Bikes. Food. Style. Hip Hop. Love. Justice.
in chaos one man collects
his daughter into a plastic bag
oh my god the bag is leaking
one kisses a cave was baby boy face just this
morning braids unplaiting phosphorous
wordless exhaust smoke shock
what is it that remains of us now
then what is recyclable in us
men’s beards carry their lineage
refracted memory drones
drummed ears echo frequency
children call for siblings reborn
skulls fracture eyes the color purple
here the steeliest doctors weep
the sea waves shelled boys
sirens post explosions
all is shrapnel and hunger
none is safe all are waiting
between wall and wait and sea
and wall there is no day
what are we
flares rain metal escalation
descent upon heads ladders of spine collapse
night eats sleep the people hold fasts
children of lightening no rain
sewage into water skin flamed to ash
the women’s faces track lifelines
grief upon grief astronomical
dust was people last night
tunnel is the people now
raising horizon in coffins
there is no recovery
she says they light the night with bombs
she says that’s not the sun at all
she says this is a crime against my heart
she says nothing
she says listen
we are shelter and target
we are stars exploded
the people run into themselves for refuge
they catch up to their ghosts
between devastate and displace
what is destroyed again is everything
what is created is a hole
suheir hammad(via thatonesuheirhammad)
I’m guessing you would probably enjoy Italy. The cathedrals, the Roman Catholic monuments, the pope… Quite a beautiful place.
I imagine you going through each church with the usual ritual: fingers dipped in holy water, sign of the cross, the quick kneel, a pew to sit and pray. You probably would be less impressed with the artwork and architecture than I am; your faith was never about aesthetics. I would probably get impatient after taking all my pictures. But your life of worship was something I always admired. I know your devotion was what kept you going, despite the poverty, despite being all alone an broke when you first arrived in America, despite raising a son on your own.
And here I am. Out in the world, trying to make sense of my grief, coming to terms with your transition. I find myself still going about things as if you were still alive, coming across things I consider getting for you, thinking about giving you a call.
I am at a train station in Florence right now and it is pouring rain. While life goes on, some moments allow us to be with our grief. My backpack is heavy with clothing and toiletries, but the only thing I feel is the weight of your altar, your memory.
My first morning in Florence. Wide awake at 6am. I hadn’t slept all night.
A pesky mosquito kept me on guard. I was tired of getting bitten.
Perhaps the solitude was making me restless. This feeling of captivity in my foreignness.
I almost prefer the tourist traps at this point. The false hospitality of service workers is the closest thing I can find to comfort nowadays.
Why did I even come here?
For moments like this.
Feminism isn’t only about giving women access (or acknowledging the prescence and work of women) in male-dominated fields. It is also about elevating the status of what is traditionally considered as “female” or “girly” and opening up rigid gender roles. If behaviours and activites that we often identify as female are no longer seen as negative and inferior, they lose their power as insults and will not be considered undesirable qualities in a man.
One of the biggest light bulbs that went off for me in my life was when I realized how much patriarchy and sexism had damaged me. How I struggled to overcompensate for all the ways I didn’t fit into the “man box” and therefore denied myself my own humanity. I’m still undoing that damage even to this day.