Gabbin'

I wrote a poem, be easy on me, it was the first in a long time

There was one time

I remember you tucking me in

to my bed, my fort

I protected with a sword

a wand,

a cheap, 

gold painted, 

plated alloy

letter opener with a pineapple handle

in it’s pillowcase holster

No one told me that dragons had two faces

one that breathed a fiery roar

that shook the safety from my body,

and one that tried to protect her hungry babies

from a world that wanted her body slayed 

or imprisoned, 

maybe both, when you have an accent. 

That night you came back to the world

a mother, letting your past sleep-

a stone cold survivor, 

somewhere deep in your body,

in a lair that released it’s demons

with the simplest trigger-

You were back, 

that’s all that mattered

You told me in Tacajo,-

the Cuban town where you were born,

near a peanut patch-

when a tornado was coming 

women would assemble in a circle on the town square,

bearing their sharpest scissors and strongest wills,

thrusting their arms into the grey skies

to snip the tail off of the coming tornado,

to protect their families, their farms.  

You left because of the revolution.  

Drinking PBR at the Petaluma railroad tracks

My hair a mess of blue dye and 

straightening chemicals, teasing out 

my culture, my queerness

with other teens, half-witches,

half-dragons, 

deviants,

with spikes along their black jean jackets,

extinguished flames in their hearts,

the loudest roars were sirens

flashing red and blue, 

making me disengage from yr lips,

yr warmth,

we run, Queer ladiys, witches hidden from 

plain sight, pretending to like boys 

that I was promised to as a fuck, 

for some beer

on a friday night

The town smelled like chicken shit.

It could burn quick if we were found out.  

Those nights were interrupted

by artists, 

knights, 

white, 

straight

men

that promised to save me from dragons,

from natural disasters. 

Men who bridged a connection

between me and my family

and ensured those bridges were built

over the outspoken, Queer Cuban@ inside me.

Witches were hip, an accessory. 

Their armor was cold and their stories

mediocre, 

they didn’t care for stories.

Witches survive because they share stories. 

Those men controlled my body

and the weather.

I never knew the tornado had to be cut

before it even reached town-

Now I see them coming from a mile away,

scissors in hand

fingers poised

surrounded by wild dragons,

magical healers,

survivors, queers

reworking their gifts, their pasts

so they only breathe flames into 

campfires and songs, 

and candle lit talks

with their scaly reflections

and bright, deep eyes

rekindling the fire in my heart.  

Values

I recently realized that after a very intense couple years in my life, and coming to know myself and the way I am reacting to my past, I have lost sight of my values and personality.

While doing all of this “self-work,” as I would describe it to clients I advocate for, I’ve been focusing on such a narrow part of myself I’m not even sure what makes me tick anymore.

How do I feel about being polyamorous?  Do I expect communication, but little restriction in my relationships? Are my really intense urges to create more connections with people because I want more partners, or partners that feel more like a big family?  

I feel out of touch with my past commitments to sustainability.  How can I lead a comfortable and healthy life while honoring my beliefs about the impact I have on the land I’m occupying?  I’m living in a city that is really spread out, while not making any use of the land I’m sitting on- my past self would hate me.  Should I move to a bigger city or pick up farming again?  

Is money and stability more important to me than my ethics and ideas around how a workplace should operate?  Should I continue absorbing vicarious trauma in order to earn a small paycheck?  Could I settle with losing a “meaningful job,” and work at a small retail store in order to gain some peace of mind?  

The past few years I’ve gone from feeling forced into a femme box by my abusive partner to almost starting testosterone to this current wavering place of I appreciate my body when its modestly covered, but feel resistance to my need to speak out against the shit I was told to be quiet about most of my life, with people telling me I’m negative or unattractive when I say what’s on my mind.  The only difference between doing it now, and doing it when I was younger is that I don’t care about their reactions anymore- but this also changes other people’s perceptions of my gender.  Essentially, do I just keep letting what happens, happen?  Or do I force myself to think about it more?

I’ve slowly but surely separated myself from my biological family.  This was not only a big loss because I lost a large part of my history and my family’s history,  but I lost my connection to my culture.  I have traditions without the people to practice them with.  I have a culture and history that displaced my family, and have experienced their feelings around that, but no one to process it with.  And they don’t want me around. I make them uncomfortable. I’m queer and that just doesn’t work for them.  How do I regain that culture, outside of my own dietary habits, holiday observances, and in general feeling out of touch with the people around me?  How do I deal with the feelings they never dealt with but put on me?  

These are a lot of things I hope I can give some time over the next part of my life. As much as I want to resist change right now, I hope I can make some that will make me more comfortable in the end.