Origins (inspired by JuDonn's TFA Diversity session)

O Leilani ko’u inoa, and I come from the ones forgotten

                            The ones who tried to forget

                    And the ones who savagely erased. 

 I come from those

                    whose bloodline dates back to  Maui and the Big Island

                Proud people with shark aumakuas,

          and stewards of ancient Hawaiian homelands

                  dotted with verdant greens from where echoes

        of mele and pule resonate like the drumbeats

                and heartbeats pulsing through history’s bones

        and coursing through my existence. 

But now I come from the chiefs of Wall Street

           tyrants whose eyes are closed and who foreclose

                          generations-old homes where grandmothers in slippahs and curlers

            stand over the stove that fill four walls with the scent of 

kalua cabbage, lau lau, and loco moco. 

             Love. For Sale.

Osiyo 

                  I am from Ahawi, half of whose bloodline

walked on at Fort Knox during Nunna Daul Isunyi

              In this Trail of Needless Tears that spans from one generation to the other to the other to the other to the other, my bloodline became another--

deemed the other.

              Trickled down through the years,

              I am from the one who was stolen from the wide open spaces of the rez and into closed doors and suffocating walls of  boarding schools by missionaries who believe in the salvation of savages through a god who picks selectively the worthy through a singular word supposedly written in stone

                        I am from the one whose Native tongue is silenced because he wants to be a human being, not a savage

                    I am borne from the genocide of a people who existed long before time had a name

but now invisible and forced to prove their existence by a government who wants us to check one box this box what...categorization

all for federal dollars and recognition

and my shame...

                For I am also from the ones who savaged and ravaged and pillaged

It is my self-imposed and inherited  shame, my dishonour, my brokenness that

Coursing through my veins is the echo of colonization and subjugation, 

I 

am also 

from those

who came to these lands on white-washed ships, bearing promises of salvation draped as blankets riddled with diseases. 

                                 I am from the borderlands of shame and pride,

                                             of hope and despair

Of being too much of different races and identities,

yet never enough of one

I am from “what are you?” and “if you had your father’s hazel eyes and your mother’s rosy skin, you would be beautiful” and racial ambiguity

                    I am from “Is Leilani an Arabic name?” post-911

                             “Are you Mexican?” post-Dream Act

I find it hard

To fully belong in a place other than the one I call my own

Mestizaness hapaness mixed-bloodedness

I belong to many tribes but at times feel alone in this

struggle to make sense of contradiction and duality

But still I try to navigate through these mazes in the hazes of faces layered across places and time

I am from the ones forgotten,

and so I remember

I am from the ones who tried to forget

and so I speak

I am from the ones who tried to erase

And so I see

I am from the Trail of Broken Treaties and annexations of a kingdom,

And so I stand here today and I speak

because though I come from history,

I am today,

eyes full of intent

shoulders straight

soul intact

heart full of hope and strength and fight

I am here

My people live on

Oye

WE NEVER VANISHED

Langston Hughes, "Harlem (A Dream Deferred)

Source

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load. Or does it explode?

R

Source

Half past breaking dawn

Sun peeks out as if to say,

“Hello, my friend.”

Windows shut,

Blinds drawn.

Gone doubtin’ ourselves again.

Neden, dost arkadasim, neden?

A lifetime in 23 seasons reduced.

Neden, dost arkadasim, neden?

My, how you built us up!

Built—

            --to break!

When reality’s fragile sands

            Failed

To turn us into the image in your mind.

Pourquoi, mon amie, pourquoi?

A lifetime, to six seasons reduced.

Pourquoi, mon amie, pourquoi?

Entropy

In between yesterday and tomorrow--      
today, mo chroi--
With those jagged, vertical lines
You made your choice
Without struggle, irreversible, final.
Tell me, beloved:
Was it nothingness you sought,
Or elusive relief, perhaps
Unreachable it seemed?

Merciful God, they claim, deems you a sinner.
Prodigal son, Bedouin without a tribe.
Locked out of Valhalla
Shackled now to Hades eternal. 

'Coward, you are,' Oh how mere mortals judge,
'Brought shame and dishonour
  to your God
     your country
        your family
           your friends.'
Their forked tongues seethe with righteous indignation,
     eyes of steel

          lips in perpetual sneer. 



But you fought, beloved-- 
Oh how you fought
     and raged
          and thrashed
against the quicksand
     in the darkness
          and in silence!
They never knew,
     and I...

          I saw much too late. 

In between today and tomorrow--
forever, mo chroi--
I shall carry this,
    peeking out behind the clouds: 
      beloved, yes--I meant to say. 

Deliverance from the Robed Boogeyman

Blessed Father, oh how you have sinned! 

Has it been 5, 15, or 30 years since

the dates infallible Joe Ratzinger omitted? 

This madness, this crime committed:

   Names crossed out

     Faces obscured

        Defilement in Shadows,

     Little boys' screams silenced,

   Truth be damned, 
       MURDERED.

Predators'---yours!--memorized verses

   uttered behind polished mahogany screens,

Robotic rituals--cleansing, you say--,

   Insincere atonement,

     A mockery of (y)our God's Grace.

This sickness, this monster

Boston-Belfast-Berlin Migration. 

 Boogeyman in Sacred Robes,
           May God deliver us from your evil

Sark

You carry the weight 

   of numbers unknown

The cries of those who fell

   so long ago

Across the desert

   nameless and faceless.

This moment, these memories

   Slither past the borders

Generation

   upon

      generation,

It lives.

It  grows.

Father to son,

   son to daughter.

And like

   those who came before

You

   cannot

     forget. 

'The other must pay,'

   you say,

'95 years later the blood

   is still a splendid red.'

Eternal feud revisited

   paid

      and

         played

between -yan and -oğlu unborn,

     innocent brothers

      whose only sin

          was to come into being

into the borderlands

of political hate. 

Rumi, Solitude

This aloneness is worth more than a thousand lives.
This freedom is worth more than all the lands on earth.
To be one with the truth for just a moment,
Is worth more than the world and life itself.

Rumi, Lovers' Touch

Your love lifts my body to the sky

And you lift me up out of two worlds.

I want your sun to reach my raindrops,

So your heat can raise my soul upward like a cloud.

In This Skin: A Reclamation

I have a story to tell, silently and without words: 

'Tis a map laid bare

past drapes of fabric

and layers of armour

and bandages.

Can I trust you

to see past the curves and twists and turns,

the zigzags and crisscrosses invisible

but defining?

Beneath both smooth, unblemished surface

and raised, jagged scar tissue,

dark shadows and fiery bursts of colours mark my skin.

Tattooes etched by

nameless and faceless

artists' hands bring into being

what I cannot say:

This imperfect body is far from beautiful,

but there can be beauty in ugliness
so long as you listen to the story it has to tell.

I am a survivor.

Umit, ¿dondé estás?

Nunna daul isunyi--

kā mana leo o kā 'aina--

hinauot unta dili  ako makalimot.
I'll keep on walking to wherever it may lead.

NYC

Rain pounds downward as the muted claps of thunder

threaten to strike a sliver of silver

to the dingy, grey streets.

Garish neon lights advertise

images unattainable

90-minute escapes.

I can still feel the hum of this city's pulse in my veins.

Jose Protacio Rizal, "Mi Ultimo Adios"

¡Adiós, Patria adorada, región del sol querida,
Perla del mar de oriente, nuestro perdido Edén!
A darte voy alegre la triste mustia vida,
Y fuera más brillante, más fresca, más florida,
También por ti la diera, la diera por tu bien.
En campos de batalla, luchando con delirio,
Otros te dan sus vidas sin dudas, sin pesar;
El sitio nada importa, ciprés, laurel o lirio,
Cadalso o campo abierto, combate o cruel martirio,
Lo mismo es si lo piden la patria y el hogar.
Yo muero cuando veo que el cielo se colora
Y al fin anuncia el día tras lóbrego capuz;
si grana necesitas para teñir tu aurora,
Vierte la sangre mía, derrámala en buen hora
Y dórela un reflejo de su naciente luz.
Mis sueños cuando apenas muchacho adolescente,
Mis sueños cuando joven ya lleno de vigor,
Fueron el verte un día, joya del mar de oriente,
Secos los negros ojos, alta la tersa frente,
Sin ceño, sin arrugas, sin manchas de rubor
Ensueño de mi vida, mi ardiente vivo anhelo,
¡Salud te grita el alma que pronto va a partir!
¡Salud! Ah, que es hermoso caer por darte vuelo,
Morir por darte vida, morir bajo tu cielo,
Y en tu encantada tierra la eternidad dormir.
Si sobre mi sepulcro vieres brotar un día
Entre la espesa yerba sencilla, humilde flor,
Acércala a tus labios y besa al alma mía,
Y sienta yo en mi frente bajo la tumba fría,
De tu ternura el soplo, de tu hálito el calor.
Deja a la luna verme con luz tranquila y suave,
Deja que el alba envíe su resplandor fugaz,
Deja gemir al viento con su murmullo grave, 
Y si desciende y posa sobre mi cruz un ave,
Deja que el ave entone su cántico de paz.
Deja que el sol, ardiendo, las lluvias evapore
Y al cielo tornen puras, con mi clamor en pos;
Deja que un ser amigo mi fin temprano llore
Y en las serenas tardes cuando por mí alguien ore,
¡Ora también, oh Patria, por mi descanso a Dios!
Ora por todos cuantos murieron sin ventura,
Por cuantos padecieron tormentos sin igual,
Por nuestras pobres madres que gimen su amargura;
Por huérfanos y viudas, por presos en tortura
Y ora por ti que veas tu redención final.
Y cuando en noche oscura se envuelva el cementerio
Y solos sólo muertos queden velando allí,
No turbes su reposo, no turbes el misterio,
Tal vez acordes oigas de cítara o salterio,
Soy yo, querida Patria, yo que te canto a ti.
Y cuando ya mi tumba de todos olvidada
No tenga cruz ni piedra que marquen su lugar,
Deja que la are el hombre, la esparza con la azada,
Y mis cenizas, antes que vuelvan a la nada,
El polvo de tu alfombra que vayan a formar.
Entonces nada importa me pongas en olvido.
Tu atmósfera, tu espacio, tus valles cruzaré.
Vibrante y limpia nota seré para tu oído,
Aroma, luz, colores, rumor, canto, gemido,
Constante repitiendo la esencia de mi fe.
Mi patria idolatrada, dolor de mis dolores,
Querida Filipinas, oye el postrer adiós.
Ahí te dejo todo, mis padres, mis amores.
Voy donde no hay esclavos, verdugos ni opresores,
Donde la fe no mata, donde el que reina es Dios.
Adiós, padres y hermanos, trozos del alma mía,
Amigos de la infancia en el perdido hogar,
Dad gracias que descanso del fatigoso día;
Adiós, dulce extranjera, mi amiga, mi alegría,
Adiós, queridos seres, morir es descansar.




English translation below the cut: 

Orhan Veli, "I am listening to Istanbul"

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
At first there blows a gentle breeze
And the leaves on the trees
Softly flutter or sway;
Out there, far away,
The bells of water carriers incessantly ring;
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
Then suddenly birds fly by,
Flocks of birds, high up, in a hue and cry
While nets are drawn in the fishing grounds
And a woman’s feet begin to dabble in the water.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
The Grand Bazaar is serene and cool,
A hubbub at the hub of the market,
Mosque yards are brimful of pigeons,
At the docks while hammers bang and clang
Spring winds bear the smell of sweat;
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
Still giddy since bygone bacchanals,
A seaside mansion with dingy boathouses is fast asleep,
Amid the din and drone of southern winds, reposed,
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
Now a dainty girl walks by on the sidewalk:
Cusswords, tunes and songs, malapert remarks;
Something falls on the ground out of her hand,
It’s a rose I guess.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed. 

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
A bird flutters round your skirt;
I know your brow is moist with sweat
And your lips are wet.
A silver moon rises beyond the pine trees:
I can sense it all in your heart’s throbbing.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes

Thief of the Night

Words splashed across the page
Boldly erratic and red in its rage
Barely contained
Dignity unretained

Miles away, her screams were heard loud and clear
Echoing forgotten ones of someone dear
Who shut her eyes to draw a clean slate
But soon realized redemption would come a moment too late 

Misty sheets of rain, the turned knob would pour
Yet somehow they remained, the scars that they bore
Seemingly and infinitely unclean
All because of ghost hands that are now unseen

Cover and cower; the silence is now deafening
Run and hide, 'til in their minds their eyes stop smoldering
Soon the skies will lighten, a new day comes without thunder
But two lives have still been torn asunder 

Sei Morto*

Ma io sono vivo,
una barca
piccola
perdita
in un mare 
in tempesta chiamato dolore


Sei morto, sei morto
Ma io sono vivo
Sei morto, ma io sono vivo
Sono morto con lei






*Italian is obviously not my first language--nor am I fluent in it. It is, however, one of the many languages my father spoke, hence the effort. 


**I am much better at translating from Italian to English. 

Hyde Park

Willowy shadows dance

Beneath a moonlit path,
Softly swathed in nature's kiss.

Hurricane

From the moment I met you

Something in your eyes

Wrapped itself around my heart

Was it the loneliness I saw?

Or was it the gentleness

That lay beneath the fire in your eyes?

In those tears you tried to hide

I saw through those defenses

And into your broken soul

You make me laugh 

You make me cry

You make me feel like I never have

You've built walls around you

For far too long

Like a hurricane in its wake

You push everyone away

Destroy everything in your path

Breaking the hearts of all those concerned

Oh, can't you see

That you and I are the same?

You and I

We ache inside

Hurricane

No matter how hard I try 

You could get to me

Like no one else ever can

You say the world's forsaken you

So much anger, so much hate inside

Never knowing what else to do

But shut out the world

Your smile covers up the poison you hide

Concealing scars you'd forever carry

You make me laugh

You make me cry

You make me feel like I never have

You've built walls around you

For far too long

Like a hurricane in its wake

You push everyone away

Destroy everything in your path

Breaking the hearts of all those concerned

Oh, can't you see

That you and I are the same?

You and I

We ache inside

Hurricane

Hurricane






You ache inside 

A broken child

But I still

I still love you

And I won't ever give up

On you.