lonche

Lunch Time

It’s lunch time, but I know I’m not going to eat. The food has been getting me sick here. So I’m just going to avoid getting into more problems. I also don’t want to go eat lunch because I want to continue in my solitude. I like to talk to myself about all sorts of things. Today in the morning we went on a Bush walk. We went through the Wetlands and saw all kinds of animals. Some big, some small, most of them pretty. It was a 5 mile walk, or two hours if you base your judgment on time. I wasn’t too sure how I was going to keep myself sane for two hours, so I began to picture stories. I began to create my own scenes: love scenes, fighting scenes, super power hero scenes. The stories reflected a much larger issue of where I am right now in my life. It’s a good thing, I believe. I’m in a stage of moving forward.

It’s 12:33, I should at least go down there and make face. 

one of the boys

One of the boys

Last time I checked, and it was earlier this afternoon when I went to go pee, I still had a penis. Unless, it fell off as I was walking back to the haunted house—I am still, at least biologically, still considered a man/male/boy/penis-holder. Perhaps it is because I suck dick for fun and sexual pleasure, or maybe because I don’t perform my [lack of/different] masculinity , I am somehow not considered one of the men in this trip.

Last night, one of the girls wanted to make the program organizer aware of the two cliques that were being created amongst the program participants. He of course was well aware of what was happening. According to him, and the Republican in the house, people coming together is natural. I can’t say I agree or disagree, but I do get along better with people with similar ideologies, common interests, etc. The Republican added that he was just part of the “guys” in the group – the men. He mentioned most of them, leaving the two queers out, and one other guy who is sexually ambiguous.

Well why thank you. I guess I am not one of the guys. Even though, I identify as a guy/man/male/penis. It’s just disappointing that because I am not straight or act “straight,” then all of the sudden I am de-gendered and assign you a different/in-between/no gender.

This is nothing new, though. I am used to this kind of gender butchering.

the basics

Back to the basics

We are in St. Lucia (not pounced Lucy-a, but rather Lu-sha). It is in the eastern side of the country, near the Indian Ocean. The Indian Ocean? For someone  who was born in a tiny rural town in Mexico, and was raised in the Lincoln Heights barrios (near East LA), knowing that I am near the Indian Ocean is too surreal. 

When my parents brought my brothers and I to the United States in 1993, their mere intentions were for us to learn English and have a simple kind of job. A job that did not require too much manual labor, like my dad’s. To them, and to us, college was not in our future. But here we are in 2011, two of my siblings are also in college and my youngest brother still in college but with the understanding that he has to attend college. And me, well I will, just in one year, be graduating from UCLA. Even though I do not bleed blue and gold, I am very grateful for the opportunities that UCLA has given me. It has opened my door to countless opportunities, allowed me to make irreplaceable friendships, it has given me some of the greatest tools, and most importantly allowed me to make some of my most fondest memories.

And this sense of gratefulness arrives as a result of being in St. Lucia. St. Lucia is located in the province with the highest rate of HIV/AIDS infection in the entire country. Granted, South Africa is the country that has the biggest population of people living with HIV/AIDS. The volunteer coordinator provided us with the statistics that about 70% of the people we are working with in the Township have HIV/AIDS, and that also goes for the kids we are working with during the Holiday Club. She suggested we just “assume everyone has the virus.” Of course, I am not going to play with the kids any different or treat them worse for having HIV/AIDS. In fact, it never even crosses my head when I am in the playground every morning. It is not ‘till later that I remember—that most of the kids in the playground are positive for no fault of their own, nor fault of their parents.

It is not their fault that they live in a country with an awful history of colonization, White Supremacy, and oppression. But they bare the consequences of not having access to education, health clinics, and other means of self-awareness and empowerment. And now, even though Apartheid is “over,” their physical bodies are the sites of the oppression.

Yesterday (Wednesday June 29), we met a couple of ladies who are part of a support group for HIV+ women. They were selling us some of their hand-made products (jewelry, weaved baskets, etc.), and the money goes directly to the women who make them. Everything they were selling was beautiful. But I feel that the stories behind the crafts are extremely powerful. They are stories of resilience, resistance, and love. 

el beso.

And we kissed.

June 29.

Yup. It happened. I’m not too sure how or why. But it happened. We were celebrating one of our group member’s 21^st birthday at the karaoke bar. He initiated the first time. I did it the second. There was no third time. No charm.

ya me canse de tu mierda

Leave it up to the White people to perpetuate all types of fucked up levels of whiteness. On our boat cruise searching for hippos and crocodiles, all the White people sat on the edge of the boat, the most appealing place to sit. Sitting there without regard of who they were leaving behind or asking if anyone else wanted to sit there. Sure, it’s not a big deal. But its incidents like these and others that contribute to interpersonal manifestations of the systems of dominance. Or when they ask who wants to ride in the back of the truck, all the White people run and sit as if it’s the cool thing to do. Or when the White people throw the water at each other even though St. Lucia is coming in terms with a drought, and the Africans don’t even have that kind of luxury. This, I say, is representation of Whiteness. White privilege being this invisible set of ideas, privileges, and power abilities. But that is exactly what White privilege is: invisible to the White person, but it creates resentment amongst everyone else. Because we know from our history, and we know from our frequent experiences the different types of treatment. And when they continue to perpetuate this feckless sense of vainness, it becomes distrustful and exclusive.

Sure we had the ability to challenge them and say something to them. But this repetitive attitude, and repetitive calling them out becomes a burden. Leave to the person of color to teach the White person about racism. Why do we have to carry the burden all the time? Perhaps its time to start taking ownership of one’s actions  and start calling themselves. Otherwise, we will never move forward and we will ALWAYS bring the “race card.” 

The House

The House

If I have ever seen any haunted movie where someone is bound to go missing or die, it is this house. I feel so mad/sad that the group has been separated and most of my closest friends in this trip are not here. They are staying elsewhere. But we are living in a two story house. The main house has like 4 huge bedrooms, each with 4 beds. Its an old house. It has not been kept up. Things are broken, the furniture is old. The keys are ancient (literally). There is NO internet. There is no sanity. I feel like I am going to loose it. I am such a pessimist. But if Isomeone is meant to go missing, it aint gonna be me. Just saying that much. 

I am Cursed

I am Cursed

Someone up in the heavens must have heard me complaining about the Republicans. I am stuck sharing a room in St. Lucia with one of the most conservative guys in the entire program. I appreciate the challenges in life, but this just absurd. Okay, I am over reacting. But I feel like I have every right to unleash my peevish words. Grant me the energy to stay sane for the rest of this week. However, you might be catching me washing the toilet with someone’s toothbrush. Resistance begins at home.

Male Gaze

Male Gaze

He’s looking at me. I can see him starring from the corner of my eyes. He tried sitting next to us, but the girl who he was sitting with made him move. I tried sitting closer to him, but the person I am sitting with didn’t hear me. I was too shy to explain myself, so I didn’t repeat myself.

I want to sleep. My eyes begin to close. He’s not that far. Why do I even care? Like the sociological explanation of situational homosexuality, situational liking. I keeplooking out of the window, into the road. I keep seeing homeless families just out of the freeway. I have to remind myself why I am here.

The male gaze only sees what it wants to. And it uses its privilege to observe at the bodies of those it desires. But I know who he wants, and I know what I don’t.

Find Your Balance

Find Your Balance

I just found my balance by eating some amazing sandwhich  from Kauai, a sandwhich place at the Durban airport. Our camera has died, so I can’t take any pictures.

Oh, and we’re off!

UCLA, or whoever planned this trip specifically, has reserved a huge bus for all of us.  Theres maybe 30 of us in this trip, and the bus fits twice the size. Thus, there are lots of open seats and many of the two people seats are occupied by solely one person. I don’t know what I am trying to get across by noting this, but I figured it was something worth mentioning.

So back to the really good sandwhich. I got a TexMex sandwich, and yeah I am nostalgic for some good Mexican food. It didn’t remind me of home but it allowed my soul to mentally be closer to my mom’s spirit. I miss her. I called her earlier today and she got scared because it is late time in the States. She sounded worried for me. It always re-assures me to know she cares. I know she does, but sometimes I forget. Or choose to forget. I get caught up with so many other things, and though its not an excuse, I have used it to justify our distance. You know, her and I were close once. I like to brag that I was her favorite, though she always denies having a favorite. But I was really close to her. I would argue, the closest. But that was before I came out. My coming out process really tore us apart. She took it the hardest. My dad was not so difficult to understand. Actually, I think coming out brought me and my dad together. Not to say that he and I now talk about everything, but the fact that he was supportive was super nurturing. I miss him too.  A lot.

Dang, this trip has made me come to some of the more difficult things. Things I was not expecting to realize. That perhaps all this time, I have had some difficult priorities. I would always put my “activism” (read: organizations) before my family. I’m start to think I was wrong. Because even though I have made a few amazing friends through our collective organizational activism, it’s nothing compared to the love that my family has given me. I guess, I always knew this. But I just never really wanted to admit it. Blah blah blah, a lot of people don’t understand third world feminism, or womyn of color feminism. They don’t know what nurturing means. Yeah im applying a cultural essentialism framework, but it makes me feel good. It makes me feel warm. Because, my family and I are not post-modern. We are modern. We are the today. And the today is love. It’s about real love for my family.

But there is a dark side to my family. A family with a lot of pain, and no one is willing to take the active steps to begin healing. No, not of child abuse. But we all mentally challenge eachother. Me and my mom, my younger brother and my dad, my oldest brother and my other brother, etc. etc. it’s a fight of who can win this mental challenge. I chose to flee. And here I am, full circle. Realizing that I need them today. 

We are leaving Cape Town

We are leaving Cape Town

I am currently on the plane on my way to Durban, where we will later travel to St. Lucia. I am sitting in between Stephanie and some White man. People think its awkward that I am constantly talking about race, or refer to someone through their race. I believe it was Chief Justice Roberts, who in one of his decissions, suggested that we will never move away from this racial complex until we stop talking about it. It’s easy for a White man to believe that. He, probably, has never had to deal with the social and political consequences of the racial creation.

But we don’t have to go all the way to the Supreme Court of the United States to see how race is constantly affecting our daily lives, and how (mostly) White folk are trying to deny that their White privilege provides them the opportunity to deny race.

Through our brief experiences in Cape Town, some of the people that I am sharing this experience with also believe that we must not focus on race. While, I would love to agree with what hey say, I honestly cannot. Because race has affected us more than we want to imagine. So, I will continue to push “the race card,” until we all begin to realize the importance of that analysis. 

Consciousness

Consciousness 

The South African College School, a preparatory school for young men (boys), is one of the finest schools in South Africa. As someone who graduated from a Los Angeles Unified School District high school, stepping into the school was surreal to me. All I could think about was about the social privileges and results that someone gains from graduating from SACS. I would imagine that most of these students attend some of the greatest colleges and universities in the world.

Our Professor introduced us to their students and noted how most of us attended a UC. He mentioned how there were students from both UC Berkeley and UCLA, the top public institutions of higher education in the United States. Then, the Headmaster of the school introduced us to some of the young students who attend the school. They were dressed in their uniforms, and had congratulatory pins throughout their coat (a la British school system, someone noted). Later, both the Headmaster and our Professor encouraged us to talk and begin out international networking for we would never know when we would need to communicate again.

I was in a small group with two other students participating in the Travel Study program. Together, we hit (what we thought was) the jackpot – because we began to talk with a ridiculously smart student. The student is a senior at the school and is beginning to “matriculate.” We talked a a lot about different social and politicial issues. I was so amazed about how much he was are about American politicals. I think he knew more about American politics than a couple of Americans I know. He talked about how South Africans pay very close attention to American elections because whoever is in power in the United States affects international relationships.

We asked him where he stood politically within the U.S context, and he responded by saying he would more than likely be a Democrat. I knew then, that we had met the right guy! This prompted us to ask him more about social issues such as queer rights, apartheid, race issues, etc. Even though South African grants LGBT citizens full rights (including marriage), social stigma continues to plague the queer community there. He noted that there was no “open” gay student at the all-boys high school, and that most of the boys often make homophobic remarks. His older brother, who now attends Oxford is gay, which is how he was introduced a lot to social justice and was able to learn a lot about all these different social issues.

He believed that even though apartheid was over, and he was growing up in a generation post-Apartheid, racist history continues to affect the growth of the country. He knew that most of the country was Black, but the most wealthy South Africans are White. Even at his own school, he noted how a lot of the black students are admitted due to scholarships (mostly athletic scholarships), but the school still does not represent the diversity of the country.  It sounds a lot like the same problems that plague the communities and institutions we are a part of the United States, such as our own UCLA.

His own lived experiences showed him how Apartheid continues to exist through economic means. His personal experiences reminded me of my own experiences in the United States. That even after all the Civil Rights movements, our institutions continue to abide by ideologies that still benefit those in power. It is students like him, and the students I work with through M.E.Ch.A’s Access Project – Xinachtli, that I continue to have faith in the future of our global community. 

White Privilege in a Post-Apartheid Era

White Privilege in a Post-Apartheid Era

The issue of Whiteness, specifically White privilege has begun to really agitate this house. Maybe I am making this issue bigger in my own head, but it continues to affect me. In a peevish way, it irritates me….because  I just want to scream out! I want to shout during every instance in which white privilege is manifested. But I am having a hard time articulating myself, and expressing my feelings.  Sure, I can contribute to group discussions about non-sensitive issues. But to talk about race, is so difficult for me. I don’t understand why. I have the theoretical knowledge and practical understanding to argue my way into victory. Usually, people will eventually begin to scream, call me a racist, and just refuse to engage in dialogue with me. It has happened before. I don’t understand why I feel so powerless here.  

Today, we had what would normally be considered a talking circle. Finally, we begun to address sensitive issues such as race. First, the South African facilitator challenged us, “Americans,” to not be afraid to voice our feelings. He noted that for Americans, talking about race is something we don’t like to do. Its something that we try and hide under the rug with the fear of angering others. To which, I agreed. Talking about race excites me. It makes me happy. It allows me to engage in deep and meaningful conversations. 

Later, one of the students in our program asked him if we could stop generalizing all Americans. He noted that not all Americans are the same, and it would be an injustice to clump us all together. The man responded that while it is true not all Americans are the same, Americans have contributed to a colonial legacy that has affected millions of people across the globe. Most of us “Americans,” got offended. I didn’t. He called every single one of us out. We cannot pretend to be the saviors of the world, and that we are doing good deeds, and that we are not responsbile for the United States’s neoliberal imperialistic policies. Because, WE ARE RESPONSIBLE. Sure, we might protest, write to Congress, but our compliance with these policies that are affecting millions of people is our responsibility.

We might not be the designers of these policies, but we are benefiting from them every single day. Me, being in this trip, is a benefit of what I have being a citizen of the United States. I may not be responsible, but I reap the benefits every day.

Similarly, the White students in our trip do not feel responsible for the racist legacy that their ancestors created and have left for them. Sure, they are not responsible. But they benefit from White privilege on a daily basis.

The fact that both of the professors are always looking at one of the White Students for support and advice, and are always asking him to represent all of us. The fact that the student can mock the South African culture in the name of fun and games, the fact that the White student can sugar coat his answers about race and his feelings about Obama is White Privilege. Is the fact that whatever he says, he will be correct.

When he was dancing (read: ridiculing) to South African music, everyone began to cheer and take pictures of him. I must have been the only one with an ugly face on, because I did not cheer, clap or take pictures of him. I made sure that when I was taking pictures I was cropping him out of the image. And that, is my contribution to this antir-racist/anti-White Supremacy ideal. I am not removing him of his humanity, I am removing his representation as a White straight man and centering the students of color that are often overlooked. 

Republicans on Board.

Republicans on Board.

I don’t like Republicans. I don’t agree with them. Must we co-exist? Sure. Do I have to pretend to like them? No, not at all. Why would I? It is that people that they keep electing that share their hate-mongering, racist, xenophobic, ideologies, that have institutional power that keep denying our people the ability to succeed (i.e the DREAM Act).

A few students from LSU are openly republican. They voted for McCain, are anti-choice, and believe in the two wars we are fighting. I don’t even want to know what they think about sexuality or immigration. Thus, why must I be forced to pretend that I like them? I know I don’t, and will never get along. My parents taught me better. They instilled in me open-minded qualities, but also made me realize that not everyone would ever agree with me. And I must be okay with that. They never said, I had to like or pretend that I do like them.

Republicans on Board.

Republicans on Board.

I don’t like Republicans. I don’t agree with them. Must we co-exist? Sure. Do I have to pretend to like them? No, not at all. Why would I? It is that people that they keep electing that share their hate-mongering, racist, xenophobic, ideologies, that have institutional power that keep denying our people the ability to succeed (i.e the DREAM Act).

A few students from LSU are openly republican. They voted for McCain, are anti-choice, and believe in the two wars we are fighting. I don’t even want to know what they think about sexuality or immigration. Thus, why must I be forced to pretend that I like them? I know I don’t, and will never get along. My parents taught me better. They instilled in me open-minded qualities, but also made me realize that not everyone would ever agree with me. And I must be okay with that. They never said, I had to like or pretend that I do like them.

LEAP Into Whitewashing

LEAP Into Whitewashing

At the LEAP school they “teach” (however you can) Black/African students how to like and live amongst White people. But do they do that to the White students?

I am, by no means surprised, that there would be such animosity between groups. Specially between the Black students towards the White students. It mostly comes from their families who have taught them about the historical (and even current) oppression they have faced as a result of the supremacy of Whiteness.

Thus, there are now country-wide efforts to try and mend those relationships. But at the expense of what? Triying to soften the history as if it wasn’t what it reallyw as. But it was all that and much more, because correcting the pain, hurt, and brokenness will take more than just a few classes.

el amado, not my neighbor.

I want to be loved.

I, like everyone else, deserve to experience love. And although, I feel like I have already witnessed the potential of love, and my desire to love…there is an inclination in my soul to further those experiences.  To go beyond what I understand to be these feelings. Tap into capability greater than I have ever, or even ever experienced.

Don’t ask why I am feeling as such. Usually, I would deny these type of feelings. And suggest my support for my feckless lack of interest. But clearly, while my mouth is speaking one thing, my head and soul are yielding otherwise.

But its difficult. I am not suggesting that I will compare what I know of before to what I want to from the next, but rather a feeling of satisfaction. True satisfaction. Not one I force myself because I cannot be honest with my own self. But rather, a satisfaction that exceeds a physical orgasm but actually reaches an emotional climax. I want to cum with love. I want him to worship with his explosion. Show me.  

Thinking about the unthinkable

Thinking about the unthinkable

I cant help but to think of something that my head haunts me. I wish I could remove these thoughts from my chest. But there is a sting that I must address with myself.  I don’t like thinking about it, but it is something (I have come to realize) that I must endure because of where my thoughts and feelings are situated. Its difficult. And now, I just want to cry. I am crying. I don’t even know why. I want to walk outside right now. But they warned us not to walk when the sun is out.

The sky is crying.

I am crying.

I miss something. And I hate trying to articulate it. Because articulating would mean that I am admitting it. And I don’t think I want to, just yet.

Where is he? He said he’d join me in this crying session. He’s no where to be seen.

It’s okay. Why do I bother burden my already full platter with something with no substance.

Growth.

This is it.

Learning from this difficult situation I am in.

The Borderlands Haunt Us

The Borderlands Haunt Us

You may begin to skim through the pictures I have posted up on Facebook and realize that I have done exactly what most people would do when they come to another country. Visit the areas that are most appealing to those with money. The “this is so beautiful” awe moment.

And while I agree that Cape Town has some beautiful tourist-things to do. I feel like I am not really here for that reason. Maybe its imbedded in me because my family hardly ever went on vacation. Vacation to us is going to like Tijuana or something, for the day.

But I feel like this is wrong. Did I ever leave the United States? The remains of apartheid continue to linger within the aura of Cape Town. It’s a beautiful city. But its not what I want to be with.

I feel like I am visiting two different Africas. First, and perhaps the unfortunately most enjoyable, is the one experienced by most tourists. It includes site seeing, appreciating the nature, Tonantzin’s wonders. While the other Africa we’re visiting is one of displacement—the families living in shacks, like you see in religious-based missionary commercials.

But what exactly is more role here?

What is my role as a student, as a student leader, a person with some type of conscious? 

Los hombres en la esquina

Los hombres en la esquina

Today as we were driving to Red Hill, I noticed a lot of men. Black men, African men gathered in the intersections of major streets. It reminded me of the men who gather around outside of hardware stores. In the United States, we call them day laborers. In my head, I call them brave men. 

They are brave because many of them are in the States alone. They left their homes to help their families. Many of them endure sexual abuse, and never report it. They live in fear. Yet they continue to stand outside those parking lots. Its only the way they can provide for their starving children. 

Later I asked the professor what the men were doing waiting in the streets. He said they were probably waiting for work. For someone to pick them up and offer them some job opportunities.

This is thoroughly disappointing. But I am grateful for witnessing this. It shows the similarities between Black/African folk and Brown folk in the United States. We are living in a similar struggle. Solidarity is key. I hate when I hear Black folk in the United States contribute to the xenophobic, anti-Raza sentiments. This trip has given me the knowledge to be able to communicate to Black folk in the States, that their own people go through very similar issues. Instead of fighting one another, we should join together and demand real change. 

Is a baboon a black baby?

Is a baboon a black baby?

Crazy question I ask, huh? For many of you reading this, a rhetorical question. But one worth discussing. On our way back from Cape of Good Hope (or was it Holy Hope?), we pulled over because we saw lots of baboons on the road.

Everyone jumped with excitement as they pulled their cameras out and started flashing at the baboons. Unfortunately, my camera was dead…but it allowed me to witness everyone else’s reactions. Their “awww how cute?” “aww look at that baby!” was reminiscent of their reaction to the black babies we had met earlier in the day.

Granted this naïve and innocent attitude may not seem challenging, but I feel that it is rooted on this pathetic assurance of Whiteness. White privilege allowing the belittling of the baby’s humanity and compare it to the baboon.

Let us not forget the historic animalistic analogies of black folk to primates. The idea that black people are closely related to primates—because both are uncivil and dark.

What does it mean then, when we goo-goo-ga-ga over poor black babies with little means of progress, to baboons (who lack a humanistic sense of agency). We remove the agency of the black baby, knowing that s/he will never leave the place they call home. They will never be fully human.

We continuously remind the black babies, that to us—they are within the same caliber as baboons.

Let me pose with a black baby now. He’ll be my accessory of the week. 

Internal Colonies

Internal Colonies

Its 7 in the morning here in Cape Town. Taylor and I hardly slept. Correction, I slept a few hours. She has slept none. We are going to hate ourselves much later today.

As she was speaking to me earlier about what she is writing in her own journal and possible blogs, I realized something. I must continue to check my own male privileg.e Up to this very moment, I was afraid of talking to, specifically Tay and Steph, about my concerns regarding the concept of race. My excuse, “they’re not there yet.” How ignorant and pathetic of me, to think that they would not understand race when they are both womyn of color. Sure, they may understand race differently, because even race is gendered.

But for me, to presume that their level of consciousness was not up to my own is disgusting. I created a hierarchy of consciousness as opposed to remembering that it’s a process. For all I know, they could be in a stage much further than my own.

That is the beauty of all this. That I am continuously growing. And I must remember to check myself, specially when others wont. Why are they afraid? Nothing. Perhaps, they’re afraid of my peevish attitude of not admitting my wrongdoings.

Let this be a call of action for myself: how to be a better ally. The same way, I expect straight folk and White folk to understand their allyship. Interpersonal power dynamics is interesting. Our relationships are so complex, and they are influenced by the systems of dominance that determine our positionality in our society.

Love. All this internal struggle is out of love. Because I love myself, and I love these beautiful and amazing mujeres. Let the growing continue.

Time

Time

Manifestations of neoliberal colonization occur even within progressive organizations, specifically those ran and controlled by White folk. We were first introduced to the concept of time in a very, what I thought, postcolonial manner. First, one of the guides told us that for the native Africans, their concept of time is different. For them, time is endless. We will always have time, until we die of course. Whereas the Western concept of time is synonymous with money. Time is too precious to be wasted. This was brought up before we went to the location were one of our service projects will be. Yet, while these White folk understand that the concept of time is different, they are still trying to invest the black students they work with that they must always be on time, because time is precious.

It makes no sense. But the Non-Profit Industrial Complex makes no sense. Now that apartheid is over, and legal discrimination is not allowed lets “white-wash” these folk. Sounds like the American project all over again. But what is another viable option? Does it exist? I guess only time can tell…..or it might be too late.

Memories that haunt our Mother

Memories that haunt our Mother

Today brought a memory back. One that I hardly share. Its painful. It hurts. But most importantly, I am disappointed in myself --for keeping this story, but for not going back. Not going back.

A couple of years ago, my grandmother came to visit us from Mexico. The historian in me, the one that tries to understand her life and compare it to my life, asked her about her siblings. I knew she had several brothers and sisters, but most I had never met. She told me the story of the oldest daughter that was still alive. She had not seen her in over 20 years. For all she knew, that sister could have been dead by now. She lived in the outskirts of Mexicali, a border town next to Calexico, California.

With the help of my little brother, we were able to successfully lobby my parents to take us. It was the least we could do for my grandma, after all the unconditional love she has always given us.

We arrived in Mexicali. It was like any other border town. A lot of young people, many working in border-type of jobs. We stopped at a nice house that was owned by family of my grandma’s. But this was not the sister my grandma was looking for. The family in the house (distant family) asked us to follow them as they drove to an area were the city dumps its trash. I was not sure what we were doing there. There were small houses there. Mostly built of peoples’ excessive trash – plastic, aluminum, wood put together  to resemble the rectangular shape of a home. We stopped at one of those homes. Out the people we had just met went towards the home. There were three small kids, unnourished. Their bellies popped from the rest of their skeleton body. Their limbs had not fully developed. They looked to me like animals. Unable to communicate thoroughly, they expressed their feelings through their actions and facial characteristics. Then a man and a woman came out, younger than my parents. They looked like the homeless people, I frequently ignored in downtown. The woman’s hair uncombed, wearing scraps of cloth for an outfit. And the man, tore up jeans with grease/dirt stains throughout.

They called for someone inside their home. An elderly lade came out, she looked like my grandma but much skinnier and shorter. She hunched her back. But had a spirit like no other. A beautiful spirit. I could feel it. It matched my grandma’s presence. Warmth.

“Mijo, esta es tu tia.” My grandma said. My mom was near us. She knew what we were thinking. We were afraid. She was afraid. I could not sense my grandma anymore. Her aura had changed. Who was this lady we were meeting? Why was she living like this? This must be a joke. My younger brothers and I kept close. My older brother kept looking at us. He also knew what we were thinking. But him being the most ethical and full of morals pretended he did not see what was going on.

What? This was exactly like what you see in the commercials for missionaries asking for money. Feed the children. But my own cousins? Feed my cousins? The odor of the garbage was finally beginning to normalize itself.

The couple apologized for not having anything to offer us. My mom said not to worry. The man we saw was actually my mom’s cousin. The woman, his wife. The kids, their children. Three boys. Ages they could not remember. They had lost track of time.

I had lost a sense of security.

The older folk were talking. Trying to reconnect. My mom and grandma questioned my aunt, my grandma’s sister, about her location. What is this? When did you get here? Why are you here? My uncle’s wife tried to chime in. it’s not much, but it’s a home.

The men spoke about work. What type of work do you do, my dad asked. Well, the man replied, nothing. Every week, we rummage through the garbage that the city dumps to look for livable supplies.

And for food, my mom asked. Sometimes the University students come and drop stuff off.

“Tu eres del otro lado?” one of the kids asked me. I was unsure what side he was talking about. My oldest brother chimed in, “si vivimos en Los Angeles.” Those kids aspirations were to one day cross the border. They had heard so many stories. Met so many University students from “el otro lado.” They desired a better life. They were younger than me. And already knew of their own conditions.

Y los ninos no van a la escuela, my mom asked. The wife tried to answer, “pues si.”

Y tu vas a la escuela. I asked. Quasi no, the kid responded. Los otros ninos nos hacen burla. It did not surprise me that the other kids did make fun of them. To everyone else, they were invisible. Meant to stay in the garbage. My youngest brother had gone to the car and had taken out the toys he had brought and began to play with the younger two. The oldest kept asking me to translate for him. Y como se dice….

He knew he had to know English. Un dia voy a vivir en el otro lado.

My mom asked the kids to get in the car. We drove back to the City and found a market. She gave them each twenty dollars and told them to buy whatever they wanted. They began to cry. They wanted to save their money. Did not want to spend it. My mom told them to keep the money but to still get whatever they wanted from the market. They were humble. Did not ask for much. Very basic stuff. Groceries. They picked stuff essential for survival. My mom told them to not be shy and get what they wanted, I suggested chips and my youngest suggested some candy. They didn’t want to. So I took them with me and asked which ones were they favorite. I got them, put them in the cart and we continued through all the aisles.

Then we went to a restaurant and ate. They ate differently than we did. To them, it could be their last meal for the next couple of days. They savored it like there was no tomorrow.

We drove back to their place and unpacked all the groceries and supplies we had just bought. My grandma’s sister began to cry. Crying with tears I could not read.

When we left, my grandma promised her that she would take her back home to el rancho. When we got back to L.A my mom told my grandma that she would send money to get her aunt a plane ticket back to el rancho.

Months later, after 20 years, my grandmas sister went back home. She spent a couple of weeks there. Then she died. Died the happiest that she had ever seen her, my grandma said. She went back to pass to the other world in her home.

My cousins laughed when we would tell them the story of our family in Mexicali. They didn’t care. Didn’t seem to care. Ignorant. My uncles refused to go visit. For the next few years, my mom would go back and take lots of clothes, food, essentials back.

But for some reason we stopped going back. I asked about those little boys. What ever did happen to them. They must be teenagers now. I hope they’re still alive. I need to go back. They are family. They are me. In lak ech. You are my other me. 

I Guess I Never Left Mexico

I Guess I Never Left Mexico

When we left the airport in Cape Town, one of the White girls told her friend, “It smells like Mexico.” Her friend chuckled and asked, “I didn’t know Mexico had a scent.” The first girl replied, “Like street tacos,” her friend added “and like gas.”

What the fuck?

They succumbed a country with a powerful and complex history, a multitude of rich cultures, and a diverse group of people to street tacos and gas.

This is who I will be spending the first half of my summer with. Give me patience. I hate “educating” the educated. But it’s a burden people of color inherently have. 

South Afrika!

South Afrika!

We have official landed in South Afrika. I don’t know what to feel. Its late. Its like 6 p.m. here and only 9 a.m. at home. I want to dance. I need a drink. I’d like a hug. I would appreciate a bed to nap on.

We landed in Johannesburg, and now waiting for our FINAL plane to take us to Cape Town. This last plane ride should last two more hours. There is wireless access but I can’t access it, unless I pay for it. Sadly though, the UCLA financial aid office has not distributed my reimbursment so I can’t spend carelessly in another country as I would have done elsewhere.

As I was walking out of the long plane, it smelled like something I had smelled before. It reminded me of the scent when I landed in Mexico back when I was 7 years old. I am 21 now,  and still remember the scent. It reminded me of home.

Aztlan is in your heart. It’s wherever I go. I make Aztlan possible. My consciousness, my heart, desire, my love for mi Raza, la joteria, las mujeres, l@s estudiantes, el amor por mi papa y mama. Aztlan is within me, and I have brought it here to South Afrika.

Stephanie wants to go meander through the airport while we wait for our last flight. Lets see what we find. Hopefully I find a home so I can finally call my mom and tell her I am okay. I hope she’s worried for me. A part of me feels like she is, that’s why I have a strong desire to call her.

Oh one of the students just took out her book to read. I should get on that too while I can. But for now, let me appreciate this moment—now.

I have landed in the mother of all mothers

I have landed in the mother of all mothers

Though I am not “black” (in the traditional categorization type), nor can I trace my roots back to Africa…but it is still an important region of the world to study for its rich history of affluence, colonization, struggle, and resistance.

We have officially landed in Senegal. It is 11:12 p.m. in Los Angeles (my laptop has not changed times) but I believe its 6 a.m. here. We have a stop here before we reach South Africa.

Its dark so I can’t see much outside. But some workers from the airport here have come to the plane to “clean up.” It’s different – seeing black bodies working the jobs we ignore or take advantage of (like those cleaning). But I feel that this trip will imbed in me why we must work together—in solidarity. Our struggles, though miles apart with different colors, are similar, a struggle to live.

Oh capitalism. Whiteness. Heteronormativity. Etc. etc.

I don’t even want to continue reading “Gay Latino Studies: A Critical Reader.” I wish this were like a vacation trip, but I must remind myself that it isn’t. and I need to be even  more critical, but sensitive to different customs and cultures. Even my own theoretical understanding of patriarchy, etc. is still influenced by a Westernized/Colonizer’s framework. I have a lot of work left to do.

Which is why I have returned to the mother of all mothers. The creator of all. The beauty of life. Knowledge.

10 more hours till South Africa. Hopefully the privileged kids give us a preview of their concert! It could either alleviate my headache, or it could potentially make it worse.

Andy’s Woody is an Organizer

Andy’s Woody is an Organizer

I am not too sure how long this plane ride is going to be. I am scheduled to land in South Africa sometime Thursday evening. From my limited research and understanding, evening is morning in Los Angeles.

I’m a little frustrated/annoyed that South African Airlines does not have wireless/internet access. But I can’t be too picky, I suppose. I’ve watched a total of three movies: Toys Story 3, Coach Carter, and Dream Girls.

I thought I was going to freak the hell out because there was a couple with a small baby next to us. I was afraid the baby was going to be screaming and crying throughout the entire trip, but to my blessed surprise, I feel like I have been more annoying than the baby.

There is also a group of students from St. Mark Schools from Texas. From my stalking and eavesdropping skills, they are going on a Choir Tour throughout South Africa. Can someone talk about privilege? ‘Cuz I can, but I came here to learn….not necessarily argue with every person I know.

Which reminds me, as I was watching Toy Story 3….I realized something. Woody is a community organizer! He organized his friends in order to escape the evil wrath of the purple strawberry-smelling bear. Maybe we can learn something from Disney’s Pixar.

Something I also noted in Coach Carter is the demonization of the black woman. The movie was portraying the womyn as the reason why the men were not allowed to succeed. The character Ashanti was playing was preventing her boyfriend from going to college because she was determined on keeping the baby. The principal, with her deficit thinking, was also preventing the basketball players from attending higher education.

Finally, I don’t know what I was thinking while watching Dream Girls. My head was hurting, and I was just watching it to kill as much time as possible. Anyone want to inspire me and tell me something more enlighting about the movie. I want to read about it on Wikipedia but theres no access to the internet.

Last meal in the States

Last meal in the States

We landed safe in Washington D.C. I can already tell that I will be having cell-phone withdrawals. I keep telling myself that maybe I should have hid my own phone from my mom and brought it here. I would have been texting everyone, seeking for their attention and positive affirmation. Clearly, this is the trip that I needed then. 

The ride from LA to DC seemed extremely short for me. I was asleep through most of the ride, and the sleep continues to linger. All I want to do is lay on the floor and curl into a ball. I brought a tiny pillow with me, and its following me everywhere I go. I call it penis pillow, always have. It belongs to my mom. So sleeping on it, is like having my mom super close to me.

It’s weird thinking I am going to be so far away from home. During the summer of my 4^th grade going into 5^th, my parents thought it would be a good idea to spend it at my uncle’s in Ventura County. Although,  I knew that we would only be about and hour away—I cried as I  saw my mom go. I cried after she left, and during the night, and the following day at a party. I cried for my mom. Now, I’m going to be a hemisphere away – a couple thousand miles away, and yet I can still feel her warmth.

My mom told me to ask my grandpa daily for his protection. I don’t have to ask him because I know he is always there with me. But I can’t be that pretentious and pretend he always will be. Thus, to him, my mom and dad – this trip I dedicate.

I really like the DC airport. Its really nice, clean, quiet, and technologically savvy (well most airports are with the exception of LAX).

Steph and I decided that our last lunch in the states would be at the most authentic Mexican restaurant I know-- Chipotle. It was the best Chicken Salad from Chipotle that I have ever had. It could rightfully be because I was starving, or simply because it really was that good. But I doubted.

Six weeks out of Los Angeles, I had to end right with my Mexican comida.

Next time I write this, I’ll be on the plane en route to Africa!

I asked her for a medium and she gave me a large.

I asked her for a medium and she gave me a large.

So our trip has officially begun. It is 5:20 a.m. I am patiently (read: impatiently) waiting to board our first plane to Washington D.C.

So far, there have been countless events or thoughts that I have wanted to tweet about, and even though I am still in the United States and will be in the country for another 12 hours – my mom already has my phone.

I really do hope no one tries to get me in trouble with my phone. But with 20+ likes on my status, I am not too sure how to feel or what to think about that.

My journey has been fun thus far. I had to fight my queer Chicano consciousness as I succumbed my desires for some McDonalds breakfast. Unfortunately, our attempts were futile as all the McDonalds we tried to go were either close or did not serve breakfast. Now I am stuck drinking a Starbucks drink.

Have you all seen those ridiculous x-ray machines? They are insane. Not only are they invading my privacy (whatever is left of it, at least), but its annoying. The lines were longer and they were slower, and they make u stand in an awkward position for ten seconds....followed by another awkward ten second position. Its like the government is trying to police and patrol our bodies, and we allow them to do so without much regard. I am not too sure what this country’s path is in terms of regulating and protecting us from these so-called terrorists. But if violating my privacy and civil liberties is not terrorist-like, I am not too sure what might be.

Anyways, I am not too sure how my parents felt about me leaving. My mom helped me pack and was telling me all these secrets about traveling. She’s not even the traveler and yet knows so much. I guess being a paranoid Chicana/Mexicana/Latina mother works. She also gave me a kiss and some gum “para los nervios.”

I am officially falling asleep in the waiting/lobby area. Im going to  conclude this by telling you all of the Starbucks story.

So Starbucks had just opened, the line is super long, and all the people were being super rude and grouchy with the two workers. They were Latinas and spoke Spanish to each other, to themselves they spoke in their native tongue. It was clearly their comfort. To be able to communicate with themselves without intrusion. And so I did, spoke to her in my most courteous Spanish.  She responded with such a bright and beautiful personality. Somehow, our spirits connected. I knew her, and she knew me. We didn’t have to exchange many words but I knew I could count on her.

I asked her for a Venti Passion Tea Lemonade. Later, I realized she charged me for a grande. I knew she liked me. And this is to a great start in this marvelous trip! 

summer 2011 reading list

Several of you have asked me to produce for all of you a reading list for this summer. While I am inclined to give you all the titles of my favorite books, journals, thought provoking words -- I refuse to do it. It's not because I am selfish and want to keep all knowledge to myself. But because I want to challenge all of you to start questioning yourselfs.

What is it that YOU need in your life? What are some of the avenues in which you can find that?

During the early days of coming out beautiful struggle -- I yearned to read about someone that could resemble my desires. My dislike for myself, the hatred I had for my family, the jealousy that ran through my body as I saw openly queer students. I needed someone to tell me that I was going to be okay.
I just needed to hear. But I could not speak to anyone about it. No. If i opened my mouth to someone, then everyone would find out. At my old high school, everything got around--and fast.

It was then when I ran into "The Geography Club." I went to the library and with all the strength in the word I typed: gay. An array of texts appeared on the screen. I was scared, my heart was beating like it had never done before. Were my actions legal? Could I get in trouble? What if people walking behind me saw what I had just typed?

I narrowed down my selection to teen fiction--and found The Geography Club. It was the perfect club. There was nothing "gay" about "The Geography Club." Took that book home and read it in three days. And I would do the same every week for the remaining of my high school career.

And that is what I want all of you to experience. You searching for yourself. The experience is that much beautiful. You wont regret it.

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you." -- Maya Angelou.

I want to hear that story when I return.

2010 recap (Dec 2010)

What does "my body, my choice" mean when I live in fear of my own body? When I am afraid of the stretch marks that decorate  my belly; when I fear the mole adorned on my face; when the hairy back i inherited from my colonizing ancestors agitates me. What type of choices am I left, when I fear my own body. 2010 marks the beginning of a new chapter in my life, a phase in which I was able to emancipate myself from thoughts that bonded me for what I was beginning to believe would be forever.

Learning to appreciate MY voice has been one of the most difficult tasks I have embarked on. It is the same gay voice I was teased for when I was younger. The same gay voice that crumbled my mother when I told her I was a fucking fag. The same gay voice that screamed as loud as possible after being shoved across the hall in school. The same gay voice that demanded I be treated with dignity and respect. The same gay voice I am beginning to reclaim.

I have always been afraid of myself. Afraid of my full potential. Never knew what it mean to be me. I've been forced to live in a world that denies my existence as a joto, yet coheres my brown body to be the object of sexual desire to fulfill White men's colonial fantasies. I have always been afraid of my thoughts. Afraid because I had trouble annunciating my opinions in the English language. I've been forced to silence my queer thoughts for they said made no sense. I have always been afraid of my family. Afraid because "coming out," meant taking the risk of loosing the only people who have always genuinely cared for me. I have always been afraid of loving. Afraid of loving because I have been broken; broken by friends, family, institutions, broken by love itself. I have always been afraid of crying, because that's all I ever did. I cried because it was the easiest option. Taking my life would mean I had to inflict pain on myself. I have always been afraid of pain. I've been beaten up before, not by my parents, but beaten up before--I know of pain.

But this year, 2010, has shown me the most important thing--that my life, the life I live every day, is of importance, if not to many, to myself. Leaving the person I love[d], has taught me that my life has value on its own. Looking back at this year, I am grateful for everything, in particular for every tear I cried.

I remember the first day of 2010. My mother's 49th birthday. I left my mom to save what was then the most important relationship in my life. I spent the first day of the year crying, asking for forgiveness. I had once again hurt the person who I thought cared about me the most. I promised loyalty and honesty.

The year continued as I found myself a new academic/scholar/researcher identity. Brown, academic, queer, public intellectual, Chicano researcher, faggot, scholar, wetback, nerd. Identities I was forced to jerk around with. I found pleasure in being labeled something I never imagined. But took harsh criticism from many closed friends and loved ones. "Traitor." Fuck you! Stop demanding access to the institution and its resources, yet you refuse to let me take advantage of the them.  I carry the traitor burden of jotos from the past. Cocksucker, white-lover, traitor, malinche, joto, chingado, mal cojido, del otro lado. Si, soy del otro lado, pero tambien del lado tuyo. Being called a traitor, a teacher's pet, a kiss-ass is nothing new. I've been forced to survive, by any means necessary. This is my life as a queer person of color. You wouldn't know, you benefit from your fucking straight-privilege. I was criticized because I apparently did not share the resources to those unable to gain access to this type of information. I offered my help, you ignored my call. "Elitist." If trying to make the world a better place for myself, my family, my community, for you, makes me an elitist, then what are you? Selfish? Brown on Brown violence. You are doing the colonizers job. Whose the fucking traitor now? 

The academic year ended to what I realized I was surrounded by too much of campus politics hypocrisy. My potential was not deemed worth by a few. While they say I remain upset over the results, I am satisfied that life played with my cards the way it did. I learned from my mistakes, grew from that experience, and have found a better understanding and a more clear appreciation for what is organizing on campus. It is something I constantly wonder. Had things turned out the same had what we originally envisioned came true? I will never know. But I am relieved for what is now. I have found a purpose in my current position as a queer student of color, mentor, friend, supervisor, roommate, jerk-off buddy, brother, fuck buddy, and privileged Honors student. Don't take this the wrong way, but next year I promise to challenge you, make you feel more uncomfortable. I yearn to make YOU grow. I yield for YOUR best. But don't get this confused--this is not about me, nor should it be about YOU or YOUR future. This is about OUR communities, families, brothers/sisters/cousins/comrades, nuestro futuro. I want to use my body, my thoughts, my voice -- to make your body, your thoughts, your voice, wider, stronger, louder.

This year, I had the opportunity to travel across the country. I was in Washington D.C. followed by a few days in New York. I went with the person I thought I would be with forever. I held his hand across Manhattan, cuddled with during the cold nights in New York, and held tight in our small hotel room. I went to Oregon with the love that will never leave me--my passion for a libre joteria. And I went to Cabo San Lucas to find the love that I have been missing the most, the love of myself.

Tonantzin, Guadalupe, Virgencita, abuelito, guide my words carefully. Coyolxauhqui, I see your broken body and I feel you guiding me as I piece my own life together. Patriarchy shattered you into pieces. Pain, fueled by the same force, demolished me into fractions of a broken-hearted joto.

After what seemed to have the worst moment in my  entire life--caught in the middle of lies, betrayal, hate, alcohol, cheating, love, broken promises, nervous breakdowns, I had to flee from the core of it. I left the United States and found myself in a country that was once mine, but I could no longer relate to. The natives knew I was a visitor, the White tourists thought I was for their pleasure. I went with one purpose--to find myself again. I lost myself in that relationship. I thought I knew who I was. But i was misguided for what I became to believe was love. A bitter resentful type of love that had me chasing an uncertain future filled with a dark past. I lost myself because I cheated on myself. Compromised who I was, swallowed my ideologies, lost MY BODY, MY CHOICE! I was no longer myself. But I could not see that until much later, until fleeing that phase in my life. Today, I look back. Grateful for everything he gave me, everything he took, and everything I lost. Thankful because that relationship taught me the most beautiful lessons, I learned how to love. Forever in debt because that relationship taught me how to be myself. That relationship, although not completely, helped lift the chains that held me back to reach my full potential. I did not leave jaded, worried that I would never love again.

On the contrary, I await 2011 with open arms because I know love is here. The events following the closure of that chapter in my life helped me realize who my true friends are, it brought to the limelight who really have my bests interest. It was unfortunate, but I realize that my true friends would be willing to share, help me ameliorate, that onus in my life. They know who they are. There is no need to publicly thank them. I do not think I can thank you enough because you all helped me come out, again. Come out a strong, beautiful joto.

It is this new joto that I take with me to 2011.

I know some of you will ask why I wrote this, perchance you will be disappointed in my decision to do so, but as Audre Lorde said, "I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood." I have found the voice I was looking for, it is time I use it to share my story with you.

I've recently met some amazing people that I grow more and more impatient every day to get to know better.  <3 This new future will bring us closer.

2011 is also the last year of my undergraduate career. I remain in such a nepantla stage unknowing of what the future will bring. I have no clue where I will be in 6 months. But I am thrilled to find out what life has for me next.

Creator, you will always be with me. Abuelito, angelito de mi guardia, I know that whereever I end up, you will protect me. Thank you for the beautiful 2010 blessings. I await for the 2011 changes, challenges, successes, and soon to be amazing memories. A toast to you all.  

confessions (Feb 14, 2011)

The following is a collection of thoughts, words, passages that I have been gathering in my head and in my heart. They're not meant for anyone in specific, rather the beginning of a dialogue meant for healing. Its a process, but telling you how i feel now is one of the first steps:

I have been wanting to write this for a very long. The thoughts yearn to get out of my head, into words. And what better day to talk about love, life, desire, and pain than the commercialized appropriated day dedicated to a White Supremacist Capitalist Patriarchal notions of love.

Today I was reading another article about the consumption of the brown body by the gay cosmopolitan [read West Hollywood]. As many of you know (and if you don’t, you will right now), I am doing research on the physical, sexual relationships between White folk and Brown men.

Reading articles about the sexual/physical desires of Brown bodies as a manifestation of a neo-liberal manifestations of colonization. Yet, I ask myself: what does this have to do with me?

I am not that type of Chicano. I am not the type that people break necks for. I am not that type whose brown skins is salivated by Whites and other men. I am not the one people fight for.

I am the fat type. The chubby kind. The one that people reject in the dance floor. The one that drinks to forget that no one will look at him at the club. The one that cannot relate to any of the movies, because I am not that Chicano.

I am not the Chicano with a six pack, I am not the Chicano with bronze skin, I am not the Chicano who can speak a la Rico Suave.

Don’t tell me my body is in danger of consumption. The only thing my body is in danger of is no longer existing because to many I already don’t.

You would not understand what it means to be like this. Sure, I have options. Sure I could succumb to running. Sure I can succumb to eating better. But see what I have to go through to get your attention. To get mere recognition.

So I can be that Chicano.

I love my brown queer brothers, but y’all just don’t understand. You probably never will. Because for you, desire is different. I have to fight to be seen. I have to work twice as hard to have a better personality. Because my looks are not enough, they never will.

Yeah, whatever: looks don’t mean shit. But they fucking do. You can say that because you get the “oh you’re cute” compliments that my heavy tummy prevents me form receiving.

I’m tired of seeing all these eroticized cholos, the pretty boys, the athletes in the media. I’m tired of both White men and Brown men too, trying to seduce/captivate/fall in love with one of them. What about me? What about the big boys like me? Do you even know we exist?

Love to me means trying to love myself because no one else will. Love to me means trying to heal from a process of brokenness. Love to me means trying to love the fat body that drags me down. But its not a drag that I can’t embrace, rather a drag that makes me bigger and therefore better than you.

I have feelings too! I want to love, talk, seduce, flirt, dance, drink, play, fuck, suck you too! Talk about marginalizing. Because when you talk about a queer Brown type of love, you’re not talking about the big guys like me. You’re talking about the ones that need the most resistance: the ones that need to learn to dodge colonization form White men.

Y a mi, que? Que me valla a la chinguada!  Go loose some weight, then we can talk about love and being in love.

Fuck off! You will never understand.

Words (Feb 24, 2011)

Break me in half, for I am already torn. Cut me into pieces, for I am already dead. Floating on the rivers of your imaginary dreaming, passions. Free me of my desire to love, and be loved. For this pain, this aching thorn in my chest, is suffocating my will to grow. Throw me around, like a dirty ball found on the corner block covered in oil from the junkyard cars down the street. Bury me in the sand, on the soil, concealed in fake grass like that mask you wear. Torture me with that smile. I try, and I trust that I will. Burning in the bluest of skies. Flying through the ocean green. Like I am no longer here. But I am still standing, tasting the cum you left for me to savor. Bent over like a rag animal. Fucking till I bleed.  Growling noises in my head. My ears ready to pop like the cherry I once had. Virtue gone, left in dark hotel rooms. I don’t remember what I did. I vaguely recognize his face. Tender kisses around my neck. Scratches through my back. Fingers in my anus. Stretching that yearning. Pounding against the wall, pushing the air mattress across. Fuck me like you love me. Unreal craving for my sex. Shooting bullets through the petals of my imaginary black rose. Slaughter me with your words.  

survival (March 30, 2011)

I write to survive. I organize to live. I live for liberation. My essence of existing is one marked by my intersecting, frequently clashing and always changing identities: poor, Brown, queer, middle-class, fat, immigrant, male, versatile bottom, student, lover, friend, son, fuck buddy, etc. etc. When I write, I have an audience in mind. He is always Brown, and more than likely queer. He cries himself to sleep and prays to la Virgencita to make him normal, to rid him of those impure thoughts that haunt him in his sleep. He rides the bus from East L.A to visit the the older man he met online that has promised him a couple of bucks after they fuck. I write with the joto that didn't make it in mind. The one who took his own life because he could no longer tolerate the pain he felt inside after getting rejected from his parents. The one who could not find shelter in his own home after getting his ass beat at school. 

I write with that Chicanito in mind.

When I organize, I organize from a queer person of color standpoint. Never willing to compromise any of my identities, communities, values. I organize around a vision of liberation that does not exclude, but instead encourages all forms of identities and expression to be free. I organize to help the queer youth in East LA find a voice to speak out against his teacher for not protecting him from "thats so gay" slurs. I organize to find avenues of empowerment to queer youth to carry a campaign to educate his school about intersecting hate crimes. I organize so that queer youth can have access to relevant cultural education, so he can see himself in the curriculum and be able to relate to historical figures and events. I organize around a holistic sexual paradigm so that queer youth can have access to resources that will benefit their sexual desires and medical needs. 

I organize with that Chicanito in mind.

I live to see these Chicanos alive. 

Because no matter how much I have been told that my queer work is irrelevant to the greater Chicano community, I am reminded of that Chicano that hated himself because of his skin color, his sexual frustrations. I am reminded of the Chicano that is at a higher risk for HIV/AIDS. I am reminded of the Chicano that wanted to commit suicide when he was young. I am reminded of myself. 

I write, organize, breathe to see myself alive. My life is not up for debate.