I'm a few days late, but New Year's Day was the anniversary of Oscar Grant's death. Check out this great video by Yak Films, made in honor of Oscar. Art, dance, music and film used to try to make sense of a world with senseless violence. Very powerful.

Rest in Peace, Oscar.

I’ve been trying to write about my Sunday, which was a few days ago now. It was a rainy morning, and with Oscar Grant on my mind I needed a place to think and pray. So I went to church.  

Yes. That kind of church. Well, maybe not that kind, if what you’re thinking is angry misogynistic homophobic against-everything-I-stand-for church, the kind that makes the most noise and seems to get the most attention. No, I went to another type of church, one where they follow principles of compassion and peace and are open and affirming to all people.  

I explain this because I’ve had to “come out” at many times in my life – as queer, of course, which for me can mean admitting I like women in hostile homophobic spaces or admitting I like men in spaces where my belonging as a part of the “gay community” might be challenged. And sometimes saying that I have a spiritual life feels like a type of coming out, too. Though Christians in this country are, at most times, privileged, for me this part of my identity is sometimes another layer I have to negotiate when it comes to acceptance. Just as there are religious circles that are hateful to queer folks, there are queer circles where saying you go to church means you might as well be admitting “but some of my best friends are homophobes.” 

Let’s clear this up: like queer folks and immigrants, or queer folks and people of color, or any other intersection of our identities, queer folks and people of faith are not entirely separate and opposite people. There are queer people in churches and temples, leading congregations or just taking part, and expressing their spirituality otherwise all over the place. And, some people of faith believe that part of their call is not to exclude or condemn queer and trans folks (or even welcome us with some “hate the sin, not the sinner”-type judgment), but to welcome and affirm us as we are, to help us on our journey towards loving and accepting ourselves, and, as Desmund Tutu calls for here, to stand up and take action against our persecution.  

For me personally, faith serves a similar purpose as writing – it gives me hope. In the moments when I can’t find justice anywhere else, can’t look for it in the criminal justice system or rely on institutions like police forces for it, I look instead to art, to music and dance, to writing, and yes, to some higher power. I look to real people, those real bodies that hold real truths that will reveal themselves if you look for them. And I look to my silly idea that there is something beyond this world. I may not always believe that justice will be served in a court of law, or that hearts can be healed over prison terms, but I do believe that at times bodies and hearts can find healing and balance in the joy, laughter and tears shared over art. And shared in communities of faith.  

The faithful people I know are not the angry, hateful ones you see on TV, but loving, compassionate, justice-seeking people I can often count on when I’m trying to find some glimmer of hope. This isn’t to try to preach about my beliefs, but just to spread the word that these folks are out there. We’re here. We’re queer. And sometimes we pray.

More poetry for Oscar Grant. Very raw. I'm shaking off uncertainty and posting the rough drafts because those are the ones with the most heart.


make it right

where can i find you
            if not in courts or prisons
you’re not in books of law or in judges’ gavels 

i’m finding teeth, gnashed loose,
            in buckets of paint
                        and i’m wondering if they’re yours
or mine 

strands of hair make the brushes
            i sweep over the canvas
nobody’s ever made these brushes
            with hairs like ours before
and it makes me paint images that swirl
like the world is made of clouds and spirals 

tear me down
                   down
and i melt into this canvas
become the page, and here     
            i find you,
                        you alive
            without            form
    not how i’d imagine you
       my imagination
                        too small
            for what you’ve become now 

transcending me
     and any image of you
               from before 

you tiger lily
            called only by names
   both vicious and delicate 

we can’t take back
                        the sound of your voice
not even when it echoes while we sleep
            not even when we wake
                 sit up                      calling
                        i’m here, i’m here 

what do  we mean?
            where are we
                    now
we call out                   i’m here
            as if this place could
     feel like home to you
i’m calling              calling
            but this voice is so soft
    never knew i could keep it so near
                        to myself

so near so near
            though never quite clear
    i’m telling myself nursery rhymes now
       to sleep
            without
                tossing my body
            without
                turning my cheek
waiting to feel this burn on the other side 

            waiting
                                    waiting 

in case that could make it right
            as if anything
                        could make it right 

you’re not tumbling anymore
            be still
                        be still              be still 

i think i like to call to you
            to tell you it’s okay because
     i need to hear the words myself
   now, i think
            maybe that’s you talking to me,
      you want me to hear them too
after all, where you’ve gone
            you don’t need my comfort anymore 

as you rest
   as you rest in peace
i seek
  this peace
    you’ve found 

and i think this chaos you left behind
            all came from your heart
these voices we’re lifting--
            voices that may have never been heard
this fight we’re fighting--
            calling for justice in your name 

only now can you leave this earth in peace
     the world, finally,
            working as we should have all along
holding your troubles in our hands,
    saying, brother,
         move on forward,
            we’ll make this right for you.

Johannes Mehserle, the BART cop who killed Oscar Grant, was sentenced to only two years in prison, including time already served. This was the shortest possible term.

This I already knew – let’s seek our sense of justice somewhere other than the courts.

 feel your presence here

can i say this is from hands unseen
when at the end of my climb
i see everything i thought i’d lost
my reflection in the glittering sand
of morning dew          a name to call
myself written in the glowing moss
upon a rock     you know we’d make
a perfect painting, you and i, sitting
side by side     eye to eye        only
we couldn’t find paint the color of
these tears (i run them clear to make mist
vibrant with all your colors) and we’d
never find a red so dark as your blood
           nor one that keeps running
                                           keeps running
           from wounds with open doors.

 

Yesterday's event turned out fabulously. Lots of good people turned out to support the work of CUAV, share conversation, laughs and food, and listen to some really inspirational musical artists.

And I got to read my poetry! I haven't been reading much in public lately, and I was glad for the chance to do it there. I've never felt like I'm much of a performance poet, really, even though people often see me and learn that I write, and that I write about social justice, and they assume that I'm something of a slam poet. I really admire slam poets but I can't do what they do, and I usually think of my work as more meant to be read than heard.

But there was something about the energy in that place yesterday, and in spite of my plans to simply read what I'd written, I ended up delivering it. I didn't think of it as performing really, but definitely tapping into the energy of the folks watching and knowing that maybe what I was saying meant something to them and feeling free to not just read the words but feel them.

I loved it.

These poems appeared on my blog earlier, but I just want to share them here now:

 When You Hope for Justice and Get a Slap in the Face
                               for Wanda Johnson and Oscar Grant
when you hope for justice
and get a slap in the face,
hold your head high.
feel the sting of it,
know the pain is real
and don’t let anybody tell you
it was never there.
cry.
know your tears aren’t for nothing,
let them fall to the earth
to water the seeds
that will grow the roots
to anchor the trees
that cannot be moved.
know that you, too,
cannot be moved.
when you hope for justice
and get a slap in the face,
look to the past.
to those who were beaten and left to die,
whose sadness and rage
left them still standing,
and built the ground we stand on today.
look to the future,
where today’s heavy hearts
are tomorrow’s beacons of hope.
our hope may be lost
but our determination can be found again.

 

This Isn’t a Poem About Justice

This isn’t a poem about justice
I’m not supposed to write about wild and out there things
            that you can’t get your hands on
                        that might not really exist.
But if you promise not to call me crazy
I’ll tell you in a whisper
     that I felt justice.
     it was soaking the earth
           in warm rain falling
           and lightning bolts striking the Detroit River
                lighting up the sky
                like the eyes of a hopeful child.
Promise not to laugh
when I say I looked into the soul of a stranger
            Our eyes met,
                        our energies passed between us
                        like the shared tremble of an earthquake.
            No need to ask did you feel that?
                        I can’t call him a stranger anymore.
Promise you won’t turn me in
when I speak of bonds formed
            on darkened dance floors
                        between banners calling for revolutions
            what I did might have
                    violated some part of the Patriot Act
                    and if they lock me up
                          and torture me
                          and ask what I know about terror
            I’ll say her lips tasted like cinnamon.
We spit justice into microphones
      spilled it from paint cans onto canvases
              wore it on t-shirts
                    and fried it into foods,
                    so it burned our tongues
                    and slipped from our lips when we spoke.
I say justice is alive as the red rose of so many poems
            but its scent thickens the air like the heat of the sun
                        and its thorns are inescapable.