gifte

louque:

tranqualizer:

lotus-eyes:

‘I’m tired of people asking me to smooth my name out for them.

They want me to bury it in the English so they can understand.

I will not accommodate the word for mouth.

I will not break my name so your lazy English can sleep its tongue on top.

Fix your lips around them.

No you CAN’T give me a stupid nickname so that you can replace this gift of five letters.’

!!!!!

“you shouldn’t treat a breath as carelessly as this”

*fluttering heart*

mayachapina
mayachapina:

Why look I will be reading. It’s been a while!
genderedborders:

Indigenous Women Reading Poetry “From Turtle Island to Abya Yala” 
 Friday, March 9, 2012 7:00 pm “From Turtle Island to Abya Yala” is a love anthology of art and poetry by Native American & Latina women which was published in 2011 (and available at Gathering Tribes). This event will joyfully feature several of the poets whose work is in the anthology. 
 Poets and artists featured in the forthcoming book include: Margaret “Quica” Alarcon, Adelina Anthony, Cathy Arellano, Natasha Beeds, Natalie Bell, LeAndra Bitsie, Maylei Blackwell, Nanette Bradley Deetz, Robin Carneen, Melanie Cervantes, Alethea Chamberlain, Melanie Chan, Pamela “EYA” Chavez, Maya Chinchilla, Cihuatl-Ce, Susana “Sonji” Figueroa, Alapay Baa-Hozho Flores, Margarita Alex Flores, Jennifer Elise Foerster, Raven Fonseca, Happy Frejo, Gabriela Garcia Medina, Karina González Amaya, Reva Mariah Gover, Sonia Gutiérrez, Celeste Guzman Mendoza, Nayeli Guzmán, Melanie Printup Hope, Lillian Jackson, Marjorie Jensen, Rosa M. Hernández, ire’ne lara silva, Jaynie Lara (Weye Hlapsi), Kristina Lovato-Hermann, Celeste De Luna, Luna Maia, Nancy Magdaleno, Celia Monge Mana, Griselda Liz Muñoz, Sharah Nieto, Amparo Ochoa, Sara Marie Ortiz, Alejandra Oseguera, Pennie Opal Plant, Brianna Lea Pruett, Naomi Quiñonez, Maria Gisella Ramirez, Cassandra P. Rendon, Gabriela Spears Rico, annie ross, Kanyon Sayers-Roods, Kim Shuck, SistaHailstorm, Cinnamon Spear, Nazbah Tom, Theresa Turmel, Mica Valdez, Linda Vallejo, Vickie Vértiz, Martha Villa, Lela Northcross Wakely, Amy JB Wagner, and Sherry Wilson. Cover artwork by Nayeli Guzman.Gathering Tribes is a Native American woman owned gallery in Albany, California. In March of every year Gathering Tribes celebrates women with events featuring Indigenous women the Bay Area. 

mayachapina:

Why look I will be reading. It’s been a while!

genderedborders:



Indigenous Women Reading Poetry “From Turtle Island to Abya Yala” 

 Friday, March 9, 2012 7:00 pm 

“From Turtle Island to Abya Yala” is a love anthology of art and poetry by Native American & Latina women which was published in 2011 (and available at Gathering Tribes). This event will joyfully feature several of the poets whose work is in the anthology. 

 Poets and artists featured in the forthcoming book include: Margaret “Quica” Alarcon, Adelina Anthony, Cathy Arellano, Natasha Beeds, Natalie Bell, LeAndra Bitsie, Maylei Blackwell, Nanette Bradley Deetz, Robin Carneen, Melanie Cervantes, Alethea Chamberlain, Melanie Chan, Pamela “EYA” Chavez, Maya Chinchilla, Cihuatl-Ce, Susana “Sonji” Figueroa, Alapay Baa-Hozho Flores, Margarita Alex Flores, Jennifer Elise Foerster, Raven Fonseca, Happy Frejo, Gabriela Garcia Medina, Karina González Amaya, Reva Mariah Gover, Sonia Gutiérrez, Celeste Guzman Mendoza, Nayeli Guzmán, Melanie Printup Hope, Lillian Jackson, Marjorie Jensen, Rosa M. Hernández, ire’ne lara silva, Jaynie Lara (Weye Hlapsi), Kristina Lovato-Hermann, Celeste De Luna, Luna Maia, Nancy Magdaleno, Celia Monge Mana, Griselda Liz Muñoz, Sharah Nieto, Amparo Ochoa, Sara Marie Ortiz, Alejandra Oseguera, Pennie Opal Plant, Brianna Lea Pruett, Naomi Quiñonez, Maria Gisella Ramirez, Cassandra P. Rendon, Gabriela Spears Rico, annie ross, Kanyon Sayers-Roods, Kim Shuck, SistaHailstorm, Cinnamon Spear, Nazbah Tom, Theresa Turmel, Mica Valdez, Linda Vallejo, Vickie Vértiz, Martha Villa, Lela Northcross Wakely, Amy JB Wagner, and Sherry Wilson. Cover artwork by Nayeli Guzman.

Gathering Tribes is a Native American woman owned gallery in Albany, California. In March of every year Gathering Tribes celebrates women with events featuring Indigenous women the Bay Area. 

myqueertestimony

myqueertestimony:

Submitted by TAYLOR, Age 18, Saint Petersburg, FL (thecuntmentality)

Poem and Video titled:“Confused Child”

About the project:

Hey y’all. My name is Taylor and I wrote a poem. It’s mostly about my experience as growing up queer in an environment that was pretty that was dead set against it. Also, trigger warning for an anti-gay slur, the f one, as well as references to drug use, self- mutilation, and violence against queer folk.

Confused Child

Are you a boy or a girl?

Comes the daily question

Through a tiny body, searching me

Up and down and burning

Like the sun with curiosity

Right against me

And I say “No, not really,”

But I can tell she doesn’t understand

So she turns and asks my six year old brother

Jordan, her classmate 

And he looks up at me and says “I don’t know,”

In a way that means

He stopped trying to figure it out a while ago

Because boy or girl doesn’t

Really matter when I’m cooking him dinner

Or racing him down the street on our bikes

Or catching fireflies at night

Though he does call me sissy

But that’s alright ‘cos the only other thing

He calls me is a poophead

On those mornings where he’s cranky

From staying up too late at night

Watching old Disney movies

And eating popcorn in my lap

So the little girl shrugs her shoulders 

And asks me what color to use for her pumpkin

And that’s just it

See I was always taught that

Gay and transgender were dirty words

That I picked up from whispers

When my family didn’t think I was listening

‘Cos 5 year old me would

Have been confused

And yeah I was

‘Cos I didn’t know 

There was a word for

How I felt about

Lucy Lawless in her skin-tight leather armor

And mini skirt

Or why I got tingly when every time

She hugged Gabrielle 

And why I was angry when it wasn’t me

But it would have been really helpful to know

Starting from age eleven

Why I took every second I could

To stare at the back of bodies

Not understanding where

Mine was suppose to fit into

And I can vouch that

It much more confusing

At 13

To why it was right for me

To put a silencer over my heart

Every time my best friend

Stood next to me

To quiet the love

Pounding in my chest

Because she said that when Cody came out

He was a stupid fag and she’d

Never speak a word to him again

But I knew by the end of 

Our eight grade summer

Written with her lips on my skin the 

Only reason why she even said it

Was to cover up who she was to her mother

And that is why we would never be

For the first year I hated her but now

I just feel sorry for her

Because I know the fear that mother proposes 

Of not being wanted

And the feeling of having to apologize for who you’ll love 

And who you are

I’ve cut shards of her disappointment

That ran so deep,

Against my body

I’ve crushed white hot angry stares

At my haircut and silent arguments

Into a fine white line

And snorted inside so it would hit

Hard. Like the fists I met 

At night

Or walking home alone

And I stopped telling my family

The real reason I came home

With bruises & bloody knuckles

Because I knew she would just say

Well this is the choice you made

And I wish you’d stop acting like

This is just a phase I’m going through

It’s not a magic flip that will shut off in my head

Or some gay till graduation bullshit

This skin is super queer

And the only one I’ve ever felt 

Comfortable in 

And I’ve learned a lot since being 5

So I can tell you that I am done

Saying sorry for not living up to the

Expectations you instilled in

All six pounds and nine

Ounces of my body at birth

And no 

I will not treat gay or trans*

Like a dirty word in front of my brothers or

Any other child for that matter

I will not turn off movies

That depict boyqueens

Or girls kissing

And you stop worrying about confusing a child

Because children are confused quite often

It’s all apart of learning

Especially since Jordan is still convinced

That you can only get chocolate milk

From the brown cows 

And the reason my seven year old cousin

Follows up every question with “well, why”

And I think you should ask yourself

Really, really ask yourself

Who is acting like a confused child

When the first person I came out to

Logan when he was five

And when he was eight

I asked if instead of “she” he would say “they”

And all he said was “okay”

And I fuckin’ hope

That there will be one day the world grows up

It’ll be that simple

So when the little girl asks

what color she think I should use for her pumpkin

She follows it up with

“Pumpkins are really orange

But I want to use purple…”

And I tell her

“Did you know that not all pumpkins were

The same color

And it’s okay to use purple

Because a pumpkin is still a pumpkin

Even if its different.”

newanddifferentsun

the-madame-hatter:

mysteroo:

[Trigger warning: Anti-Trans Violence] Nebraska - Miles Walser.

For years you hid your tampons between mattresses, cut your hair short, lowered your voice, collected ace bandages and baggy clothes. Small town talk stuck to your shoulders, you nervously shuffled around gas stations, never looked men in the eyes. We share unwanted wombs. While mine collects cobwebs, yours lies in a coffin in Nebraska.

This is the state that made you famous, handed movie scripts to Hilary Swank. Your murder was Oscar worthy. We are walking obituaries. Your hate crime headline already carved across my forehead, people look at me and see your delicate hands and absent adam’s apple.

Brother, I’m afraid to use the bathroom… (Walk in, head down, don’t look at another guy.) I’m afraid I’ll be discovered… (Don’t talk, dont stare, don’t piss too quickly.) Some thick armed man will call me a queer, tell me to show him my tits. Suddenly I’m thrown against faucets, spit in my face, workboot gutting my stomach. I see you on the movie screen and wonder if it’s my reflection. I watch them push you into the dirt and drag me into their car as they break our bodies in between our thighs.

Brother, did it hurt when you kissed her goodbye? Did you know you were breaking your promise when you told her you’d come back? Did your parents panic? Buy you a prom dress? Struggle over pronouns at family gatherings? And how long did it take your girlfriend to run her hands along your skin, soft as hers? Did she leave her eyes open?

We are carcasses. Untouched boxes of condoms. We are public secrets, playground jokes, and horror films. We are costumes, stuffing, binding and makeup. We aren’t real men to them. Invisible til we’re screaming. They don’t remember our names until they read them on our tombstones.

They exposed you. Decided you’re better off as splattered ink on newspaper. Used you as a warning for the rest of us. And there are days when it works. Sometimes I forget that sidewalks can be safe. Sometimes I confuse their shooting eyes for the bullet that met yours. Sometimes I imagine the phone call my mother would get. Can almost hear my sobbing friends. Smell the lillies on my casket. Touch my girlfriend’s black dress. But brother, I am trying to be brave.

whoa.

onceuponanotsolongtimeago

suzyxisntreal:

paperjay:

sharvondaphotog:

Kai’s “controversial” poem. This topic I can definitely relate to as someone who was told in high school that I “act white” because I got straight A’s, and in college, “I thought you were stupid until you spoke” because I’m black. (Had to compress it all crazy to get it to upload to Tumblr. It had to be removed from “other outlets” due to verbal content. But what happens on Tumblr, stays on Tumblr.) … ;-) 

god can i marry this person

I think I wanna be your best friend, yeah

Just listen.

livelaughawesome

livelaughawesome:

I have this necklace, or maybe I’d call it a bowtie.
Either way, it seems to fit quite nice.
Because when I put it on, I’m transformed.

I’m no longer a woman,
with breasts, and beautiful eyes.
Except I don’t become a man either,
with big muscles, and handsome features.

The necklace begins with a clasp,
as do they all,
and golden pearls continue all the way down
until you hit
a golden bowtie.

The pearls scream fem,
but the bowtie screams mas,
and all together,
it screams different.

When people look at me,
they try to see the binary,
they try to see what will make them comfortable,
they try to see a woman who’s in the kitchen,
or a man who’s on the field.

When I look at myself,
I need a magnifying glass just to understand
the curves and angles of my face,
my body,
and my mind.

I don’t mind the dresses,
and I actually really enjoy the suits.
And what I really like to do is throw on a blazer,
with gold-lined high heels underneath.

Most of the textbooks say I’m a woman,
because of my body.
And the other textbooks say I should feel like a man,
because I don’t feel right in my body.
Where are the textbooks that say I can be a little of both,
or neither at all?
Where are the textbooks that teach me this part of myself?
After all, they’re supposed to exist to help us learn.

Unless the bathroom you want to enter isn’t the one with your stick figure on it.
And unless your driver’s license has the right letter under “gender”.

Unless you do what they all say,
and be the gender you were born into,
you’ll never be normal.

Except some of them say that you
don’t need to be what you were born,
but that you just need to pick one.
And then you’ll be normal, and only a little different.

Where are they who say that I can be both?
Are those people only fantasies in my head?

I like to think these people are in my bowtie necklace,
helping me learn me,
helping me learn my mind,
helping me learn my heart.
Because when I put it on, I become somebody else.

I become me.
A third-gender, or sometimes,
it feels like a fourth.

You’re silly. This wasn’t horrible at all. I loved it, truly <3

Love,

Taylor

thelaceserpent

[Trigger: Video speaks of rape, street harassment and violence]

kendallthegirl:

^^^^^^^ YES!

BOOOM! THIS!

Lyrics:

When I see a man approach and I cast down my eyes
I’m not laying down a hand, I’m not looking for a prize
It’s just a force of habit, this avoiding the male glance
Cos it isn’t worth the trouble and it isn’t worth the chance
Of them thinking that you’re actively ‘giving them the eye’
And not simply acknowledging a fellow passerby
And no, I don’t know what they’re thinking but I know what men have THOUGHT
And I live by my experiences and the lessons I’ve been taught
In a society where one such glance could put me in great danger
I’d rather look down at the floor than smile at a stranger
And in this tragedy of modern times where every man’s a threat
And every woman on her own is clearly ‘asking for it’
I fight and fight and fucking FIGHT to keep my head held high
So if I’m not catching your glances I’ll be looking at the SKY
And I’ve seen the way things could be and I’ve seen the way things are
And there’s nothing nice or wholesome about murder, rape, or war
And there’s absolutely nothing fair about the lack of equal pay
Or the fact that thousands of women are assaulted EVERY DAY
And that’s what’s running through my mind as I walk down the street
So don’t judge me if I look away
And if our eyes SHOULD meet
Just ask yourself how you would feel before you turn to shout
If you were always half-afraid of men when you went out
And ask yourself how you would feel if every single day
When you went to your wardrobe or you walked a certain way
You had to wonder what a judge would say about your skirt
And whether if you wear those heels you’re asking to get hurt
And whether you should have a drink or stick with lemonade
Because you know how many women every minute are betrayed 
By someone they thought they could trust, or who they have just met
And whether you can go outside and smoke a cigarette 
Without dealing with the ‘banter’ from the usual drunk lout
And whether you’ll need the alarm in the handbag you brought out
And whether you should call a friend to walk the journey home
Because you know you’re vulnerable when you’re walking alone
So if you see me in the street don’t ask me for a smile
And don’t assume I dress for you or appreciate your vile
Assertion of ownership on a body that’s my own
When all I really want to do is make it safely home
Cos I’m already fighting to be here in the first place
Without having to worry about a smile upon my face
So don’t attempt to hit on me with chauvinistic bile
And before you comment on my shoes 
TRY WALKING IN THEM FOR A MILE.

sivousvoulez-deactivated2012010

whosaysilikerightangles:

Have you ever held hands with a woman?

 

Yes, many times—women about to deliver, women about to have

breasts removed, wombs removed, miscarriages, women having

epileptic fits, having asthma, cancer, women having breast

bone marrow sucked out of them by nervous or indifferent

interns, women with heart condition, who were vomiting, over-

dosed, depressed, drunk, lonely to the point of extinction:

women who have been run over, beaten up. deserted. starved.

women who had been bitten by rats; and women who were

happy, who were celebrating, who were dancing with me in

large circles or alone, women who were climbing mountains

or up and down walls, or trucks or roofs and needed a boost

up, or I did; women who simply wanted to hold my hand because

they liked me, some women wanted to hold my hand because

they liked me better than anyone….


You have kissed other women?

 

Yes, many, some of the finest women I know, I have kissed.

women who were lonely, women I didn’t know and didn’t want

to, but kissed because that was a way to say yes we are

still alive and loveable, though separate, women who recog-

nized a loneliness in me, women who were hurt, I confess

to kissing the top of a 55 year old woman’s head in the snow

in boston, who was hurt more deeply than I have ever been

hurt, and I wanted her as a very few people have wanted me—

I wanted her and me to own and control and run the city we

lived in, to staff the hospital I knew would mistreat her,

to drive the transportation system that had betrayed her, to

patrol the streets controlling the men who would murder or

disfigure or disrupt us, not accidentally with machines, but

on purpose, because we are not allowed out on the street

alone—


Have you ever committed any indecent acts with women?

 

Yes, many. I am guilty of allowing suicidal women to die

before my eyes or in my ears or under my hands because I

thought I could do nothing, I am guilty of leaving a pros-

titute who held a knife to my friend’s throat to keep us from

leaving, because we would not sleep with her, we thought

she was old and fat and ugly; I am guilty of not loving

her who needed me; I regret all the women I have not slept

with or comforted, who pulled themselves away from me for

lack of something I had not the courage to fight for, for us,

our life, our planet, our city, our meat and potatoes, our

love. These are indecent acts, lacking courage, lacking

a certain fire behind the eyes, which is the symbol, the

raised fist, the sharing of resources, the resistance that

tells death he will starve for lack of the fat of us, our

extra. Yes I have committed acts of indecency with women

and most of them were acts of omission. I regret them

bitterly. 

—- a few excerpts from ‘a woman is talking to death’ by judy grahn. this poem is amazing.