Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Dear activists and aspiring activists,
On Saturday night, I addressed the audience of the opening ceremonies of the Gay Games in Chicago. The response in the Soldiers Field Stadium, in the streets, in restaurants, and in your emails, has been one of the most gratifying experiences of my activist career. Here I was thinking that I was more or less alone with these concerns. Except for one or two whispered conversations, no one was asking the obvious but difficult questions dancing unanswered in my head. But there you were at the end of my delivery, on your feet and numbered (incredibly numbered!), all of us joyful in the discovery that we are only one in a sea of faces that stand up, literally, for social justice.
Chicago has been good to us at the Games. Ninety-six degrees and above keep us toasty in the testing of our personal bests. The Pampered Chef convention is also in town. So housewives from around the country enter the elevators giggling and asking how the gays are faring on the field. The Hip Hop Convention will be here this weekend. That should make the mix more interesting.
The locals have been very polite, even friendly as we navigate their city of long walks to get anywhere. Chi-Town is one of my favorites in the United States. Yes, it is true that the Windy City cuts brutal at the ear nose and neck in the wintertime, but this summer, it laughs out loud with the swimming dykes, running gay boys, soccer-ing trannies, baseball-ing bisexuals, and spectator-ing allies.
It is/was good to be here for these games. It was good to have the opportunity to say the words with which I have been struggling. I write now to remind you of the power of the word. Say them, write them, make them into T-shirts—if you have something to say, find a way to convey it. The community, I believe, will find the way to receive it.
The speech/poem/rant is attached. Please pass it on, especially to the people you know most need to read/hear/respond to it. In the tradition of Bayard Rustin, Susan B. Anthony, June Jordan, Harvey Milk, and Audre Lorde, let us interrogate the direction of our freedoms. Let us continue to ask ourselves those questions that are hardest for us to hear.
With love and the most affectionate gratitude,
Staceyann
Staceyann Chin’s speech/poem at Gay Games VII
Being queer has no bearing on race
or class
or creed
my white publicist said
true love is never affected by color
or country
or the carnal need for cash
I curb the flashes of me crashing across the table
to knock his blond skin
from Manhattan
to Montego Bay to witness
the bloody beatings of beautiful brown boys
accused of the homosexual crime of buggery
amidst the new fangled fallacies
of sexual and racial freedom for all
these under-informed
self-congratulating
pseudo-intellectual utterances
reflect how apolitical the left has become
I don’t know why
but the term lesbian just seems so
confrontational to me
why can’t you people just say you date
other people?
Again I say nothing
tongue and courage tied with fear
I am at once livid
ashamed and paralyzed
by the neo-conservatism
breeding malicious amongst us
Gay
Lesbian
Bisexual
Transgender
Ally
Questioning
Two spirit
Non-gender conforming—every year we add a new letter
our community is happily expanding beyond the scope
of the dream stonewall sparked within us
yet everyday
I become more afraid to say black
or lesbian
or woman—everyday
under the pretense of unity I swallow something I should have said
about the epidemic of AIDS in Africa
or the violence against teenage-girls in East New York
or the mortality rate of young boys on the south-side of Chicago
even in friendly conversation
I get the bell hooks-ian urge
to kill mother-fuckers who say stupid shit to me
all day
bitter branches of things I cannot say out loud
sprout deviant from my neck
fuck you-you-fucking-racist-sexist-turd
fuck you for wanting to talk about homophobia
while you exploit the desperation of undocumented immigrants
to clean your hallways
bathe your children and cook your dinner
for less than you and I spend on our tax deductible lunch!
I want to scream
all oppression is connected you dick!
at the heart of every radical action in history
stood the dykes who were feminists
the anti-racists who were gay rights activists
the men who believed being vulnerable
could only make our community stronger
as the violence against us increases
where are the LGBT centers in those neighborhoods
where assaults occur most frequently?
as the tide of the Supreme Court changes
where are the LGBT marches
to support a woman’s right to an abortion?
what say we about health insurance
for those who can least afford it?
HIV/AIDS was once a reason for gay white men to act up
now your indifference spells the death
of straight black women
and imprisoned Latino boys
apparently
if the tragedy does not immediately impact you
you don’t give a fuck
offer a social ladder to those of us inclined to climb
and watch the bottom of a movement fall out
a revolution once pregnant with expectation
flounders
without direction the privileged and the plundered
grow listless
apathetic and individualistic no one knows
where to vote
or what to vote for anymore
the faces that represent us
have begun to look like the ones who used to burn crosses
and beat bulldaggers and fuck faggots up the ass
with loaded guns
the companies that sponsor our events
do not honor the way we live or love
or dance or pray
our life partnerships are deemed domestic
and the term marriage is reserved
for those unions sanctioned by a church controlled state
for all the landmarks we celebrate
we are still niggers
and faggots
and minstrel references
for jokes created on the funny pages of a heterosexual world
the horizons are changing
to keep pace with technology and policy alike
the LGBT manifesto has evolved into a corporate agenda
and outside that agenda
a woman is beaten every 12 seconds
every two minutes
a girl is raped somewhere in America
and while we stand here well-dressed and rejoicing
in India
in China
in South America a small child cuts the cloth
to construct you a new shirt
a new shoe
an old lifestyle held upright
by the engineered hunger and misuse of impoverished lives
gather round ye fags, dykes
trannies and all those in between
we are not simply at a political crossroad
we are buried knee deep in the quagmire
of a battle for our humanity
the powers that have always been
have already come for the Jew
the communist
and the trade unionist
the time to act is now!
Now! while there are still ways we can fight
Now! because the rights we have are still so very few
Now! because it is the right thing to do
Now! before you open the door to find
they have finally come
for you
...Moons ago
just once
I turned the tendon of my work
toward lust
fancied I loved a girl
who fancied herself above
confessing to the listening crowd
how well we knew the salt taste of each other
nesting under pillows
nestling
hiding
both needing affirmation
we clawed at each other
folded finances into performances
built riffs and recited badly written poems
sometimes I crafted lines
I have since then used for other tales
more trutfully told
some days
she still gets me goat and anger
still renders me petty
not because she moves me anymore
more
because I am not certain she ever did
really
I convinced myself of every good thing I said about her
one single orange thread of consolation
weaves itself frayed and breaking around me
on days like these I pull it tight across my shoulders
and remind my resentful breaths
that my lips
weren't lying when I painted her
beautiful
my fingers are not dishonest shading her blue/black
bathed in bruises and buffered nights
recounting how we survived such adult childhoods
her wounds gleamed the silver lining
sometimes
the right light can hit something broken
and the shattered teeth glint
pearls and promises
the edge of a hand-blown glass
slices into the gentle palm
blood pouring
such a wonderful work of potential art
smashed to bits
by the invisible wrist of some lover
or mother
father
brother
whoever hit you
love
I am sorry it tore the parts of you
necessary for love
it has been
years and I am just beginning
to speak you
cathartic from my veins
just learning to articulate you
in pity
and pardon
you were only one arc of a circle
continuing to turn harmful
in the sequence of trust twisting crude
over the arm of a familiar betrayal
little girls always bear the shackles of victim
and if we have spines we become bitches to avoid
or to weather
whether we
grow up or out of it
our past marks us
for bad or better
most of our memories madden us
arouse us sobbing into the sleeping arms
of some love or other
and some nights
if we are lucky
she awakens
just enough to hold our sorrows
for a few moments
her kisses swallow tears and tremors subsiding
the hours eventually pass
morning emerges
fingers tap dancing chapters
of a book
a life bleeding
hilarious
giggles errupting because one of you
has farted
juvenile
we become children again
able to inhale
the most acrid experience
and still come up for air
This question raps more serious
at some doors
at others the desire
clinks playful
privileged pastime designed to keep wealth
and clergy and class
in tandem with servitude
I have nothing to will
but these children not yet ripped from my cunt
if I am dying
and my lover is all that stands between me
God
destiny and death forever
maybe
what I need is the freedom to choose
who makes what decision for the parts of me
I have loved
all my life
(at least for what holds me as adult)
against the tide of a stipulated method of desire
the flesh of me
has rubbed the grain contrary
without overt blue prints
and few personal accounts
I wear what I choose
most days
my colors blaze blooming
cliche and Caribbean
hibiscus and oranges waft lumninous
from my skirts
scarves
elbows bony with effort I remain slender
a slip of a girl aging graceful
(I fancy myself exquisite
when no one is looking)
under the gaze of an industry obsessed with my body
my pussy
my pussy can provide avenues
for life
my waist thickens
in tribute to what my hips can now do
breasts fall
and fat flexes its muscle
because I lived
and in some versions
the writers will say
I loved
hard
and some will say faster than I should have
some will make movies of lives that had nothing to do with mine
As usual
Meryl Streep will stunning
in another life
we small bits of passion
could be her
talented
sexy
older and able to take aim
at a bunch of straight white men
posing as faggots who should know better
dress me in the right color and I may deign
to speak to myself
if there is not too much cellulite
under those uncomfortable skirts
shoes
sex in this city don't need no goddamned shoes
all you need is some laughter
and a bit of understanding
mix that sensual in
with some firm resistance against the onslaught of men
and what they might say
to a pretty girl in Washington Heights
bruise her
ego after wounded era
threaten her
with your ignorance
dress her in your shame
mask her in the made-up truths of our time
argue love and marriage
and race
gender and class
fold the laws
around the the individual curves of a vision
without community
without history
use the oppressed to perpetuate
cycle and rhythm
repeat
as needed
generation after generation
remove us language and movement
from everything
that mirrors us
pare away
the parts of us we do not care for
pin us
lepidopterist
pretty and lifeless
lay us under your glass
recycle known metaphors
nothing is new
Hallelujah!
repeat
Praise the Lord!
repeat
do not unlearn
lest we forget
the new memory
we have been created