be me
until they saw me as female first.
Salaam,
J
Monday, April 11, 2011
Like the first time we met...
I don’t believe in forever but I believe in you.
& even if together we do not last
our memories will remain intertwined
with nights of dazed discussions
sitting on the cusp of sleep
bouncing the moon and the light
between our hands
dancing freely mid air
floating
like the time we first met
Minds engaged within one another’s
over a $1 cup of coffee
in the bosom of Los Angeles
then I didn’t know how to place you
didn’t know what to do with you & my feelings within the same thought
I just knew that you were
brilliant
& your mind reminded mines
of things that once inspired me
like the first time I really saw you
you asked me to study with you
but your head soon rested
in the arms of Plato
looking over at you
you reminded me of blooming sunflowers
like the feeling I got when I first realized that I liked you
fumbling with feelings that could not adequately be put in to words
I said:
“ I don’t think I’m Bi-sexual:
but I don’t believe in the terminology of straight—but I think I like you
not necessarily because of our matching reproductive organs—yet I acknowledge that you are an amazing woman—and I love that about you but I like you because you remind me of
beauty/hope/truth…things that I thought have long left me behind”
the other night while holding you in my arms
Those awkward moments seemed so long ago…
I remember chuckling to myself then weeping
this world will never understand
the butterfly’s that you let loose within me
the beauty that you’ve shown me
the way our hands fit perfectly
that a text filled with smiles can be quickly called out
with a “You’re really irritated right now…”
that we once met before in another life
that I pray for you constantly, always.
that your hope in others
shows me a way to be more compassionate
that you’ve previously checked out my journey before you even knew me
that you know me...very well
& that holding you feels so right
even if the world never understands
I will still hold you close enough to feel your essence
Still engage in learning of how we can do life with one another
Still kiss you in public
Still hold your hand when I'm on campus
Still carve snails into settled sand
Still send you messages of I miss you and quotes that I find in good books
& Care for you as deeply as you allow me to
Love,
I don’t believe in forever
my parents spared me stories of fairytales
never put glass slippers upon these feet
taught these hands how to hold yet also when to rise up
& I’ve learned from IV bags to trust in feelings always if not must times
over what the world says is truth
because they get things wrong constantly.
So, I will always dry my eyes on those hard days
& when faggot leaves lips of friends
or mom seems to be less understanding
or dad looks for a princess that he never raised
I just remember that to me we still sit
in the bosom of Los Angeles
admiring her beauty from within the window of a coffee shop
with a $ 1 cup of coffee in hand
Gazing; Watching;
Listening;Learning;
from the stories of each other
& in that moment nothing else matters…
♥ Freedom
& even if together we do not last
our memories will remain intertwined
with nights of dazed discussions
sitting on the cusp of sleep
bouncing the moon and the light
between our hands
dancing freely mid air
floating
like the time we first met
Minds engaged within one another’s
over a $1 cup of coffee
in the bosom of Los Angeles
then I didn’t know how to place you
didn’t know what to do with you & my feelings within the same thought
I just knew that you were
brilliant
& your mind reminded mines
of things that once inspired me
like the first time I really saw you
you asked me to study with you
but your head soon rested
in the arms of Plato
looking over at you
you reminded me of blooming sunflowers
like the feeling I got when I first realized that I liked you
fumbling with feelings that could not adequately be put in to words
I said:
“ I don’t think I’m Bi-sexual:
but I don’t believe in the terminology of straight—but I think I like you
not necessarily because of our matching reproductive organs—yet I acknowledge that you are an amazing woman—and I love that about you but I like you because you remind me of
beauty/hope/truth…things that I thought have long left me behind”
the other night while holding you in my arms
Those awkward moments seemed so long ago…
I remember chuckling to myself then weeping
this world will never understand
the butterfly’s that you let loose within me
the beauty that you’ve shown me
the way our hands fit perfectly
that a text filled with smiles can be quickly called out
with a “You’re really irritated right now…”
that we once met before in another life
that I pray for you constantly, always.
that your hope in others
shows me a way to be more compassionate
that you’ve previously checked out my journey before you even knew me
that you know me...very well
& that holding you feels so right
even if the world never understands
I will still hold you close enough to feel your essence
Still engage in learning of how we can do life with one another
Still kiss you in public
Still hold your hand when I'm on campus
Still carve snails into settled sand
Still send you messages of I miss you and quotes that I find in good books
& Care for you as deeply as you allow me to
Love,
I don’t believe in forever
my parents spared me stories of fairytales
never put glass slippers upon these feet
taught these hands how to hold yet also when to rise up
& I’ve learned from IV bags to trust in feelings always if not must times
over what the world says is truth
because they get things wrong constantly.
So, I will always dry my eyes on those hard days
& when faggot leaves lips of friends
or mom seems to be less understanding
or dad looks for a princess that he never raised
I just remember that to me we still sit
in the bosom of Los Angeles
admiring her beauty from within the window of a coffee shop
with a $ 1 cup of coffee in hand
Gazing; Watching;
Listening;Learning;
from the stories of each other
& in that moment nothing else matters…
♥ Freedom
We're Back : )
I am happy to officially announce that Nuestras Voces has returned to the blogosphere! Whether you followed us in the past, or are new to this whole 'blog thing,' I welcome you on behalf of our entire team.
Here you will find everything from poetry to one act plays seeking to share ideas and perspectives you will not find on FOX News : )
I hope you enjoy our posts. Please feel free to share what you like on facebook and to participate in the dialogue, via the comment option at the bottom of each entry.
If you are interested in joining our team, or participating as a guest writing, please contact the appropriate editor.
Best,
Matthew González
Editor in Chief
Here you will find everything from poetry to one act plays seeking to share ideas and perspectives you will not find on FOX News : )
I hope you enjoy our posts. Please feel free to share what you like on facebook and to participate in the dialogue, via the comment option at the bottom of each entry.
If you are interested in joining our team, or participating as a guest writing, please contact the appropriate editor.
Best,
Matthew González
Editor in Chief
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