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

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

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

Ethnic Minorities vs People of Color

For a few months now I have been meaning to write on why I believe ethnic minorities should not allow themselves to be referred to as ‘people of color’. If for whatever reason this phrase is unfamiliar ‘people of color’, not to be confused with the phrase ‘colored people’, has become the politically correct way to refer to all ethnic minorities with connections to Africa, Asia, Latin America, and the Pacific Islands.

The problem with this term is twofold. First and foremost in an attempt to forcibly racialize foreigners (non-Euro-Americans) it falls victim to being clearly inaccurate. As Eduardo Mendieta observed, “race...has polarized the grammar of U.S political culture into two extremes: white and black.” (Making New Peoples 49) In effect, this paradigm for understanding the world makes Americans color-blind to any other categories that may function better in making sense of the world.

Being that the historical ‘us’ in the United States has been white Anglo-Saxon protestants males it is not surprising that groups who they would not refer to as ‘we’ or ‘white’ would be thrown into the only other category they conceive, ‘black’ or a ‘person of color’.

The reality of the situation, however, is that not all of us that fall into this category are black or any darker hue than the average European. There are Latinas and Latinos with blond hair, blue eyes, and skin so light that the shortest of periods spent in direct sunlight can bring about a sunburn. The only difference these whites hold with whites in the United States is that they stopped in Latin America on their way to the U.S. instead of traveling direct. If this is the case than color is clearly not what differentiates them and should be rejected for failing to accurately define the differences between them.

Secondly, the term ‘people of color’ reinforces ‘white’ (Euro-American) as normative and everyone else as ‘white’ plus ‘color’. In this way it conceptualizes a world in which there are ‘people’ and then there are ‘people of color’. ‘People’ describes humanity in general, while ‘people of color’ is constructed as a special kind of people, one with an additive, i.e., color. The world as we have known it has been observed by white eyes and recorded for white audiences. The phrase ‘People of color’ derives from this history. How does a white individual appear brown? They put brown paint on. Therefore, a brown person is a person plus color.

It is of no surprise that a world conceptualized by Euro-Americans would use terms such as ‘people of color’. I am sure that when the Europeans arrived in Africa, South Asia, Latin America, and the Pacific islands the people thought that their guests had some sort of paint on to appear so unusually (not normal to their eyes) white. In the same way it makes sense that Euro-Americans would describe other peoples in a similar way. Yet, the difference between Euro-Americans and everyone else is that they had the power to make their conceptualization the standard and enforce to such an extent that it has constructed the very way in which we as ethnic minorities of various cultures and hues understand ourselves.

This being said, if we are looking for a term to describe our reality from a perspective that is not uniquely Euro-American I suggest we reject ‘people of color’ for ‘ethnic minorities’. Looking at the US and the world as a whole it is clear that lines of power align with lines of ethnicity, with Euro-American peoples holding the majority of the power in the world while the other peoples of the world have been forced to make due with the scraps left by them or taken from their trashcans.

I hope that one day this will not be the case and power will be shared amongst all ethnicities but the first step to seeing change in the physical world is to change the way we conceptualize it. We will not be able to create a space for ourselves in this world if we are not able to see ourselves for who we are, people.

sit and think

I sit.
They march.
They yell.
They cry.
They move.
They love.
I sit.
They act.
They discuss.
They write.
They sing.
They change.
I sit.
I sit and I think.
I hear their voices echoing through my veins
I feel their steps vibrating through my arteries
I smell their sweat intoxicating my mind with desires and questions

I sit amidst this tundra asking the age-old questions: “what’s my role,” and “why am I so far, not there?”
I want to do, I want to be, but I am here
I know, I just know, that I’m supposed to go and when I reach that place I will do and that doing will be good and I will be in my element and I will feel peace and maybe I’ll be able to finally help

For now I sit

I told my friend the other day I envy the souls who are content in the places the call home
Actually, I envy anyone who isn’t suffocated by the concept of “home.”
They don’t want to go.
They don’t want to chase something they can’t see; something they aren’t sure exists.
They are in their place and their place is good.
It is always good.

For now I think

I feel when I find that place, the right one, the one that makes my blood pump as antelopes gallop through the Serengeti untouched and free, then, maybe then, my heartbeat will be synchronized with the songs of the stars and will finally fall in alignment with all that is right

Constantly searching for the soil that will cradle me, the soil I dream of uniting with like old Navajo tales, I find myself lost to even my own body. Unsure of the colors I see and the sensations I feel I dance with curiosity and intertwine myself uncertainty.

My love is not knowing, not having a home, always searching for that which I no longer believe in because my fear is knowing, finding a place I won’t leave, realizing what I believe may mean the worlds oceans are in fact filled with the tears of hungry children, abused women, and scared men, all of which is daunting and difficult to combat.

So I sit and think about where next, and I think about all there is yet to know

I know and I know. There’s the knowing I know because it’s true and inescapable. It’s the sensation I feel when I see children dancing through fields of fireflies and hear the strength of the empowered reverberate through downtown city streets. It’s the paralyzing effect that transcends all physical capabilities I might have been born with when I read the news only to find stories of bombs plague the pages until we no longer cry for our fallen brothers and sisters of different tongues and colors.

Then there’s knowing. The knowing I know because I’ve read it on the pages of books I’m able to afford in the school walls I’m free to pass. This knowledge is termed fact, but it leaves me wanting more because I’ve come to discover stories are told by victors, and the voices of the defeated are often evaporated with the burning of their societies. When there are 7 billion perspectives, what is true and what is real?

Both types of knowledge leave me defeated. I read about wars and genocides, atrocities that repeat themselves throughout generations. I study the continuous cycle of evil and perpetual systems of oppression dehumanizing the poor, the immigrant, and the black man. I see child soldiers turned to stone after drinking the blood of their brothers, and I hold orphans whose parents have prematurely vanished because the costs of political campaigns outweigh the vitality of distributing free ARV’s.

But, both types of knowing inspire action initiated under the guidance of hope. I’ve read the words of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr. I’ve walked the steps of Gandhi and I’ve heard expressions of joy shared amongst those liberated by Nelson Mandela’s administration. I’ve seen a meal for a stranger can curb social interpretations of the homeless, and I’ve watched communities embrace and strengthen AIDS orphans.

So I sit trying to piece it all together, all this knowledge makes me think and question my role, my place. It has to be there, somewhere. Somewhere out there with them, a part of the movements, alongside the oppressed.

Then I ask, what about me? What am I to do with this world of unfathomable possibility and unimaginable suffering? I want to go, I have to go, but where do I go? I tell myself I will know all I need to know when I reach that place, and that place will be home, and when I remove my shoes to enter I will do what I was made to do. But, why not now? Why not instead of sitting and thinking? It’s because I need to go I tell myself, but I go and I go and I go and the road is my home and childhood dreams are my map. I’ve got nothing but an untamed desire to experience and feel and love and be and see and learn and…why am I not with them? Why is my good only being done in my future, never my present? It’s because I haven’t found my place yet I tell myself, I will know what and when and how I tell myself. So I do nothing with now. I sit. I think. I sit and I think and time plays games with my mind, challenging the passion I say I have, daring me to do now as it threatens to cut the cord tomorrow.

I sit and I think. I think about all that I could know there, wherever there may be, forgetting that I can know here. I think about you out there, doing good and furthering the cause of love, knowing that my seclusion stems from the fear I have of being and allowing myself to know what is contained beneath this flesh covering. Fear of not doing the right thing in the right place prevents any doing in any place.

I sit and I think.

I ponder the causes and the people fighting the fight. I feel if I know more, if I understand more, if I experience more, if I live more, then, maybe then, I can do and my doing will be good. Right now all I have to offer the world are more tears for the oceans and another story written by a victor in the games of race and class. But I have to be more, there has to be more I can do, and the battle ensues as I learn the revolutions and accomplishments being won every day. I want to be there, I want to aid them. Which cause, which people? Who am I to offer help for anything and anyone? What do I know and what do I have?

I sit and I think.

It’s selfish. It’s always “I” and “they” never “we.” Never us as humanity. Never. I know that we are one and any movement for any person is a movement for all. Each victory for one is a victory for all as together we are 7 billion particles in this great creation we call life. All leaves on a tree. The struggle to preserve any stem is an improvement of the well being of the one giant organism. Here and there, this cause or that, it is all one as you and I are one. When the wind comes, the leaves float together, when the snow falls and the ice demands respect the leaves struggle for survival together, and when the suns rays shower the earth the leaves are all warmed and regenerated together.

I sit and I think.

I feel you are here and I am there, we are together and together we form one dynamic existence that breathes together and dies together. Whatever direction the leaves are blown, whatever path I walk, we are connected and that connection is home and that connection is good and that connection will attain peace.






much peace and love to you all

Life as the Status Quo

Is it insane to introduce the thought that maybe peace, equality, and harmony make up the status quo of existence and all else that undermines these basic elements are abnormalities? Right now it is just a question upon which I have not yet meditated enough to develop an argument but it just seems right, somewhere deeper than the aspects of myself of which I am currently conscious, it just seems right.

If it is not right I am not sure if I can go another day. Life has to be more than just struggle. Success has to be something that is achievable today. I don’t know home much longer I can go running on the treadmill of resistance in the pursuit of a brighter, freer future. I’ve been running for a long time now and am getting sick of staring at the same four walls.

This week I got off the treadmill, walked outside and saw the world with fresh eyes. I saw growing trees, blossoming flowers, and beautiful skies. I heard birds singing, children laughing, and music celebrating the eve of a new year. These aspects of existence do not make sense in a paradigm of resistance, but they do make sense in a paradigm of life.

Life is around us, above us, below us, and within us. Within each breath, each organ, each cell, there is life. On every mountain and in every desert there is life—life as energy; life as goodness; life in harmony. A paradigm of struggle cannot contain the truth that life is the status quo of existence.


mateo

Begin.

Sometimes escaping is the worst thing you can do. Sometimes you need to be amongst reality to truly see. But then other times the escape reminds you why you must continue to fight. you realize that it's within your being.


And I can sit here
Music blasting and escape into my world.
But it’s when the music fades out
Or the song changes
I remember
That it is here that I am sitting.
But the thing is
I take something from those moments
That you spoke to me
And inspired my spirit
And so if it is here I sat than this is here
it will start
Please deliver us.

--Give me PEACE revolutionary.