weho

last night i drank tequila to pass time.

four comadres,
gold watch,
owl necklace,
all in a piece of shit club---i'm 21, i deserve better.

i danced,
we danced,
on a pole,
stage,
long islands in the air as if the night was young and tomorrow would never come.

i miss(ed) you.

he came from behind and i thirst for his arms,
your arms,
but you---he was there.

he danced,
i danced,
he kissed,
i kissed,
i bit,
he bit more.

i made sure he bit enough,
so i can show you,
that i don't want you,
i need you.

i'm tired of these bite marks.
on my neck,
chest,
shirts.

but i'm not willing to give up.

when i see you tomorrow,
the next day,
even the third day,
i'll make sure you notice,
the same way you forced me.

i'll laugh,
stare,
give you one last peek,
and push you goodbye until the next hickie on my neck.

Unloveable

of all the things that i am, the worst must be that i'm unloveable.

i don't think im ugly,

stupid,

unattractive,

dull,

awkward,

annoying,

....at least not most of the time.

"A gallon of clorox just found its way into the pool.

I splash for rapid cleanse,

in hopes of getting out alive.

I need to live.

but these battle wounds from all these games have left me untouchable,

i'm dying and the only thing that can save me is the hand of an unlovable. just like me."

Afterlife

"Love isn't enough"

I'm watching the jersey shore and the relationship between ronnie and sammy is disgusting. I believe their in love yet i also believe that their love is poisonous. Please someone slap the shit out of me if i fall for poisonous bullshit love.

I would die for love. Sacrifice my physical being for my spirit to have a chance at love. But the type of love that set's me free, not the type that cages me and punches me in the gut until i've cried and cried.

Love isn't linear nor singular. It varies, that's why love is an unpredictable game.

no stress

things are gonna work out. after speaking with tasha i feel a sense of relief. i'm going to enjoy the the last 10 days of summer that i have left by doing what i do best. write. hang out with friends. laugh. listen to music. read. and writeeeeeeeee some more.

i'm done being a hopeless romantic. it's pathetic and at the current moment so unnecessary since love is not in the air.

haha

ok... i'm getting a little pathetic... this needs to stop

hahahah

but seriously... im gonna surround myself with positive energy and entertain myself with positive things

:D

brb so ashamed... lol

Save me from myself

"And it hurts to want everything and nothing at the same time"

I'm sitting in our backyard under a tree attempting to meditate and energize my spirit by spending at least an hour outside with nature. I can't relax. I can't stop mourning the love I never had. Why as artist do we torture ourselves? Is it because we know that a broken heart inspires our most impressive work? Or because we've come to realize that love is a torturous/gratifying thirst? Or is it because if love wasn't torturous then I wouldn't be an Artist? Torture-Artist. Artist-Torture.

I'm sitting in my backyard listening to my "when the heart hurts" playlist on itunes. Reading "Desert Blood." Writing in my journal and blogspot about how love is torture. Why must I dwell? I mean, I'm not a melancholy person. I'm quite the opposite yet being deprived from human contact and playing lazy in my house, the only energy left in me just wants to be an artist whose heart and spirit only wants to mourn love that was never love.

Why must we mourn love that was never love to begin with?

Maybe because the love that was reality was never filling and if we mourned something that was never filling it would be a waste a time. Mourning love that was never really love, is the type of love that fills you up to maximum capacity and that isn't a waste of time, as mourning something that fills you up transforms you. The only risk is that transformation does not guarantee a step closer to happiness, just a step closer to multiple realities.

I need to start writing about the happiness of love...

summer

summer is torture... it's a time where broken hearts bask in the sun, slowly melting away

games

I'm tired of all these games.

Games and Love.

Sadly they go hand in hand. But why play games? These fucking stupid foolish games that always gets in the way of passion. Every game has it's players. And even though it's embarrassing to admit, i'm a player in the game of love. But how do you stop it? I'm so tired and frustrated. But maybe that's the point. These games set the foundation for either a tragic love story or a happily ever after.... maybe? The chances are so high. Tragic love story or a happily ever after or maybe even both? The thing of about the games that are played in love is that we never know how its going to end. Whether there will be any winners, losers or a prize. You will never know, and thats the scariest part about games and love, you never really know.

Pain is necessary. Especially when it's pain inflicted by love. That's the only type of pain i yearn because I always know that years, months, days, hours, seconds later the pain will transform into the sweetest thing i've ever known.

love

We're always going to be lonely. That's why love exists because love is never constant, it's always running.

:D

i'm happy. i'm really happy.

Are You A Bottom?

Are you a bottom?

Hey boo! How you doin’?

I’m chill, just fabulous as always, you know

So I was wondering…. Someone like you,

Tall

Thin,

Well dressed,

Skinny jeans,

Well-groomed hair

(Don’t talk about my hair)

I mean,

Fem,

All Jeweled up,

Mhmmmm

So are you a bottom?

You presumptuous, self-hating, hyper-masculine, stupid motherfucker

NO I AINT NO DAMN BOTTOM! Ugh

Are you a bottom?

Out since 12,

Sexually active since 13,

Seven years of…

Are you a bottom?

Never given the top or vers option,

Just cornered to the bottom capacity.

Are you a bottom?

Older brown man at the post office,

He was 25,

I was 14,

Riding through the ghetto streets of H.P,

We pull up,

Living in his parents garage,

He sets me down,

He never asks,

Just assumes,

I lay in silence and play the role.

Are you a bottom?

Men for sex now. Com

White top looking for Latino bottom,

I reply,

He replies,

He picks me up,

29,

And I am 16,

His pale skin rubs my brown back,

“que suave”

I giggle at his stupid attempt to speak mi lenguage,

I bottomed,

He topped,

And for the next four pale faces I bottomed,

And they,

Exotified,

Objectified,

And Topified.

Are you a bottom?

Never asked and never assumed,

22,

And I was 19,

He rubbed me down,

And never butchered mi lenguage,

Kissed my forehead,

All the way down to the tips of my toes,

Wait….

Am I the bottom?

Shhh,

Baby it don’t matter,

Close your eyes,

Breathe,

And go with the rhythm of our spirits making love.

Are you a bottom?

6 years,

And I will never be a bottom,

Nor a top,

Vers maybe,

But fluid always!

Are you a bottom?

Pale face of 21,

My brown face of 20,

He calls me “papacito”

I call him racist,

NEXT,

Mexicano de edad 20,

Yo Chicano de la misma edad,

He doesn’t dare to ask,

Nor assumes,

I lay, never in silence and never playing the role.

Are you a bottom?

Hey boo, how you doing?

I’m chill, just fabulous, as always you know,

So I was wondering,

Someone like you,

Tall,

Thin,

Skinny jeans,

Well groomed hair,

Oops! Sorry I won’t talk about your hair,

I mean,

Fem,

All jeweled up,

Mhmmmmmm,

So you fluid tonight?

You inclusive, conscious, self-loving, street smarts, motherfucker!

I’m a free bitch baby!

I’M ALWAYS FLUID!

sinners and lovers

Dance until your heart wears out. That's when you know you've found your lover because he has taken your breath away

white boy can be a comadre

"i can't love enough for the both of us"

"If love was everything. If love could conquer everything, I would conquer your addiction for you..."

she think i'm CUTEEEE!

"Don't toot it and boot it! You fucking stay and love me" -Crenshaw

Loving Like A Mestiza

For someone that has never had a lover, only fuckers, I sure the hell write about love all the time.

This song is beautiful. Two wrongs don't make it right. It's about loving and respect. Having manners and negotiating the contradictions of love. I'm a mestiza lover. Loving in the borderlands space where as a survivor, love wasn't introduce the conventional way. Father and son relationship extended beyond a platonic to a sexually abusive way of parenthood. Father's aren't suppose to love that way. I'm not suppose to experience love that way. I was a mestiza lover. Loving my father and hating him with just a pen and paper in my defense.

I came out at the age of 12 and started having sex at the age of 13 with older men that never loved me. I knew they didn't, but knowing that they didn't love me never stopped me from dreaming they could one day. I was a mestiza lover. Dreaming of a world where I wasn't the only queer Chicano. I knew they existed but I would only see them when I closed my eyes. The duality between the real world and the world I dreamt was blurred. Both worlds made up the voice inside my head that stopped me from ever cutting too deep with the razor.

In the 'real world' I was battling with insecurities from my father's perverted way of loving; my mother's short tempered, depressed and verbally violent way of loving; the older fuckers that objectified my body and would love me by having me suck their brains off; my eldest brother whose love had abandoned me after a drunk night of driving. I was battling but something about living in the 'real world' was still gratifying. Maybe it had to do with my dreams. I would dream that on father's day I would have a father to celebrate with. That he wasn't doing time in prison because his hand ran freely all over my sister's and I's bodies. I dreamt that my mother told me she loved me every day and when she would arrive home after work I wouldn't fear for my emotional safety because she was glad to see her children. I would close my eyes and picture a line of men just waiting to love me. They didn't want to fuck me. They just wanted to hold me inside their arms and remind me that I'm beautiful just the way I am. Lastly, I would dream that I stopped my brother from ever leaving us. That he found a job and no longer needed to travel to vegas for a job fair. I might have been dreaming but something inside, at the core of my heart told me that them dreams could be my 'real world' one day. I was a mestiza lover.

I was a mestiza lover.

I am a mestiza lover.

When I am mean to you, I am mean because i want a reaction out of you. I want you to care about the words I'm throwing at you. Care because i care about you. The only thing about this is that after a while, being mean hurts too much to bare. Usually when the pain becomes unbearable you have just gotten started and usually unwilling to stop. I am a mestiza lover.

Loving like a mestiza means that I carry my heart on my hand and pass a piece of it every time i shake someone's hand or caress their body. I will love forever. However, loving forever means I put my life on the line. Subject-Object to exploitation, violence, discrimination and abandonment. Loving like a mestiza means everything and nothing. Loving like a mestiza means every second is a role of the dice. Always shifting and always loving but never guaranteeing.

Apart

"Para de sofocarte. El amor debe de darte aire, no cortarte la vida."

Goodbye my lover. May our hearts only possess the ability to remember how we made and could have made love under mother moon. If we meet again, years from now, we'll fall in love and make up for all these wasted years. But meeting again is a stretch and a possibility that's hard to accept.

con amor,

tu luna

it's coming in less than 9 hours

I will soon be 21 years old. I'm expecting a lot but like piale would say "don't expect anything." So i am not expecting anything.

I know what I want but do I really know, when what I want is something i've never had? When i was seventeen a psychic predicted that I would fall in love with my lifetime lover at the age of 21. Apparently in my past life i was a gay man with a life partner, however at the age of 21 we wouldn't be together anymore because of society's homophobic ways. My partner committed suicide and I never loved again.

She also said that I would become a famous writer one day. That when I would die I would be remembered for my writing. The thing was, at the age of 17 i was insecure of my writing. I never felt good enough and my creative writing was kept private from the public world. I would write poetry and use a pseudo name of "John Smith." Talk about the whitest most masculine pseudo name i could have picked. lol. Now that I am 20 years old and only hours away from turning 21, there is not doubt in my mind that I will be a writer for the rest of my life. There is nothing more gratifying that putting down in words the ways of my heart, body and spirit. Writing has saved my life. From the time I was eight years old to the present where I go nowhere without my love book. Writing is my oxygen. And like oxygen, I can only live without it for about 30 seconds before my body begins to weaken.

21 will be the year that I learn to love another man. And the year of my best writing

Gifts and Love

Truth

My truth. My truth that is always mine but rooted in my relation to others. The truth about love is that it is never constant, always torturing, and most likely something you can't live without because love is like cold water on the driest day.

How do I know what love is if I have never fucked someone I loved?

Maybe love comes in fragments and I've only had a handful of pieces.... or maybe love is really not love, but an empty box with beautiful wrapping and nothing at the core.

Two Days Left

Love and Death.

If I were to die, I would want it to be because of love. The good kind though. Not the kind that becomes an obsession that your life comes to an end because a lover has caged you. But the kind where you're physically incapable of loving that the only way to continue to love is to liberate your spirit from your physical being. That's the good kind. The kind I hope puts me to sleep.

love

"I WOULD RATHER WALK ON THORNS THAN TO FALSELY LOVE YOU"

Pepe

cuando me miro en el espejo trato de pensar en lo que nunca voy a poder amar

brown eyes

Zodiac

"In dealing with Gemini’s erratic behavior in changing so swiftly from one thing to another will try deeply on Leo’s patience. They will not stand back idly and watch as Gemini disregards past mistakes, moves on after just a minor flaw is noticed with their profession, friends, family or loved ones. Leo won’t stand for Gemini’s lack of decency when it comes to running off to find the next best thing when they haven’t even cleaned up the mess from what they are currently involved in. With the love Leo feels for their Gemini, they will make it a point to grab hold of Gemini, shake them up and lecture them into realizing that what they are doing is foolish and asinine. And, although deep down Gemini knows the Leo is right they will not try to hide the fact that they are annoyed and infuriated at Leo’s words."

what you give is what you get. Dreams and just dreams.....

What to Feel?

These past two days have been filled with positive energy and beautiful friends... I hope it stays this way...

I am a hopeless romantic. I don't wanna fuck. I will not fuck. I want to make love. And will ONLY make love. dayum, i have a feeling i'm not gonna be laying naked with someone for a long time since my heart is at a still.

25 more days until i am finally fucking TWENTY ONE! 2-1 !

........ i'm so excited

Filter

Laying,
Confused and heartbroken,
Touching me,
Feeling me and looking at me,
But no different from the rest,
I am no different from him.

Waking up,
Everywhere and nowhere,
Can I escape,
Lips pouting,
Throat drying,
I need a different kiss,
A kiss of my own,
A kiss not like his.

Numb,
Laying and waking,
But always feeling,
The hurt,
And the love that is just like his,
Why,
How,
And when will it be only mine,
And if not mine,
When will it be just ours....

Fouth of July

I have been starving for the past week. I am over fast food and eating out, but i lack the capacity to cook for myself.

It's like i continue to eat but for what?

I have been going to the gym four times a week for the past two weeks and it has been wonderful actually. I have enjoyed going, i'm seeing results, and i'm spending precious time with friends.

Summer has been one big HOTMESS! God, my life is a hotmess. I can't help it though, my momma is a hotmess by nature thus i am a hotmess by nature. Emotionally, i think that i could be better. I haven't been writing on my journal as much but I think that will change in the next. I definitely have some things to write about, especially after this weekend.

I need to focus on my studies. i need to focus on my studies so I can get into grad school.

Shit needs to happen! and i need to be a HOTMESS but a hotmess with class

Fire

"Emboldened by love, I ignored the homophobia that constantly licked at my heels like flames from hell." Renee Martinez

"If all these people were my foes, who were my allies? When could I stop fighting?" Renee Martinez

When can i stop fighting? I'm laying in my bed, allowing my physical body to rest as I foresee a long night of strenuous tossing and turning, groaning, biting, punching and scratching once i fall asleep. Reading Renee Martinez's Del puente al arco iris: transformando de guerrera a mujer de la paz-From Bridge to Rainbow: Transforming from Warrior to Woman of Peace made me start thinking about the impact writings by women of color have had on my body, mind and spirit.

It's like every time i read a feminist of color text, someone or something grabs a match from the ground, still damp from last night's rain, and miraculously makes fire with it and lights the candle in my spirit. I feel alive again.

When can i stop fighting? Reading that line was like taking a blow to my heart. I could feel the fist smash my valves against my artery, mutating the physical nature of my heart for the hundredth time, a shape that resembles more and more the shape of my eight year old face. I wonder what that means? When i was eight years old my father raped me. I feel like my eight year old self symbolizes death and life. The death of any memory I had prior to the rape and life because I was transformed into a new being. Maybe that was the first time that i truly felt like i had to fight...

I mean growing up in Huntington Park, filled with cholos, drugs, alcoholism, poverty, and homophobia, I was born with two fist in the air- ready to fight and protect. But the rape, i feel, was like the fist time I had to use both fists to fight. i had always gotten away with using either the left or the right fist, by either punching my older brother with my right after pantsing me in public. Or using my left fist to knock on my mother's room door because i had a nightmare and i needed her love to make things better. I was always fighting. I was always the one fist warrior. But when my father battled me with three of his fists, his right, his left, and his dick, i had no choice but to fight with both of my fists. I was a two-fists warrior.

When can i stop fighting? I am laying in bed for the hundredth time because i foresee a night of unrest and tossing and turning as I fight off the demons with both of my fists. So much to fight for yet so much to make peace with.

My troubles are high,
So high that i cry everyday,
I get angry everyday,
I smile everyday,
I laugh everyday,
I sit in silence everyday,
I spit everyday.

I need to remember how to fight with one fist again. But how can I when the memories are so blurry?
I need to remember how to fight with one fist again so I can stop fighting all together.
I will wake up one day feeling well rested.
With no scratches,
No bruises,
No pain,
Just a lover next to me.

And when that day happens i would have transformed into el hombre de la paz. And the blows to my heart, whenever i read writings by feminist of color, will not shape my heart into my eight year old face but into all my years faces and those faces yet to come.

Tired

This quarter. These past ten weeks. Looking back at my writing I can’t help but feel pity for myself. I’m angry that I have allowed myself to get so hung up that I lost track of myself. Burnout. What the fuck? My body is so tired. I haven’t been able to sleep well this entire quarter. My mind is always thinking of the same bullshit. I wish I knew how to let go… and I am angry that I am still longing for the know-how on how to let go. It’s not going to happen David. There it goes again. Like venom going up my neck, into my brain.

Letting go.

My body,
These brown hands,
Red lips,
Think black hair,
Dark brown eyes that are doors to my soul,
My body−not yours.

I’ve noticed that I have been more conscious of my body because of this class. I never gave much thought as to how my body has been colonized, as much of my focus has been directed towards my colonized mind, but taking this class has served as the bridge between my mind/spirit and body. I’ve been less shameful to allow my body to be expressive, either when I’m on the dance floor jamming to some “Bed Rock” or when my body is aching and not being able to sleep because a white man called me a “faggot” the other night. My body has been drained but most of all it has been liberated.

When I write, I write with my body. The connection between my spirit and my fingers make it so my writing is my spirit.

I want this quarter to be over.

I’m tired of living in a space where I am continually reminded that as a queer man of color I will never be able to professionally move up.

I’m tired of being a white man’s secretary. Doing all the work, answering phone calls, delegating the work, yet still getting paid below minimum wage and only to have my work claimed by the privilege man with colored eyes. My eyes are colored too; you just never pay attention because brown isn’t what you desire.

I’m tired of being tired. But there’s an urgency to write. Like someone lit a firework inside me and the sparks from the firework are trying to burn through my insides to make a pathway for the firework to blow up in the sky. The thing is, it won’t burn me up or kill me. Just liberate the fire in my soul that’s been burning for the past quarter. It’s about to blow up−do you feel it?

woah.. woah woah woah... hahaha

i need to sleep. I hope i dream of mother nature. i need to feel refreshed

i need you

so i hate that i love you boy... i cant stan how much i hate you ... i love you motherfucker and just deal with it

Glass Wall

I feel like I keep hitting a glass wall.

Like I am walking at a slower pace than everyone else because I am carrying an extra 200 pounds of color, queer and poor. But I remember the words of my mami, “Con guanas, si se puede,” and every now and then when I get bursts of energy I run to catch up to everyone else.

But the other day was different. I was walking slowly but when God’s grace gave me a boost of energy, I ran. I was running and I refused to look back as I focused on my future possibilities. I was running. God I was fucking running for my life. I was running because I knew I deserved to be with everyone else. I was running because I deserved to be valued. I was running because for so long I never believed I could ever run. I was running because for once I believed I had a chance to survive.

Just a few steps before reaching the masses I slammed against a glass wall. My skin tore and my bones broke. Blood was gushing from every part of my body. But most important my spirit died a little. My spirit that fed me when I was hungry. My spirit that gave me a voice when I felt silenced. My spirit that gave me a heart when mine had vanished. Oh spirit, may the part of you that died please come back to life. I need you. All of you.

I’m laying on the ground almost dead. Swallowing my own blood, feeding my thirst anyway I can.

Homophobia hurts.

Racism hurts.

Both together kill me.

They are the ones to blame for the glass wall and the extra weight on my back.

They are the ones to blame for my job placement.

Where the straight Chicano gets the Chicana/o floor because having a queer Chicano would endanger the machismo.

Where the white woman gets the Rainbow house because having a queer of color would force the department to breakdown down their white supremacy in queer spaces.

Homophobia hurts.

Racism hurts.

Both together make up the glass wall that continuously makes me feel hopeless.

David.

David one day you will live one life. One day you will be able to walk through glass walls and turn that pain into love. But for now, living and dying is all you can do.

God save me!

Spirit

I have been in a romantic state of being lately. The words In Lake’ch makes my heart hurt. Like my spirit is draining the blood out and pressing its being against my tender heart. How to love when love has no words? When my mind is empty because love is not allowed? How do I allow my spirit to stop putting pressure on my heart because it’s slowly killing me? I find it hard to breathe sometimes. I lay in bed thinking because the thought of doing anything involving my body would force me to inhale the poison in the room. These crazy circumstances force me to belong to me. I feel alone in a crowd of one hundred. I need to snap out of it. I need to love my heart and mind. I feel like I am about to have a heart attack at any moment because the pressure is getting too immense. Spirit please stop crushing me. Spirit give me a free pass and allow me to not love… at least for now.

hush

I want to be raw but my rawness is fragmented. Only pieces of me are raw and the rest are shielded by an armor of self-hate.

I want to have the courage to heal in the places that have become invisible. I want to write, even when writing is physically impossible and emotionally painful.

I want to have courage.

I want to have courage.

I want to have courage to stand up for myself, my heart, my body and my spirit.

naming

In the process of developing my queer identity, I am constantly attempting to put a name to what I am feeling. But I often find myself going blank as the terms that “society” reproduces never quite fit with what I am going through. How do I name something that doesn’t have a name? By the time I reach nothingness, I get frustrated. Mostly because some third person usually takes the leadership of naming what I am and what I am feeling. It pisses me off.

I am not queer,

I am not joto,

I am not lonely,

I am not beauty,

I am not ugly,

I am not brown,

I am not poor,

I am not David.

I don’t know what I want. But will I ever? I’m sitting in my desk facing a mirror because the thought of facing a computer that never talks back to me is heartbreaking at the time.

I wish that when I was born I had been isolated from the world with only a mirror to interact with. Grow up knowing the features on my body. The pores that allow my body to breathe. Get to know myself, with only my spirit guiding me. Maybe then I would have the courage to speak truth.

To speak truth to the experiences of my body,

My lips,

My eyes when they see shadows and colors,

My subconscious that never sleeps,

My heart that bleeds pain and love.

I wish I had courage.

Enough courage to tell you that I love you.

That everytime I see you there is part inside of me that just wants to hug you and tell you that I deserve to be happy with you.

Why must we play?

Why must I think I’m not good enough?

Why do I feel like my body isn’t adequate enough for you?

I want to yell in your face and be part of your mainstream world.

I want to stop crying because the tears that runs down my cheeks stings.

It stings because it reminds me that I am still trying to heal from when my father touched me.

It reminds me that I am still trying to heal from my under bite.

It reminds me that I am still trying to heal from all the times that my leadership has been doubted because of my queer Chicano identity.

Crying stings. But I only hope that when you look into my eyes, your love will give me the courage to face the mirror and be the one to name myself…

let me patience

I want to be unselfish.

i miss my family. i miss my mom. my sister. my comadres. and my home. i can't wait for tomorrow!

tell him

Come over

tomorrow is just another time where space is universal and time has elapsed!

i miss you..and i wish i would have told you that i love you... or even that i feel something for you

one day after

this pain is to a maxim..

when i try to be strong the desire bursting out of my skin wants to be weak, to be able to feel your gentle lips on my neck.... too bad you are holding hands with another

elections

i am waiting for the results... god this is so nerve wrecking!

i am sitting at the mcc waiting for results. we have lost for the past two years and everytime this process gets to me. i hope that we don't lose. jfkl;ajfkldjal;fj;la

Xota as my political identity

I am a Xota and Xoto

:D

I haven't written for such a long time. My mind has not been present.

I want to lay in bed with someone and not have sex just lay. Make eye contact. Smile. Giggle. Discuss philosophies. Then have the person sing to my ear...

Honey

I am back in the halls. Spring Quarter has officially begun and I am looking forward to it!

I need to be smarter with my money. I need to apply for a summer job and stop wasting my shit on things that are not important. I want a car.... I NEED A FUCKING CAR! I have a strong feeling though that my sister and my mom are going to get me my car on my birthday *crossing fingers*

These are my goals for spring quarter:
- 4.0 gpa
-Write for an hour a day
-Run every day
-Stop eating out
-Practice for the GRE
-Identify specific GRAD programs that I will be applying to
-Go to the Dentist every month
-Find a summer JOB!

words with friends

This is my first spring break in the past three years that I have spent it at home. For the past two years i would be in Leg Con and I would only be home for about five days.

I'm not running for AS elections, THANK GOD! I need to focus on going to grad school. I really want to go to Stanford or NYU. Those are my top choices, but LBR that shit is hard. I haven't even applied but i am already feeling stressed as fuck.

I am watching KEEPING UP WITH THE KARDASHIANS, Khloe is the fucking bomb! i feel understand why she angry, i myself i'm an angry person of color. Well, more like, I am a passionate person and Khloe looks like a passionate person herself.

This blog post feels kinda ridiculous so i will try to end it a deep quote:

"my lips are dry. yearning for moist. waiting for the right fluids to water my needs."

spring break

it's monday and i feel like spring break is almost over.

I need to write more. I am suppose to write an hour a day and read at like three books this break, i highly doubt it will happen.

I feel stressed and i don't know why i do. For some strange reason i have this strong urge to be back in school. I want to be in a classroom, in my chican@ classes.

I want to write like i use to write:

allow the fire to stay under me.

if you can't love yourself then how the hell do you expect someone to love you.

Need a moment of silence to breathe for the first time in 20 years.
Breathing the cold air from my body's breath in search of answers of my childhood.
Mami, porque tienes tantas canas?
Porque cuando te miro me siento como no estas?

the hollow from your eyes are seeking solace in my veins.
The blood running through my veins are needing your assistance to keep my body from falling apart,
Keep my skin brown because the coldness has frozen my pigments....

Many things in my head i have come accustomed to avoiding. but is it normal? is it normal to forget the lives of others for your own self love?

Allow me to introduce you to my hero.
Her name is Virginia and the villain in the story is her husband who attempts to kill her every time she is on the road.

Won't someone believe her stories.
Won't someone trust in her, HER own life?

Breathing in an out.
Breathing in her cold words because to be warm i must fist learn to care for her....

"loving the airs in its pressure and temperature."

so much

I feel so hopeless. Even though it is not happening to me, it is happening to the people that i love.

How could some people be so fucked up in the hardest of times? WTF?!?!? GOD!!! I have to take care of myself but the last thing i want to do is feed myself when the people i love are starving to death.

dios dame la voluntad para saber como ayudar.

Beauty:From Nightmares to Dreams

David Preciado
03/08/2010

SWAPA ANALYSIS:

“I write for my own self value. To take ownership of my skin color, sexuality, voice, body and story. My grammar is horrific. My passive voice is distracting and my vocabulary is limited. The disclaimer I just stated is my defense against the hierarchy that disempowers me. It’s meant to be evidence of my insecurities that are rooted in my own internalized oppression caused by homophobia, racism, sexism and classism. Here are my wounds and the pen I am writing this piece with are the healing herbs to my surviving soul.”
–9/30/2009 first SWAPA during Chicana Studies 151 De Colonizing Feminism

My progress. I have always been a poet and only recently did I realize that I am also a writer. I began to write after my father raped me. I was eight years old when I first picked up a flowery journal and wrote about my sexuality. I wrote about the false love my father gave me. How I fell in love with the devil. Love at the age of eight was nothing but a perverted/innocent/naïve/child that was thirsty for more fatherly love-even if the love was rooted with a heart of an alcoholic/rapist/mentally disabled man. I regret ever falling in love with the devil. Twelve years later I ask myself, why couldn’t I fall in love with the angel? And if not an angel, why couldn’t I remain in limbo and never experience love to begin with?

Father I love you.
There is not a day I go by that I don’t think of you.

Father I love you for the devil you are but I wish I would have fallen in love with the angel of you.

My life prior to my rape is lost.
I don’t remember how it feels to look at my body,
My hands,
My feet,
My mouth,
And remember a time when my skin was clear of scratches, from the cuts of your dick.

I am in this constant horror film in my head.
I am walking alone in the alley; the only thing visible is the reflection of the moonlight from the fog in the air. I’m rushing, trying to find the nearest payphone, store, person that could help me clear my vision so I could go home. I finally spot someone. Their back is facing me. I begin to run towards them, yelling, screaming for help. Once I’m close enough, I take a moment to catch my breath. Breathing for my life, I take the last ounce of energy to tap them on their right shoulder, but before my fingertips touches the coat, you, the devil, swiftly bite my hand off and rape me. Raping me on the floor, I lay frozen. And when you’re done, you pinch me so I can wake up. Then once again, I am walking alone in the alley; the only thing visible is the reflection of the moonlight from the fog in the air. I’m rushing, trying to find the nearest payphone, store, person that could help me clear my vision so I could go home…

The nightmare is in everything.
My SWAPAS,
My words,
My room,
Relationships I have with people,
It’s inscribed all over my body- in my spirit.

I want to run and hide.
Travel to the furthest city,
Most secluded neighborhood,
Driest weather,
Darkest corner,
And hide from you.

Hide so I can remember that I have a brother.
Although he is dead, he is still alive in my heart.

Hide so I can remember that I am capable of trusting another man with my body.

Hide so I can stop blaming my mami for never noticing the touches you gave me.

Hide so I can look at my sister in the eyes and tell her we didn’t deserve what was done to us.

Hide so I can stop writing about you.
Take you out of my pieces of paper and write of the dream I wish I had.

My progress. I have always been a poet. Che’s class gave me the strength to identify as a writer. Identifying as a writer has allowed me to write with spirit words, the same spirit words that have transformed the nightmare into a mestiza consciousness. Reading the Four Fold Way has allowed me to inhale Mother Nature’s healing oxygen and exhale the traumas of my past. Hiding is no longer an option because Che’s class has given me the courage to confront the nightmares, even if my body is too crippled to stand on its own. Gracias Che for reminding me that I exist. Gracias companeras y companeros for sharing your love with me, even when at times I was too selfish to share mine with you all. May you feel my spirit and heart whenever you inhale and allow Mother Nature to enter your body and heal your broken spirits, because to heal is to survive and all of you, my sisters and brothers are survivors. Con Amor! Tu estudiante/amigo/companero del alma.

OP ED

Donde estan los escritores jotos? Where are the queer Chicano writers?

Professors Horacio Roque Ramirez and Ondine Chavoya were the only 2 queer Chicanos out of 25 scholars that presented at the “Sex Y Corazon” symposium on February 12th, 2010 at UCLA, celebrating fifteen years/quinceanera of UCLA’s Cesar E. Chavez Department of Chicana and Chicano Studies. The symposium centered on “Queer and Feminist Theory at the Vanguard of the New Chicana@ Studies.” As a third year at UCSB majoring in Chicana@ Studies, the symposium was mind blowing-to say the least. Feminist and Queer theologians, philosophers, writers, and activist discussed the history of Chicana@ Studies, their lives, their research, and what Chela Sandoval calls “the hermeneutics of love.”

Doctors Antonia Castaneda and Deena Gonzalez presented on their co-editing Chicana Matters Series by University of Texas Press. Chicana Matters Series provides an empowering outlet for Chicana writers to publish their work. As a self-proclaimed novelist, I was excited to hear of a publishing company that seeks to publish works from people of my community. Already well acquainted with horror stories from Chican@ writers whom time after time are rejected from publishing companies because of the racist pedagogy these companies are ran by. How they refuse to legitimize Chican@ work by deeming it as “not important” or “too-raced-based.” It’s fair to say that for once I was glad to know that someone was seeking my soon-to-be work, not the other way around. However, I can’t help but feel hopeless again when I squint my eyes and take a second look, “Chican(A) Matters.” Although Castaneda and Gonzalez never explicitly said that queer Chicanos are forbidden from submitting work to the series, like the series website states, it’s intended for Chicanas; thus, presumably not a primary space for queer Chicanos whom are seeking to publish their work should seek.

Following my realization, I began to ask myself, “Do Jotos Matter?” “Do queer Chicanos matter?” Instantly, I roared “¡Porsupuesto!” “Of course!” Acknowledging the works of queer Chicano writers like: Rigoberto Gonzalez, Horacio Roque Ramirez, and other established folks. The list of established queer Chicano writers, when compared to our sisters, Chicanas, doesn’t measure up. I bring this fact, not to disempower our Chicana sisters whom opened doors, but more so, to re-emphasize that when Cherrie Moraga wrote in This Bridge Called My Back “refugees of a world on fire,” it wasn’t limited to Chicana refugees. We [queer Chicanos] are refugees of a world whose flames have taken the shape of bars. Bars that kill our brown bodies as fast as the bullets that are propelled from a firearm during a drive by. As refugees of a world on fire, our writing needs to become the fire extinguisher that puts out the flames. The keys that liberates us from the prisons and the bulletproof vest that protects us from a bleeding heart.

Our publishing spaces should not be limited to hypersexualized magazines like Adelante, but should expand to scholarly university presses as well. Our bodies, our lives are worth to be published outside the realm of exoticism and into the field of academia. Queer Chicanos symbolize theory in the flesh. From combating homophobia within traditional Latino@ culture that perpetuates hypermasculinity and limited sexual discourse; to negotiating our intersectional identities as either people of color/working-class/queer/immigrant folks in a hegemonic world order- our existence matters. As refugees we need to continue and push extra hard to write our his[queer][chicano]story. Establish our own publishing series that seeks to validate our scholarly work as people living in the margins. I matter. Jotos matter. Queer Chicanos matter.

A.S Elections

I feel deeply upset. Student government elections are approaching and once again my work becomes silent. I don’t want to run. I don’t want to be part of an association where I lose a piece of myself everytime I walk through the doors. In my current process of rebuilding pieces of myself that the association tarnished the last two years, I have distanced myself from the space. However, like most things in life that you wish would dissolve and leave you alone, it is election season and my phone wont’ stop ringing. From people that want to lobby me, vent to me, manipulate me to support their political aspirations. The eyes of my friends begin to turn a shade redder, a redness that yearns for power. Having lost twice, the political paradigm that supports white/anglo leadership over qualified people of color has pushed me away. Far away enough where I don’t care about elections. The structure, in which Associated Students is built on, prevents me from once again fully participating. I want to read. I want to write. However, in order to read and write at my own free will I must sleep with one eye open. Be conscious of my surroundings and people whose eyes change color at the site of power.

Path to Conocimiento

It was 1995 when my parents divorced and I was six years old. My father raped me when I was eight years old. He was taking care of my two older brothers and oldest sister and me while my mother went to Mexico because her sister died. He raped me four times in my mother’s bed. Living in silence for the next four years was like traveling to a different world. A world where my mother’s bed was just a bed and not the platform that sustained my body while the love for my father diminished. For most of my eight-year-old life, I was in what Gloria Anzaldua calls the “arrebato space,” where the rape from my father had shaken me. I was desperate for answers. Stumbling over the most delicate pebbles on the ground, I lost the capacity to stand on my own. I continued to fall until finally I fell into the second stage, the “neplanta space.” From the ages of nine to ten-years-old, I was a neplantlero. Living in a space where it was not about ‘he [father] touched me’ or ‘he didn’t touch me’ but where his touched manifested into consciousness. A consciousness that broke away from the binary of ‘good chicano’ or ‘bad chicano’ to a ‘surviving chicano.’ I was exploring new modes of being. Negotiating between what was love and what was not. Exploring the purpose of my body, as it not only invited love, through hugs and kisses, but also, as it lured in pedophiles. I was in a third space. A space of learning how to survive. Overwhelmed by my eldest brother’s sudden death, right before I turned eleven-years-old I descended to the third stage, “Coatlicue.” I was in despair, anguish, and hopelessness. Drowning in chaos, I found the will to swim to the surface and escape the demon waters by writing on my Harry Potter hardcover journal. The fourth space, “the call,” I validated my existence and experiences by writing them down. Writing soon shifted into the fifth stage, “Coyolxauhqui,” I was writing to put my life together. To give voice to my abused body, sorrow for my dead brother, and queer identity. To speak of my reality in a world that sewed my lips together and never called on me even though I kept raising my hand. Growing tired of being the only one witnessing my own experience, when I turned twelve years-old I cut the thread that was binding my lips shut and rather than waiting for someone to call on me I stood up and yelled! I told my mother that my father raped me. I told the world that I was gay. But most importantly, I told myself that I existed. This was my “blow up” phase, the sixth stage. What followed was what Anzaldua calls the final stage of Conocimiento, “spiritual activism” the seventh and final stage. I became a warrior, who was determined to speak out and transform my abused body into a strong, beautiful one. I was determined to make my writing known. Determined to make the words on paper onto the ears of people because living in silence was detrimental to my soul, my existence.

Teacher Dreams

My brother, Jose, you were my significant teacher. Although your life was cut short, Hermano, you taught me the beauty of waking up. Opening my eyes and witness the traumas of our past and face the demons of my present. Gracias.

Your death caused me so much pain. My heart was lost; kidnapped by the spirits of the afterlife whom held it hostage until I stopped chasing after them. I was exhausted. My shins were bruised. My mind stopped processing and my soul was detached, left behind a mile ago with the other souls of my family.

I was detached.
In the space between questions and answers.

I was no longer capable of movement. My spirit was still held prisoner and my physical being was crippled to the point where my hands could not write. My eyes kept closing, replaying the scenes of my father’s knife penetrating me in and out. My throat was full. Full of years of silence. Words that only made it on to paper but never onto the ears of others.

Hermano,
Teacher,
Voice,
Your loss was the truth. The truth of my despair. The same despair that I was able to hide from until your public death crushed our family, but more so, it killed me. All the nightmares of my childhood came to life and as much as I tried to keep them as nightmares you forced my eyes to stay open. It took two years of your lessons to finally learn how to clear out my throat. Release the words from my bleeding mouth. Words that I never knew were my own. Words of the spirit tongue. Words of Trust.

You taught me to stop chasing after the spirits of the afterlife. Stop crippling my body and be open to outcome. Open to liberation. Liberation of my abused body. Liberation of your detachment from my physical world. Liberation of clarity. Where the only thing that mattered was my present self and not “what” I thought my future self would be if I were exposed. I was detached from outcome but open to new modes of being.

Gracias Hermano. You taught me to write with my body. Make the words on paper, also onto the ears of the world.

Sister Curandera, Sister Healer

Sister healer,
I have entered your house just six years after your birth and I am blessed for it.

Hermana Curandera,
Tus manos estan cubrieto en sangre,
Ya se que el hombre vino y te corto, pero necesito que tu me lo cuentes.

Sister healer,
My heart is racing, I want the nerves to stop but everytime they do it’s only because he has come with the touch that paralyzes me.

Hermana Curandera,
Me duele verte en los ojos,
Se que tienes un secreto pero no se como liberarte.

Sister Healer,
Listen to my screams! I need you to save me! Witness when you walked in and the man we called father was showing me my death.

Hermana Curandera,
Mis manos tambien sangran como las tuyas, necesitamos las llerbas de nuestra madre. Donde esta nuestra mami?

Sister Healer,
My life since the age of 8 is no longer my own but his. This body, my thoughts, my words have been enslaved. Won’t you free me?

Hermana Curandera,
As estado llorando por toda tu vida. Necesito tu fuerza para sobrevivir, ensename como continuar de respirar cuando el mundo me a sofocado.

Sister Healer,
My throat keeps itching, and the nightmares that I had when I was 8 want to escape my mouth. My eyes can’t stop bleeding and my knife can’t stop cutting.

Hermana Curandera,
Hoy es el Dia. Hoy es el dia que as compartido tu fuerza con migo y as liberado mi cuerpo, mente y palabras.

Sister Healer,
I, Love, You.
He raped me.
I, Love, You.
He raped you too.

Hermana Curandera,
Yo, Te, Amo.
Perdon.
Yo, Te, Amo.
Gracias.

Sister Healer,
Hermana Curandera,
You are the backbone to my existence. Mi voz cuando no puedo hablar. The love when I am feeling un-loved. La llerbas cuando mis manos sangran. I spoke the words but you taught them to me…

I exist

I wanted to close my eyes. Experiment with the different voices inside my head to formulate the truth of my power. How to transform signs of entrapment to signs of liberation? To close my eyes and no longer see the darkness as malice but as my weapon against the gatekeepers and the power mongers. In order to de-self-actualize, my imaginary has to become my truth and my love the backbone to my existence.

Last night I read my evaluations from my fellow R.A staff members.

So much emotion that I felt once I finished reading the evaluations. How could they? Why would they? How dare they? And of course… How expected! How expected for these heterosexual, mostly white idiotic people to evaluate me with such intimidation because of my identity. I am not approachable? Why? Because I scare you? Because you have never had to deal with a loud queer chicano before? Because approaching me would force you to validate my existence?

I come with a lot of baggage, truth and love. I don’t expect anything from you. I only expect that MY determination to physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually survive will never be silenced by YOUR determination to cut my throat.

Living in the Imaginary

Living in the imaginary. As a kid and now as an adult, my reality has manifested into my imaginary. Living in the space between the world that exists when I close my eyes and when my eyes open, I find the four-fold way oxygen that is needed to survive in the imaginary. Breathing in the dichotomous worlds of closed and opened, my survival is dependent on the interface, imaginary, to legitimize my existence as a writer, poet, chicano, and queer. The imaginary oxygen is what fuels my fingers to type and sets free my testimonies to allow new ones to formulate. As bell hooks wrote in her essay Women Who Write Too Much, “I feel an urgent need to write ideas down on paper to make room for new ideas to arrive, keep my mind from becoming too crowded.” To liberate is to make the closed conversations the open and the open conversations insightful understandings of the human psyche−my own psyche.
It is difficult to write. It is difficult to travel between worlds and not feel as though the instability will be my defeat.

[for] Chicanos Who Write Too Much:

Continue to write,
Continue to travel between worlds,
Continue to be defeated.

My survival is dependent on the ability to write,
To bridge between the closed and the opened,
To validate my experiences,
But most of all to remember that I exist.

Chicanito at 8 Years old with a flowery journal don’t be ashamed.
The words you wrote, spoke truth to your exploited and abused sexual discourse.
Spoke to your fragile body but wise mind.

Chicanito at 11 years old with a purple-built-in-light journal don’t be ashamed.
The words you wrote, spoke truth to your deathly vision and twisted sexual discourse.
Spoke to your broken heart but queer becoming.

Chicanito at 15 years old with virus-infected journal don’t be ashamed.
The words you wrote, spoke truth to your fatherly and traumatic sexual discourse.
Spoke to your fragmented life but assurance that you exist[ed].

Chicano at 20 years old with a dusty-mac journal don’t be ashamed.
The words you wrote, spoke truth to your decolonizing sexual discourse.
Spoke to your insecurities of writing but your willingness to never stop.

Sleep Paralysis

Sleep paralysis. I am sleeping with my eyes open and there is a brown warrior approaching me. Brown warrior why must you come when the paralysis has taken over my body? When I’m alone and I’m the only one that can witness you? Brown warrior why must you fuel me with anger and desperation? Prevent me from exhaling and singing the right note to your key?

To speak of hegemonic institutions is to speak to the brown warrior. But how can I speak when the sleep paralysis has halted my tongue? When all I am capable of doing is witness and process the brown warriors discourse inside my mind? As I wait for my body to liberate itself from the paralysis, I am angered. Angered by the lack of agency to confront the matter when in act. That same anger is what leaves me with a pen and paper so I can write, analyze, heal and resist the institutions that have brought the brown warrior onto my life. Writing is painful. I dread writing. Having to articulate my thought process onto words is never quite enough. I feel like I’m justifying when I write. Like the police has taken me and my liberation is contingent on my ability to articulate their wants in the proper English way.

“Like I said. I don’t know who the brown warrior is.
Si se quien el guerrero café es.
I don’t know what you want from me?!
Te suplico que me dejes ir de esta prision. El es yo, ya te lo dije.
I only witness him when I’ve frozen and as much as I would like, the brown warrior never speaks to me.
No mas mira. Se acerca y me ensena sus aventuras. El amor de su vida y las personas que a matado para sobrevivir.
I’m telling you the truth.
No miento…”

How could I be lying? I keep giving but it is still not enough.