what headlines don't know

A name and a few numbers cemented to the pages. No color, no raspy voice worn out from years of storytelling and the shouting of opinionated slurs, no smell of stale pipe smoke…no life. The headlines and ink smears have been robbed of the adventure and the love and the music that you are.

They tell us the world is a cruel place and our hands must be used to climb the ladders of societal success, trumping over all others so we can be the best. But you have showed us that hands are made for healing the pains of the world. The best hands are those calloused with labor and love. Worn from days of becoming one with the soil we walk and the plants we consume; warm from the touch of another souls’ skin no matter how dirty or torn. A hand should never fear what is different or unknown. A hand must constantly reach out and embrace every ounce of life if we are to understand our relationship to all that is beyond the stars.

They tell us that our eyes should be open, always on guard for those trying to cheat and rob us. But you taught us to close our eyes and dream. You told us truth is found in the places eyes can’t see, and you reminded us that our hearts will guide us on journeys through untamed fears and uncertain worlds. You reminded us that if we listen, if we trust, we will reach the precipice of light, and there we will see the potential of the world and all that we can be. We will see our connection to all that feels the graceful brush of the wind and the violent fury of the currents, and this vision incites a power within us that allows our dreams and realities to be one.

And so it goes that they tell us our feet are made to sprint through life, moving from this stage to the next until there is nothing left. Hurry! Run through childhood, run from your imagination—it will only slow you down—run through college and while you’re running be sure to pick up a degree that will guarantee you a job, run to the house and the fence and the mortgage…never slow down. And then the race is done. But you said, “Wait dear child. Don’t forget to walk. See that snail? It’s in no hurry. Just taking its’ time to get from here to there, enjoying every ray of sunshine and every centimeter of shade. You know we get energy from the sun, but some people are moving too fast to feel its’ warmth? Once you get moving too fast you’ll forget that your mind was made to create. Never abandon your childhood because children are wise and pure. They know the world. The preservation of childhood is our greatest hope.”

And when it comes to love they say guard your heart, don’t let anyone too close. But you would simply laugh at their words and say you wished they had the joy you have. You told us never to forget to love. Love everyone and everything. Every blade of grass, every insect, every person. Take time to massage the pregnant African Fat Tailed Gecko, and time to come home early from work to dance with your love. Take time to listen to the stories of your neighbors, and time to play in the mud with your kids. Take time to climb a tree, and time to cast a line in the river.

You have defied what they teach us in school for your life proves myths are all but false and legends are walking among us, inspiring strength and passion.

With a wisdom as ancient as life itself you took me to the woods and taught me to listen to the spirits of the forest. You told me each living entity has a soul, a soul that is constantly speaking and growing and connecting to all that is around it. “Be sure to thank the trees and the water,” you told me. So I learn to appreciate life, and when the world becomes too much I go to the trees and I find comfort knowing they understand. As I sit in the forest I thank the trees just as you taught me to do when I was young, and I feel their spirits emerge in the darkest of nights, teaching me black is not bad and illuminating a world of comfort and peace, where most people find nothing but fear.

And your experiences taught you life is hard and not always fair, and people hurt each other, but through your stories of war and racism and abuse, all I learned was love would prevail and good was stronger than bad. I knew this must be true through your tears. Each tear told stories with depths greater than the seas. Each tear was evidence that you heard and felt the histories that have destroyed so many lives. Whereas textbooks would neglect those faces, you would forever carry them with you and pass them on to us, and us onto all those that we meet. A single man’s tears for the world are songs of resilience proving the necessity of justice and compassion and change. So we collected your tears and use them to propel us forward with conviction and strength, eager to fight for those who are too often unheard and unseen. And we too cry as we learn histories untold and unchanged, but you lived by example, proving to us that crying is evidence of humanity, not a sign of weakness. So we cry, just as we laugh, with all those who share this earth.

And you had that chair and that pipe and that stove and those opinions in that room you and grandma filled with love. “The world is crazy out there. Don’t go get yourself killed,” you would advise me. “I wasn’t planning on it,” I would reply, and you would worry, and then you would tell me I won’t always be a communist and someday I may want to get a gun because who knows what the future holds, and I would argue I’m a pacifist, and you would worry some more. You would tell me this man is corrupt and that man is a liar and the world is doomed if things continue as they are. And I’d get you some coffee and you’d tell me I was a good kid and I’d be alright and I knew you still had faith in people somewhere beneath your haggard beard and your torn flannel shirts. So we would switch the topic to your cat and what a good cat he was and how smart he was and how you needed to chop more wood for your stove because the cat likes to have the doors open so he’s free to go in or out despite the freezing temperatures. And we would laugh. And you would tell me not to get killed in the crazy world, and I assured you even if I died, it was a beautiful ride and you said the same for yourself.

It was always then, after the politics, that you would tell me no matter what’s happening in the world if you can find someone to share the evolutions of life with then the world will forever be flourishing with beauty and color. And you’d look into the distance as if she was there dancing in the room with us. It was the same look I remember as a kid—the look of unconditional admiration and love. A love so true that that all those around you could feel it. An unwavering love that makes Disney princesses fall to their knees in prayer for something that real and good. And for the two of you every day was an adventure, a blessing necessary of thanks to all the gods that ever were, or ever will be. Once more your bodies are intertwined among the stars, never to be separated again.

Now, like a Cherokee myth, you have vanished from this world but your life beats on through the vibrations that guide us. Just as we used to dance for the rain with dirt on our faces and braids in our hair, we now bow our heads to the ground in gratitude for the songs you taught us to hear in the smallest of pebbles and the grandest mountain peaks, and the rains fall to fill the wells and we know you’re here.

--with hope in their heart

Anything is Possible

Nights like this I can never forget
Feather breath tickles my cheek,
Lips brush my ear, and laugh lines deepen from streams to rivers
We sit in my car on the side of a mountain
Evading time, crickets are our only reminder of the outside world
You are a walking mystery
Secrets have embedded themselves in the mazes of your fingerprints;
Treasure maps for the forgotten stories buried along the ridges in
the canyons of your palms,
A life-time of tales hidden in every lifeline
"Me" becomes "we" and we are limitless
I limit less and let you hold the box inside of my chest labeled
"handle with care"
Kissing not my lips but my soul our
Childlike spirits for a moment believe once again in the idea of
"anything is possible"
Anything is possible
Anything
Is...
Ours to conquer in our world we have compacted into the confinement of
these car doors
Fingers play hopscotch along spinal chords
Smiles are scribbled into the dew
As my head rest in the crevice of your neck, I am reminded of what
happiness feels like
Suspended between twilight and our intertwining breath
Magic is real
The insecurities i casually wear on my face like makeup can not be
seen on the dark side of the moon where we sit and exchange fears,
hopes, dreams
Gravity-less
Minds beautiful pieces of work hand sculpted by God to be in his prize
art gallery
You are real.
But nothing last forever.
Our snowflake was beautiful, but melted with the first "Hello" from the sun
Wings are clipped, birds are re-caged
Smiles are erased
In our world anything was possible
Me
You
We

--♥

"Doing"

DISCLAIMER: This is all my opinion. These are conclusions I have made after careful reflection upon my own experience and observing others. In no way do I claim these things to be Truth, however realistic to my worldview they may be.

it’s not that serious, seriously some people take religion way to serious
there’s so much more than religion
religion only exists to create some form of foundation in a chaotic world
but it should not rule over a person’s life

religion is a tool
a tool people can use to get their lives straightened out
to find purpose where it seems nonexistent
a place to extract hope from
in order to get through the day
it can have a major influence on our day to day lives
but it should not be the center

so many times I have seen religious people put legalism in the center of their lives
rather than the faith they try so hard to live out
thinking about things is a good thing
being intentional about the things you plan to do
the words you say
how you treat others
is important
constantly striving to be better
and requires some form of contemplation
but some of you need to chill out
it’s really not that serious

thinking is one thing
talking is another
but at the end of the day
doing is just as good
give more respect to verbs that require physical action
put to use the body that God has given you
use your mind
but do not neglect the rest of the body in doing so
please remember that there is a bigger perspective
there’s so much to learn by the end of a life
and you only have one lifetime to work with
that’s not enough time to become perfect
or to concretely solidify all the worlds so called ‘truths’
doing things
making mistakes
gaining new experiences
taking risks
is just as important
if not more
gain a new-found gratitude for the lessons learned while doing something

take doing as serious as reflecting or praying or questioning

when you’re stuck
and don’t know where else to go
when you feel like your in a ten foot hole with no way to get out
your mind has become foggy with all the chaos and confusion of the day
your heart is numb to feeling because of the obstacles you’ve faced
your soul feels starved for love, hope, joy or what have you..
try doing something
it may help you get your joy back
maybe you’ll even find a new purpose
a new dream

whatever the case
never sit still for too long
never neglect the power of Doing

-- a thinker attempting to do

powerless, still . . .

(all names have been changed to protect the privacy of the indivduals)

With deep-set eyes and a broad smile, Derrick Hayes was perched upon his baby blue bicycle just inside of the iron gate and barbed wire fence of the high school in South L.A. where I teach. I didn’t see him at first; my attention was on Ms. Jones throwing her arms around Sean, a ranking gang member who used to attend the school.
“Hi, Ms. Cirelli.” Derrick’s warm voice caused me to turn and see him grinning in the afternoon sun. His hat tipped to the side, he was wearing bright blue sneakers and a blue t-shirt.
Derrick was in my first class of students, ever. I started my teaching career with two periods of U.S. government and three periods of CAHSEE prep, a class designed to prepare students to pass the high school exit exam. Derrick was in one of my 10th grade CAHSEE prep classes. He was constantly in trouble, but from the first day, I so badly wanted him to do well.
In my class, Derrick had good days and bad days. Often, he would attempt the English assignments, but when it came to math, his position was firm.
“I don’t do math.”
“Okay, well just try the first problem. Here, we can work on it together.”
“No. I don’t do math. It’s just not my thing.”
However opposed to math he was, Derrick wanted to be in school. His behavior consistently threatened him with expulsion, and although he almost never got into fights in my class, I often found him in the office during my conference period. In the first few weeks, he would simply leave my class whenever he felt like it. I didn’t know how to stop him from doing this, but I did my best to respect his time by creating meaningful assignments.
Eventually, he started staying in class for almost the entire two-hour period. One day he asked if he could go to the office to speak with the vice principal, Mr. Garcia. I told him he needed to stay in class. We were covering important material, and I attempted to impress upon him the importance of the work. I have to speak with him now, Derrick insisted.
“What could possibly happen between now and the end of class?” I asked.
“Mr. Garcia is going to sign the papers to send me to Crenshaw High.”
There was a chilling combination of desperation and defiance in Derrick’s expression and tone that startled me. At Crenshaw High, gang affiliation runs deep and threat of violence has shut down school events. I allowed James to go give Mr. Garcia the paperwork from his parents that would allow him to remain at our small high school. Derrick wanted to stay in school. But he also wanted to stay in his gang.
One day, our class was reading a short story about a boy in the 1950’s in a fictional New York gang. In the story, the boy is dying and reflects on his loss of identity ultimately leading to his death. Derrick volunteered to read. It was the first time he had volunteered to do anything in class. Stumbling over a few words, he alternated with two other students to read the story in its entirety. The class listened in perfect silence.
Afterwards, I allowed the students 15 minutes to free-write a reflection of any kind before they began the rigorous literary analysis assignment. I had been nervous about using literature that would hit so close to home, and many of the students seemed grateful for the chance to emotionally process before attempting an assignment. Derrick wrote nothing, but spent the time carefully drawing the symbols for his gang over and over on the lined paper.
Kneeling beside his desk, I quietly thanked him for reading and asked if he was okay. He nodded, and kept drawing. In response to a character whose dying action was rejection of a gang identity in favor of individuality, Derrick quietly asserted his identity as a part a group.
There were other days when such assertions were less than quiet. My classroom was on the second story of an old, brick building with windows facing the street. Over the barbed wire fence, the crank-open windows faced 8th Street. Once, someone looked out the window and commented that some Bloods were walking down 8th Street. Derrick jumped up from his desk and started yelling slurs out the window, vociferously claiming the territory. Half the class leapt from their desks to crowd around the windows.
My heart raced, but when I went to the window, I was relieved to see only a few young teenagers walking by. Ordering everyone back to their seats, I again knelt by Derrick’s desk.
“Not from my classroom,” I said as firmly as I could.
Derrick nodded.
Because of Derrick’s affiliation, and recent activity targeted at our school, it was deemed unsafe for him to remain on campus after school. Detention was therefore not an option, and he was permitted to leave 15 minutes before the last class of the day let out. The only thing I had to shape Derrick’s action in class was respect. I used every accommodation I knew as a 2-month-old teacher – preferential seating, special classroom jobs, rephrased directions, breaks outside, etc. It was difficult to track his progress since he completed so little work, but the work he completed seemed to increase day by day. When he wrote an entire paragraph, I was nearly bursting with pride.
Still, during my conference period, I would run into Derrick without fail either in the office or sitting outside his history class, doing work alone on the benches. It seemed to be a good strategy for him, until one day when a new student arrived, and a significant altercation occurred. Ms. Acosta, the fiery, well-respected, barely five foot history teacher was standing in the door of her class, physically blocking Derrick’s tall frame from whoever was inside.
“Please go get someone from the office right now,” she calmly but urgently asked me.
My eyes begged Derrick to calm down, but I went to retrieve a security officer.
The incident was resolved, but I knew Derrick’s expulsion was hanging by a thread. Several of the other teachers were working hard to keep him on track, and as a brand new teacher trying to figure out everything from lesson planning to classroom management as I went along, I felt powerless to make an impact.
A week or so later, the administration informed me I would be switching all my classes. The 9th grade English position needed to be filled, and I was selected to take over. Although I had only been with my current students for two months, I was already very emotionally invested. But the decision was for the good of the school overall, so I had not choice but to oblige.
At a staff meeting two weeks later, the principal announced that Mr. Hayes, as he referred to the students, had been let go. My heart dropped. Why? I thought. During the last several meetings Mr. Lopez, the principal, had used Derrick as the poster child for students who were turning around, an example of the school’s progress. Now, without warning, he was gone.
I carried on teaching the 9th grade for several months, which brought a new set of challenges for which, again, I was radically underprepared.
When I next saw Derrick, it the day of a ceremony for the 12th grade students to reveal the colleges they planned to attend. James, an affiliated student I had in one of my old U.S. Government classes, planned to attend U.C. Santa Barbara. Aside from greeting him in the hall, I hadn’t kept in contact with James, but I knew he was doing well and was proud to see him unveil his post-high school plans.
Seeing Derrick and Sean back at school surprised me.
“Derrick! How are you? What are you doing here?” In the back of my head, I remembered Derrick was not allowed on campus after being expelled.
“We’re here to support the homie,” he replied, nodding towards James, who was grinning widely.
“That’s right! That’s awesome.”
Before I could say more, something called my attention to the other side of the building. When I walked back, the vice principal was locking the two boys out. James continued to talk with them through the iron gate, practically pressing his face against the metal. Derrick biked in circles in the street.
Fifteen minutes later, I was getting lunch at the celebratory barbeque, and Derrick wheeled in, triumphantly maneuvering between lunch tables to greet old friends.
“He’s not supposed to be here,” one of the other teachers grumbled. Someone went to alert the administration. I anxiously worried an unnecessary confrontation would spoil the afternoon. Please just leave, I thought to myself.
“It’s okay, he’s nice,” one of the students explained to a new teacher who looked nervous.
Yeah, I thought to my self, he’s a good kid. He could have done so well. But when he leaves, he’s not going back to school somewhere. It’s the middle of the day. He seemed carefree, but I knew otherwise. Derrick’s father had been in the hospital with cancer the last time I saw him. I wanted to ask him how his dad was, I wanted to ask him if he had changed his mind about dropping out of high school. I’m sure being expelling from our school couldn’t have helped him make his decision. He knew the trouble that was waiting for him at Crenshaw High. I wanted to ask him where he was living. I wanted to ask him to come back.
I hated the blue t-shirt. I hated the blue sneakers. I hated the vice principal for locking him on the other side of the gate. I hated myself for not knowing what to do when he was in my class, and even more for having no power to do anything now. My body ached as he sailed away. A few minutes later, one of my own freshman was being restrained by security and a substitute teacher. His face was twisted with the pain of being powerless. I had no idea why he was fighting, but I wouldn’t have any way to find out until the following week when I had him in class. I put my fruit down and herded ravenous students away from the scuffle.
When I joined Teach for America, I thought I would be part of a movement to provide educational equity. In some ways, I do feel like I’m part of that movement. However, the stories I read of TFA classrooms lead to high achievement and students whose lives were turned around seem to mock me now. “Lisa, the 5th grade student who increased her reading by three years in just one, is why I Teach for America,” the stories would end.
“Carlos, the 11th grade student who couldn’t write a sentence and is now applying to college, is why I Teach for America,” a story in our training manual concluded.
During training, we also heard stories of teachers who didn’t do such-and-such, and never reached a certain student. These teachers ominously told us they were still haunted by their failures.
At the time, I thought perhaps this was all a scare tactic to shape all our actions into uniformity. But now, these are the stories from training that resonate with me the most. Maybe it’s cynicism, but I think it’s the soul-numbing reality that propels me forward each day.
Derrick is why I Teach for America.

Labor Pains

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

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

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

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

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.

El Clasismo y La Gringa

Though we had not much, we still had much more.
On special days I dined at the finest of
restaurants, and shopped at the nicest of
shops. Holidays were spent traveling
the longitudinal beauties of the
slender country, seeing much more than the
very children who were born under the
great Andes. I flew over the Andes,
snowboarded on the Andes, horseback rode on
the Andes. I seized the Andes.

On the metro and bus curious eyes
glanced at my fair, distinctive skin, thinking
not that I was American but a
light-skinned Chilena whose fairness reeked of
privilege, whose mestizo blood contained more
of Europe’s bullion, whose pampered body
dwelt on a large house on a hill, whose mind
was educated at institutions of great
prestige. And in the silence of
public transportation it matters not
if such things are actually true. Such is
my image—the apple of the beastly
classist eye. I cringe. Such is my life.*


With a fool's hope,
Bethany Lauren Grigsby


*Poem originally written in fall of 2007

mailbox ponderings

My student mailbox is located right across from the Door of Discussion. I like this because it helps me keep an eye on the things that get posted there (though there hasn't been much at all this year.) It also allows me to inconspicuously eavesdrop on how people react to the Door. Tonight as I was peeping in my box, several boys walked by and I heard the following jovial conversation.

"What is on the door now?"

"I don't know. Dude, why do you read that stuff?"

"Naw, man. I always read what is on here. People say the stupidest things! Like ohhhh I'm gay . . . but like God still loves me."

"Ohh shoot, that's retarded!"

"Yeah, dude!"

As the group walked loudly laughing, I stood staring after them in furious bewilderment.

I am floored by the opinions students voice here. Just when I start to have hope that at least people are open to the conversation, open to the consideration that love can be a reality, I realize that hope is based on my experience with senior sociology majors. Not mainstream APU population. Not the culture of masculinity. Not youth groups or Bible studies. Not anything remotely resembling the forces that will shape my little brothers' understanding of the world. Just those folks who are finally starting to be able to apply the information that has been harpooned at them for the past four years.

I understand that the above dialogue isn't representative of the general consensus on ways to speak of such things. But it is revealing about the kind of environment we allow to flourish. An environment where an otherwise vaugely mismatched group of kids can find easy acceptance and assumed commonality in hatred and marginalization. Why do we just let it happen? Why doesn't anyone care? The senior sociology majors know how to talk in their classes, almost. Why don't they speak when it matters?

I think I need to walk around with a sign on my back at all times that reads "It's not funny." I have no idea in my little head how to convey to people the gravity of their words. No matter how reasonably I argue or how relatable my stories, it can all be blown off and invalidated with the fatal words, "I was just kidding." The discourses of hegemony that permeate our world here at APU (and at home in youth group) must be exposed for what they are. Until we figure out a way to do this, deadly closets will continue to exist and suck in the lives of beautiful community members.

Do you all have any ideas about discourse that reveals the levity of "humor?"

Thank you jazz

This is a thank you letter
to all those who created and supported
the jazz movement.

Thank you for challenging the acceptable status quo.
For crossing musical borders in pursuit of melodic liberation;
For breaking the classical rules to usher in a brighter, freer future.

Thank you for filling the dark alleys with your songs.
Reverberating off the brick walls.
A saxophone weeping in the purest of tones.
Originating in your soul.
Finding expression through your mouth
Bring translated through that saxophone
Filling the poorest of cities with your sounds.

Thank you for giving us the words to speak
When hate had beaten our bodies to the ground.
Your melodies stitched our bleeding hearts.
Your lyrics brought strength to our bones.
And whether on a cell block floor
Or marching for our freedom in the cold
Your songs always guided us home.

Thank you for building the musical foundation
Upon which our songs were born.
Your courage was the elemental root
Upon which we have built the harmonies that now support our souls
Our actions are the overtones of your chords
Our voices are the voices harmonizing yours.

In each of our songs you can hear your cries.
Each of our words pays tribute to your rhymes
Rhymes with such might
That they can break the grip of whoever holds us down

Rhymes with which we challenge the racial
Framework that has been the slave masters disguise.
With you we strike the glass ceiling
That is invisible to the untrained eye.

Thank for giving us the eyes to see.
The sounds to scream.
The lyrics that freed.

Thank you for giving us the words to speak
The courage to stand
The hope of dreams.

Together we live in resistance
Transcending the restriction of time.
Tomorrow we celebrate our freedom
But until then, we will strive.




-mateo

Dear oppressor

Dear oppressor,

Please stand still while I have my way with you
Hold that posture
As I sculpt you into granite
And create for you a frozen stone planet that only you and your kind could inhabit

Don’t even blink
Lest I remember that you are flesh and blood
And not barbed wire woven into a clockwork system
With an automatic timer set to mangle its victims

Don’t smile or cry
Do not look me in the eye
Or I might recall that once you were a child so weak
And that your beauty left your mother void of speech

Don’t let your body speak
Do not let your stomach growl
Or I’ll start to think that from this earth you and I both eat
And that you are not just a robot or a slab of concrete beneath my own very human feet

Don’t even breathe
I forbid any display of being weak
For I might recognize your precarious life
Or consider that you have a story and are a sister, a son, a father, and wife

Dear oppressor,
As I protest for human rights
And raise my fist so high
Let me forget that we are fashioned of the same clay
Let me strip you of your humanity
Hating you is so much easier this way


With a fool's hope,

Bethany Lauren Grigsby

libre.

This spoken word or song or poem, whatever it may be is dedicated to all of those seeking freedom. They told us it was here, they told us what enslaved us was Satan, I’ve found that he is not the perpetrator anymore.
I’m sorry if you don’t understand it because its in Spanish. Id be happy to talk to you about it if you would like to know more.

Libre
Dios me ha hecho libre
Tu me encadenaste
No fue Satanas

Libre
Tu me encadenaste
Pero yo tengo la llave
Y eso a ti te duele

Mi voz
Sera la que tiembla al cantar
Pero mi voz
Sera la que oyes al pensar y decir…

Libre
Ellos ya son libres
yo los encadeno
y digo que los amo

libre
date cuenta, soy libre
por mas que no me quieras
aqui me quedare

libre
si lo que quieres
es que huya
no te tengo miedo
y no te tengo piedad

libre
mi voz tiene la llave
desato las cadenas
de tu opresion

libre
no tu no eres libre
tienes tus cadenas
de oro y de mentiras
de diamantes y de odio
de riquezas e ignorancia

libre
tu no eres libre
a tu lado sufre gente
de tu mismo color

libre
tu eres el titere
de todos los que te aman
por pensar tal como ellos

liberate
encuentra en las tinieblas
la luz de color negra
que resiste la opresion

Te duele
Verme resistir a gritos
Con canto y con palabras
Con poemas del Corazon

Te digo que escribo porque quiero
Que ya tus dias de victima
Han llegado a su final

Me dices
Que uso solo mi emocion
Que grito y que lloro
Que mas quieres
Si me desgarras el alma
Destruyes mi sentido de ser
Y oprimes a la gente
Que solo mi Cristo supo amar

Cristo, Cristo Jesus
Identificate con nosotros
Señor, Señor mi Dios
Identificate con nosotros
Cristo, cristo Jesus
Solidarizate
No con la voz mas fuerte
Sino con la mia que quieren silenciar
Con la voz de mi gente, mi pueblo que arde
Por la libertad

dorenyse ariana diaz