when i was five years old, i didn’t use my voice.

when i was five years old, i figured silence was my choice.

from birth to five years old, my only language was my people’s.

from birth to five years old, i saw the world through foreign pupils.

i learned to tie my shoes the same year that i learned shame.

i learned to illustrate the same year that i learned blame.

mama taught me how to count, but she pronounced a dozen “chwelve.”

when the school bells rung, i heard alarms that warned me not to be myself.

at five years old, i never spoke when i stepped outside of my house.

at five years old, i held my tongue to keep my accent from making sound.

in preschool, it was clear that my pronunciation of english was broken.

every morning, mama would wake me and i would cry i wasn’t going.

at eight years old, i learned that being good enough means being white.

at eight years old, i erased my native tongue and kept “hello”, “thank you”, “goodbye.”

in between where i was born and where i’m from, i became a token of my colonizer.

and as i grew into adulthood i was made into a fetish, exotic fruit of the womanizer.

from “cross your legs” to “smile more”, my voice was taken from my chords.

from “go back home” to “sweep the floor”, my voice was theirs when i was born.

to be queer, womxn, and immigrant is to be

hushed

hidden

crushed

ridden

trained

summoned

blamed

hunted

in my fights against fists, i learned the strength of my hands.

in my fight against omission, i learned the strength of my stand.

my existence is resistance, every day i fight wars.

my insistence till they listen is a crusade for my own voice.

i’m not afraid to be queer, to be womxn, or immigrant.

i’m not afraid to be loud, to be seen, or insubordinate.

when i talk, it’s with intention to unfurl the ropes that keep my freedom

and i walk with my convictions so the world still hears me when i’m not speaking

with my body, i struggle, i push, build, and rise.

against the silence and the violence

against omission and permission

i lend my voice for revolution and our generation’s fire.

 

 

beloved: adjective. 

very popular with or much used by a specified set of people. 

 

my homeland - the land of the growers, the boaters, and warriors

was beloved by colonizers who seized our thrones over and over. 

 

my homeland

forsaken, forlorn, imperialized and war-torn

was very popular with the french, much used by japan, and it was split by agent orange

my homeland was beloved.

 

and this land, on which i stand, was too.

this land was exploited for the red, white, and blue.

 

this land

advantaged for the white man,

mismanaged by the white hands,

glamorized by the white band,

blows horns for the white anthem,

that slanders those who won’t stand,

and sing along enchanted,

to promises abandoned,

to murder made romantic,

this land is beloved.

 

america

is very popular with supremacists and terrorists

much used by eurocentric developers and eugenicists.

 

our colors

are never erased

our colors

are just relabeled.

 

the violence

never dissipates

the violence,

just rearranges

 

slave patrols they now call "officers"

ol jim crow now "war on drugs"

 

emmett till and a whistle ended like tamir with a toy gun

hundreds been buried and lynched, hundreds of black girls and sons

 

america is beloved.

 

america loves “love”

the way it sounds and looks in movies

but i know words are just flowers

they can sit pretty and never soothe me

 

a community is not beloved if a community does not have justice

a community cannot know love if it’s been trained to accept a lack of it

 

we have mistaken silence for peace

we have mistaken success for freedom

we’d rather draw for each other’s blood

than sever the roots of all our symptoms

 

america

is very popular with those who don’t love liberation

much used by those who only know obliteration.

 

this land

 

is not dearly loved

the people are not yet all free

until the gone can get justice

beloved is just a daydream.