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

Shakti.

I stood there helplessly, drowning in defeat,
darkened by my inability to breathe life into
your rusted heart's resilient beat—
a symphony I memorized from the inside,

in forty weeks.

Incapable of returning you to the raven haired beauty of your prime, I bite my tongue until I'm numb, as if my lips have been sewn shut with twine.

You heal me when you hold me then transport me back in time, to the days of yesteryear, when I was still your innocent, little child.

I am haunted by the trauma when I will one day find, that I can no longer turn to you for comfort, or the reassurance of your smile.

I know I run but I am frightened, when I see you've become so frail.My mind refuses a reality where you are no longer my nightingale.

Your song lulled me into slumber, as you softly sang the world to sleep.

If only I had looked at you long enough to see,
that all you were ever doing was trying to love me.

There is no bond like that between a mother and her only son, even if he is less deserving of
her pride than he is of her scorn. 

Trauma.

I found you unconscious,
foaming at the mouth.
Failed to resuscitate you,
before my screams filled the house.
You were more than my sister,
you were my confidante, as well.
And since you crossed over,
my life has been Hell.
At least we were together,
holding hands,
for a quarter of a century.
All I can do now is accept that
you are no longer here with me.

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.

Slain.

Let freedom ring, it reigns supreme.
Liberty's bell solely tolls for thee.
Red, white, and blue but only for you.
For me, red is the blood of my brothers and sisters you've murdered.
White, the ticket of privilege that buys you luxuries my melanin can't afford.
And blue? Blue is the police force that engages in brutality.
Its sole criteria for ending a life is colour.
I pray for the day there is no news of injustice.
No headlines about rapists who are freed whilst teachers are wrongfully killed.
Mama, when can we stop digging graves?
Help me understand when we stop being slaves.
Will we ever be saved?

There seems to be no end in sight to this crusade.

Is it reckless, are the riots in vain?

All that ever changes are the names of the innocents slain.

Father Figure.

Broken down, like cardboard boxes.
You break me down, it's poison; toxic.
No matter what I do I can't get over
you just give me the cold shoulder.

It's freezing. I'm Arctic cold.
You broke my heart of gold.
Shattered it like shards of glass,
had me crawling through crab grass.

The pieces; my pieces are all scattered.
You paint me with the same brush,
as the rest, like I don't matter.

I'm slipping away now,
like a cartoon banana peel.
Your words cut me with their logic,
though you're yet to ask me how I feel.

Granite countertops, and ceramic tiles,
fill our household, devoid of smiles.

They laughed and said 
I'm from a broken home, 
little did they know, I am all alone.

A father? I've only known daddies.
The ignorance hurts me quite badly.

You reached out, a single arm,
like it was a token of your chiseled charm.
This paint is dangerous, 
the asbestos in these walls cause me harm.

Daddy issues now, at nearly thirty,
make me feel defiled; dirty.

If I always had you, I would not rebel,
as though I have no clue.

Broken inside, bent exterior,
these gray walls can't hide my pain. 
Yet, you ebb and flow into my life
like the tide, after heavy rain.

I miss you, dad-you broke me down,
left me so confused.
I had no idea how I would
ever feel like anything but a fool.

I needed you; like the flowers need the sun,
but you shut me out, and broke me down
like I was not your son. 

So it's over now, there will be no refrain;
don't come crawling back again.
I can walk away, without a word,
I refuse to be your flightless bird.

Save Your Misery.

Save your misery, to darken someone else's room.
I have had my fill, it's hard to carry on.
Your rainclouds won't go away, they stain the world with gloom.
Please just leave me alone, my sympathy is all gone.

I have had my fill, it's hard to carry on.
You prey on my happiness, and chase away my dreams.
Please just leave me alone, my sympathy is all gone.
Find somebody new to abuse, as I drain the poison from my bloodstream.

You prey on my happiness, and chase away my dreams.
Your rainclouds won't go away, they stain the world with gloom.
Find somebody new to abuse, as I drain the poison from my bloodstream.
Save your misery, to darken someone else's room.

Rape Culture.

The day she learned to talk, her mother cautioned her to listen.
Moments after her first steps, mama showed her how to run.
Preparing young Sylvie for the inevitable day, 
when she caught the attention of a man who refused to go away.

Sylvie knew all about the monsters under the bed,
she was well-versed on the boogeyman, who filled her with dread.
She could describe the Wolf-man, Dracula, and even Frankenstein,
but her mother warned her the wickedest creature of all was mankind.

She said, “This world was not built for us, we are merely trespassers here.”
Determined to protect her daughter from the same predatory men she feared.
Why do we teach young girls to keep themselves safe,
without teaching little boys not to hurt or maim?

We desire to build our daughters up to believe they can do anything,
to raise them to be confident, and devoid of suffering. 
But what good is it when society just shoots them down,
laughing at them for thinking it were any different now.

The prevalent culture today treats women like objects;
it teaches them to avoid late hours, and even polices how they dress.
When a man finally lapses, and commits insidious rape,
excuses are made in courtrooms, to prevent justice from taking place.

There is no such thing as justice when athletes and celebrities 
are let off with less than a slap on their wrists. 
How are our sisters and daughters to feel valued like this,
when all the evidence proves their cases will only be dismissed. 

It is as though their pain is meaningless,
like a woman’s worth is nothing when compared to her male counterpart’s. 
The system is made up of ripped stockings, scars, and broken hearts. 
How are we expected to compete with the corrupt patriarchs who are in charge?

Imagine the pain of having your innocence stolen from you,
the agony of being penetrated by someone you never knew.
No amount of counseling could erase the tears that come at night,
the sole consequence of being used then tossed aside, and left to die.

Rape is such a malevolent act, it robs victims of their entire lives;
the futures they could have had are tarnished, their dreams all fade to black.
Anxiety rushes to the surface, signaling another oncoming panic attack,
paranoia collaborates with post-traumatic stress creating never-ending flashbacks.

There cannot be change until even privileged rapists are made examples of,
justice will fail to exist until every criminal understands the severity of their actions.
We can pretend equality exists all we want, that will not make it so,
I stand with survivors and I’ll fight for their cause until faith in my fellow man can be restored.

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.