and pulled down his pants and revealed himself to the audience
I was sixteen years old
Or seeing my mother beaten religiously
and still go out to work as if it hadn’t happened at all
Or even me surviving so many
incredible tests
Once when I was talking to a doctor, I doubted my strength
He looked at me incredulously and said, “You are strong.”
Another doctor looked at me
my suffering
And asked, “Isn’t anyone there for you?”
And another said, “You deserve to be taken care of.”
Today once more I am nursing my broken heart
Caused by someone who betrayed
was not honest
That and attending an event and asking white people to give up
their seats to Black people who couldn’t sit down
And seeing social justice in action
Yes I often think of Assotto for the important place
he resides in my history
But today I am examining his tactics
pulling the tools off the shelf
dusting off the weaponry
in an exhibit
because today I need to use what he taught me.
Today I feel that puff of rage
That continuous assault
And I want to stand up and testify
though I, too, haven’t been asked
I want to interrupt all the proceedings
all the places Black lesbians
have been erased
and silenced
Like looking down at a manuscript
seeing that they asked a young white woman to write about
Black queer history
when it’s been my area of expertise
forever
Or only attributing ’80s and ’90s AIDS activism
To ACT UP
I want the point of outrage now to not only the historicizing of AIDS
But the fact that women and Black lesbians
have been erased from the dialogue
When there were so many organizations like GMAD
Other Countries ADODI
Men of All Colors Together
Salsa Soul/AAlUSC
Las Buenas Amigas
and more
Or asking where are all the Black lesbians on Pose
because certainly they were on the piers and part of that history
And why are white men constantly at the helm
to tell our stories
And why don’t white queers recognize this
That and seeing panel after panel being organized on history and art
all things important to the world and no one thinking or noticing
it might be important to have a Black lesbian present
Just like they kicked Stormé out of
the Stonewall narrative.
And what about the people who weren’t on the streets
but in jobs
fighting the system
The dykes and queers meeting each other forming community
and connections and families
and love
Just like in South Africa where they prevented intermingling
but ways were found
And each time we touched or loved
found each other in darkness and light
It was resistance
Each time we told each other you’re beautiful
You’re not wrong
It was resistance
When we stood up to the parents and families
and courts and those that shunned us
It was resistance
Wore what we really wanted
It was resistance
Yelled at doctors and drug professionals
It was resistance
Every time we wrote and read poems
It was resistance
Every time some queer kid
stays alive because they saw us
read us
discovered the archive
We’ve won
Every war is fought on our bodies
And one day after the gender racial
sexual orientation wars are over
in America
there will be a new generation
just like in South Africa called
the Born Frees.
A NEW STORY
I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN from the start there’d be trouble when we were listening to a song, she started to twerk and said, “I’ll be Rhianna and you be Drake.”
“Drake?! I’m never Drake. Drake doesn’t do anything he just stands there and folds his arms!” I said it was telling that she saw herself as the star and me her back-up dancer. It was a way of rendering me invisible but maybe I don’t need to say that. I want to write a story about being trapped in a story.
I see myself as a mime, one you see outdoors with the sad white painted face appearing with hands to scale a wall or like they are trapped in a box somehow. Someone asks, “What’s wrong?” and the mime turns to a sign: “Help I’m trapped in a story.”
Sometimes it’s my own story that I repeat over and over my patterns, my past, my getting involved with people who render me invisible, people who make me part of their background, and it doesn’t quite matter what my story is, but the purpose of this is my frustration with myself at repeating my own story, how many times I peer outside of the box to see there’s a new story, possibly a new beginning, freedom but I’m trapped in my own story. I see it in their eyes when they are talking to me, and it’s a story but very rarely is it my story. It’s their story. It’s inaccurate and they become enraged at me for the story they’ve told themselves about me, and I see them kicking and punching at the ghost they’ve created, the monster in their story.
And it’s my dream that if this were a movie or a music video or something one day I’ll get a speaking part. One day, I’ll be able to participate in my own story or the one that’s told about me.
One day I’ll have a conversation
or someone will stop to have a conversation with me
not the person they’ve made
but the person I am
and I’ll get to live outside the box
And all those untold stories in me
all those bruises
all those suppressions
lack of being able to participate
have landed in my belly
and turned to rot
and it’s always so small and confining and I can’t get away because it’s their story and it’s like a noose around my neck pulled tight my feet dangling in air.
I’m liking some of the preachers these days
where they posit the possibility of a new world
one lived in spirit
Not living in the constant matrix
of fear, doubt, lack, limitation, not-enoughness
Like a ping pong back and forth
greed envy
our daily bread.
I don’t want to leave you there so I am creating a new mantra for myself.
Say it with me:
I am going to write a new story.
I am going to write a new story.
MARKED SAFE
FOR STONEWALL 50
I want to thank the maestro Tim Gunn,
Heidi Klum, also every episode of Project Runway and Runway All-Stars,
Every gay and lesbian contestant that ever sewed, stitched sequins to dresses
or pantaloons
every queer who ever threw a tantrum, walked out and came back to win.
Thank you to the Jersey and
