today.

June 13th, 33 years ago
She gave up her life to fight
     against poverty, injustice, oppression.
I don't know if she knew the cost
     nor the kind of ripples it would
     make.
June 3rd, 10 days ago
I stand up against it too,
in a sleeveless gray shirt and naked feet.

Stop.
A glass jar in the corner of the closet
     filled with sage, smoke, and secrets.
Two poems from mother and friend.
A congested throat trying to release
     the locked voice.
Stop.

I feel his face in mine.
I lay down and feel his body on mine.
Body remembers what the mind must
      lock away safely.
A sore jaw and tight IT-bands
I am safe, she says.
Does this mean what I think it means?
A long, intentional pause.
A gentle, clear, and honest answer.
     Yes.
     Yes, it does.
What does it change?
     Everything.

Put it on a paper in a glass jar with sage smoke in the corner of
     the closet contained.
Next to flowers and pictures and
     drawings and pain.
You look like her, Jessica.
Eyes rimmed red, feet on the ground
    Practice the roots.
You know, she died.
Along with 30 other young people
Bombed from above and bulldozed
     over by soldier trained and endorsed
     in the land I now live.
They can't even pronounce her name.
Abuelito found her head a month
     later because she was one of only
     two women and the only with short
     hair.
He carried her head and a limb from
     Managua to Esteli to be buried
     with family.

You may rape me, America.
You may yell in my face and threaten
     me.
You may even kill me like you killed
     my Tia Nhordia.
No punishment you might inflict on me is worse than the punishment I put on myself by conspiring in my own diminishment. 


I stand with much deeper roots.
With wind in my screams and
     fire in my gut.
Kuan Yin in my hand and
Guadalupe on my back.
Rosaries around my neck
Prayers from black angels binding
     and casting out all evil in
    the Holy name of Jesus.
Fingers digging in my back ribs.
Salt and Holy Water and a circle
     of candles.
Singing in tongues.
Drumming and swinging with big hair.
Borrowed sweat pants.
"I pray that Jessica is safe and keeps coming back so I have someone to play with."
Stacks of court orders and pictures.
Stolen white board lists changing
    each day demanding.
The first time I call this place
     Home.

I am bringing it all,
Surrounded in light blue light.

What does courage feel like?

The secrets make us sick. 

This past Sunday, I was at my friend Peggy's house and her roommate Ryan went crazy. I can't diagnose it or anything, but we are pretty sure he had some sort of break and he became violent. The event was both domestic violence and a hate crime. To be very honest, I'm just grateful none of us got stabbed. That's the short version of the story.

I'm reflecting on the fact that this marks a 3rd major trauma in my life since graduating from college (if I count "minor" traumas, I guess it would be the 6th or 7th...wow). It's not clear to me why I'm attracting all of this, but here I am.

At one point, Ryan, a white guy, was yelling at the top of his lungs at three women of color (latina, asian, and black). Yelling that we were racist, out of touch with reality, what's wrong with you people, n-word, Asian Pride, Jim Jones. And I stood up and faced Ryan and told him to stop. I stood there in between Ryan and the others. He yelled so loud that he was spitting in my face. And he came up to me, I stood my ground, in my face, I stood my ground, past the point where I could no longer cross my eyes, I stood my ground, literally an inch from my face. He threatened me. He yelled that if I was going to act like a man, he would treat me like a man. A disgusting understanding that both to be a man requires violence and dominance, and that strength is not attributable to women. 

The story keeps going. We called the police twice and they never showed up. Ryan vandalized the entire house with racially charged hatred, all aimed at Peggy. The landlady managed to get him out and they changed the lock on the door. Everyone is safe. Both myself and Peggy are getting restraining/harassment orders. The community response has been an abundant blessing.

I've gotten a variety of responses for my role in all of this, but all of them label my actions as bravery. "Why do you have to be so brave all the time, damnit." Hero role. "Your strength and courage was beautiful to behold." "Thank you thank you thank you thank you."

It didn't feel like courage to me, but what the fuck does bravery feel like, anyways? My stance came from a space where I refused to be yelled at, I refused to let Peggy be yelled at. I refused to be abused. I've been abused too many times before and I never fought. I knew, as Parker Palmer says, that no punishment Ryan could have given me for opposing him would have been worse than sitting there and taking the abuse, conspiring in my own diminishment. What I do to myself in my silence is much worse than anything Ryan could have done, even if he had stabbed me.

I don't think I can call what I did brave or courageous. No. After all, in retrospect it was quite dangerous and a bit reckless. But if there is any courage in there, it came from the inner choice I made to find a voice I had believed was lost, and stand with a body I believed to be too broken.

that's kind of cool. 

and I continue healing.