Beatitudes Rewritten

[From daily reflections I receive by email. The Beatitudes rewritten for the human experience of unworthiness. I thought I would share.]

Blessed are those who have done all they know how to do.
When they stop, God starts.
Blessed are those who resist the urge to prove themselves.
They are the owners of true wealth.
Blessed are those who understand that life is a process of growth and healing.
They will grow, and their minds will be healed.
Blessed are those who don't beat themselves up for making mistakes.
They will live a peace-filled life.
Blessed are those who realize they are doing the best they can.
They go within themselves to find a better way.
Blessed are those who hold no against-ness.
They will be open to new ideas and insights.
Blessed are those who keep working toward a better understanding of the truth of why they are.
They will ultimately find the truth.

If I had not...

If I had not done the online search, 

if I had not questioned everything,

if I had not said no,

if I had not said yes.

If I had not showed up, signed up. 

If I had not listened,

If I had not listened to myself,

If I had not opened by eyes. 

If I had not become nauseous and angry,

if I had not cried and wept alone,

if I had not wept in another's arms,

if I had not stood up. 

If I had not taken the risk,

if I had not taken the pen,

if I had not taken my voice back,

if I had not dug in my heels

And dug into the ground. 

If I had not picked up the phone,

if I had not looked into your eyes,

if I had not read from my own book, 

if I had not told truth. 

If I had not dragged myself through the door,

if I had not let go of conviction, 

if I had not bruised my heel,

if I had not moved. 

If I had not taken off my shoes,

if I had not covered my head, 

if I had not let my hair be,

if I had not learned. 

We would still know each other. 

You or me.

Let's see who is stronger.
     You or me.
Staring at this bricked wall counting.

There is nothing to wait for,
     No one to witness, after all
     no one can.
You have seen into me. You have taken
     away my own mind, riddled
          my body with your lies.
I have carried you through time,
     cradled and caressed you,
          clenched you hoping you would
               change.
You are still the filthy bastard you
     always were.
I hate you and I hate what you did to me.
I give you back all the tremors,
     fainting spells, shaking into tears
     falling, after five minutes
          dismantled, dronding in weighted
               sleep without function.
I give you back your "you will just get used to it."
You are not my blood anymore, you
     are not my tears, you are not my
          sweat, my hands, my neck, my
               back, my brain.
I stand here, clenching for the last
time.

Let's see who is stronger.
     You or me.
Staring at this bricked wall, counting.
     One,
          Two,

               You shattered so easily.


I am moving towards an empowered incarnation of myself.

It was you.

Clutching a pillow to my chest for safekeeping
Keeping safe heart center
Attacked by arrow words piercing
my confidence and exposing my shame.
What more can you blame me for?
Thank you for your honest lies, your sincere evasion, your blaming integrity.
I needed to be reminded of my victimization.
After all, the violation wasn't enough.
Am I the one who is pitiful?
Clutching a pillow to my chest for safekeeping,
keeping safe?
Am I the one who is weak?
Speaking with light blue light?
Cut into my left arm, stab through
the right side of my back, lock my
jaw, bind my feet.
My boundaries were not the problem.
It was you.

Let me tell you something.

Let me tell you something.
If a man was robbed at gunpoint, you wouldn't ask for details. You wouldn't wonder what he was wearing, what he did to lure the thief over to him, you wouldn't say he wanted to be robbed, you wouldn't condemn him for walking down that street at that time, you wouldn't condemn him for having money with him or wearing that watch.

Let me tell you something.
You would know that robber was a fucking thief and dangerous, and that's it. You wouldn't be worried about details because you know there are many ways to rob a person.

Let me tell you something.
The details don't fucking matter. I don't have to prove to you that violence was done to me. I don't have to measure it to your denial.

Let me tell you something.
You don't think every time I meet a man, I think about whether or not this guy could rape me? You don't think I'd like to know if a guy I was around was a sexual perpetrator? You don't think my safety is more important than your reputation?

Let me tell you something.
You completely told on yourself. You are sexist, you have blamed me for what is not my fault, and you are protecting your son from his own choices and consequences. Hypocrite, I thought you worked against oppression, not with it.

Let me tell you something.
You will not tell my story. You will not steal my voice.

Let me tell you something.
You are scared. I know you said you weren't, but let's be real. You are. 

Let me tell you something.
Your pause spoke mountains. You are not doing your own work. Your response has been a joke and completely inadequate. Don't pretend otherwise.

Let me tell you something.
This was not an isolated incident, but a chain of violations. You cannot do his work. You cannot control him. You don't know him better than he knows himself. You can't. You are writing his name on the jail cell.

Let me tell you something.
How dare you be angry at me for what you son has done. How dare you. How dare you think I set him back, that I interfered, as if I have done him or you some wrong. He made his choice. He continues to make his choices. Let's not forget who assaulted who.

Let me tell you something.
I am done with you.
Fuck you.


burning through anger to transformation

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.