stairs because ididnt actually learn how to ride a bike until i was 20 because i w as scared because someone tried to teac h me and accidentally ste ere d me into a parked truck because i never trusted adults because i was fucked with because i didnt have sex until i was 22 because i was a late bloomer because i was scared because i could do things that repressed myself easier because i was smoking cigarettes at 10, smoking weed at eleven and doing acid at 13 trying desperately to beat up girls with my friends but instead always picked up their shit for them after my friends hit them and told them to get out of here quick so they wouldnt get hit anymore because i always managed somehow to not get beat up even when i was threatened by nicole who had a reputation for beating girls with a chain and then taking all their clothes leaving them naked and this shit terrified me not because of the chain but because of the taking of the clothes cos i had body image issues from all the boys i grew up with telling me shit that doesnt mean shit to me now except as faded history for what i fight for now because i dont want to hear a man or a woman say anything fucked about someoneâs body ever again because fat isnt condemable and i dont care about your standards because im tired of remembering my mom and aunt in front of the mirror scrutinizing their bodies not realizing the young sponge sitting on the bed watching. im queer, because im not gonna assimilate because im not worried about gender lines because i believe in counter culture and new ideas of whats hot because most of us are survivors and need to find safe spaces to heal because were still scared and were f i e r ce and we l o se our shit and find it and keep m oving forward because we have to.
89
We have the right to explore this world without your filters
To smell incense burning in a den that exists
Light years from your mess hall
This world belongs to no one and to everyone
We are not a calculation
Our dreams are more real and more profound than your masks
We have the right to be citizens of unknown territories
To be tourists inside our own hearts
For love needs no visa
For laughter requires no proof of identification
Our agendas are blind finger paintings
Our movements coax stars to align
We are random and illimitable
Like the song of the coqui in the rainforest
That is our childhood and our retirement
We have the right to make and unmake ourselves
To fall tragically and to patch ourselves back together
With the fears of our lovers and the sorrows or our mothers
The press conference is an illusion
The senate hearing a regurgitation of brats
Our kindness will be erect ed as a shrine
Our confus ion will be the garden that complements its entrance
We are a brief and never-ending pageant
When we embrace a bridge of light expands across all 14 dimensions
When we cry we give birth and host exquisite banquets
We have the right to exist unfettered
To be shamelessly imperfect
To belch and call it a Samba
We cannot be bound by economics or psychological an a lysis
For we are the dream The memory The drum
The electrical impulse
The stone The waterâs offspr in g The dust The silence
And the opus
We have the right to question everything To be temporary and
nameless and anonymous
To surrender to the scent of the passion fruit To spread our kindness like a cold
We have the right to become boundless
To acquiesce and wave at strangers
To live in the infinitive form of the verb
To be
90
We met him on a crowded city street in a nondescript city.
I canât re mem ber the day or y ear.
I just know that it was an autumn afternoon . . .
He said
âMy name is Happiness, Happiness Santiago,
And the pleasure is all mine.â
He was half Cuban, half Dominican,
and was raised by Puerto Ricans in an Italian Neighborhood.
His smile was infectious, almost intoxicating.
âYo Happiness, whatâs good homie?â
A passerby
89
We have the right to explore this world without your filters
To smell incense burning in a den that exists
Light years from your mess hall
This world belongs to no one and to everyone
We are not a calculation
Our dreams are more real and more profound than your masks
We have the right to be citizens of unknown territories
To be tourists inside our own hearts
For love needs no visa
For laughter requires no proof of identification
Our agendas are blind finger paintings
Our movements coax stars to align
We are random and illimitable
Like the song of the coqui in the rainforest
That is our childhood and our retirement
We have the right to make and unmake ourselves
To fall tragically and to patch ourselves back together
With the fears of our lovers and the sorrows or our mothers
The press conference is an illusion
The senate hearing a regurgitation of brats
Our kindness will be erect ed as a shrine
Our confus ion will be the garden that complements its entrance
We are a brief and never-ending pageant
When we embrace a bridge of light expands across all 14 dimensions
When we cry we give birth and host exquisite banquets
We have the right to exist unfettered
To be shamelessly imperfect
To belch and call it a Samba
We cannot be bound by economics or psychological an a lysis
For we are the dream The memory The drum
The electrical impulse
The stone The waterâs offspr in g The dust The silence
And the opus
We have the right to question everything To be temporary and
nameless and anonymous
To surrender to the scent of the passion fruit To spread our kindness like a cold
We have the right to become boundless
To acquiesce and wave at strangers
To live in the infinitive form of the verb
To be
90
We met him on a crowded city street in a nondescript city.
I canât re mem ber the day or y ear.
I just know that it was an autumn afternoon . . .
He said
âMy name is Happiness, Happiness Santiago,
And the pleasure is all mine.â
He was half Cuban, half Dominican,
and was raised by Puerto Ricans in an Italian Neighborhood.
His smile was infectious, almost intoxicating.
âYo Happiness, whatâs good homie?â
A passerby
Similar Books
The Evil That Men Do: FBI Profiler Roy Hazelwood's Journey Into the Minds of Sexual Predators
Stephen G. Michaud, Roy Hazelwood
