Author: Incurable Hope

Why Don’t You Sleep On It?

I have written 

a thousand and one poems

About the trails

Of heartaches

Left in the wake of reckless souls

Who’ve waltzed into my life

To take what was theirs

And leave what was mine

As though pieces of me

Were belonging to them

 

The way you could

Surf along the waves

Rolling through the rivers

I’ve built tirelessly

With my tears

 

So

Many 

Words

 

Woven into beautiful 

Long, enchanting braids

The shades

Echoing of a tapestry

Written into my life

Against my will

 

Like a massive 

Colorful

Doormat

With a cheerful

Welcome

Sign

 

And suddenly now

There’s you.

And I’m at a loss

About what to say

For the one who stays

 

The one who deserves all the honor

And the praise

To be painted in elaborate colors

And illuminated by the light

 

The one who demonstrates

The ease

Of bending over backwards 

Like an Olympic gymnast 

Who’s been training for this event 

For years

 

The one who makes it feel

Like you’ve actually been 

Super easy to love 

All this time

 

The glaringly obvious 

secret 

that only he could reveal.

On the Wildly (Un)popular Subject of Racism…

If this title made you cringe and roll your eyes, I dedicate this post to you.

In recent months, I have both read and listened to the literary arsenal of Brené Brown. I have devoured every word she has said and taken it all to heart. I find what she has to offer in Braving the Wilderness: The Quest for True Belonging and the Courage to Stand Alone most universally relevant in our current political climate, however, it was everything else she has written on shame and vulnerability (similarly wildly unpopular subjects) that I found most relevant to tackling the difficult subject of racism.

Perhaps, because I read (and reread) Braving the Wilderness first, I started to think critically about the political tactic of dehumanization, and face the agonizing truth that both sides are equally culpable of this. This meant, as thoroughly opposed as I was to admitting this, I was just as guilty of dehumanization as the people I dehumanized for dehumanizing others. (Did you get that?)

Point is, I started to realize that you can’t dehumanize a group because you think they are the ones who deserve it. Because both sides thinks the other one deserves it. I had to face the truth that all peoples are just humans, trying their hardest to make it in a terrifying world. And admit that we are all capable of both good and bad. The only real monsters are sociopaths, and truth is that even now, they are pretty rare.

For a couple of years now, I’ve been coming to grips with the pain and divisiveness enveloping the world. As someone in recovery, I had to address, on a national and global scale, what exactly I was capable of changing. Where is my power? How can I make things better? We have to recognize our powerlessness in order to find our power. I cannot control governments. Fixating on the news cripples me from acting. We are so consumed by the powerlessness that we forget there is anything within our power at all.

I started to realize that my journey towards bettering the world had begun when I worked on myself. I started to realize that I impact, on a daily basis, those I talk to or cross paths with. People hear my words. They see my Facebook posts. They see what I do for my community and for myself and others. They are touched by small acts of kindness. I have an impact, one person at a time. I can choose to spread love, hope, and joy; or I can choose to spread anger, pain, or divisiveness.

This is what I came up with in the journey: LOVE. It sounds of the utmost absurdity to everyone screaming at each other and ready to fight, but truth is our power is in love. I had a friend fight and abandon me on this. And when she told me every horrible thing she could possibly think of about me, and why it made me a horrible human being, I simply told her that I understood she was going through a lot and that I loved her anyway. The only response she could muster before walking out of my life was, “I love you too.”

Right now, as much as we want to take up our weapons and go at each other’s throats, the MOST disarming thing you can do to oppose your opponent, is simply to love them.

Look them in their hateful eyes and tell them you love them anyway.

When it comes to the difficult subject of racism, I have experience with both sides of the coin. I am half Mexican. To the world, I am white. You cannot look at me and tell that I am even the least bit Mexican and as a result, I have sailed through life as a white woman, without the racists having a single clue. I have benefited from white privilege and in the years since becoming aware of it, I have wrestled with what I can do about it.

This is where Brené Brown helped me find my power.

Having placed racism into the frame of shame and vulnerability, I have realized quite a bit. And I wanted to share it, specifically for the white people out there, aware or unaware of their own racism, so that it can help us tackle an issue that is most largely ours to tackle.

I, very specifically, remember what I was taught about racism in elementary school. I was taught about the painful history of racism and that we are all equal, and the the color of our skin is irrelevant. And that, my friends, was where the conversation ended. And that, my friends, is where white people would like to leave the conversation. But ah, there is so much more too it.

In recovery, we learn about the peeling away of the layers of an onion. In the beginning, it also seems as simple as getting sober. But getting sober is just the first step. There is so much more work to be done if you are to STAY sober. Truth is, getting sober is but a small step in an ongoing journey of endless work. Self-betterment is not a destination, it is a journey, that we take one-step-at-a-time…. one unlearned negative way of coping at a time.

Our level of education on racism in school was “Racism bad. Colors good. The end.” Problem is, the story ended there… for white people. People of color are finding their voices and saying, “Oh, but there is so much more.” And the large response to that has been, *plugging ears* “la la la la la I don’t want to hear you, my teacher said ______ and teacher is always right.”

The problem with how it was taught, aside from no perspectives of people of color being included in the telling, was that there is so much more to the story than this. You cannot cover it in February and leave it at that. For fuck’s sake, February is the shortest month of the freakin’ year!!!!

I started to realize, reading Brené Brown, that we are dealing with an issue of very deep shame. The only thing white people were taught is that racism is bad. Developmental psychologists are starting to realize the deeply debilitating impact that being called “good” or “bad” can have on a child. It is inextricably linked to shame. The majority of racist people are hard working people trying their best to be good people. So, if you tell them that they are taking part in something as shameful as racism, the response is uninhibited rage or flat out denial. They are hearing that everything they were taught was wrong, and they crumble under the weight of shame. But at the end of the day, all they hear is the worst thing a child can hear, “You. Are. Bad.”

I’m sure if you pose this to anyone who claims to not be racist, they’d deny it. Brown talks endlessly about people who talk to her claiming shame or vulnerability doesn’t apply to them. And again and again, she reiterates that these two things are UNIVERSAL Everyone experiences them.

I learned very early on that you do not appeal to someone who is delusional, by simply telling them their delusions are delusions. That can, in fact, make their entire reality dissolve, which can lead to a total downward spiral.

So, let’s address real quick the “Racist=bad” and “Not racist=good” dichotomy. Here’s the thing, those equations simply equal to “Not white=good” and “white=bad,” and let me explain why. There is not a white person on this planet who has not partaken in or benefited from the system of racism. There is no such thing as a non-racist white person. It doesn’t exist. There are only those who are aware of their racism, and those who are not. Those who are actively seeking a solution, and those who are not. In the current national conversation, there is only the racist/not racist binary. While I am sure, as a result of the frustration stemming from obliviousness of white people, some don’t see a problem with the second set of equations I listed, my opinion on that was back in my paragraph on dehumanization.

Let’s all try to find our power here.

Being told you’re partaking in racists things is not an attempt to say, “You’re a bad person.” Its an attempt to say, “There’s more to this story. The ones who’ve experienced it should be the ones teaching about it.”

Whenever anyone asks me about the traumatic experiences of another person, I simply reply with, “That’s not my story to tell.” I would not want someone else explaining what happened to me when I was raped. No one else knows what I went through. No one else knows how it made me feel. I get my voice and my power back, when I tell my story. It is my healing, and no one else has that right.

And for years, white people have been the ones teaching about racism. But how would a white person know?

All I know is what happened to my grandmother, the history that was passed to my dad. I know how racism affected her, because she told my dad, and he has told me. And I will keep her story alive. It not only wrecked her life, but the lives of my father, aunts and uncles, and cousins, brothers, and sisters. The trauma she went through played out in her alcoholism, which in turn affected them, and now affects me.

That is how racism or terrorism or abuse work. The impact lives on for generations. THIS is why this is still important. This is why, in 2019, slavery is just as relevant of a subject as when it happened. The impact did not end with the slaves or the slave owners. Families are still reeling from the impact.

But do I have firsthand experience of racism? No, I do not. I cannot tell this story. All I know is the impact its had on my family. All I know is what I was taught and what I’m still learning.

There is nothing, I mean NOTHING, more rage-inducing, for me, as a victim of violence than to not have my voice heard. If you want to see me turn red fast, silence me, talk over me, address me like you know my story better than I do. I can go from 0 to 100 faster than a candle flickers if you do these things. So, take that into consideration if you are a white person who denies the experiences of a person of color. The most healing thing you can do for someone is to listen. Or, as they say in the recovery world, “take the cotton out of your ears, and stick it in your mouth.”

White people, this is a call to action, a call to vulnerability. Yes, realizing you are culpable of racism is a deeply painful and shameful feeling, but it doesn’t have to be disempowering. I’ve grappled in my years since coming to understand racism, and coming to understand what I’m capable of changing in this world, how the two work together. I’m living proof that change is possible. Brené Brown has taught me to challenging my fear of vulnerability spits in the face of shame. The only way to combat the shame of realizing your racism is to get working on vulnerability.

You are vulnerable when you admit you’ve benefited from these systems. That’s a success! You are vulnerable when you listen to the stories of people of color, without the need to say something. That’s a success! You’re vulnerable when you see something racist happening, and you challenge it, despite the risk. That’s a success! You’re vulnerable every time you get a chance to say to a white friend, “listen, you said something the other day that I want to talk to you about.” Its a scary thing, especially when you’re committed to maintaining a relationship, or paralyzed by people-pleasing, to have a compassionate talk with someone about what you’ve learned about racism, but the main thing missing from the conversation on racism is compassion and empathy.

Here’s your chance to change that.

Because truth is, you’re a part of this conversation whether you want to be or not.

 

 

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Only the Brave

I realize that I am walking around

a living, breathing

open wound,

and it is not nice to look at.

It is bleeding,

and disgusting,

and revealing all the

muscles,

and tendons,

and fat inside.

It nauseates me, too.

It is everything I am not supposed to be.

And if you look away

in horror,

I promise

I will understand.

But there are those too

who reach out to me

despite it.

They look me in the eyes

and ask me simple questions

to distract me from

all the pain and

the ugliness inside.

They are not afraid.

Because they know that I

am going into shock

and if the wound does not kill me

that will.

They march into battle with me.

Always at my back.

They will never leave

a woman behind.

They are the brave.

The medics

who carry my limp body

from the battlefield,

all while dodging

bullets,

and explosions,

and capture

themselves.

They are the valley

where I rest

between my hard place

and my rock.

Yes, I am an open wound.

And I know it hurts

to see it,

but imagine please,

how it hurts me too.

And if you want to go,

that’s fine

not everyone has

a courage of this kind.

Because when the time comes

that I am again

deployed,

I need to know that I

am marching with

the ones

who cannot,

will not

be destroyed.

Just Another Battle Scar

I used to collect my men

by boots beneath my bed

That’s two boots

for each man.

That tiny space filled up quite quickly

And then

I started making notches

on the bed posts

but those too

weren’t very tall.

Over the decades,

I’ve carried these fellas

In many sorts of ways

Slung over my shoulder

atop my back.

In tear stains upon my pillow cases,

and self-inflicted wounds.

I’ve wracked up heartaches

and harsh words

regrets

rolled eyes

and silent gestures

…and poems

I probably have a poem or two for each

and the words still seem to come.

It never gets old.

Every time

is like my first.

I haven’t got much left now

to show

But the number of times my heart stopped beating

and yet

I still survived.

Somehow,

despite all the violence

that hands can muster

they’re still outdone by words.

And like a fool

I return to the master

for another measly taste.

I’ve had my hair in many colors.

I’ve got tattoos

across the landscape of my flesh.

My skin lays atop me like a deflated balloon

because of the times

I’ve fed my pain to protect me

or denied myself the nourishment

I thought I did not deserve.

And no matter how I try to cover the marks they leave

You can see these men

all over me.

I would forget them all entirely

but they always return to haunt me.

So eventually,

I just kept them in a list,

That I put away for safe keeping.

And whenever I learn the name of the next,

I cross it out,

and simply write

“Just another battle scar.”

Because despite everything I will ever

learn about him

That is all he will become.

 

 

 

 

The Tragedy of My Love

I fall in love

With myself

Again daily.

Like meeting your

One true love

With each new rising sun,

For the rest of your life.

I wake up with her each morning

And greet her with a smile.

I haven’t much

A memory

So every mirror glance

Is love at first sight,

Each time.

 

Its a Groundhog Day of sorts.

 

I hold her close

In bed,

And listen intently as she cries.

I’ll rub her arm gently,

And hold her hands

To keep her fingers warm.

I write her poems,

To remind her of how beautiful

She truly is.

 

She is my muse.

 

I find endless poetry inside of her eyes.

Her soul is a healing wealth springs.

 

She is my angel on earth.

I have witnessed her wings.

 

I see royalty within her,

Though she never notices her crown,

Despite its sparkling glory.

 

She is a warrior,

Fighting lions,

And nightmares,

And man.

 

She inspires me endlessly,

And I am in awe…

The way we sometimes finish

Even the hardest of days

Splendidly

By witnessing the sunset over water.

 

She gives me rest.

 

I am not alone,

Because she is always here.

 

I do not deserve her.

No one does.

 

This earth could never

Be good enough

For my goddess.

 

She is out of this world.

 

If you took dusk and dawn,

Oceans and mountain scapes,

Entire galaxies

And gods,

And added them up,

They’d be no match for her.

 

And despite my presence with her,

and her presence with my own,

She will forever be alone.

Because no one can ever be

Good enough for her.

And she will always be

too much.

 

This is her tragedy.

 

But it is for this reason

That she will spare heartaches for the masses,

Putting their needs above her own,

Because the most excruciating experience

Any soul could ever have

Is losing her as their love.

Meeting Angels

The most majestic scene I have ever witnessed

Was not a mama bear and her cubs

crossing my path at sunrise

Or breathing the crisp air

At 10,000 ft

Above earth

It wasn’t a meteor shower

From a grassy field

Late at night

All of these were breathtaking

Awe-inspiring

And will forever remain

Captured in my mind

But the most stunning

And delicate of sights

I have ever beheld

Was also one of the most excruciating moments

In another person’s life

It was that of life unfolding before me, through death

It was that of the unconditional love

From a daughter

For her dying mother

As she breathed

Her very last breaths

One Christmas night

As both she and I held

Her mother’s hands

Her daughter leaned down

To where

Their foreheads met

She closed her eyes

And in her silence

She granted permission

For her mother to go

I felt her anguish

Her love

And her letting go

I was as a fly on the wall

Invisible in the moment

But blessed with the honor

Of witnessing it all

And As I drove home from that scene

In the cascading

Consuming

Silence of the snow

I realized

That one of the most magnificent things we will ever birth

Is the capacity of our hearts

To love

And the potency of our pain

My Neighbor and I

My neighbor and I have an

Unspoken communication

His is in the form of frantic ramblings

And mine is in the form of sobs

He follows cars into my driveway

To copy down the plates

For some covert operation

Of which, none of us are quite sure

But my presence always

puts him at ease

And I listen to his shouts

And rants

And I shrug them off

Because he’s my neighbor

And we’ve both got

Insanity

In common

There might not be much else there

But…

Its enough

And when my time comes to speak,

He falls silent

And allows me to say my piece

I speak with weeping through the night

When its the only way to get to sleep

Or when I wake up from a

Bad dream

Whenever I find myself riddled with despair

My crying is like a lullaby to him

This…

This, he understands

I needn’t say a word

Because we both speak the same language

Anguish

Grief

Regret

A pain that cannot be quenched

In this lifetime alone

I make space for him daily

And on the days or nights

I sing my lullaby

He stops

And listens

In a way that no one else

Can ever really muster

He stands captive

In awe

Of my opera