Garden Road

i

today i live on garden road

been in this house a lil more than a year

last spring i tried this thing

called gardening

good thing we’re in a desert

high desert but still desert

i watered

shoveled

weeded

seeded

planted

killed

dirt

clay dirt but dirt

ii

when i was a kid and we wanted to eat a piece of candy

that had just fallen on the ground

we said

god made dirt

and dirt don’t hurt

iii

san francisco’s mission district

yields its own bounty of harvest

countless used condoms

on sidewalks

in middle of streets

small piles of broken glass

every few parking spaces

reveal another driver or passenger

forgot to remove

what another community member liberated

jackets, CDs, cell phones, stereos

a careless step and you might slip on

a mouse or rat or pigeon

smashed into asphalt

clear plastic bags

small enough to hold a button or two

probably held one helluva high

discarded syringes pop up

almost as often as they pop skin

the dirt fills every crevice of carved concrete

M-I-S-S-I-O-N

Count off

1, 2

count off 3, 4

D-O-L-O-R-E-S

Count off

1, 2

count off

ain’t gonna hurt no more

dolores park’s playground

sandbox buckets and shovels

share space with cigarette butts

when you drop to all fours

and roll down the hills

careful for the dog shit

moussing your hair

fat pigeons waddle on garbage can rims

can’t remember ever seeing a squirrel

no water feature here

but mission playground’s barely heated outdoor pool

shivers a few blocks away

at the corner of 18^th and church

sometimes

there’s a cop or two on horseback

iv

in the south valley at dusk

an anglo guy leads his daughter

they clip clop their horses down la vega

saturday mornings

mexicanos trot theirs—saddleless—

to the levee

weekday afternoons

a lone rider races his curved shadow down hardy

v

when gaby and chen visit

geen and i take them to see our neighbors’ horses

white horse down la vega

chocolate and double chocolate on anne

geen pulls the dry grass

beneath our feet

carries the slim pickins straw

to white horse’s mouth

white horse sniffs her open hand

licks chews swallows

sniffs for more

the camera in my mission hands

points at gaby squealing

chen circling his wrists

as if shaking off excess water

black dog crosses la vega

barks and growls at us

i don’t know anything about horses

but i know dogs chase

me, my sister, and girl cousins were running down 16^th

across from mission dolores

heard a dog

we screamed as little girls do

we ran faster

he ran fast enough to catch the slowest one

not me

that dog didn’t bite these barrel legs

Stay still

Don’t look

Be calm

black dog leaves

vi

this season even as i return to

clipping

pruning

whacking

raking

sweeping

watering

dreaming of using the well

on my land

i see empty lots and abandoned adobes

instinct asks

when will someone build with steel and concrete

when will someone

put

something

there

vii

the purple flower

on the weed

in this desert

of clay dirt

reminds me

i am on borrowed land

i stop

cut around the weed

topple skyscrapers

West Side Women

West Mesa Women

west mesa women

dead

no killed

killed and left behind

not forgotten by familias

mothers and daughters

come on TV

we love her

we miss her

we wont forget her

we never forgot her

even when TV ignored our cries

the killer ignored her cries

newspaper columnist

a woman

brownest thing on the masthead

writes how TV reporters

went to families

requested responses

to police officials finding

mother/daughter/sister remains

mothers/daughters/sisters have no comment now

cuz when they asked TV

to broadcast fotos and films of

their mothers/daughters/sisters’ faces

TV asked

Where’s the story?

What’s the angle?

TV said

Television is an expensive media…

The Albuquerque market…

we want to lock up cops who say

You didn’t report her missing

Well, not right away

and they’re right

until she appeared on the cover of The Albuquerque Journal

we wouldn’t have known her

if we had passed her on the street

maybe we did pass her on the street

if we’re honest with ourselves

we can admit

we probably passed her on the street

passed

walked by

walked on by

kept on going

cuz we do that

sometimes we just walk by

we don’t know how to help

don’t know what to say

what to do

or we choose not to

do anything

she’s choosing

she chose

she left her parents’ house

her husband’s home

left her baby girl in front of the TV

left her boy at the sitter’s

and she walked

but why did she walk?

why would we leave

our loving mothers

protective fathers

supportive sisters

understanding brothers

strong men

innocent babies?

why would we

go out with people

who don’t respect us

take drugs

sell our bodies?

maybe

mom turned her eyes

at the same time uncle put his

on my

maybe

dad left long ago

and i want to finally find him

maybe

the teachers

kept assigning homework

and didn’t read the notes in the margins

help me

i’m scared

i don’t know what to do

maybe

the babies wouldn’t stop crying

they just cried all the time

for everything

even when we asked

begged

for them to stop

just

stop

maybe

they didn’t stop until we

placed our hands on their little mouths

little mouths so close to little noses

maybe they stopped cold

left us with nothing but hot fear

we still couldn’t hear

ourselves think

until we smoked a little

drank a little

just a little

for a little while

maybe we just needed

a time out

that’s when he came

around the corner

with a kind smile

smooth words

cool wheels

slow drive

to the west side

maybe he listened

for one moment

someone listened to me

before he screamed at me

bruised me

broke me

pushed my bones into dirt

drowned my breath

with west side dust

In December, I attended a vigil to remember a young woman who died from a drug overdose hours after being released from police custody. I had never met her. Her girlfriend's mother invited me.

Family, friends, community individuals, and organizations, especially Young Women United, began gathering in the young woman's name to press for changes in policies to benefit others, especially other young women. Some of the changes we have been seeking are: drug treatment on demand, rehabilitation not incarceration, and for the jail to stop releasing people in the middle of the night and not allowing folks to call someone to pick them up before being released downtown.

There was another vigil in January. By February's vigil, a woman was walking her dog on Albuquerque's West Mesa when it found a hip bone. By the time the official search ended in April, 11 sets of women's and one fetus' bones had been found. Seven women have been identified.

Also, there are still at least 13 women considered missing. Some of the women who have been identified from the West Mesa were on a list of local missing women compiled between 2001 and 2006 by the Albuquerque Police Department. There is some feeling that police did not do enough--or do enough early enough--to find the women. Also, family and friends went to mainstream media to publicize their loved one being missing but received little to no help.

A woman who has been working with the families of the murdered and missing women suggested that the community come together this month to celebrate in the name of the women. This past Sunday, the vigil was a picnic.

I will update as...now I hear on the radio about George Sadini (sp?) killing 3 women and wounding more in Pittsburgh. Murder here, there,...I'll stop for now.

Queer Coming Together

tired from bending over

row after row of the fields

black eagle drops his hoe

finds a cantina

orders a cold one

bartender slides it down

black eagle catches a look

just enough to make him

cough into his hand and smell

he smoothes his feathers back

pats his pompadour

lifts out his collar’s wrinkles

taps his beak

thumbs his cheek

breathes

pink triangle has seen it all

in the mirror

next to the register

with her back to him

she quickly smiles wide

looks for leftover lunch

she pulls out her lipstick

pats a quick coat

onto each half of the open pucker

licks her middle finger

slicks down the pelitos

halo-ing her forehead

cups her perfect breasts

pushes them up

undoes one more button

so where you from?

he finally inquires

here

right here, right here?

yeah, down the street

whaddaboutchoo?

i’m from here too

Where here?

los filles

they take in the other’s information

as if they didn’t already know

wanna get some dinner?

i’m working

i know

i meant after

it’ll be late

i know

you close by?

simón

and you?

you don’t have to get back to los filles?

ain’t they gonna miss you?

i brought them with me

he pulls out a handkerchief

from his jacket

opens it

the brown-brown dirt

fades into the bartop

she laughs

me permite?

simón

she puts her first finger in the dirt

brings it to her mouth

and opens

he reaches for her wrist

and guides her to him

he pulls her closer

until he feels her hardness

on his leg

just as his hardness is on her leg

she starts to jerk free

he holds her

she looks at him

waiting

he reaches

for his car keys

let’s get outta here

i’m already there

I designed and cut this papel picado. This image came to me years ago. I have felt drawn to the UFW eagle since I first saw and learned about it and the United FarmWorkers' union as a kid.

In my early years of coming out, the pink triangle became very popular. I wore a hat with a pink triangle for days at a time. I respect folks' resurrecting the symbol from Nazi hands, but the pink triangle didn't grab me the way the eagle did.

About ten years ago during a workshop where we had to draw a symbol that meant something to us, I drew what had been simmering within: an eagle with a large triangle in its center. When I saw it, I felt comforted like I had found something I had been searching for. I wanted to do something with it. Honestly, I hoped someone else would do something with it since I don't draw or paint. I knew I should throw away this piece of paper along with thousands of other "notes" that I have yet to do anything with. I didn't. I set the image aside.

The UFW's eagle symbolizes raza for so many of us. (I know that UFW members have not been and are not only raza. Also, just like any union, organization, or group, they're not perfect, but I'm not trying to address those issues here.) I wanted to claim the eagle, but I felt I had no right cuz of my queerness. I do not intend to indict the UFW for homophobia. I am trying to point out that the UFW eagle means raza and that attracted me; and some of our raza are homophobic and blame "tradition" or "traditional" aspects, such as the UFW, and that repulsed me.

Earlier this summer, I took a class with Catalina Delgado Trunk, una gran maestra de papel picado. Catalina explained that due to structural reasons, I could not keep the one large triangle. I traded it for six smaller ones. With Catalina's help, I was able to manifest my dream image. Now, it's not the UFW eagle; it's not the Nazi pink triangle. It's something new from the old.

I wanted to write a poem to go with my papel picado. I wanted to write about two forces coming together. As I started writing, I was writing "he" and "she." It didn't feel queer to me. Then I thought, maybe this is a butch-femme dyke couple. But that didn't feel quite right. Then I realized that these characters are a tranny and her man. They go together like peanut butter and chocolate, like eagle and triangle. Now, I want to write about the fruit of the two forces together not the separate forces.

Earlier, I accidentally typed "heart" instead of "triangle." I thought it was a mistake; I don't anymore.

Spanish, Hispanics, Xicanas, Cholas, and Marketing

Yesterday was my third visit to the Traditional Spanish Market, sponsored by the Spanish Colonial Arts Society for 58 years, in Santa Fe. Spanish Market as described to me before my first visit: when the Natives who are usually sitting beneath the portales selling their jewelry and other goods are gone.

Separate from Traditional Spanish Market but held on the same day and in the same place is Contemporary Hispanic Market. In August, Natives will reclaim the entire plaza for the 88th Indian Market.

I've gone to Santa Fe for Spanish, Hispanic, and Indian Markets, Fiesta, Institute of American Indian Arts Museum, and when my family and friends have visited. I know there's a San Francisco Street. I hear that the Five & Dime has the best frito pies in Santa Fe. I know Santa Fe even less than I know Albuquerque which means I don't know Santa Fe.

Yesterday, driving toward the plaza, I saw a large Virgen de Guadalupe statue. Of my 10ish visits over two years, I had never noticed her. I wanted to stop and take her foto in front of her church, but I knew we should get to the plaza. Geen had work to do. We drove around looking for parking--free or as close to the plaza as possible. Finally, we paid an industrious boy five bucks to park at a medical office.

We walked to the plaza. I had plenty of cash for snacks or to buy a piece of art just in case I found something I liked and it fit my budget. I would have bet all my money on a Navajo taco or maybe a sopaipilla. And lost.

Ten minutes into the Contemporary Hispanic section, her light brown eyes caught mine. Her black hair and tank top with the white trim matching her frame pulled me in further. The rose tattoo? Fuhgetabouddit! I left Gina and went into the booth. I saw her whole familia hanging on the wall with her. I saw her sister had a tag identifying her, La Guapa.

Nodding to la hermana, I asked their creator Carolyn Flores, "If her name is La Guapa," pointing to my mujer, "what's her name?"

"Mama Chola," me dijo.

Ohhh! I started mentally counting the cash in my wallet. I stepped aside so Geen who was now inside could see her too.

"How much...?" I semi-dared.

Carolyn told me: More than I had in cash. More than I wanted to spend on art or much else. But, damn, that Mama Chola! She looked good!

"Do you have any cards or prints of her?" I asked Carolyn, thinking I could do what I usually did with art pieces I liked.

"No, I haven't made any yet."

Maybe I could be reasonable and save my money and get her or one like her later.

"Do you have others like her?"

"No."

"I just got here. I can't buy a painting...now," I turned and pleaded with Geen.

"You can walk around and think about it. Come back later if you want," she suggested.

"Yeah, yeah. Good idea," feeling calmer.

"I'll be back," I told Carolyn as I picked up one of her business cards

I looked at my Mama Chola one more time and left feeling strong and in control. I kept asking myself, What was I thinking? I kept telling myself, You can't afford a painting. I should be buying books. I should be home writing not here shopping. Then I started imagining going back to the booth and her being gone. Could I handle that? How could I?! She's mine.

Geen saw my pain.

"If you can't imagine not having her-"

"Let's go back," I said as I turned around. I wanted to run, but I knew that was too much. Mama Chola wouldn't want me to run after her. Besides, it was too hot.

There she was. And without a SOLD tag on her. I asked Carolyn about la chola.

"I thought a chola should be at Spanish Market."

Truth is, if I were to see Mama Chola in real life, I'd turn the other way. I know she'd see my wannabe self and not "wannabe" nothing to do with me. I'd be lucky to get her friendship out of pity.

Maybe she'd be related to me. If she were, she'd be my sister's teen self and if she were, she'd hit me or want to which feels the same.

Mama Chola could be one of my students--former, current, or future. I wouldn't turn away. And if she turned away, I'd help her look back.

So, I'm glad that I have her the way I do. Holding up the wall. My wall.

Find Mama Chola's familia at http://floresoriginals.blogspot.com/

Murders Happen Here, There, and Everywhere

Yesterday, I picked up one of the local, free papers and read, "The Politics of Pronouns" subtitled (subheaded?) "News coverage of murders unsettling for some in the transgender community." Teri Benally's murder is tragic and reading about the coverage is unsettling. According to the article, the local daily, The Albuquerque Journal, and two TV stations, KOB and KRQE, screwed up. I write screwed up meaning they weren't thinking or they're not conscious. Bad either way. They used "cross-dresser" or "murdered man dressed as a a woman" to refer to Teri Benally. The article informed me that there had been another murder of a transgendered woman here in Albuquerque in June. Both victims were Navajo.

I hadn't heard about either murder before I left for or while I was in Taos. I wanted to know what happened to lead up to the murders and why. I looked in the article for the date of Benally's murder or when it had first appeared in the media and the same for Kelly Watson. I didn't find that information anywhere.

I thought of another murder of a trans woman. Less than six months after moving here, I read about Albuquerque's first murder of 2008. The loss of Patricia Murphy's life was horrible and The Albuquerque Tribune article was not much better. The headline was “First Albuquerque homicide of 2008 marked by gender confusion.” (I don't have a copy of the Trib article. I refer to a letter to the editor that I wrote at the time and some online info that I found.) I didn't understand who was confused. The victim? The murderer? The reporter? Editor?

I did learn many things from that article, including Dana Madsen shot Patricia Murphy and then Madesn called the police and claimed responsibility. I wondererd why the headline wasn't, “Murderer Confesses”? Isn’t one of journalism’s aims to be concise? Or, “Murderer Kills Then Calls Cops”? Some murders remain unsolved for years, but this one was done and over with. Isn’t it news to share and soon when the ones who commit the crimes get caught or, in this case, turn themselves in?

Gender confusion. Who was confused? Who was trying to confuse? Does confusion matter in this case? One human being kills another human being. That’s murder. No confusion, right?

Besides the fact that Madsen took Murphy's life, what disturbed me about this headline and article was the implication that Madsen was justified to kill because of his confusion, gender confusion, his confusion at Murphy's gender. Murphy was known in the local drag community.

The article says that Madsen thought Murphy had a knife so he shot her.

Neither the reporter nor the editor killed. They only wrote the article and / or the headline. I was concerned because I feared that another person might kill or beat up or brutalize another person and blame “gender confusion.” Watson and Benally were killed. We're still dealing with murderer's hatred and media's--at best--ignorance .

Then there are the allegations or facts that Benally and Watson arranged to meet people online. Or were prostitutes. Which reminds me of the women whose bodies were found on the West Mesa. Many of the women were rumored or known to be drug users and/or prostitutes. Almost all of them were Colored--Native, Xicana, and Black.

I remember Gwen Araujo from back home--okay, Newark not SF but close. I helped arrange for her mother to speak to high school students at two different schools two different years. I can see Araujo's beautifully made up face from newspapers large and small. I remember Brandon Teena. I saw "Boys Don't Cry" and I cried. I remember Matthew Shepard. I atill read about productions of The Laramie Project happening all over this country. There was a production during one of Araujo's defendants' trials. And I remember FC Martinez. I heard her mother speak on Native America Calling a few weeks ago. I was going to the post office. I didn't hear the entire interview. That was the first media attention that I'm conscious of. I know that I must have heard of her death from the media--probably the gay media--because I don't know anyone who knew her.

I remember other women known or thought to be prostitutes who have been killed. Remember those women in Chechnya. From Arizona Daily Star, March 1, 2009

“The bullnecked president of Chechnya emerged from afternoon prayers at the mosque and with chilling composure explained why seven young women who had been shot in the head deserved to die.

Ramzan Kadyran said the women, whose bodies were found dumped by the roadside, had ‘loose morals’ and were rightfully shot by male relatives in honor killings…

Kadyrov describes women as the property of their husbands and says their main role is to bear children. He encourages men to take more than one wife, even though polygamy is illegal in Russia. Women and girls are now required to wear head scarves in all schools, universities, and government offices…

He said the women were planning to go abroad to work as prostitutes, but their relatives found out about it and killed them.”

Trans. Prostitute. Colored. Queer. Woman. I could go on, but I'll stop for now.