cripchick's blog

you do know that everything i write, i dream, i breathe is nothing but an ode to your being, your beauty? the way you move, the way you ask me what audre would say, the way you can be so brilliant all the time, the way you speak to my experiences when we’ve just met, the way you bring warmth and openness into a room, the way you were there for me when i was embarrassed and felt like a burden, the way you connect things together, the way you make people feel like there is no other option but to be real, the way you dream, the way you have changed worlds without even realizing it 

you do know that i do nothing but paste your poems, your pictures, your postcards on my wall right? that i save your words in away messages, dream jars, tweets and more journals than i can count? that every time you publish something, i scramble to find a copy for myself? or that i jump at any invitation you send because it means spending time with you? even those of you i haven’t met in person, you do know this, right?  More… »

i.
older woc friend here is planning on leaving in february. i want to spit out some kind of ageist mean-spirited comment to keep her here—”you’re 60 years old! peace corps? africa??”—but that’s just me being selfish (and it’s not like she’d listen to that bullshit anyways). still. her here gives me new faith in this place, as if little poems i carry are enough to breathe hope into the lungs of this city or that the words we whisper to each other and the plans we make are loud enough to transform and mobilize folks. i’ve started to really believe in what we are actively and intentionally creating here. she can’t leave.

ii.
today my PA [personal attendant] and i were in a coffee shop and while i was working on some stuff, i saw her reading the newspaper and shaking her head. when she got up to move to the sofa, i picked up the paper and saw that what she was disgusted by was an article about eharmony having to create an alternative dating site for queers because of a lawsuit. it surprised me, because i didn’t think she had these feelings. unlike past home health folks, i was pretty sure she knew i was queer and it was an unspoken supported thing— i mean it is pretty much impossible to spend this much time with me and not have *some* inclination (though it’s true that i’ve only rolled w/ hetero nongenderbendy guys lately so that could be confusing if you think queer=gay)

i should be thankful that she recognizes the role she plays in my space and respects it but i’m left kinda thinking that this is a perfect example of how my life is so fractured, that someone who knows me so intimately could not be a part of a huge part of me. i know i need to feel blessed–there are lots of folks living in institutions, nursing homes, controlling family dynamics that can’t love who they want, be who they want and at least i have access to spaces where i can do that, even it’s not all the time.. but still, it feels lonely sometimes.

i want to wield and weave all these little pieces of me into something that’s more true to who i am. is there a way the learner, the teacher, the radical woman of color (rwoc), the half white girl, the amateur poet, the gimp girl, the anti-marriage queer, the closet queer, the overanalyzer, the romantic, the wannabe anti-capitalist, the person looking at an MBA, the person looking for faith, the indie media maker, the person invested in all this, come together in a way that does not rely on the denial of the other?

he thinks my friend and i are blood
(she is near 6 feet tall. i am 4’9.)
i laugh politely
(she has blonde hair. my hair is red lacquer brown.)
hiding my disappointment
(she is white. do i look white?)

sometimes i can see how people could think we’re related
the only time my tongue is accentuated with ah-cham! and aihigoos is when in despair
my pale red-cheeked skin is only olive during the summer time
my thoughts are articulated through southern y’alls, random oh mys, and valley girl “totally like y’know, right?…!”
disappointed i leave the coffee shop
wondering if i should be wearing shit with dragons and cherry blossoms on it
throwing kung-fu kicks around
maybe being his asian american stereotype is better than this.

whenever i feel alone— like now, when people mistake me for white—
i bring my hands to my face
you are there, hidden in the crevices of my palms
whispering “remember me even when it is easy to forget”
yes. especially when it is easiest to forget.
i think about what struggle my ancestors have been through so i can sit here
and do silly things
like lament identity and perceived whiteness

whenever i am ashamed of my broken korean or misspelled hangul
i run my fingers through my hair,
hearing the plucking of gayageums and the sweep of hanboks brushing against the floor
the harmony of fans, drums, and people remind me that we share more than consonants and vowels
i smile, thankful for this heritage

whenever i feel lost in anti-racist work, wondering where my people fit into this black-white dichotomy that does not allow room for families being torn apart by ice raids,
leaves out colonization so we can focus on “issues at home”
and saves stolen land as a topic for later discussion
(while simultaneously wondering where all the non-black people of color are gonna represent)
i want to scream!
instead i think of my sisters and the amazing support system we’ve built for each other
not coalition building, no
but community building and community weaving
inspired by their work and love i keep on

i remember
i myself
am a mixed girl
who is loved
by other mixed girls
by negotiators of this body
lovers of this skin
other occupiers of fuzzy, seemingly conflicting
identities and space
i am loved
and this is enough.