WOC writing about self-actualization

sometimes change is an uphill battle but luckily books have their way of finding me at the right time. i wrote this a few days before i reached page 45 into gloria anzaldúa's la frontera. there is a similar tone and analogy. i am inspired and reassured by her writing: her content and its structure (and lack of it).

She left in the end of fall, beginning anew in the dead of winter. Heaving boxes up stairwells in hailstorms and thunder, she challenged the world to open up—to welcome her.

She stirs in bed, alone, fitful and weighted down by the potential of tomorrow.

Inauspicious, yes, but she was one to challenge the spirits. They would hold duels, push and pull. The lightening raised its voice beyond her own. She knew this but would fight before giving in.

Anzaldúa:
"...And though she was unable to spread her limbs and though for her right now the sun has sunk under the earth and there is no moon, she continues to tend the flame. The spirit of the fire spurs her to fight for her own skin and a piece of ground to stand on, a ground from which to view the world-- a perspective, a homeground where she can plumb the rich ancestral roots into her own ample mestiza heart. She waits till the waters are not so turbulent and the mountains not so slippery with sleet. Battered and bruised she waits, her bruises throwing her back upon herself and the rhythmic pulse of the feminine. Coatlalopeuh waits with her."

an honest profile*

If my heart and my mind could bleed in ink, they would scrawl that I am tired of dates talking about neo-liberal politics. Stop telling me that capitalism offers solutions; you are ruining my dessert. I am tired of men who think their brain-power correlates to their dick-power. I am tired of dates acting like I have never changed or that I do not have the right to grow beyond their level. High school was a decade ago, homeboy. Sorry, I am particularly busy this weekend if you are a male my age who believes he is a gangster or a hipster-ly grandfather. Or worse, if you are a man who mistakes himself for my teacher. I am not here to take notes on your lecture, please do not email me your powerpoint. I am not asking to be psychoanalyzed. I can find a therapist on my own. I am in the process of shaping myself so I believe I know her better than you.

Look, if my heart and my mind could sing in ink, they would scat in poetic prose. My soul would place clues of herself around Town: a few books strung in eucalyptus trees, scars from running on the schoolyard, teardrops swimming in the Lake, and a memory of the first time I heard Tupac rap. Listen closely as she whispers stories of her people, marvel as her skin dances to rhythmic sunny afternoons, support her though she may tremble-- unraveling a warrior's wounds. Know that to completely find her, you must weather the rain, wait for marigolds to bloom in spring, then you might enjoy the shade of her garden, begin investigating that which hides in the shadows.

If you are lucky, you may find her at sunrise. Overlooking her city, she commemorates previous iterations of herself. If you are courageous, you may follow her today. Alongside her. Reverent.


*Dating always feels like a social experiment. On the bright side, I appreciate the opportunities to get to know who and what I like and don’t like, who I am, who I am not and even who I refuse to be.