Thursday, March 31, 2011

[Homenaje a Selena] Virgen Morena de Tacones Altos: Selena y Yo en el Aire

Selena
[April 16, 1971 - March 31, 1995]


Virgen Morena de Tacones Altos: Selena y Yo en el Aire

virgencita bailadora

escucha a quien ruega
que el año aproxima y agrega

otro sin poderte ver

virgencita de voz
de escote blindado
eres mezcla de llano
de sol
arrebatada en un soplo

escucha el desfile de historias
del por qué es que te fuiste
desquiciando la fe

si rogarte con cumbias no es sagrado
que me lleve el viento para acompañarte de una vez

santa del ritmo tejano
ven a escucharme
que la riña que traigo invadiendo
coloniza mi vientre

virgen del busto venerado
hablando en tu idioma
llegué a arribar en tu suelo
desde tierras lejanas

vengo buscando en tu terreno
respuesta al desdén social que hay en mí
que el haber sido penetrado sin forro
fue método más no la razón del existir
del fin de tanto y comienzo para buscarme en ti

mi color como en ti
mi lengua igual de desigual
y mi cuerpo que marchita como la flor en ti
buscando en tu imagen maneras para sobrevivir

________________________________________________________
 Santo de la Pata Alzada: Poems from the Queer/Xicano/Positive Pen 
[Evelyn Street Press, 2005]

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Change.org Posts: LGBT People of Color, LGBT Movement, LGBT Racism, People of Color Homophobia

Last year, I was recruited to be a writer for Change.org's Race in America cause (since incorporated into the Human Rights cause). For about half a year, I was a part of a crew of bloggers offering commentary on topics related to race and racism in the U.S. The experience was phenomenal and gave me the opportunity to work with some cutting-edge thinkers and editors. Although I am no longer writing for Change.org, I have organized the pieces by theme(s) and providing their respective links on Hairspray & Fideo.

The following pieces were written in response to issues related to LGBT People of Color, the LGBT Movement, LGBT Racism and People of Color Homophobia.












Monday, March 21, 2011

Tragic Bitches Do Las Vegas

Photo Credit: Troy Wise [Image Amplified]


Adelina Anthony, Dino Foxx and I are reading from our recently published book:


[Kórima Press, 2011]



As part of Women's History Month, we'll be performing in Las Vegas!

Thursday, March 24, 2011 -- 7pm
University of Nevada, Las Vegas
Maryland Parkway 
Student Union Room 208
Las Vegas, NV

For more information or to purchase Tragic Bitches, visit tragicbitches.com

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Change.org Posts: Arizona SB1070, Anti-Immigrant Hysteria

Last year, I was recruited to be a writer for Change.org's Race in America cause (since incorporated into the Human Rights cause). For about half a year, I was a part of a crew of bloggers offering commentary on topics related to race and racism in the U.S. The experience was phenomenal and gave me the opportunity to work with some cutting-edge thinkers and editors. Although I am no longer writing for Change.org, I have organized the pieces by theme(s) and providing their respective links on Hairspray & Fideo.


The following pieces were written in response to Arizona SB1070, related arguments and events, and other anti-immigrant hysteria.


[Click the links for full article on Change.org]












Wednesday, March 2, 2011

We Were Here: My Meditation, Mourning and Homage to a Necessary Film

A few weeks ago, my compañero and I went to the Castro Theater to catch Burlesque (because the movie isn’t gay enough already). During the previews, one came up about a documentary on the AIDS pandemic in San Francisco.


The title:
We Were Here: Voices From The AIDS Years in San Francisco.


The minute the preview was over, I knew I had to return to the theater to see it alone. Not out of my anti-social nature, but because I wanted to sit and take communion with the stories of these men. Just as communion is a private moment between the believer and god, I wanted my private moment with the men who paved the way for me.


Last night, I went to church. First stop: Walgreens for tissue. Then, it was off to the Castro Theater. A bag of popcorn, some water and a dark corner later, I was ready to partake.


David Weissman, the director of the film, gave a brief introduction. Two sentences into his welcome a tear began to gather. Just like my old Pentecostal church days, the stream of tears continued throughout the movie. Only this time, my body wasn’t trying to cleanse the sin and impurity of loving men, it was honoring and thanking the men who made it possible for my way of loving to exist.


We Were Here is a powerful and necessary documentary. The thread of stories, the trembling voices of those interviewed, and the faces of those violently attacked, are all the weaving of a story tied to my own.


My training would have me write about the ways in which the film could have further reflected the diversity of our communities and the layered complexities experienced by men of color. By now, we know well that the presence of HIV/AIDS in our communities is complicated by the amalgamation of racism, classism and sexism (which homophobia stems from), as well as many other ‘isms and ‘phobias. Yet, today I present no critique.



Instead, I offer my gratitude to the people who made this film possible. I offer my indebtedness to Ed Wolf, Paul Poneberg, Daniel Godlstein, Guy Clark and Eileen Glutzer for their stories, and, more importantly, the gift of their love and fierceness at the peak of our shared catastrophe. 



I offer my love to the men who are now spirit.




As a queer man, I honor the lives of the men we lost because our families did not know better. Lost, because a country would leave us to die as something less than human. Lost, because a god of mercy was used as an excuse to rid his followers from following a doctrine of compassion. Lost, because a government couldn’t or wouldn’t move fast enough. Lost, because of a belief that we somehow deserve this.


I am part of the brood, the children, of generations of men whose love was called a sin. Men who did nothing wrong. Men who were castigated for loving and desiring one another. Men whose love and desire were acts of resistance.



I am a descendant of these men. My love and desire are also acts of resistance. My body, my writing and the love I have learned to construct and partake in, are all offerings I bring to the altar of their memory.



They are here still



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