Lost: Home; Part 2.

I've lost my way. It's dark and my glasses are of no use. The map I have is for a different country, and my friends have forgotten to speak my language.

There is a glimmer from a candle's flame off in the distance. And I walk, slowly, towards it, with an impaired leg. I will reach that candle eventually, but I pray it's still lit when I do.

-T

Venting.

Ok, I know I still have to finish my blog from last night, but...I need to vent right quick.

Where the fuck do people locate authority to speak on a subject, they know nothing about? How the hell are you, perfect example of the hetero normative, going to tell me that the military isn't racist? or that it doesn't target minority groups to enlist? It is not as simple as saying "It's their best option." You fucking idiot. The options are not 1.) sell crack, or 2.) enlist (His words). How can you deny that the military is highly disproportionate when talking about race? How can you deny that although African Americans only make up 13% of the American population, this percentage is highly misrepresented in the 40% that make up our military? You probably didn't even know those numbers before ignorantly stating your uninformed opinion. I'm sorry, but being poor isn't genetic. Minorities aren't naturally inclined to join the Marines or the Navy. Recruiters target minorities. Isn't it odd that in all forms of media, minorities are absent or highly misrepresented, but wait! Look there! That advertisement for the National Guard, a face that looks like me! So No, I will never see someone like me in an advertisement for Abercrombie & Fitch, and Yes, in advertisements for Harvard, I will always be in the back and to the right of the white student, but you for sure better believe my skin tone will be up front and in your face when you see an ad for the Armed Services.

In my paper for a class, I'm focusing on how pathos motivates revolution, and how that pathos translates on to paper, and then which forms of it are best for specific arguments. Here is a perfect example of Anger the way bell hooks talks about it. I am pissed, pissed at a society of people who don't recognize my life and the difficulties I face for having a higher concentration of melinin. I am pissed, pissed at people who claim to be from my gay community, but who are ignorant to the previlige they recieve for their white skin and blue eyes. You and I are not the same White gay boy. Our experiences are not equal. We both may have a Neo Nazi smash our heads in for holding hands, but don't you dare try and assume you know what it feels like to have to wear that fear in the color of your skin.

I'm too angry to keep typing.

but this is not El Fin, not by a long shot.

-T

P.D. Oh, and it's been a few years since I've updated my percentages, so they may be a little off.

Feeling.

It's been a few days since I've blogged. I know, typical. Here are things bothering me:

 

I've been feeling weird lately. It's not the normal uneasiness I usually feel, but instead, it's more the numbing of pain—because of exposure—and then you realize why it doesn't hurt anymore. I guess, you would think I would prefer not to feel it anymore, but the source of that feeling is still there, I've only just become tolerant of it. The weirdness comes from not wanting things to change, good or bad, mainly because I'm just coming to terms with how things are now. And yet, here I am, rocking the boat: new friends, new family, new Boy. And I find myself sitting back, blankly staring at my computer screen, not knowing what to say, with a bucket of peanuts calling my name next to me. The best way for me to describe it is like when your arm falls asleep. You don't realize it's going numb, until it's too late, and you know you have to move it, and that when you do it will feel better, but you also know that for those 45 seconds that it is filling with blood, the bitch, is gonna hurt. I'm not ready to move my arm yet, not ready at all.

 

Yesterday, I was at Nookie's, at 3 in the a.m., with K and sitting at a table across from us was a two top of women. I don't know how it happened, but we managed to find ourselves in a convo about seat 1's roommate and his battle with Bulimia. In the process of the convo, it became apparent that my knowledge of the subject was based on something more intimate than medical books. And yet, I wasn't embarrassed. Oddly enough, I had a sort of pride filling me, not because I had suffered through something, but because I had fought with it and won (or at least I like to think I've won).

"This isn't a competition of who's life was harder" Of course it isn't. If that were the case, I would lose. My hardships in life have privileged me to meet people whose lives are testaments to their dedication to survive. Yes, the path behind me is dark and muddy, but it isn't anywhere near the mine riddled swamps of others. My mother may have beat me into silence, but she never broke my fingers on the trunk lid to our car. I may have been choked for not buying milk fast enough, but I was never raped. I may not have had a bed to sleep on for 3 of the past 5 years, but I've never had my mother burn my hands so bad that my fingers melted together. And so yes, I felt Pride in me. No more questioning God "why?" but instead, just being aware that I persevered. I did, and I'm proud of it.

 

This entry was meant to be longer (I have much more on my mind) but I'm too sleepy to keep typing. Too sleepy.

 

Sleep some human sleep.

 

-T

Shame…

Today, I felt it, for the first time in a long time; not just the general feeling, but the salty grime of it that comes when you realize you're different—when you realize you're gay. A table walked into CPK today, a party of four business men. I, talking to another server, was telling him how amazing my date was the night before. And this party of four business men over heard me, and continued to walk past me, making me the center of all their jokes for the duration of the meal. And I turned my head out of surprise, and there he was—Senor Shame. He came up to me and placed his hand on my face, smiling, always smiling. I closed my eyes but his breath was still there, hot and moist. And then he left me to go join the party of business men, and they laughed at my expense.

A part of me wanted to walk up to them and flare my wrists with Pride, but instead I gave the table to someone else. I've let my community down; I've let myself down. And this shame I feel won't shake. I deserve this feeling, I think. The grime will build up on my skin, hardening, always hardening; and soon, the residue will be so impenetrable, that next time, I won't flare my wrists but I will cut with words. Anger as a powerful tool—my black feminists would be proud.

It won't shake. He won't shake.

 

-T

Fear.

He is crazy. And I like it.

Come Cummings, I love you.

Why am I in love with this man? He's, seriously, Brilliant in more than the common sense. When I read the words he speaks, from some fountain of truth, that only he knows the location of, I'm left utterly breathless. How does he affect me so?


"here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)"


Sigh. Who are you? And when did God kiss you on the forehead?

One day, my friend. One day.

-T

Sigh.

And I've lost my phone.

And my head hurts.

And I have to work a double.

And it's cold outside.

And I have so much work to do.



It's Valentine's Day.


-T

Conformity: I remember you Scrivener

I: surrounded by Books, buried under massive piles of paper, next to heaps of dirty clothes, feet away from bags of garbage. This clutter is offensive, but I find it ironic (as I take a break from finishing my midterm) how the state of my bedroom is representative of my life. I read too much for my own good; I have more school work than I can handle at times; I don't have time to run my errands; I can't seem to throw anything away, out of fear I'll need it one day. Here, on my bed, where the questions in my head become concrete, I am suddenly at ease with this—my room. I may not be white or a woman, but here, in my Chicago apartment, I have claimed a room of one's own, and I've never been more ready for self discovery.

My Self is here: on the light and in the shadows, that paint out My stories on My walls—their stage.

Ah, Bartleby! Ah, Humanity!

There is hope for us yet.

-T

No Love No Glory—Most Of The Time

It's a little past midnight and I'm sitting in bed, not sure why I do the things I do. I can't stress enough how odd this feeling is of not knowing what your fingers will type before you press your hand to your keyboard.

I love my friends, I do, but sometimes I just stare at them unsure of why we get along. Is it wrong of me to think this? Why do I find it so easy to get along with people? I have tons of friends—most people really take a liking to me, but why? That is something that still confuses me. I don't really have all that much to offer, well at least not in terms of intimacy. Few people know who I am, and those who do only think they are privileged because I let them, because that is all I have to offer: the pretense that I've allowed them in somewhere dark and shattered. Very few people have seen this place; my sisters are the closest to understanding me, but even they are in the dark about certain parts of my life. My friends are kept at arms length away. Most of the time, when I let them closer, they get worried or frustrated, and I lose my ability to joke with them.

Today I watched the SuperBowl surrounded by friends who know nothing about me, minus the information I can put on paper. Stats: 21, Mexican, attending DePaul, single, 5 siblings. It makes me sick how shallow everything is. I lose touch with those I love; I can feel the lightening pull on my heart as our distance grows greater, like a healing wound. Yes, wound, because for me, to love is to hurt. It is to risk it all for someone who can step down hard on something fragile. And yet, I do it, every once in a while. How can I expect to be with someone when I can't even figure out the dynamics with my friends?

"No, don't cook for me. It makes me feel weird…" He didn't believe me, but what can I say? I need to be alone, I think.

The sensation of touch is too much for me when coupled with emotion. For now, it is bearable because I only need to process the physicality of it. I wish I could describe this overload of sensation I feel—how sensitive my body can get, but all that is nothing in comparison to the maxed out shortage of my brain and my heart. It isn't a boyfriend that I want. It's Plato's Form, his ideal. I am in love with a man that doesn't exist, and I think I'm coming to terms with this. I'm starting to understand it. His Form is dangling from a star above my head, and I keep trying to jump from my bed up to grab it. Instead I land on the ground and scab my knee. I've come to the point where I've stopped jumping, but now I sit and stare at it—staring at it with curiosity. Soon, I will altogether forget it's there and just lie down and go to sleep, but for now I'm still mesmerized.

I was once told "Always aim for the moon, because even if you fail, you'll still end up among the stars." Yes, among the stars with no air to breathe or heat to warm me. Oddly enough, that doesn't sound too much different than now.

-T