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.