Transcendence.

In Thebes, the origin story of Atum the Creator involved Earth and sky's division into Seth & Nephthys, a third gender; both non-binary, by nature.  

In Greek and Roman antiquity, 

there ruled a Goddess named Cybele, 

whose followers transitioned, famously, from male into females.

Ugandans, once upon a time, raged against restrictive gender norms, as priests and Teso tribesmen preferred prints made for the women in their homes

Adoration filled the eagle-eyed Indigenous tribes in pre-colonial times,

as they celebrated sacred two-spirits who  enhanced their lives.

Hijras have existed, in India, for as long as the festival of lights, 

but it wasn't until this century

that they earned economic rights. 

When Joyita Mondal was elected India's first transgender judge, bangles clinked in thunderous applause. Determined to aid her sisters, she abolished trans-exclusionary laws.

Throughout the his and hers-tory
of the world to date, 

our gentle, gender variant friends 

were visible, and loved.

It wasn't until religion won that 

they were forced into prisons.

What good is false piety,

if all it does is inflict pain?

Why can't these wicked men 

see their prayers are pointless, 

when their palms are stained with blood?

To this day, we sidestep around inclusion in our own communities;
safe spaces only for some,
as they centre on cisnormativity.
Like false apostle wrestlers
who rarely sit and listen,
we landed in a sea of thistles,
silenced like the 'T' in 'LGBT',
and 'whistle'.

Somehow, over the muffled screams, 

we have the nerve to call our cultures civilized, when just last year alone, the U.S of Assassination claimed twenty-five innocent trans-lives. 

When trans-people of colour were disproportionately targeted in these attacks, when will we learn to love instead of separating white from black?  

Until our politics are stripped of poisoned prejudice, 

gender nonconforming folx can only 

live in fear of further violence.

Unless our sisters have access to

healthcare, housing, and are gainfully employed, we cannot pretend there's progress until discrimination's been destroyed. 

Give them power through our platform;

lift them up so they can stand alone;

make them feel like mighty Marsha P.  

starting revolutions with a single stone.

We mustn't forget race and sex were never choices that we consciously made.

Let us fight for our most vulnerable, and

amplify their muted voices that fragile men forbade. 

Let us resist until they return to their rightful places next to us once again. This civil rights movement demands the overdue acceptance of our global trans-families and friends. 

We will not evolve until they can be seen without also being afraid. Only once their suffering will finally end, will we ever be able to appreciate their truth, and their transcendence. 

x

Arachne.

Carrying her sorrows in silken sac,
unwavering whilst weaving wildly.
Under sombre sun and callous cloud,
she spits and hisses, feeling jilted.

Centuries since she's been hopeful,
eight eyes, wide open, filled with wonder.
Mourning every almost happy ending
crushed each time she lost a blessing.

Scarlet letters sealed her fate as a spinster,
wrongfully accused of eating men for dinner.
Society classified her as a sinner,

once jade and emerald, now a black widow.

So she spun her salience armed for battle;
no army could have anticipated her arrival.
Adorned in a coat made of her ex-lovers;
Hell hath no fury like the venom inside her.

Mamta.

Your strained voice
cries out to me, like the sage sitar.
It sings a sobering song
that transports me through sand.

Suddenly, a memory of your
loving care becomes so real.

I watch, awestruck,
as you took my tears
then weaved them into cloth.
Embroidered with golden silks
you pulled from the fabric
of your heart.

We never had much,
but your patience had me convinced
you were the palace in which we lived.

I exhale—only the warmth of love
and adoration escapes from my lungs;
in you, we have the stars.

Despite the struggle,
we only ever tasted the sweet saffron
you skillfully slipped into our souls.

Shalimar is in you;
my mother IS a Taj Mahal.
Her every breath's a nectar;
it is cardamom's caress.

I would reanimate a hundred thousand times
just to relive the splendour of her shadow;
it was the sunrise of my lifetime.

I would relive every sadness behind my eyes
just to breathe the soothing citrus-scented air
of her orange grove.

I have never come so close to saintliness,
and I can soundly say
my spirit has never been the same.

Aminata's Refrain.

If a Marula tree falls in the woods, and no one is around; does it even make a sound?

What about when a warrior queen wails for the infant son who's been ripped right out of her shaking arms?

Does anybody hear it? Even if their tattoo tears concealed it, I know their eyes still had to see it.

Mother Africa wept silently through all those strife-filled years, her only solace lie in knowing that her stoic sun was near.

Blazing high up in the sky or beating against the scorching dirt, he wanted their invading feet to burn, just like their crackling whip that hurt.

As the neutral Earth tones blushed, imprinted by innocent blood, a permanent stain remained to ensure their names would not be washed away by monsoon rains.

Being sold out by neighbouring tribes hurt more than these pale faces whom they'd never seen before upon their shores. 

Was it even worth the reward of being the last prisoner whose head banged against the wooden floor?

Thrown into the stomach of a sardonic ghost ship, with the same siblings they had just helped the enemy enslave. 

Instantly swallowed alive by all the hateful eyes that questioned why they'd danced with these devils anyway.

And so it had begun, the beginning of humanity's end; when our brothers became animals to the very monsters who stopped seeing them as men.

Down here it was pitch dark and silent, just like the jungle, late at night; their vision struggled to make sense of whether they'd died or were somehow still alive.

The foul stench of rotten flesh filled the fetid air; whispered prayers shouted loudly for a creator who was neither here nor there.

As the rocking beast screeched to a sudden halt, sunlight peeked through cracks in its rotting walls. 

Perhaps their saviour had heard their cries after all? Maybe justice would be served and this evil would be stalled?

And so, these beautiful souls believed their torture was over and done.

My heart still aches to know their captors
were just starting to have their fun.

Shackled like chattel, and less worthless than cattle—they were poked and prodded by demons who believed they were far from godless heathens.

Wade in the water, children, we shall overcome, but not until we rise up against the poison in their souls.

Your acidic heart of insecurities could never break my spirit, it can only break my bones.

Just you wait and see what my maker has in store for me—you'll only know my agony when you're the one in chains, and I'm the one who's free.

Birds Of A Feather.

She walks with her head held high, with the majesty of birds of prey. With her hips swinging rhythmically, she commands any room she enters, turning heads for different reasons. Her gait emulates American bald eagles, yet society solely see her as a peacock.

A woman can only be pretty, they say her beauty is all that defines her. These double standards are restrictive, and prevent girls from becoming hawks; it forces them into a brand, then keeps them locked up in a box.

Pigeonholed by the age of three, young women are being programmed to believe they can only be desired for their looks.
They are discouraged from being bold, ridiculed for being brave but males—they can be anything and are supported by their peers.

For a female to be confident like a crow, or as self-important as a snowy owl is demeaning. She must possess the grace of a crane, or like a bird of paradise, she should be aesthetically appealing.  

Some of her sisters even keep their distance, choosing to side with their oppressors who coop them up like chickens. What they fail to see is that these false concepts were created by frightened men in suits in conference rooms, and board room meetings.  

They were designed to keep women inferior, and confined to lives centred on their wombs which they cannot even control. Unjust ideals invented to prevent equality, to ensure that daughters of Eve stay in their lanes that lead to dead ends on one way streets. 

For a sister or a mother to aspire to fly is laughable to men who have never even attempted to take flight. They think their superiority is innate, because their fathers tell them lies that are then corroborated by heads of state.

Whether equality is ever achieved or not, I still believe it is more admirable to be a bird with clipped wings who is determined to soar, than a cowardly ostrich with his head buried deep in the dirt.

It is still preferable to see these young ladies rallying together as ravens, instead of conceding to defeat from their counterparts, cackling geese who have become complacent. 

Comfortable with the idea of spending their existence as common pheasants instead of daring to be different.  Wrens whose wings were rendered obsolete, toucans who traded in beaks for pressed white dress shirts, higher wages, and a false concept of masculinity that is so weak.

They are threatened by free women, like the huntress lioness who provides for her hungry children. Men are emasculated by matriarchs who are self-sufficient as their existence relies on feeling needed.  A woman who prevails without a male unnerves them to their very core.

Without the women they marginalized, upon whom they are still dependent, these daft dodo birds helplessly become endangered. They are then sentenced to death by the same double standards they delivered, a fate more bittersweet than it is sour.  

Even the most explicitly misogynistic males transform into mourning doves once they are deprived of their subjugated swans' direction. Suddenly, there is no evidence of their strength and they are lost without the guidance of the quetzal queens they counted as mere possessions.