They sell tickets to war and tickets to fame
One price for joy, another for pain
If you're a little girl, your choice is between comfort and shame
Either live within society's standards
Or be forever blamed
I know acutely the meaning of the phrase, "act like a lady"
My brother and I ran around, both of us acting shady
And he'd get a laugh or a stern glance
And I'd get a reminder we wore very different pants
So this dance we learned of gender identification in our youth
Continues on as we get older, soon becoming our truth
TV shows, commercials, magazines, they helped us see
That little girls become wives, then mommies,
shopping and cleaning for their family
Little boys grew up to be whatever they wanted to be
Seduce women, work outdoors, wear suits, join the army
The epitome of masculinity
Increased testosterone equals superiority
The weaker sex has no validity
Our predefined roles favor timidity, stupidity
Open your eyes to the absurdity and lies
Gender policing is a vicious cycle of ignorant diatribes
That prefer societal norms over unique voices
We could all be alike if we're allowed to make choices.
4/5/10
3/29/10
My Brother
My brother only talks to me when it's profitable
launching into fatherly lectures
punctuated by disdainful looks
when I offer an idea that wasn't his own
He won't be brought into conversation otherwise,
providing cursory one-word answers
only if it is socially unacceptable to stay silent.
But these are tumultuous times, I remind myself, in our youth
and they say family's the only thing that lasts.
He didn't grow out of nothing, to be sure;
my mother, the creative one
who battled imbalances in her brain
with words she didn't mean and wouldn't take back,
slammed doors and silences;
my father, the high school debater
whose senses of loyalty, honor and stubbornness
meant he could talk himself into accepting any situation
to a fault;
me, the impulsive dreamer
formulating a myriad of grandiose plans
that only rarely bear fruit
all the while toiling endlessly for someone else's benefit.
My brother doubtless sees it all and wants none of it,
building his walls higher and higher
till his empire will be a thing of glory high above the pit;
and I can scarcely imagine his frustration at having to
turn and look back
to speak now to ones who will soon be far beneath him.
launching into fatherly lectures
punctuated by disdainful looks
when I offer an idea that wasn't his own
He won't be brought into conversation otherwise,
providing cursory one-word answers
only if it is socially unacceptable to stay silent.
But these are tumultuous times, I remind myself, in our youth
and they say family's the only thing that lasts.
He didn't grow out of nothing, to be sure;
my mother, the creative one
who battled imbalances in her brain
with words she didn't mean and wouldn't take back,
slammed doors and silences;
my father, the high school debater
whose senses of loyalty, honor and stubbornness
meant he could talk himself into accepting any situation
to a fault;
me, the impulsive dreamer
formulating a myriad of grandiose plans
that only rarely bear fruit
all the while toiling endlessly for someone else's benefit.
My brother doubtless sees it all and wants none of it,
building his walls higher and higher
till his empire will be a thing of glory high above the pit;
and I can scarcely imagine his frustration at having to
turn and look back
to speak now to ones who will soon be far beneath him.
3/15/10
I Don't Have To
I don't have to.
I don't have to let you buy me a drink.
I don't have to laugh in that shy, feminine way
as you feed me a line about what I want for breakfast tomorrow
I don't have to stare at you, feigning interest
as you tell me all about your ex girlfriends.
I don't have to agree to dance.
I don't have to let you put your hands around me,
reaching, touching, feeling, groping.
I don't have to let you kiss me,
because your breath smells like bourbon
and your tongue tastes like tobacco,
and anyway, I don't need a reason. I don't have to.
But I do.
That's what they told me, anyway.
They said, "Here's what a bad touch is" and "Here's what a condom is"
and "Here's how to say 'no'" and "Why are you still single?"
And my friends and I talk about how stupid the boys all are
and which ones we want to date;
and the lame ass shit he said, or what another one did
and how we wish we could get "a good one."
But we don't have to.
We don't have to get dressed up
in the skimpy clothes they wear in the magazines
and spend an hour primping our hair and applying our makeup.
We don't have to go out to the clubs,
borrowing fake IDs and stealing wristbands.
We don't have to. But we do.
Nobody told us there were any other options.
Paris Hilton never informed us.
Lindsay and Nicole never shared with us
that a club is full of dirty, sleazy guys
looking to score a date for the night
and naive young women
who don't know they don't have to.
They don't have to give out their phone numbers to whomever asks.
They don't have to try to say no in that nice, unsure way
that makes the guys think "yes."
They don't have to leave with a stranger,
only to call their friends in the morning
begging for a ride, giggling, groggy, shame-filled.
They don't have to.
But we tell them to.
We encourage the behavior with our reluctance,
our own past indiscretions, our lack of self-esteem.
We don't have to.
But we feel incomplete, incompetent, unworthy,
and we tell each other to feel the exact same way.
I don't have to let you buy me a drink.
I don't have to laugh in that shy, feminine way
as you feed me a line about what I want for breakfast tomorrow
I don't have to stare at you, feigning interest
as you tell me all about your ex girlfriends.
I don't have to agree to dance.
I don't have to let you put your hands around me,
reaching, touching, feeling, groping.
I don't have to let you kiss me,
because your breath smells like bourbon
and your tongue tastes like tobacco,
and anyway, I don't need a reason. I don't have to.
But I do.
That's what they told me, anyway.
They said, "Here's what a bad touch is" and "Here's what a condom is"
and "Here's how to say 'no'" and "Why are you still single?"
And my friends and I talk about how stupid the boys all are
and which ones we want to date;
and the lame ass shit he said, or what another one did
and how we wish we could get "a good one."
But we don't have to.
We don't have to get dressed up
in the skimpy clothes they wear in the magazines
and spend an hour primping our hair and applying our makeup.
We don't have to go out to the clubs,
borrowing fake IDs and stealing wristbands.
We don't have to. But we do.
Nobody told us there were any other options.
Paris Hilton never informed us.
Lindsay and Nicole never shared with us
that a club is full of dirty, sleazy guys
looking to score a date for the night
and naive young women
who don't know they don't have to.
They don't have to give out their phone numbers to whomever asks.
They don't have to try to say no in that nice, unsure way
that makes the guys think "yes."
They don't have to leave with a stranger,
only to call their friends in the morning
begging for a ride, giggling, groggy, shame-filled.
They don't have to.
But we tell them to.
We encourage the behavior with our reluctance,
our own past indiscretions, our lack of self-esteem.
We don't have to.
But we feel incomplete, incompetent, unworthy,
and we tell each other to feel the exact same way.
3/1/10
Soup
There's a war going on overseas
At least, that's what they're telling me
But my mom says, "Turn off the TV."
And I sigh and resist with my knees
But these are not pleas from her
These are words of warning
If I don't sit my butt down to dinner on the count of 3
I will have invoked a war stateside
And since I'd rather not have a sore behind
And since I get a free, homecooked meal otherwise,
I guess I'll oblige.
The microwave sounds and we all gather round the table
Clean and dressed, if we're able
And Dad gets out the ladle
And my brother begins to spoon it up.
And suddenly, it's been weeks since I've had anything to eat at all,
but that soup is like a fresh kill
And I have to wait for Travis to eat it all, while I grow ill?
"Give it here," I say greedily, reaching for the crockpot
Mom gives me a look like no manners I've got
But I don't care what I ought, I'm ravenous.
Gotta steal soup if I wanna eat after Travis
And it flows sloppily into my bowl
And I start immediately spooning it into my mouth, losing control
No longer do my tastebuds linger for fragrant flavors
I don't care to have my tongue do me any favors except swallow
I imagine the vegetables and noodles filling my stomach's hollows
As one spoonful gets raced down my throat, another follows
This, I think, is the best soup my lips have ever touched.
And I'd tell Mom and Dad as much
But there's no room for words what with broth, chicken and such.
As I near the bottom of my bowl and the spoon clacks
I reposition, jaw slacked
And I tip the bowl back to get every last drop.
Once the last dribbles are gone, down my throat or my chin
Satisfaction sets in
And I set the bowl down on the placemat, look around, and grin
Let out a big, exaggerated "aahhh" to let Mom, Dad, Travis,
the bowl of soup and my hunger know
That I win.
At least, that's what they're telling me
But my mom says, "Turn off the TV."
And I sigh and resist with my knees
But these are not pleas from her
These are words of warning
If I don't sit my butt down to dinner on the count of 3
I will have invoked a war stateside
And since I'd rather not have a sore behind
And since I get a free, homecooked meal otherwise,
I guess I'll oblige.
The microwave sounds and we all gather round the table
Clean and dressed, if we're able
And Dad gets out the ladle
And my brother begins to spoon it up.
And suddenly, it's been weeks since I've had anything to eat at all,
but that soup is like a fresh kill
And I have to wait for Travis to eat it all, while I grow ill?
"Give it here," I say greedily, reaching for the crockpot
Mom gives me a look like no manners I've got
But I don't care what I ought, I'm ravenous.
Gotta steal soup if I wanna eat after Travis
And it flows sloppily into my bowl
And I start immediately spooning it into my mouth, losing control
No longer do my tastebuds linger for fragrant flavors
I don't care to have my tongue do me any favors except swallow
I imagine the vegetables and noodles filling my stomach's hollows
As one spoonful gets raced down my throat, another follows
This, I think, is the best soup my lips have ever touched.
And I'd tell Mom and Dad as much
But there's no room for words what with broth, chicken and such.
As I near the bottom of my bowl and the spoon clacks
I reposition, jaw slacked
And I tip the bowl back to get every last drop.
Once the last dribbles are gone, down my throat or my chin
Satisfaction sets in
And I set the bowl down on the placemat, look around, and grin
Let out a big, exaggerated "aahhh" to let Mom, Dad, Travis,
the bowl of soup and my hunger know
That I win.
2/19/10
My Skin
My skin is something I never thought about
until they thought about it for me.
"What are you?" they'd ask
as if I was a stranger in a strange land,
as if I had three hands
as if I played accordion in a hard-rock band
My skin taught me my place,
which is not to say out of place
because I still pretty much check "white" on forms asking for race
but that I was obviously a different kind of white.
It's not like this sort of thing keeps me up at night,
but it does seem to be a popular way to break the ice.
My skin started to become stranger to me
every time someone would, again,
ask me as one of their first topics of conversation
what nations my ancestors hailed from,
like I was a border-crossing gypsy bum.
Oh, it'd be innocent like, "Um,
if you don't mind me asking, what's your heritage?"
And they'd ask it so often that I'd get embarrassed
because I knew they weren't asking cause they knew Dad or Mom
or they were doing research on ancestry.com
or they were doing a country scavenger hunt and needed my mark.
They ask because they want to know what makes me dark.
To me, I'm not even all that tan
Not compared to my mom, who passes for Mexican
But I've noticed that my skin isn't pink and pale
like 90 percent of the motherfuckers who desire to know,
in the first 30 seconds of meeting me, my great-grandparents'
Ellis Island tale.
But it's not just the Norwegians, Swedes and Irish,
It's all of y'all, too. Red, black and blue
Who desire to categorize me through and through.
Hey, I can't blame you. I'd love to be an easy statistic.
That would keep my sanity at times from going ballistic
But so far, I know of no clubs or groups looming,
no stations tuning
No organizations for my heritage are blooming
No German-Bulgarian-French-Swiss-Dutch-and-Welsh Student Union
So I am assuming I gotta handle this alone.
Keep explaining my winter tan to whomever wants to know.
My skin tells the story of how my ancestors go
across cities, countries, regions and continents
to America, the land where no one's really a native
So the color of your skin is the only way to hate it.
My skin, instead, traces the path of love.
Each people, each country, coursing through my blood
I see their faces in my tears, hear words of wisdom in my laugh
Every time I sign my name, it's each of their autographs.
The path I now take reflects all of the sacrifices they once did make
My skin is the last remaining tangible ancestral deference
To prevent their total obsolescence
So it pains me to think people take it the wrong way
Like, I don't have blue, green or even hazel eyes
I must be different.
I don't have straight, light-colored hair
I must not be like you
My skin lacks the pink undertones that categorize
the majority of the white people of the Midwest
so you and I cannot be sisters.
You and I cannot be removed a century ago from the same place
You and I do not have a shared ancestral history
so, it is implied, we now know where I stand
and it is in that vaguely-defined category of "Other."
Too miscellaneous to be identified.
To extraneous to be categorized.
Westminster wouldn't put me in their purebred show
so I'll never get that top prize.
My skin has taught me the best way to get to know someone
is to close your eyes
For when you're not worried about the superficial
you can find other things to love, or to despise.
My skin is the product of generations preceding me
coming to the exact same conclusion.
So don't make my skin the question
for which you must immediately find a solution.
until they thought about it for me.
"What are you?" they'd ask
as if I was a stranger in a strange land,
as if I had three hands
as if I played accordion in a hard-rock band
My skin taught me my place,
which is not to say out of place
because I still pretty much check "white" on forms asking for race
but that I was obviously a different kind of white.
It's not like this sort of thing keeps me up at night,
but it does seem to be a popular way to break the ice.
My skin started to become stranger to me
every time someone would, again,
ask me as one of their first topics of conversation
what nations my ancestors hailed from,
like I was a border-crossing gypsy bum.
Oh, it'd be innocent like, "Um,
if you don't mind me asking, what's your heritage?"
And they'd ask it so often that I'd get embarrassed
because I knew they weren't asking cause they knew Dad or Mom
or they were doing research on ancestry.com
or they were doing a country scavenger hunt and needed my mark.
They ask because they want to know what makes me dark.
To me, I'm not even all that tan
Not compared to my mom, who passes for Mexican
But I've noticed that my skin isn't pink and pale
like 90 percent of the motherfuckers who desire to know,
in the first 30 seconds of meeting me, my great-grandparents'
Ellis Island tale.
But it's not just the Norwegians, Swedes and Irish,
It's all of y'all, too. Red, black and blue
Who desire to categorize me through and through.
Hey, I can't blame you. I'd love to be an easy statistic.
That would keep my sanity at times from going ballistic
But so far, I know of no clubs or groups looming,
no stations tuning
No organizations for my heritage are blooming
No German-Bulgarian-French-Swiss-Dutch-and-Welsh Student Union
So I am assuming I gotta handle this alone.
Keep explaining my winter tan to whomever wants to know.
My skin tells the story of how my ancestors go
across cities, countries, regions and continents
to America, the land where no one's really a native
So the color of your skin is the only way to hate it.
My skin, instead, traces the path of love.
Each people, each country, coursing through my blood
I see their faces in my tears, hear words of wisdom in my laugh
Every time I sign my name, it's each of their autographs.
The path I now take reflects all of the sacrifices they once did make
My skin is the last remaining tangible ancestral deference
To prevent their total obsolescence
So it pains me to think people take it the wrong way
Like, I don't have blue, green or even hazel eyes
I must be different.
I don't have straight, light-colored hair
I must not be like you
My skin lacks the pink undertones that categorize
the majority of the white people of the Midwest
so you and I cannot be sisters.
You and I cannot be removed a century ago from the same place
You and I do not have a shared ancestral history
so, it is implied, we now know where I stand
and it is in that vaguely-defined category of "Other."
Too miscellaneous to be identified.
To extraneous to be categorized.
Westminster wouldn't put me in their purebred show
so I'll never get that top prize.
My skin has taught me the best way to get to know someone
is to close your eyes
For when you're not worried about the superficial
you can find other things to love, or to despise.
My skin is the product of generations preceding me
coming to the exact same conclusion.
So don't make my skin the question
for which you must immediately find a solution.
1/19/10
The ABC's
I aim and aspire to act like an acrobatic Aristotle
Alliteration on full throttle
Navigating a metaphor on a sea so smooth
I might as well be the captain of a ship in a bottle.
Believing bogus benedictions begets backwards bias
I reject Bible-beaters who claim to be pious
But continue to belittle, berate and harbor bitterness
If your god rewards that, I'll have no part of this.
Carefully crafted calligraphy changes the city's consciousness
Crude phrases without meaning lack emphasis and simple phonics
I don't mind demeaning if my cause you're mistreating
Because something as important as community deserves a second reading.
And don't demean our daughters' dreams
Cause doing so is detrimental
Don't think their actions or thoughts have no potential.
Explaining excitement, even emotion, is an easy education
Words flow constantly from our minds like limitless proclamations
These poetic ABCs are more than tongue-twisting declarations
They're literal libations
And this verbal bartender serves them up free to all nations.
I aim and aspire to liberate these frustrations
In verse.
Alliteration on full throttle
Navigating a metaphor on a sea so smooth
I might as well be the captain of a ship in a bottle.
Believing bogus benedictions begets backwards bias
I reject Bible-beaters who claim to be pious
But continue to belittle, berate and harbor bitterness
If your god rewards that, I'll have no part of this.
Carefully crafted calligraphy changes the city's consciousness
Crude phrases without meaning lack emphasis and simple phonics
I don't mind demeaning if my cause you're mistreating
Because something as important as community deserves a second reading.
And don't demean our daughters' dreams
Cause doing so is detrimental
Don't think their actions or thoughts have no potential.
Explaining excitement, even emotion, is an easy education
Words flow constantly from our minds like limitless proclamations
These poetic ABCs are more than tongue-twisting declarations
They're literal libations
And this verbal bartender serves them up free to all nations.
I aim and aspire to liberate these frustrations
In verse.
1/17/10
Touchdown (VIP boot camp exercise)
Touchdown.
The team in the dark-colored jerseys
bump into each other gleefully, in that masculine, angry way
as the ball is picked up by the guys in black and white
and the team in the light-colored jerseys
glumly unstraps their helmets and slinks off to the side.
They've lost this round. But they'll come back.
I watch the dark-colored jerseys load up the football on the
little football-holder thingy, ready to kickoff,
and out of the corner of my eye I see
you, in the dark-colored shirt, load up a bowl in the
little colorful holder thingy, ready to light.
The kick comes, and the light-colored jerseys get the ball,
hustling down the field, until they get taken down,
and then they line up, facing their opponents, hut hut, hike!
And you pass the piece to me, in my light-colored shirt,
and I breathe in, and release
and the ball is intercepted by the dark-colored jerseys
as I pass to the dark-colored shirt next to me,
and you breathe in, too,
and then the dark-colored jerseys feel the power,
and they go for
the Hail Mary
And the ball goes up, and we go up, so high above it all,
up and up, and we think for a second maybe we'll all be
in the sky forever
and we'll never, ever
touch down.
The team in the dark-colored jerseys
bump into each other gleefully, in that masculine, angry way
as the ball is picked up by the guys in black and white
and the team in the light-colored jerseys
glumly unstraps their helmets and slinks off to the side.
They've lost this round. But they'll come back.
I watch the dark-colored jerseys load up the football on the
little football-holder thingy, ready to kickoff,
and out of the corner of my eye I see
you, in the dark-colored shirt, load up a bowl in the
little colorful holder thingy, ready to light.
The kick comes, and the light-colored jerseys get the ball,
hustling down the field, until they get taken down,
and then they line up, facing their opponents, hut hut, hike!
And you pass the piece to me, in my light-colored shirt,
and I breathe in, and release
and the ball is intercepted by the dark-colored jerseys
as I pass to the dark-colored shirt next to me,
and you breathe in, too,
and then the dark-colored jerseys feel the power,
and they go for
the Hail Mary
And the ball goes up, and we go up, so high above it all,
up and up, and we think for a second maybe we'll all be
in the sky forever
and we'll never, ever
touch down.
Radicals (VIP boot camp exercise)
The first woman who ever said an unkind word to a man
was a radical.
The first woman to take the job of a man
was a radical.
The first woman to wear pants instead of a skirt or a dress
was a radical.
The first woman who thought she could be the best
was a radical.
The first woman who wrote, the ones who wanted to vote
The ones who, without remorse, sowed their wild oats
were radicals.
The first to not take a sabbatical
The first to dialog bilateral
The first to be named infallible
The first to go into sports, to serve on the courts
"Radical" is no longer a retort
It is a mission of progressive persistence
Those interested in the status quo need not apply
Only those insistent on not only toeing the line
But crossing over
Being radical is like playing "Red Rover"
And knowing if you, and you alone, can't break through the chain
Then you become a part of it.
Radicals didn't invent the dream
But they were the ones who started it.
was a radical.
The first woman to take the job of a man
was a radical.
The first woman to wear pants instead of a skirt or a dress
was a radical.
The first woman who thought she could be the best
was a radical.
The first woman who wrote, the ones who wanted to vote
The ones who, without remorse, sowed their wild oats
were radicals.
The first to not take a sabbatical
The first to dialog bilateral
The first to be named infallible
The first to go into sports, to serve on the courts
"Radical" is no longer a retort
It is a mission of progressive persistence
Those interested in the status quo need not apply
Only those insistent on not only toeing the line
But crossing over
Being radical is like playing "Red Rover"
And knowing if you, and you alone, can't break through the chain
Then you become a part of it.
Radicals didn't invent the dream
But they were the ones who started it.
Emotional crime (VIP boot camp exercise)
It was late, I was tired, and we both were perspired
So I felt inspired to take what conspired
And re-imagine it as a higher emotion
I said, "I love you." Wondering if I'm a liar
Or a petty thief hired to take hearts, break hearts
Fake something that started out on fire and slow-burned on desire
And suddenly catapult it without warning
Fake love is only fake in the morning.
So I felt inspired to take what conspired
And re-imagine it as a higher emotion
I said, "I love you." Wondering if I'm a liar
Or a petty thief hired to take hearts, break hearts
Fake something that started out on fire and slow-burned on desire
And suddenly catapult it without warning
Fake love is only fake in the morning.
News from a different point of view (VIP boot camp exercise)
They didn't name her, and that's how I knew.
Her brand-new 2-door was pale blue
Just like the car in the picture
Only this one was crumpled, flipped over in the ditch
Well, ain't that a bitch,
The news always waits to name the deceased
Until all the family members have been reached
But nobody's called me.
So I gotta read
About a girl, just like you, crashing her car, just your blue
Who she is no one knew.
But I know cause I called you
Went to voicemail
Wanted answers to no avail
And the newspaper only gave me just enough
To have me thinking this day was about to get tough.
Her brand-new 2-door was pale blue
Just like the car in the picture
Only this one was crumpled, flipped over in the ditch
Well, ain't that a bitch,
The news always waits to name the deceased
Until all the family members have been reached
But nobody's called me.
So I gotta read
About a girl, just like you, crashing her car, just your blue
Who she is no one knew.
But I know cause I called you
Went to voicemail
Wanted answers to no avail
And the newspaper only gave me just enough
To have me thinking this day was about to get tough.
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