Our Music
(free choice | draft 1)
Your kisses make my body ring
Like a harp’s pluck
Sending wavelengths of sensation
From my toes to my fingertips
Your lips press softly onto my lips
My forehead
My cheek
My neck
And back again
There is no substitute note
Or line
Or clef
For my body has become a constant beat
A beat that only wishes to get louder
Daily, we whisper translated emotions
As if “I really like you” really meant
“I love you”
I love you?
I love the way we exchange lyrics
Like a call and response
Easily drowned out by a loud cymbal’s wake up call
The lyrics to our song constantly change
Although our emotions crescendo
We continue to sing
Because all we have is each other’s music
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
april19|i miss you
im sorry too..for puttin u in situations u didnt need to be in and for makin decisions u didnt have to make..im sorry most of all for following my heart as opposed to my head..n 4 developing indescribable feelings 4 u that even party lines couldnt define
this was a text that i sent to a person that has been a large part of my life in the last two months..someone who taught me to be patient in my relationships..who taught me how to see past conflicting ideologies..who showed me what good communication was about..who helped me understand my own misunderstandings about a group of people..who got me to realize that there is still a lot of learning that i have to do in life..
and despite all of the resistance i got from my friends and family..i made the decision to continue on with this relationship..and i continued to blindly assume that we were on the same page with each other..
agency is about the ability to make choices and standing up for those choices
im numb
my heart hella hurts
but i can't be mad
all i can be is confused, sad, frustrated, hurt, betrayed..
stand up for what you want and not what you have to do
its your agency
its your happiness
its your life
stand up for it.
my eyes are tired of crying
my heart is tired of hurting
i miss you
and i hope you miss me too
this was a text that i sent to a person that has been a large part of my life in the last two months..someone who taught me to be patient in my relationships..who taught me how to see past conflicting ideologies..who showed me what good communication was about..who helped me understand my own misunderstandings about a group of people..who got me to realize that there is still a lot of learning that i have to do in life..
and despite all of the resistance i got from my friends and family..i made the decision to continue on with this relationship..and i continued to blindly assume that we were on the same page with each other..
agency is about the ability to make choices and standing up for those choices
im numb
my heart hella hurts
but i can't be mad
all i can be is confused, sad, frustrated, hurt, betrayed..
stand up for what you want and not what you have to do
its your agency
its your happiness
its your life
stand up for it.
my eyes are tired of crying
my heart is tired of hurting
i miss you
and i hope you miss me too
Monday, April 13, 2009
april13|secrets my father never told me
secrets my father never told me
(trauma | draft 1)
never talk back to me, he says
stop crying, he says
show more respect, he says
permanent scars mark my body as these words continue to resound in my memory
flashbacks to a time where the word “family” meant nothing
nothing more than how I felt living with three other strangers
I don’t really know my parents
their histories
their backgrounds
their passions
I draw blanks as I think about what they’ve shared with my brother and I
These uncertainties fill my soul with unfinished business
The secrets of their past lives
Make me believe that coming to America gave them new ones
Erasing their histories, their backgrounds, their passions
And exchanging them for high blood pressure, diabetes, abuse and infinite stress
these become points of departure for our common misunderstandings
creating space between our ability to stand in each other’s presence
my father is a stranger
and I still don’t know him
(trauma | draft 1)
never talk back to me, he says
stop crying, he says
show more respect, he says
permanent scars mark my body as these words continue to resound in my memory
flashbacks to a time where the word “family” meant nothing
nothing more than how I felt living with three other strangers
I don’t really know my parents
their histories
their backgrounds
their passions
I draw blanks as I think about what they’ve shared with my brother and I
These uncertainties fill my soul with unfinished business
The secrets of their past lives
Make me believe that coming to America gave them new ones
Erasing their histories, their backgrounds, their passions
And exchanging them for high blood pressure, diabetes, abuse and infinite stress
these become points of departure for our common misunderstandings
creating space between our ability to stand in each other’s presence
my father is a stranger
and I still don’t know him
Sunday, April 12, 2009
april 12|mother
Mother
(love as resistance | draft 1)
her voice quivers as more and more her throat resembles a dehydrating well
her shoulders become heavy with the weight of yet another passing generation
her legs buckle with the numbness and instability of our people’s culture
her heart flutters with overwhelming angst for when she sees us it hiccups memories of her own childhood
my mother is resilient
and although she has only a vocational education
and a vocabulary limited by her inherited social status
she loves
she loves with every ounce of knowledge that her glass ceiling will willingly allow her
growing up she bought my brother and I superficial things that blinded us from our own reality
to be poor
to be immigrant
to be different
she believes that we must take care of our selves
never worry about what others are doing she says
family is important, don’t ever forget that
individualistic ideals of capitalism take over my mother’s heart
soon leaving her without a neighbor to exchange lemons for tangerines every summer afternoon
she believes that we got here on our own
her historical amnesia forces her to forget the many that struggled before us
who translated boats and planes into opportunities for better lives
my mother’s American Dream exists in a bubble that only contains our family
the pressures of our own agency push from within
and the love generated from my displaced community’s spirit push from without
my mother’s love
hydrates her words into existence
lifts loads off of weighted backs
stands grounded in the company of distortion
my mother’s love remembers its steady beat
(love as resistance | draft 1)
her voice quivers as more and more her throat resembles a dehydrating well
her shoulders become heavy with the weight of yet another passing generation
her legs buckle with the numbness and instability of our people’s culture
her heart flutters with overwhelming angst for when she sees us it hiccups memories of her own childhood
my mother is resilient
and although she has only a vocational education
and a vocabulary limited by her inherited social status
she loves
she loves with every ounce of knowledge that her glass ceiling will willingly allow her
growing up she bought my brother and I superficial things that blinded us from our own reality
to be poor
to be immigrant
to be different
she believes that we must take care of our selves
never worry about what others are doing she says
family is important, don’t ever forget that
individualistic ideals of capitalism take over my mother’s heart
soon leaving her without a neighbor to exchange lemons for tangerines every summer afternoon
she believes that we got here on our own
her historical amnesia forces her to forget the many that struggled before us
who translated boats and planes into opportunities for better lives
my mother’s American Dream exists in a bubble that only contains our family
the pressures of our own agency push from within
and the love generated from my displaced community’s spirit push from without
my mother’s love
hydrates her words into existence
lifts loads off of weighted backs
stands grounded in the company of distortion
my mother’s love remembers its steady beat
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
april8|parallelogy
today i was sitting in my p4p class..somewhat distracted and sleepy..but surprisingly enough one of the stp's started talking about the armenian genocide and other weapons of genocide that have been used against womyn in particular...and it was really interesting to hear about the struggles and the history of a community that i feel so ethnically, politically, and socially disconnected from..aside from the fact that i was around a lot of armenian folks kickin it in glendale so much and the nurses that my mom used to introduce me to at her work..i feel no connection whatsoever. but i realized that although our histories are not really the same, our struggles are very much parallel..in nature. whether its your fight for genocidal recognition from oppressive countries or my fight for recognition for the contributions of world war ii veteranos...our people have experienced and continue to experience silencing trauma that will forever haunt our children and our children's children. we realize and utilize our community's agency to say, "we are here."
our struggles transcend race, ethnicity, class...and maybe even political ideology as well..but will they ever converge?
who knows.
maybe not.
other thoughts from class:
"elements of romanticization" (referring to the social situations/portrayals of native americans)
* over-simplification
* objectification
in the midst of cultural and multicultural shows and week long programs spreading awareness of various international/political/historical issues..i thought of the week long series of events that took place last week and the problematic "elements of romanticization" that was seen and felt every day at the same time on mario savio steps..the site of historical/political movements that we continue to praise yet as a campus/university have difficulties embracing. what is a show without a deeper meaning and purpose? it's just a show..a romanticized cultural experience. culture is not something that you can simply experience, it's something that you live, eat, breathe, love, embrace, embody.....each and every day of your life.
in the words of chrystos, "i walk in the history of my people"
let's all recognize our own histories and take strides in our collective struggle...
our struggles transcend race, ethnicity, class...and maybe even political ideology as well..but will they ever converge?
who knows.
maybe not.
other thoughts from class:
"elements of romanticization" (referring to the social situations/portrayals of native americans)
* over-simplification
* objectification
in the midst of cultural and multicultural shows and week long programs spreading awareness of various international/political/historical issues..i thought of the week long series of events that took place last week and the problematic "elements of romanticization" that was seen and felt every day at the same time on mario savio steps..the site of historical/political movements that we continue to praise yet as a campus/university have difficulties embracing. what is a show without a deeper meaning and purpose? it's just a show..a romanticized cultural experience. culture is not something that you can simply experience, it's something that you live, eat, breathe, love, embrace, embody.....each and every day of your life.
in the words of chrystos, "i walk in the history of my people"
let's all recognize our own histories and take strides in our collective struggle...
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)