march23|katawan ko

Katawan Ko
(homeland | draft 1)



sampung mga daliri
fingers tracing back generations
pointing to a story untold
blank pages of unwritten histories in textbooks
we must write truth of our ancestors into existence

kamay at paa
weathered hands and tired feet remind us of lolo and lola
their sacrifices
their pain
their love
their decision to bring us here
away from sanded beaches and humidity
they held mommy’s hand as she learned to stand for us

dalawang tenga
ears that listen to words of wisdom and strength
of discrimination and prejudice
mommy was told to never speak Tagalog again
lola says that’s why Jun and I can’t speak it now
we can’t exchange words of wisdom and strength
we can only listen passively
as we stand unable to affirm our tongues

dalawang mata
lolo’s eyes have seen the pain and suffering of our people
colonized by both east and west
Filipino faces becoming less familiar
Less Filipino
His cataracts make it even more difficult to separate the Filipinos from
The Spanish
The Japanese
And the Americans
leaving him with only snapshots of what Filipinos used to look like
preserving our cultured faces in his mind

ilong na maganda
flat Filipino noses, usually distinguishable from the rest
scents of poverty and economic strife pollute the air
a common aroma of conquered countries
mommy makes leche flan in the kitchen
we inhale temporary happiness and indulge in sweet selfish goodness

my body is more than just my body
it is my people
my history
my culture
my language
my lolo
and my lola

sampung mga daliri
kamay at paa
dalawang tenga
dalawang mata, ilong na maganda

march22|right of passage

Right of Passage
(eye witness | draft 2)



your blue, crisp uniform tells me that I am just another
another person of color
another womyn
another low income, first generation college student
another ‘other’
I tell you that I belong here
But you decide to close the door in my face

Denying my passage
My rite
My right of passage

I knock on glass as questions begin to furl my forehead
You turn away as if you didn’t see me
As if history caught amnesia and erased the last ten seconds of our interaction
I knock harder and we catch eyes but you are on the inside
And I am on the outside looking into
Into the 1 inch of glass that separates our ability to be together
To be

Why won’t you let me in? I ask
No answer
Again, why won’t you let me in? What’s going on?
This time, you wedge open the door and question yet again
My identity
My purpose
My existence

I need to get into my office, I say
I show you my my IDs, my keys
Emptying my empty pockets for your approval
Hesitant, you look me up and down
Realizing that I was harmless
Nothing but a womyn
A student
A friend
A sister
An activist

You judged me
You denied my passage
My rite
My right of passage

march21|tell me why

Tell Me Why
(profiling | draft 3)



Tell me why you think I’m exotic
Displaying my sun kissed silky skin
Washed in Papaya skin whitening soap
Ever so ashamed of my beautiful melanin
Round brown eyes with double eyelids
Flickering with messages of misperception
I am not Oriental, like noodles or rice
I refuse to be an export of your own ignorant trade

Tell me why you think I’m submissive
I’ll be passive, you be aggressive
Let’s role play our way into my own submission
Because
You’ve assumed your position
My buyer
My owner

I am your mail order bride
And you are my white husband

I am your friendly nurse
And you my patient
Patiently waiting for my service

Tell me why you think I can be bought
Type “Filipina” into Google
Up loads pages of infinite pictures, of
Innocent faces
Accompanied by their girlish first names
Like Michelle, Janice, and Alyssa
Like infomercials on TV
Like household appliances and Foreman grills
Like Ikea catalogs
Each item with its own price tag
My dispensable body waits unknowingly
As you click “Add to Cart”
And send it to its final checkout

march20|kamusta's & como estas'

Kamusta’s and Como Estas’
(vertical rhythm | draft 3)



Brown bodies bent
Aching, breaking, taking
Green grapes from the earth of our mother’s veins
Sunburned backs, blistered and red
Making already brown faces more brown
Vera Cruz and Chavez played together
Like Hector and Johnny
Yes, we played with the Mexican kids next door
And together, we picked berries by the creek
Like farm workers picked grapes in Delano

Nanay Gloria’s fresh baked pan de sal and packaged pan dulce for recess
We go together like arroz y frijoles
Like kanin at pansit
Like leche flan and tres leches
From the Philippines to Mexico
From ‘Ya basta!’ to ‘Makibaka!’
We are more than the Spanish tongue that binds us
More than the fried lumpia and flautas that we eat
Indeed, we are the accomplished dish of Spanish cooking

Pilipinos and Chicanos
Two crabs tangled in their own mentalities
Pinche colonizers’ own bucket
Ignorance is not bliss, it’s premeditated violence
We throw down in the avenues like there’s no room for coexistence
Create artificial borderlands to separate our similarities
Purposely parting our parallels
I claim my block as you run your street
I claim this corner while you run that alley
We make believe like our masters make us believe that we are different

march19|down telegraph

Down Telegraph
(self affirmation | draft 3)



Walkin’ down Telegraph
With my long black hair, thick like leathered skin
Flying free of chains
The wind attempts to separate me from my freedom
My hair bounces on my back
Like a trampoline I bounce back
Unbreakable

Walkin’ down Telegraph
With my three inch boots, lookin’ like a diva
Aggressively, I walk, moving forward
Stompin’ like it’s nobody’s business
Each step with purpose and swag
Each step more powerful than the last
Sassy

Walkin’ down Telegraph
With my too-thick-for-Asian lips, full like fed stomachs
Always wanting to indulge in words
Exchanging lyrics of wisdom
of hope
of revolution
of love and admiration

Walkin’ down Telegraph
With my round brown eyes, fierce like the sun
Introspective
They are deep with reflection, power and strength
Captivating as we share awkward glances
Forcing you to feel my presence
You look away
Intimidated

Like a coming out
Like a debut
It’s an awakening
It’s a rite
Down Telegraph, I walk

march18|40 years

40 years
(urgency | draft 3)



“Youth, Identity, Power”
Munoz speaks of the white New Left, the
intentional exclusion of “nonwhite youth”

let’s be real
we are people
people of Africa, Asia and the Americas
people of struggle
of resistance
of self determination
of unyielding circumstance

we are people of color

we were the clenched fists, the
pavement pounding feet that violently awakened the 60’s
they say
only white left-minded liberals got down with Free Speech
they say
we were too radically adolescent and rebellious, too
ethnocentric and reformist
This, was the people’s revolution
Although, the people’s revolution
was not really the people’s revolution

40 years to this day
the 60’s throwback liberated minds onto Sproul
the revolution resurfaces with a new pulse
that Thursday afternoon we gathered
spray painted yellow shirts and armbands
sweatshop free from American apparel
yellow flags and signs that spoke of lies
and deception
and empty rhetoric
the third world was ready
ready to
fuck shit up
ready to
break shit down

we were Mario Savio
we were the hunger strikers
we cussed our heart’s frustrations onto deaf ears
we say
third world college becomes Ethnic Studies, underfunded
we say
Amerikan Cultures, watered down
we say
Multicultural Center, just a room

two hours of unbroken solidarity
Our similarities built coalitions
Our voices retold histories
Our presence became known