Inside the walls of the Columbia University Library
the quiet rustle of paper is comforting
stacks of books line the wooden shelves
lengthy words whisper ancient longings
from yellowed pages
the moments tick by
endless
mostly because I am not writing the text for the book
I am bound by law to write
the story of my life
turns incomplete
when I was ten
eleven
thirteen
where did I think I would be?
married
mother of two children
one boy/one girl
in that order
husband at hand
heart given over to an existence predestined
a familiar fantasy woven
grainy
onto black and white fixtures of fairies
and dreams made of angel dust
years later
the unwanted tales glint
far from true
reality finds me
legally unable to wed any of the ten or twelve women I have loved
or lost
—of two minds the question pops
bug-eyed and perplexing from my pen
the institution of marriage
has long offered privilege and power
to one class
while holding another at arm’s length
the strength and respect given over to any a union
is more often than not
legitimized
by one’s social shift up
or down or across the ladder of social belonging
poor people who marry non-American immigrants
cannot file for the non-resident partner
until they strike it rich enough to promise
the INS
(now homeland security)
that they can and will absorb the cost
of any unforeseen illness
or homelessness of said partner
marriage
has long provided wealth and voice to one sex
the merry institution in question
has been fucking the traditionally frocked spouse for centuries
for money
and housing
and the freedom to raise her own children
if some shit goes down with her man
she is likely to be victim to the parting experience
her resume will read
used
spoiled
broken vessel
undesired
in recent years
she might get something called alimony
but only if she has the dough to afford something called an expensive lawyer
as a lifetime onlooker of the process
I was always happy the possibility
of bridal showers
and ghastly gowns
never tolled any beady bells for me
until now
as the fight comes full and circles me
dyke
older
and making room for probable nurseries
and backyards for little girls
who may or may not be called Olivia something or other Mikiesky
as silver streaks like glitter ghosts themselves
through my hair
my history
popping the lesbian question
further complicates itself in my head
in my heart
the wagons move purposeful
and I am caught in the tracks
of a hypothetical toddler
needing the state sanctioned protection
of both mommies
in the absence of one I want to make sure
my child will be cared for by the other
brash and unwilling to concede
to conservatism
I sway indecisive
do we buy rings and walk aisles, my dear?
or do we work harder
to create something else that reflects
an ideal I may never see in my lifetime
should dykes marry or not?
should we partake in a process so antithetical to equality
to make our fragile lives less bitter
dare we assimilate?
or commit to breaking the existing mold?
nothing poetic about these questions
nothing pretty or pleasing about the choices we must make
as we age
as we climb up and down our own ladders of failures
victories
as we move full force into this new century
what politics will wear themselves
certain on our sleeves
or fingers
on the lives of children we so desperately want to have?
between the freedoms we dreamed
or won or imagined we won
is there something owed to the bodies
who remain least represented
most disenfranchised
farthest removed from our computers
our clocks
our matching bands of vows?
as we accumulate our mountains of things
rubber dicks
electric razors
houses
offspring
as we change our names
our sexes
our addresses
as we rise and gain the right to make avid use
of a corrupt system
specifically designed
to use and discard the most oppressed among us
how do we make sure we are still holding strong to the politics
of those radical voices that first stirred us to action?
how do we milk the patriarchal construct
and still have the right to call ourselves
feminists?
To respond go to myspace.com/staceyannchin.com
Inside the walls of the Columbia University Library
the quiet rustle of paper is comforting
stacks of books line the wooden shelves
lengthy words whisper ancient longings
from yellowed pages
the moments tick by
endless
mostly because I am not writing the text for the book
I am bound by law to write
the story of my life
turns incomplete
when I was ten
eleven
thirteen
where did I think I would be?
married
mother of two children
one boy/one girl
in that order
husband at hand
heart given over to an existence predestined
a familiar fantasy woven
grainy
onto black and white fixtures of fairies
and dreams made of angel dust
years later
the unwanted tales glint
far from true
reality finds me
legally unable to wed any of the ten or twelve women I have loved
or lost
—of two minds the question pops
bug-eyed and perplexing from my pen
the institution of marriage
has long offered privilege and power
to one class
while holding another at arm’s length
the strength and respect given over to any a union
is more often than not
legitimized
by one’s social shift up
or down or across the ladder of social belonging
poor people who marry non-American immigrants
cannot file for the non-resident partner
until they strike it rich enough to promise
the INS
(now homeland security)
that they can and will absorb the cost
of any unforeseen illness
or homelessness of said partner
marriage
has long provided wealth and voice to one sex
the merry institution in question
has been fucking the traditionally frocked spouse for centuries
for money
and housing
and the freedom to raise her own children
if some shit goes down with her man
she is likely to be victim to the parting experience
her resume will read
used
spoiled
broken vessel
undesired
in recent years
she might get something called alimony
but only if she has the dough to afford something called an expensive lawyer
as a lifetime onlooker of the process
I was always happy the possibility
of bridal showers
and ghastly gowns
never tolled any beady bells for me
until now
as the fight comes full and circles me
dyke
older
and making room for probable nurseries
and backyards for little girls
who may or may not be called Olivia something or other Mikiesky
as silver streaks like glitter ghosts themselves
through my hair
my history
popping the lesbian question
further complicates itself in my head
in my heart
the wagons move purposeful
and I am caught in the tracks
of a hypothetical toddler
needing the state sanctioned protection
of both mommies
in the absence of one I want to make sure
my child will be cared for by the other
brash and unwilling to concede
to conservatism
I sway indecisive
do we buy rings and walk aisles, my dear?
or do we work harder
to create something else that reflects
an ideal I may never see in my lifetime
should dykes marry or not?
should we partake in a process so antithetical to equality
to make our fragile lives less bitter
dare we assimilate?
or commit to breaking the existing mold?
nothing poetic about these questions
nothing pretty or pleasing about the choices we must make
as we age
as we climb up and down our own ladders of failures
victories
as we move full force into this new century
what politics will wear themselves
certain on our sleeves
or fingers
on the lives of children we so desperately want to have?
between the freedoms we dreamed
or won or imagined we won
is there something owed to the bodies
who remain least represented
most disenfranchised
farthest removed from our computers
our clocks
our matching bands of vows?
as we accumulate our mountains of things
rubber dicks
electric razors
houses
offspring
as we change our names
our sexes
our addresses
as we rise and gain the right to make avid use
of a corrupt system
specifically designed
to use and discard the most oppressed among us
how do we make sure we are still holding strong to the politics
of those radical voices that first stirred us to action?
how do we milk the patriarchal construct
and still have the right to call ourselves
feminists?
To respond go to myspace.com/staceyannchin.com
The experiences at Central State
coupled with the controversy
added to the contradiction of race
culture
and who believes what because of whom
have marked me a path across the Caribbean
the journey
always takes me home
to Jamaica
and why we seem to have the same problems
in the same spaces
in the music
the streets
the homes of people I call friends
it is still illegal to be homosexual in Jamaica
still dangerous to say out loud
this is who I am
raging-dyke-inappropriate-Jamaican-bitch
who I am still knocks rattling
at the chests of familiar faces
faces I love still struggle to claim parts of a compromise
I refuse to make
I am a lesbian wherever I go
Dayton
Louisville
Tallahassee
And so I go to Montego Bay
to Paradise where the running water is often iffy
where little girls are not always safe
the reggae rumbles
along those dirt lanes devoid of government
all kinds of guts
turn ugly when they think of somebody like me listening
to music not meant for me
when I go too far back
home
familiar mouths half-smiling
greet me
regretful that I could at first look seem so
normal
even easy on the eyes to some
all day long I come out to witty beautiful men
who think if they could only have me
they could change me
bible or dick
or ditty
it does not matter what hard weapon
they always chose one
hoping to poke my most sensitive parts
they don’t know
how I struggle
to make space for these conversations that mark us
as colonized
their intolerance marks me as torn
heavies my chests
it takes courage
to carry my aunt’s laughter inside the rhythm of my own songs
the most awkward parts of me
still giggles when I let myself think of what she thinks of me
the harsh judgment of them rude boy tunes
cradles my childhood
whets the desire of my pen
—the day I passed the Common Entrance
My future luxuriating in Bob Marley and Peter Tosh
on a verandah
too long ago to craft specific details
my first kiss
with a big-kneed boy named Troy
the first high school party with the nuns not looking
that moment I first knew I liked the first girl
her breath sweet with promise
places me on the university campus
young Buju Banton singing
“I wanna be loved
not for who you think I am
nor what you want me to be
could you love me for me
real love
with no strings attached
I wanna give you my heart
And I don’t wanna take it back…”
always in the backdrop
is the soundtrack of memory
misogyny sometimes
mixed in with the love of country and freedom
the beat laced with the hatred of things misunderstood
and Beres Hammond
begging some woman or other to be his night nurse
this place is home
and my struggle is to find safe room in it
for all the parts of me now labeled American
and white
and invisible to the hemisphere that informs my girlhood
chi-chi man
batty boy
pretty boy fi dead!
no anger meted out for the women
that phenomenon remained
unspeakable
“How you mean two woman can fuck?”
Adam and Eve they say
not Adam and Steve
at best
the rhyme is childish
the idea petty
mundane
I am ashamed of these opinions
the misspelled words
the in-articulation of ideas
not thought through
how I ache for them to be able to discourse
in fine lines
even if they disagree with me
I would love for them to know
how much they do not know
instead
they go on insisting that they know
threaten to do me harm if I continue to engage
I ache for all of us
from a room in Washington Heights
a café in the West Village
I listen to horns blowing in anger
brown boys striking out at fear
because they are so afraid of the things they do not know
thank fate or caprice or God
for Patricia Hill-Collins
for Keith Boykin
even if we do not agree
sometimes
thank God for the ones who came before
for the names we always use
names that do not connect these kids
to a world that reflects them
Audre Lorde
James Balwin
I raise my cunt up
for all the names the Historians will never make space for
the names of your cousins
my daughters
the son that can never tell his fathers he is in love
with a boy so streaked with history
when you look into his eyes
you see Africa
for your sisters who will never say anything
to you
or me
lest she be tagged outsider
thank the stars
or Allah
or Buddha
or just some good fucking luck
for those voices that write to say thank you
thank you for writing
for saying the things I am not yet able to say
I write to them
to say thank you
thank you for making room
for making sense
for making me remember
that even against the odds
we must speak
that often
we do not speak for the tongues already wagging
but for those
who are being forced to be still
To respond go to myspace.com/staceyannchin
Between
the hateful lyrics found in my Jamaican dancehall songs
the backlash from folks
who believe talking about homophobia in the Black Community
is some sort of betrayal of Jesus and RACE
and the winter of America
rushing windy against my face—I am hard pressed
to choose my words with great intent
—so after all the misconceptions
the continued loyalty
and mis-loyalty
the misplaced interpretations of what I said
what I meant
what I intended
how you felt
how we must have felt
I return
resolute to the agitating discussion
I stand by my anger
there is nothing to take back
nothing to apologize for
kinky as is my hair
I belong to this place
these faces
glinting nightfall upon themselves
are reflections of mine
and I will never say sorry
for saying something I know needed to be said
we have a homophobic problem in the Black community
be it Central State
or Spelman
or Morehouse
or Montego Bay
I will say it again Jamaica/Trinidad/Barbados
Ghana
Nigeria
Sudan
Ethiopia
Brazil—
no matter the room in which I find myself—
if it a gathering of Black straight people
I always experience intense homophobia
between the billboards of belief and religion
we lock ourselves into the chasm of victim
take offense at any criticism
we do not want anything said
except
that we are surviving the brutal racism of a global history
I am not only allowed to speak of my community
being a nigger
gives me the absolute right
to bitch about the behavior of boys who could be my brothers
the arrogance of girls who would sooner nail me to a cross
than make room for our similarities
I was grateful
for the handful of voices who did not hiss
and holler nasty manipulations of scripture
at me
at Keith
forgive me if I wished you were more
maybe twice as many
and as loud
as the ones who tried to make me feel
that loving my love
was wrong
nothing feels more right
than her hand on my arm in support
of what we believe
the world we hope to deliver to our children
your children
But we have a motherfucker of a problem
when young people care more
about The Institution
than the quality of their lives after graduation
after you leave those halls
what will you scream for?
what water hoses are you committed to enduring
for civil equality?
What about the fever of HIV/AIDS
spreading forest fire across our community?
the tragedy
is not that you agreed or disagreed
but that the conversation has boiled down
to how flattering I was to the building
Fuck everything else I said!
Fuck any concern I may have uttered about your fathers in prison!
or your sisters who are still being raped
as we read
and write
and pontificate
young men and women
who only went in for the college tuition
are swallowing bullets in Iraq
I say fuck the names of all the schools!
The school
is only the room in which you are seated
the problem is not local
the bigotry is not just yours to claim
it is ours
yours and mine
this struggle against racism
and sexism
and homophobia
in our homes
these difficult arguments pack us crawling helpless onto each the other
trapped in an archaic antagonism
we hold onto fears we should have long put to rest
seal that bubbling barrel with unfair class structures
and there you have us
chained to a narrow strip of thinking
that we have the right to decide
who should do what on matters of God and love
the external powers have used that division to whip us negroes over and over
watch us claw at each other
the mob mentality is wrong
being Gay is no different from being straight
or Muslim
or Christian
or American
or Black
there is nothing wrong with me
and if you insist on saying my love is sin
I will use this pen to poke you new eyes
new ears
I will continue to draw different visions
until we can both see each other a little clearer
the Black community has got to make space
for all the Black voices that want to sing
this issue may have provoked itself
at Central State
but ask Keith
he will tell you it is not unusual
for Black faces to applaud when we say racism is an issue
but you mostly sit silent when we say sexuality
you have got to make space for us
don’t fucking tolerate me
fight with me for my right to live
and love
as I choose
we are not going away, brothers and sisters
better get used to the phenomenon
get used to the sound of our voice
make space for the nigger-fairies
and faggots and trannies and such
we intend to keep raising hell
until you stop telling us
that we are not allowed
to live our version of what we know to be heaven,
to respond go to
peace and poetry,
Staceyann
Picture it
in the middle of Ohio
an hour east or west (I forget) of Dayton
hundreds of Black faces
college faces
an auditorium
Keith Boykin-writer/blogger/Black man/gay man
and little old me
waltz out onto a stage
both imported to sensitize students
with a reputation for homophobia
ta-da!
first there was Keith
a tale of coming out
intimate
honest
quiet
and then the season opens!
Boom! Bye!
and the Bible appears/front and center Jesus is dragged in for testimony
what he said and what he meant
hisses and boos and students with mothers/sisters without heath insurance
rush in
cheering when they thought he had lost a point
neck deep in the shit of student loans
and more than rumors about the building we argued in
being turned into a MOTHER-FUCKING PRISON
they were more concerned about Leviticus
and Corinthians
no mention of their peers
in Iraq
and the forgotten Afghanistan
I feel like a broken CD
a bloody pipe dripping the same rusty fluid of an ailing truth
I was so angry
at these faces that looked like mine
negro/Black/African-American/Caribbean boys
Brown girls hurling hate
Central State University is a Historically Black College, once conjoined with Wilberforce—the place where W.E.B. Dubois spent his “two undistinguished years”
Following a series of events that marked the school community as under-educated about fags and trannies and dykes—
the air was ripe with students needing targets for their rage against those of us dare transgress the black heterosexual stereotype.
By the rime I took the stage
I was ready to shock the shit out of those bible-quoting amen and hallelujahs.
So I said pussy as many times as I could muster
and I was confrontational
and provocative
and I called them out
on how little they knew about a world they so easily judged
I told them
I wasn’t interested in praying towards straight
How surprised they must have been
to hear that I actually liked being a dyke
loved the feel of my woman just fresh from sleep
or exhausted from travel
or cranky from writing a paper about black boys like them
in prisons
making bras for Victoria Secret
for me
and my boobs pushed up for them to gasp
“But you don’t look like a lesbian”
Maybe because I looked so much
like them—
how far we are from talking to each other
and so Black folk continue to be caught wheel and hamster
between racism and under-education
and misguided loyalty
disguised as religion
same Bible that told niggers
“be happy they got nice Masters!”
Same pages now being used by niggers to tell black faggots
they ain’t shit
never mind the number of choirs they have kept going
the revolutions they have orchestrated
never mind the dykes that kept marching in Selma
and DC
and Philly
and New York
fuck the writers that made it so Black students could be in college
making infantile noises at a phenomenon they know nothing about
except that they despise us
maybe because in a world that insists
that everything is equal under God
in the Bible
there are no recommendations for the high drop-out rate for students
at all levels of brown
in America
there are no verses to encourage young Black girls
they own their bodies
whether they are pregnant or not
on the darker side of this country
no advice on those jobs you are not getting
when you graduate
I was goose-pimpling when Keith yielded a litany of their names
Bayard Rustin
James Baldwin
Audre Lorde
and there are others still
un-named because they could not tell
and still be Black
I will not be forced to choose
to mark one side of me invisible so you can see me
one-dimension and frail
I am Black
and Lesbian
and anything else—this body can hold it all
Asian
and Activist and Artist
Wake the fuck up-Black America/Jamaica/Sudan/Barbados/South Africa /
Haiti
Nigeria
St. Lucia
Ghana
Trinidad
From East to West of all the colonies of the Diaspora
we are here
we will not disappear into the oblivion of a white existence
because you cannot see beyond religious bigotry
we are here
writing poems
building houses
raising your abandoned children
we are here
making babies of our own
trying to make space for all of our bodies
in a world that holds us hostage to so much
let us find ways to mend our common fissures
the children yet to come will belong to all of us
it is time we created a house
equipped to deal with their basic needs
what I do or do not do in my bedroom
or kitchen
or anywhere I wish to do it
is irrelevant in the war for affordable housing
and healthcare
and ways to make a living wage
let us turn our rage
to the places that most adversely affect us
the expanding prison industry
the drugs—
since the drugs, a pretty girl said to me,
since the epidemic of the drugs
there has not been a revolution in our world
in our blood
and you are worried about whether I believe in Jesus?
Jesus was a rebel who turned over tables of cash/money
in the church
he rolled with a dozen men
all the time
and one time
he let a prostitute oil his feet with her scented hair
I move steady with Christ, Motherfuckers!
everyday
I try to start revolutions that have to do with freedoms
and truths
that cannot bend—no matter what you do to me
you cannot claim my space
I am Black
and lesbian and here
walk with me, people
or get the fuck out my way!
you can respond at myspace.com/staceyannchin