Design for Trauma.

When my moods change without prediction, I withdraw into my shell.  Like an ostrich obstructing its arrest, I plant my head safely into the ground.  Although life has thrown me curveballs, planting many obstacles along my path,  I rose above the rain to reign resilient. 

As the sole male heir-apparent born after four, fiercely independent daughters, my parents' religion and culture collided to overwhelm me with a list of duties, and obligations.  Until my father took the downtrodden road for deadbeat dads, creating a strong, empowered single mother out of the waif he left behind.

Mom fought hard day in and out, wreaking havoc on the system, her education taught her tolerance, and blessed us with integrity, and wisdom.  Calm prevailed for a short song, until addiction dug its ugly claws into my sister's broken heart.  

At twenty-three, her lungs, kidneys, and heart stopped, and set her free from the LUPUS that medical research seemed to have forgot. I was nine and had no idea who death was or what it sought, so I collapsed into myself until neither shrink nor exorcist could figure out why I'd began to rot.

Substance abuse, self-harm, and solicitation started my rebellious stage.  I felt caged inside the body of some unfamiliar fiend; rape resulted in recklessness, street gangs, and rage, as I raced against the clock.  Suicidal ideation, and attempts became my obsessive thoughts, until a dual-diagnoses derailed my disappearing act; Bipolar-II and post-traumatic stress became cut away at me, like a double-sided sword.  Eventually, I'd make another twenty-seven attempts to end my pain, three of them were near successes, but I'm so thankful that I got them wrong.  

Added trauma, anxiety, and visits to the ER occupied my time, when I wasn't exploring my sexual identity, as I tried to simultaneously grow and rewind time to heal the little boy inside who remained lost.  Another sister's untimely demise and I thought life had finally won; in an instant, I lost my sister, role model, and best friend then watched my entire world flash bloody red before fading to broken black.  With little strength inside to go on, I went out like the light inside me that had also died.  Until the day I discovered a reserve of strength inside me waiting for me to pull it out; this is where I began to heal myself before I could also help the world.  

These scars, this story, and disease are merely pieces of my flawed design for trauma, without them I'd be someone else but I am strong enough to bear these crosses.  I am better because of my battle, life beat me into beauty.  To you, my garden might seem overrun with weeds, or rotten but to me, it is the rain-forest that saved me.  

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

when the dams burst, we will patch them up with words

"Tell me again, where is it you stop and the succubus begins? Why is it that once we separated we both ceased to exist?" A vanishing act, in two parts.

Act One: My pitiful proposal right in the middle of study circle was the first arrow to pierce your unfeeling heart. A feat more noble than neon on the periodic table. And you? If you were an element, it would be gangrene, the way you suddenly appeared and immediately created a crime scene. A biohazard more toxic and lethal than Fukushima. You radiated light, and at first glance I was blinded. Now that each individual shard of shrapnel has been plucked from my silver eyes, I see that you were nothing but nuclear. Once a dream within a dream, until you decayed and became a fucking nightmare within another godforsaken nightmare. Like those matronly Russian nesting dolls, but instead made up of demons, until there was nothing left but desolation.

Act Two: What happened to the wide eyed hopeful freshman that I met handing out pamphlets to save the rainforest or feed the world or whatever cause you'd attached yourself to at the time to make your human form seem believable. That same kid with the thick accent from East L.A. who arrived on a full scholarship to help inner city sweethearts avoid the inevitable—getting initiated into the first gang whose leader fell in love with her. I should've known the damage was already done and that you were the greatest con artist to wield a pen as a weapon. You seduced lovesick idiots from all walks of student life. Who knew future doctors, lawyers, and politicians could all be so easily swayed. Either way, you were a lost Latina princess who made men feel like one of your Latin Kings.

What happened to our heroine who refused to be branded like the cattle that would never be found on her plate. She was skilled in every recipe from cookbooks of anarchy. Who knew sometimes even soldiers sold out and became the same sheep they swore up and down 'til kingdom come that they would never be. The very sheep who required shearing and saving from a slaveowner who would rather refer to himself as a shepherd.

Behind the scenes a heavier battle was brewing...a conflict that was as deep as canyons grand, that had way too many layers. Our waxen eyed protagonist met his Waterloo in a spicy Puerto Rican seductress. Together, they personified academia, every interaction either ended with evacuated lecture halls or underneath ramen-noodle-stained-thrift-store-bargain-basement sheets. Spectators sighed at the sight of these star-crossed young lovers like modern day Montagues and Capulets. Together, they were an unstoppable machine.

Lovestruck or love's fools? The line between their overlapping identities faded with each day. They put blood, sweat and every last teardrop into the resistance. A revolution like no other, they claimed, that was the brainchild of their brilliance. As they grew closer, their separate clumsy heartbeats merged into one single thunderous rhythm. Surely nothing could come between a love that was united in humanitarian efforts.

By the time graduation robes neared, and colours reappeared across campus, the string that bound these altruists had started to come undone. Consumed by consumerism, a worldly woman in designer threads stood in place of our former rebellious lioness. As she appeared to be a phoney, her subjects rightly labeled her a fraud. Soon, her expensive appearance was a liability to their cause.

One black Friday between thunderstorms was when this War of the Rhodes' came to a halt; she turned away in anger only to be struck by his left lightning bolt. Electrified, and hurt as we reach the final breaths of real love, as it often ends. Only fairy tales wrap in happiness, why else would they appeal to us heartbroken humans.

What about healing, like we planted trees? What of the hospitals, where we pulled smiles out of the broken and the weak? What about the prisons, the detention centres unjustly holding refugees? Where did we stray, where did the love go? When did our own silence need to be bought with violence? What about orphans, widows left to starve in the streets? Where did we go wrong, to get here today? What about love, sweet love that doesn't end up settling in court? When can we return to peace and harmony? Unless we turn back, we won't have a pretty planet to watch on TV. If Satan's greatest con was convincing us he doesn't exist, isn't it time for us to accept we got ourselves into this mess?

Hurt.

She permitted a single, sobering tear to stream down her right cheek,
as she tightened her grip on my hand, and began to speak:

"You asked me where it hurts, and forgiveness would not be an easy task, if I were to lie and pretend I am fine, instead of wearing many masks." 

"It hurts everywhere", she continued, "there is no inch of me without pain. Nor is there a moment in my day without ache, tension, or strain." 

Then the dam broke, and her sadness poured from her like a flood, 
waves of nausea washed over me at the sight of her sadness stained by civilian blood. 

"Take for instance, Israel or the Gaza Strip, right here in the Middle East," at this, she pointed to her abdomen and winced like it was being devoured by some unseen beast.

Humans have destroyed me, killing one another in the process,
the ugliness of man is unlike any other to prevent its own progress.

Their bombs rip me to shreds, and replace my beauty with craters; 
once there was a time the other planets envied my never-ending nature.

Now, they laugh at me, for allowing myself to grow old and decay,
if I could do one thing over, I would have refused to let humans have their way.

As soon as they invented gunpowder, I knew the end was near,
now I peacefully await my death, I no longer have any fear.

They forced one another into camps, waged wars creating wastelands, drained my oceans of water, and shortened my once eternal lifespan."

At this, she sagely crossed her legs and sat down on the ground,
she began to cradle Africa and screamed, without emitting a sound.

"This is where it all began, but then greed robbed my daughter of her speech, every evil man on Earth had his way with her, then erased her history with bleach

Once, her wildlife was teeming, elephants, and rhinos roamed the Serengeti, but now even her diamonds have been plucked and resold, although they were once free."

She began to cough, as she recalled nations overwhelmed by smog,
pollution filled her lungs, and toxic waste filled her arteries with clogs.

"I am unsure what I did to deserve such ungrateful guests,
who took the resources I gave them, then raped me and took the rest.

You asked me where it hurts, and I can only reply with 'everywhere,'
no mother exists who could survive her own child's chemical warfare."

Separation Anxiety.

The fire burning inside me 
had started to subside,
caught up in memories of a love 
you were unable to provide. 
The light in my eyes flickered, 
and went out without a fight,
causing me to self-destruct; 
how do I survive devoid of sight? 

My blackened heart refuses 
to pick up and resume. 
The guilt you've burdened 
me with continues to consume 
the remnants of my sanity, 
refused to spare my dignity. 
Swallowed in a sea of pity, 
taught a lesson in humility. 

Many years had passed; 
assumed I had regained control;
seemed like it'd been so long 
since I'd been granted parole. 
Not a promise, or a lesson; 
just a disdainful release. 
Content for the longest time, 
I thought I was at peace. 

Yet, you've returned, once again, 
to wreak havoc on my soul. 
Falling apart, scattered in pieces. 
Broken again, love has paid its toll
on my life devastated, 
by the knife you concealed in your spine,
and because of your endless torment. 
Our bodies have separated; no longer entwined.