1. |
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i am starting to think it is enough just to exist
now tell me if this makes sense to you
your body is a narrative
it does not start when you are born
it’s always and always and always
when my mother is beating the shit out of an 8th grader for picking on her little sister
i say to her, “mom, you were a bully?”
she says to me something about how she had to be
in spanish, she says something about survival
then a couple years later and a couple thousand miles away
my father is enlisting in the colombian military
the girl who sells arepas down the street claims my father is the father
to which he denies and i don’t hear that story ‘til 30 years later
but that’s my brother
that’s my son
that’s my alternate universe
why?
because my actual cousin in medellin, colombia is a bisexual
and what does that mean?
it means i would be a faggot no matter where i was born
it is there i hear simón bolívar say my name,
he says jorge
and it is hot
it is romantic
it is empowering
and it’s like, problematic
in a coffee shop in st. louis, missouri
a white queer woman is commending me on the way i weaponize my mother’s trauma
the part of me that is a funny poet wants to be like,
honey, i am not weaponizing,
i am survived by my mother’s trauma
then there is the part of me that is a decent human being
wanting to call me out on what i am doing
this is called exploitation
it is there i hear simón bolívar say my name again,
except this time it’s by my middle name,
ivan,
but there’s a differing resonance so it sounds more like “ivan”
and I think to myself- weaponize trauma?
my skin is white!
i inhabit the colonized body while wearing the colonizer’s face
it’s like a peace sign,
or a white flag,
or a white fag
i’m a white-
bisexual
bitching and moaning about my problems
invading spaces not meant for me then opening up a dialogue about it
virgos,
we hate to be the center of attention
but men,
they love that
and i am a man, or i am socialized as one,
or something and something and always intertwined into amalgamated histories
but it’s modern society
it’s the person i want to be when it’s “jorge”, or “ivan”, or “EYE-VAN”, or “ivy”
it’s there i hear oscar wilde scream
he is screaming behind the jail cell bars he met with
at the intersection of his destiny and his desire
he is screaming something about how maybe we can all be beings of multiplicities
it is then i want to say to him in reply
it is then that i want to scream
then maybe, we can all be latinos
maybe, we can all be faggots too
and maybe, there is potential for love outside of trauma
outside of the burdened weight of our parents’ debts
maybe there is potential for love in the queer body and maybe we are more like souls
we are airy beings with ethereal names
floating and crashing into one another
developing a new language for compassion as we hurt each other
but my discourse is shaped like a halo
it’s maybe angelic in its delivery
but it is circular nonetheless
perhaps ending right where it begins
because if all i have to offer you is my own singular, individualistic, self-serving confusion
then i wonder in what ways this would make sense to you
your body is a narrative
now tell me if this makes sense to you
i am starting to think it is enough just to exist
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2. |
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i am learning what it is to navigate an intricacy
color lines and boundaries
everything my mother says to not put on the internet is on the internet, unfortunately
i log onto Twitter sometimes and see my ex-best friend at the top of my newsfeed
she has one tweet that reads, “being transgender is knowing you’ll always be your father’s son and being ok with that”
i read this during the year i plan to move to philadelphia,
out of my parents’ house to answer the gendered question
my little cousin leaves a note on my bed that reads “jorgito please don’t go”
and i don’t go
i remain my father’s son, making peace with the terms I am still learning to accept
except,
one september night I run away from home,
asking my parents, “where did we go wrong?”
and i think it’s more like a question for myself, because,
what is the weight of diaspora to the generation who never experiences immigration?
is it heavy metal rock hands in a foreign country?
because if so, fuck yeah baby, I’m in it!
or is it honeycombs and birthing hips,
the look on my lover’s face at the point of conception?
we pause for a moment to consider the consequence,
then let it settle in.
settling down with our intergenerational paycheck
pouring limonadas for our little gringitos
as we play house in florida
it is a place we can learn to forget and then let it settle in,
then let it settle in,
then let it settle in.
it is not so much a nothing as it is a something,
crying over a podcast where a child picks their gender
you begin to wonder how many lifetimes you’re going to spend
crying over something as stupid as a gender
your parents speak the gendered language but refuse the gendered child
your white friends talk to their parents about a thing like fucking
you’re your white friend’s best white friend yet you don’t know how to talk about anything
I wanna be a philadelphia transvestite who talks about everything
a cool riot grrrl who rolls her r’s extra long so you know where the fuck she came from
the rage of menstruation flowing inside me without ever knowing the trauma
in culture of silence,
what is trauma to the mother of a child who has come out broken?
how embarrassing must it be to invest so much of yourself into someone
only to find out they have come out broken,
then let it settle in.
They don’t tell you to think,
because you shouldn’t have to
They don’t tell you to think,
because that is your privilege
They don’t tell you to think,
because they just had to deal with it
They don’t tell you to think,
because there is still work to be done.
i fall in love with old latina women at the gym
who only understand the body as a form of currency
they know they ain’t shit and i hope to grow up pretty like them
as i chip away at the gendered question,
my hands become calloused
resembling more like my father’s hands
he is a mechanic, and a karaoke singer
and i,
i am someone who wants to talk about everything
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3. |
ivy 2
02:12
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what are the things telling you you’re undeserving of love?
a gas leak into a water vein
from a bird’s eye view
the cracks in the foundation resemble electricity lines
they are roads less taken
they lead to rows of suburban homes
where there are televisions turned on,
but dead flowers in the vase
there is the joyful laughter maintained by the language of your parents’ patria,
but there are dead flowers in the vase
there is a network of cisgender boys and girls who take up space at family functions,
but there are dead flowers in the vase
there are the days i wake up without my other name
but still i want to taste her
i am mute amongst the growth of flowers
i grow titties without estrogen so i can look at my mother in the eyes again
there is no happiness without consequence
there is no cause without a sword
i will remember you amongst the ivy
there are parts of myself buried deep within me
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Fear Not Ourselves Alone Queens, New York
The last punk band from Queens, New York.
Fear Not Ourselves Alone recommends:
welcoming / burial
by sana sana
everything you see in yourself, reflected and distorted
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Where We've Always Been
by Career Day
staring out the window of the car, thinking about how the world could be different
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Intake Occupation
by Ultra Deluxe
address the tension, headfirst into action
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This post-punk Philadelphia duo tackle gender dysphoria, transitioning, and anxiety on their debut album.
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Liminal Fields
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Hypnotic and texturally dense post-punk wound around elemental grooves from Vulture Feather, featuring members of Wilderness.
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