The sky felt pitch black

Against the light of the stars

Glimmering out from our torches.

Father in the lead, we ran through the fields

Anxious enough to explore the night.

That grassy bouquet would fill our noses

As the tufts brushed against

Our barren skin.

Shining our stars in every direction

Praying for safety on our trek up the hill.

Grandma’s house could just barely be seen

Atop the slope, in the blackness of night.

“Shut off the flashlights,” my father requested.

“I’m sure that the sky

Will lend us its light.”

A leap of faith and a dousing of torches

A moment of dark, a tremor inside.

But extinguishing what light we had

Helped the universe

Shine brighter above.

It was there that I learned not to fear the dark

And to not cling to my flashlight so tight.

For though you may not know it,

But in the dark on the hill

Is where the world hides its most glorious light.

My hair has never been naturally straight.

Blond and down my back like most of my classmates.

I had curves by the time I was in 5th grade.

I was pleasing to look at but none of the boys ever asked me to play.

I just wasn’t good enough that way.

Most definitely took a toll on my self-esteem growing up.

Let’s be real every little girl wants to be liked back by their crush.

Experience puppy love and be asked to the winter dance.

All eyes were only on me when reading a small chapter in history books about Martin Luther King and Harriet Tubman.

Like I must have known them personally.

Or maybe they were related to me?

The only thing I learned in school about black history was slavery.

And on the 1st of February the principal read the I Have A Dream speech.

But who really listens to the morning announcements anyways?

I felt like the elephant in the room on those days.

Just by hearing my classmates last names you can tell who was Polish and who was of German descent.

Mine had no significance.

But because I’m dark I must have come from Africa.

No greater sense of self pride and culture.

So I went after theirs.

Thinking I would be accepted with Abercrombie jeans and straighter hair.

Of course that didn’t make me happy because I hated who I was inside.

I still wasn’t asked to slow dance at night.

And when I went back to my neighborhood I was exiled for being too proper and dressing too white.

Whatever that meant it kept me up at night.

I didn’t fit in here or there.

I was not comfortable in my skin anywhere.

So where does a young girl go from here?

She leads a life of confusion until she can struggle through life by figuring out who she is by trial and error.

Eventually learning that some people will accept you never.

That your worth is so much more than a boy kissing you and asking you to a dance.

Learning to appreciate the hue of her skin.

And the natural kinky curl of her hair.

Realizing that all are created different.

So there is no point in trying to fit in becaus

Somos quienes vuelan hacia sueños.

Somos los que saltan muros, cual dedo que salta en las teclas de un piano.

Somos quienes cruzan mares con anhelos de alargar la vida o hallar muerte digna.

Somos quienes huyen de las balas y del hambre.

Somos los que se desprenden de hermanos, abuelos, amigos.

Somos los idiomas que hablamos y el silencio que todos callamos.

Somos nómadas que obligan a sus hijos a ser viajeros.

Somos extras en una película de terror en la que rara vez sobrevivimos las peligrosas hazañas.

Somos el alimento que el paladar mundial disfruta.

Somos los que comen en el suelo, los que comen con palillos, los que comen con las manos, con cuchillos y tenedores.

Somos la música del laúd, del acordeón, del sitar, del charango, de la marimba, del bombo.

Somos pies descalzos, somos manos sucias, somos peculiares vestiduras.

Somos barbas abundantes, somos ojos rasgados, somos sonrisas blancas, somos manos coloridas.

Somos humildad, somos temor, somos amor, somos animosidad, somos perdón, somos olvido, somos cautela, somos duda, somos confianza, somos lealtad, somos melancolía, somos desprecio, somos alegría.

Somos del mundo, somos de lugares, somos de donde nacimos y somos de donde vivimos.

Somos la familia del mundo, aunque el mundo no nos vea como su familia.

————————————————————————————————————–

WE ARE THE MIGRANTS

 

 

We are the ones who fly towards dreams.

We are the ones who jump walls, as a finger jumping between piano keys.

We are the ones who cross seas hoping to extend our lives or find a dignified death.

We are the ones who run from bullets and hunger.

We are the ones who break away from brothers, grandparents, friends.

We are the languages we speak and the silent silence.

We are nomads who force their children to be travelers.

We are extras in a horror movie in which we rarely survive such dangerous exploits.

We are the food the global palate enjoys.

We are the ones who eat in the ground, the ones who eat with chopsticks, the ones who eat with their bare hands, with knives and forks.

We are the music of the lute, accordion, sitar, charango, marimba, bass drum.

We are bare feet, we are dirty hands, we are peculiar clothing.

We are long beards, we are slanted eyes, we are white smiles, we are colourful hands.

We are humble, we are fear, we are love, we are animosity, we are forgiveness, we are oblivion, we are carefulness, we are doubt, we are trust, we are loyalty, we are melancholy, we are contempt, we are joy.

We are from the world, we are from places, we are from where we were born and from where we live.

We are the world’s family, although the world doesn’t see us as such.

HAMSEL J. LÓPEZ FRANCO.

You are men of color

So, stand up

Understand from which you came

There is no shame

You are the sons of kings

Can’t you see?

Show your pride

Just don’t lay down and die

For your destiny lays in your own hands

For I cannot make you a man

Stop letting society define who and what you are,

Define yourself and self-worth

Stop waiting for change to come

Stand up and make a change.

It’s the only way into heaven

But no one understands

I have been baptized

By desire

By passion

By confusion

By depression

By questions

By tears

I have been baptized

If I’m not one of the chosen few

I’d rather not be called

So I’ve laid in beds – gasping for air

It’s a sin, but I don’t care

The danger is not sin

But what you become after it

So why must you want me to repent

when I haven’t done anything yet?

Am I not the same person I was yesterday?

Or the day before?

Or the year before?

The called one – still unchosen

I

Here among thorns I sleep

The pain is almost unbearably relentless

It keeps me shuddering; how can I rest?

But the loss of blood makes me weak

I dream about celestial grounds

Golden roads, crystal seas

My immortal body drifting upon absolution

But the pain in the awakening returns the oblivion

II

I make love to shadows:

Imagination, a murderous whore

Leaves her mark on my judgments

I loved every skin and bodily fortress

Keep my trust and I’ll forfeit my love

I know it is not reality – it is only imagination

But the pain in solitude forces me to the darkness

The darkness that follows;

The convenient shadow of oblivion

III

Dust falls from the ceiling as I contemplate

(No time to worry)

I must find my mind;

My mind that I seem to have lost

I don’t remember when but I remember where

In Barcelona; in your bed; gasping for air

They say it’s a sin – but I don’t care

I’ll find you again;

An encounter that must leave us bare

Sin and oblivion: that is the cost

IV

Who is to blame for the solitude?

Who is to blame for the solstice?

Is it I of little faith; is it I of earthly skin?

Is it the God in Heaven?

Is it the invisible principalities?

Who is to say?

I cannot remember

V

The beauty of ignorance

The peace of blindness

The splendor of oblivion

A world of autonomy

I may not remember much

But, I know that I loved him

I know that I loved

I just cannot remember the sensation

VI

Are we souls; Are we bodies?

Are we alive; Are we phantoms?

Are we forgetful; Are we deceitful?

Are we demons; Are we lovers?

Let us not waste more time asking

Let us just answer every question with “Yes.”

Let me go back to sleep among the thorns…

…to forget again

…to forget again

Pick up your sword
Dear child of this forsaken society
Fight. *Tatakae
You are no object
You are no symbol
You are no slave
Dear little girl of this wretched society
Stand with your sword
Defend yourself!
You shall not allow men to have their way
Body of intelligence
Core of philosophy
Embodiment of spirit energy
That is who you are
This is your true self
You shall not bow down to evil men
Rise with your sword
You shall not be a plaything
Get ready to strike
You shall not be told how to live
Blade at the ready
Dash towards your opponent with complete confidence!
Do not wavier as you cut away at him
Cut away the unethical clothes
Cut away the overpriced make-up
Cut away the subordination
Cut away at the gender roles of this society
Keep fighting!
You must win against the stereotypes

*Tatakae means ‘fight’ in Japanese

10) She is fifteen, and pregnant
9) She stabs a woman ten times – a butcher’s knife – self defense
8) No one knows of the rape – thirteen
7) His heart stops beating inside of her; it’s been 36 weeks
6) He lives – a star student, a light for her, the one
5) Only nine and he writes well, others say, but he writes because it feels right
4) No one knows of hands tussling between his thighs – momma – thirteen
3) Suicide sits silently – two a.m., in the cabinet, on the bed, on the shelf, in the mirror
2) It’s a bit darker than they thought – darkness covers them, hides them – two faces, four eyes
1) The light – the one, true light – breaks through the darkness as it always seems to do
0) They implode, the two of them – they become their full selves – they become all they were meant to be