Fifty-Five. Remember.

Rememberbluebird

I carry all of these moments

of all these years wherever I go and to whoever I become

I keep them loose

because they hold you

I keep them close

because they hold me.

When the bow broke,

the day the cage released,

when my throat opened

and I learned I was free.

Pulling

Pushing

Longing

Falling

When I fought you

I was only fighting me

When I loved you

I learned to love me.

I carry all these moments

of all these years wherever I go to whomever I become

sore

worn

& faulted

because they hold you

sore

worn

& faulted

because they hold me.

Fifty-Four. From Chaos, Everything.

fromchaoseverything

You meet me in my earth

You meet me in my dirt

You meet me in my mess

You call this a temple

You call this a home.

You live in my pitted stomach

You cry in my choked chest

You rest in my twisted bones

You call this a temple

You call this a home.

When my eyes burned in the mirror

all You said was,

“Holy, you’re a temple. Holy, you’re a home.”

Fifty-Three.Current.

“And a part of you was drawn to her, and a part of you resisted–wanting to ride off on your bicycle, kick a stone, remain uncomplicated. In the same breath you felt the strength of a man, and a self-pity that made you feel small and hurt. Part of you thought: Please don’t look at me. If you don’t, I can still turn away. And part of you thought: Look at me.” – Nicole Krauss

Fifty-Two. Hapa.

 

Bill of Rights for People of Mixed Heritage

I have the right
Not to have to justify my existence in the world.
Not to keep the races separate within me.
Not to justify my ethnic legitimacy.
Not to responsible for people’s discomfort with my physical or ethnic ambiguity.

I have the right
To identify myself differently than strangers expect me to identify.
To identify myself differently than how my parents identify me.
To identify myself differently than how my brothers or sisters identify.
To identify myself differently in different situations.

I have the right
To create a vocabulary to communicate being multiracial or multiethnic.
To change my identity over my lifetime–and more than once.
To have loyalties and identification with more than one group of people.
To freely choose whom I befriend and love.

Maria P.P. Root

 

Fifty-One. Luna.

ff6853b53d460e32b06fc266a05302e6

to have and not to hold

 near and farther, still.

you are for me to love and not for me to hold.

tide tied to your light

pull me low and pull me high, still.

you are for me to love and not for me to hold.

Longing, pulsing, rising, falling

my coasts swallowed, this shore crashed

star crossed and night bound, still.

you are for me to love and not for me to hold.

Fifty. This & That.

It’s been 7 months since I wrote on this.
Whoops.

In January I got a new job.
In February I moved to Atlanta.
I cut off most of my hair.
And my world was turned upside down at
The LGBTQ Taskforce’s Creating Change Conference in Denver, Colorado.
TRPDenver

Then a break up happened.
March rolled in and I fell in love with Atlanta.
Then I went to Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas, Tennessee, South Carolina,& Florida with Matthew and as far as I am concerned we became the Southeast’s Cutest Gay Couple.
alan&leslie
matthew&i

By April I was at my first Braves game in ten years with a real, live monkey.
family

Then we took the monkey to Six Flags & she transformed into a superhero.
supergirl

Next thing I knew I was in D.C. with some of the most insightful & remarkable hooligans I have ever met for The Reformation Project’s D.C. Leadership Cohort
cohort
I felt challenged, energized, inspired, and then I sat in this window & got a foot cramp.
window

Life is weird. God is good. More to come…More to come.

Forty-Nine. Between The Cracks.

Hope grows between cracks in the asphault
In the downtown ghetto streets that contour
the government housing intentions of my heart

no one notices the daisies don’t care
about gang related violence
as long as they get enough air and water and sun
they’re all just fine

Who would’ve thought it but life is finding a way
through this wasteland of cynics, concrete, and pain.
There’s a man down here somewhere between
the Saturday cartooons and the dirty magazines.
He’s raising the dead in the graveyards
Where we’ve laid down our dreams
His name is Hope.

-John Mark McMillan