Ink and Vein

I’m reading and writing poetry this morning. I don’t know what else to do to soothe my heart.

It has been a month of mixed emotions, a month of wounds being re-opened, or perhaps open wounds just being uncovered.

After my birthday journey (pilgrimage?), I felt so full of possibility, so transformed, so hopeful and motivated and inspired.

Recently, I’ve started to feel unmoored, ungrounded, as if I can’t find a center, as if I have no clarity.

I could blame the eclipse, I suppose. It’s so much easier to look to astrological phenomena than it is to look at what’s happening around me, and within me, and what I’m contributing (or not contributing) to it all.

Earlier this month, I learned that a connection from graduate school died. They had struggled quite a bit in their life, and I feared, when I first heard the words, that it was suicide. It wasn’t. Instead, it was an undiagnosed and rare heart condition. Ibby was young, and vibrant, and authentic, and fierce. They were close to my age, so perhaps not “young” but it was still a blow. They worked so hard to be in a good place in their life, in their identity, worked so hard to love themself in their fullness. It broke my heart, that that was cut short for them.

And then some of the posts celebrating their life used the wrong pronouns, and used their old name. It hurt to see it.

In the past week, in my community, I’ve been faced with the reality that people find my existence as a queer person controversial and politically charged. Me and other queer people wanting to celebrate our existence in the face of state violence, state oppression, is deemed controversial and politically charged, and so a venue in my town that used to let our Pride Fest host its kickoff party there, is no longer letting Pride do so. They were sure to state that “all are welcome here” and were very polite in their communication. They have the right to do what they like.

I liked frequenting this venue, and had continued to do so despite negative experiences there, because I like their beer, I like some of the servers, and people I enjoy talking to hang out there. I liked sitting with a beer and writing, getting a change of scenery from my usual coffee shop, and a change of scenery from home. I liked being around people, and found the buzz and noise stimulating. Sometimes, libraries are too quiet for me to think and write. I continued going to this venue, overlooking the aspects that made me uncomfortable, because, well, it was what was there, and I was withering away in my isolation.

This past week, people in my queer community have been upset and hurt by the quiet decision not to host Pride. When one person posted about this hurt on social media, the response was overwhelmingly discouraging. People rushed to support and defend the business owner, and scolded my friend for voicing their feelings. The business owner now gets to play victim, and the fact that queer people are murdered on the daily and are losing their rights to marriage, to healthcare, even to parent their children or use the bathroom in public, is completely disregarded in the name of professionalism and “building bridges.”

Political neutrality is such a luxury, such a privilege. And it’s also a lie. To choose neutrality is actually a statement in and of itself, and it’s especially telling to see what people see as “neutral.” Support of military and law enforcement: neutral. Support of queer pride: controversial. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem neutral to me.

I’ve felt so much rage and anger, last week I had the burning desire to do violence. I wanted to break something, get in a fight, punch someone or get punched… I needed an outlet of some sort, a physical manifestation of my emotional pain. I wrote a poem about my rage and posted lots of social media content about rage and anger, and had a couple people ask me why I was so angry “today.” And the thing is, that I’m always angry. Always. It’s a low hum, usually, but sometimes the hum becomes a howl.

I used to inflict pain on myself to relieve that anger, because it wasn’t acceptable to express it. It wasn’t acceptable to express my pain, either. So I pricked myself with pins and made gentle, tiny cuts with blades. And then I discovered tattoos and was able to use that as an outlet for the pain.

I don’t want to inflict pain on myself any longer (though I definitely still want more tattoos). I don’t want to choke on my anger and my sorrow to keep other people comfortable. We should not have to suffer alone, and we should not have to suffer to keep other people comfortable. I don’t want to inflict pain on anyone else, either, but there is a distinct difference between discomfort at having your privilege challenged, and the pain of enduring discrimination and living in fear of violence.

Saying “all are welcome” is an empty phrase when you don’t acknowledge or understand the ways that our society is designed to be unsafe for many. Saying “all are welcome” has to be backed with action that doesn’t support the presence of people who make others unwelcome.

I could be writing about so many places in this country, because every town has a place that has declined to host Pride, or that doesn’t want to put up a flyer or make a wedding cake for a queer wedding. Every town has people who loudly declare that gay people should “keep it to themselves” and I’m pretty sure every college campus has groups of people who have followed a person alone after dark to their car, yelling “faggot” and “queer” at them (this happened to me more than once in graduate school).

Yet, I’m sure, someone will read this post and tell me that I’m out of line, tell me that I’m making a big deal out of nothing, tell me that I should be quiet about it and make an effort to build bridges instead.

I’ve been quiet enough.

It’s time to shout.

Here’s a couple poems from National Poetry Writing Month, since writing is the only thing I have right now that brings me any kind of grounding.

Whisper Network

Carefully orchestrated susurrations make small ripples,

Barely perceptible, barely disrupting the glass-smooth

surface hiding the depths below. 

Murky truths moving beneath currents that threaten

to pull us down, yet we all pretend they aren’t there,

only speaking in hushed whispers of realities that range

from uncomfortable to horrific. 

You want me to be quiet, you want me to whisper,

But when their hands are closing around my throat,

You’ll ask later, if I’m still alive, why I didn’t scream.

Low Hum of Anger

Fist clench, muscles tense

Property damage on my mind

If someone crosses me, right now, 

I’ll brawl even though it’s been years

Since flesh gave way under my knuckles

Rage boiling up from deep in my gut

I’ve kept it down so long

I breathe through it

I chant “ohm shanti shanti shanti” 

I wish for peace. I practice compassion

And underneath it all anger 

lives in my blood

lives under my skin

lives in my bones

Anger lives curled up with shame

Around the parts of myself I had to hide

The parts of myself I still have to hide

sometimes 

And the anger is always there

Even when I don’t feel it

The anger is always there, curled up

With my shame. Anger directed inwards

Anger always there driving me to fatigue

And driving me to light a match

So I can watch the whole fucking world burn down.