shewonders-shewanders
a i r e o u t l o u d
Finding the way back to me.
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Nika Furlani - Diary
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desposeída
I am a dispossessed Mexican. The border jumped my people. For a century we were on the edge of the Spanish empire...they were apathetic. We were pobres, regardless of what the family says, living in a pueblo, generations birthed and buried on the same land. For twenty years, we were Mexican, at the edge yet again, ignored by all.When the borders changed again, we were American.But we weren’t, lost somewhere between countries and conflict.And generations later, here comes me. The youngest daughter of the youngest son, now dead, a black girl, una pinche negra, like my mother. Defiant too. Pinche macha.Speaking spanish like there’s water in my mouth, always the wrong word, the wrong tense, lost in conjugation. Another colonizer tongue, thick, and foreign in my mouth. But there are tears in my eyes only mariachi can cure, the howl, el grito, too loud, too sad, too much.A boy I loved once says he worries we can never again be friends like before. He squirms in discomfort, he is so white.I pause because the words fail me, because he cannot understand that once a Mexican heart sings “Por Tu Maldito Amor,” there is no going back. Mi pinche corazon, una guerra, desposeída.Alone in Italy, I once sprinted across a convention center upon hearing the opening strumming to “Cielito Lindo.”Yes. I ran. I cried in front of the mariachi. This was home. Like the long and sleepy drive home from Great America with my dad at the wheel. Like the music from a neighbor’s party down the street. Like my Uncle Joe’s voice in my ear, translating all the words I don’t know.Y cuando el chico con el que me iba a casar es mas debil de lo que creia.Cuando no tengo las palabras, cuando nuestro amor es cosa de ayer. Por tu maldito amor.I wish the world could know what I mean, I live and love in the music and the spaces between.
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“how far have you walked for men who’ve never held your feet in their laps?
how often have you bartered with bone, only to sell yourself short?
why do you find the unavailable so alluring?
where did it begin? what went wrong? and who made you feel so worthless?
if they wanted you, wouldn’t they have chosen you?
all this time, you were begging for love silently, thinking they couldn’t hear you, but they smelt it on you, you must have known that they could taste the desperate on your skin?
and what about the others that would do anything for you, why did you make them love you until you could not stand it?
how are you both of these women, both flighty and needful?
where did you learn this, to want what does not want you?
where did you learn this, to leave those that want to stay?”
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“His eyes were the same colour as the sea in a postcard someone sends you when they love you, but not enough to stay.”
— Warsan Shire
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Things are actually good.
I’m so happy to say that I’m doing well right now.
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MAGICAL BLACK WOMEN at AFROPUNK 2017
INSTAGRAM: AGGIE_NES
INSTAGRAM: AGGIE_HAIR
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She was sin. Unholy. A bad association. A whore. Godless. Selfish. Flawed. Self-important. Elitist. Anti black. Anti light. An abyss of failure. Always writing something about her own unstable mind.She just didn't try hard enough. She was talented. She sang. She laughed. She tried. She was not made for this place. She was a narcissist. She was inconsiderate. She took up too much space. She was unforgivably fat. She was thoughtless. She never kept in touch. She was always sad. She liked to be right. She liked to argue. She never fit. She loved you, but it wasn't enough. She was sorry, but that also wasn't enough. She said goodbye, but you missed it.
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