LUKAYO.COM

Category: Throwback Thursday

  • Throwback Thursday: Charity (2011)

    https://youtu.be/sMyBEQNyVCY

    Image Description: A photo of the a bronze statue of a Filipina woman, the bust of her head larger than the background depicting the Philippine Revolution. The words at the top read: “Tandang Sora Memorial Shrine at Himlayang Pilipino, Quezon City, Philippines”. The title reads “Charity”. The website addresses are “Lukayo.com” and “www.patreon.com/lukayo”.

    Content Warning: About the prison and military industrial complex, mentions torture, and alludes to sexual assault.

    Dedicated to my she-roes: b. binaohan, Beatriz Colmo, Charity, Dino, Sass Rogando Sasot, and all transpinay and pinay writers and organizers for justice and freedom. This poem is for you.

    The heat clings to me as if I had just wooed it with
    Well-placed words and its favourite drink
    Making it hard to think, it’s so hot that the sweat on my thighs
    Evaporates faster than the breaths in my sighs
    But I’m not thinking about that because I’m here
    Looking into her eyes

    Ignoring her ragged clothes scrubbed clean with diligence
    And the men outside with their guns and vigilance
    The dirt floor and grey cracked walls,
    The people pressed up like animals in concrete stalls
    The strip searches and razor-wire fear
    But I’m not thinking about that because I’m here

    Looking into her eyes
    And listening to every word that drops from her lips
    Because this is the least that’s owed to her
    Because this is the least that I can give

    And when she’s finished speaking
    My silence hangs like a stone around my neck
    Heavy with all the things that you wouldn’t expect
    Like my aunt’s medical career
    My grandfather’s typing skills
    My parents taking me and my brother away from these coconut tree covered hills
    From these smoking volcanoes and smoky-mirrored unlicensed vans
    From these ocean-drenched beaches and smog-stained cities I call my homeland
    Growing up in a country where we can talk trash about our politicians on Twitter
    Form unions, have anarchist book fairs, and march in the streets when we feel bitter
    Have lengthy discussions about the state of the world in air-conditioned classrooms
    Not worry about the tab when doctors finally see us about a mild cold or grave wound
    My silence is filled with every decision that lead me here

    Where I’m looking into her eyes
    Where I’m the visitor and she’s the inmate
    And my presence is just a mere consolation prize
    For what we both really want:
    Her freedom

    Before this moment, I thought I knew what a hero was supposed to be
    Some nerdy white guy with another personality and random luck
    That made him big and green or spider-keen, or faster than a flying machine
    They were the ones that kept the world clean from tyranny and villainy
    Taking all the bad guys away from civilized society
    And putting them here
    And I’m looking into her eyes
    And I’m listening to the words that drop from her lips
    Like her name: Charity
    Charity Dino.

    Charity Dino was a schoolteacher who loved to read
    But when she saw corporations displacing families, she saw the need
    To gather up the people, form a union, start a protest
    Isn’t that what they do in democracies? Isn’t that what they do in the West?
    And on a stretch of road one November morning came rolling
    An unmarked van that grabbed her off her feet
    Shoved a bag over her head and tied her up like a piece of meat
    Brought her to a cell that would be her home for two weeks
    They used her body and her sex, threatened her family and friends
    To get her to confess to something she didn’t even comprehend
    “You’re a communist! A terrorist! Sign the paper, and we’ll stop.”
    How can you confess to something you were not?
    So they threw her in prison charged with carrying explosives
    Though she never held a weapon, never hurt a person, and they know this
    What they didn’t know was that Charity had with her community and truth
    Not just Sonny and Billy, her colleagues who were tortured too
    But dozens of activists who made the call throughout the world
    That here in this island country, let these voices be heard
    And then came visitors, letters, food rations and supplies
    Charity wrote and read every day, she began to organize from the inside

    And the higher-ups grew nervous, posted military around this little jail
    Threatened to kill her with a hired gun, but all to no avail
    So a man in a uniform with metals on his chest
    Came down to see her and said “We can erase this entire mess.
    Die in prison a monster, or join the army a hero– this is your choice.”
    But Charity wasn’t listening to his words, it was his voice
    “You’re the one who kidnapped and tortured me,” she said with recognition.
    And he shrugged his shoulders, “So? What’s your decision?”
    “I’m not thinking about that because I’m here,” she said.
    “Looking into your eyes.
    And this is what I realize.
    I’d rather die in prison serving the people
    Then join and serve the likes of you.
    Now get out. I’ve got some organizing to do.”

    So what’s a hero? What’s a terrorist?
    What exactly are prisons for?
    Are the villains in these holding cells
    Or in offices behind closed doors?
    How many more like Charity, and the Talisay 3,
    From Burma to Cuba, from Egypt to Haiti
    From China to the United States, from Zimbabwe to Iran
    From Venezuela to Cambodia to Azerbaijan
    Must be kidnapped and killed, or tortured and imprisoned
    Until the rest of us finally make our own decision?
    But I’m not thinking about that because I’m here.

    Looking into her eyes.
    And she doesn’t ask me to speak, doesn’t ask me to decide.
    But I choose to offer her my privilege, my poetry, my potential to do more
    Because this is the least that is owed to her.
    Because that’s what heroes are for.

    Note: Arrested, tortured, and incarcerated in November 2009, Charity Dino, Billy Batrina and Sony Rolegio spent more than 3 years as political prisoners in my homeland, the Philippines, all because they wanted to start a peasant union. Over that period many activists came to visit them, fundraise for legal aid, and spread the word. One of those activists was me, who wrote this small poem and used it to fundraise money in the Filipino community in Ottawa, as well as to raise awareness and put pressure on the government by petitions written by Canadian labour unions and churches. On the morning of December 26, 2013, all charges were dismissed because of lack of evidence, and Billy, Sony, and Charity were finally free to go home. Never stop writing and organizing– we can become accomplices in each other’s struggle and make a difference.

    If you liked this content, please become a patron, where all funds raised goes directly to healing work in my communities. Link to original article here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/26731218

  • Throwback Thursday: Face It (2011)

    Image Description: On a pink wall there is a mirror with a pink frame. In the mirror there are partial reflections of a door way, green plants, and their shadows. The text on top of the image reads: “face it” and “lukayo.com” and “www.patreon.com/lukayo”.

    Content Warning: abuse, substance abuse, self-harm

    it
    is like
    trying to construct my future
    out of the photos of someone else’s past
    fooling me into thinking the pieces fit
    just because they’re in rectangular blocks
    as if I can really build something here
    outside of the playground of
    rusty abandoned expectations
    and the raw failings of the strangers who raised me
    as long as none of the pictures carry
    my
    own
    face

    it
    is like
    staring into a mirror engraved with the lines
    of his left eye, my features distorted by
    the shape of his pupil
    sclera background and iris-bright
    believing that there’s a ghost of me
    living in his head for keepsake
    cuddling his corpus callosum
    and tickling his medulla oblangata
    till all his thoughts are watermarked with
    my
    own
    face

    it
    is like
    screaming
    in an abandoned park mountaintop at midnight
    face-in-pillow empty nest heartbreak
    1st therapy session
    1st rock concert
    1st triple orgasm
    while phantom ex-lovers demand Scott-Pilgrim-like duels
    and current lovers become disruptor shields
    and a makeshift secret treehouse
    build around the weathered bark of
    my
    own
    face

    it
    is like
    her kisses know all the passwords
    her ears trace confessions in my throat-pulsing moans
    her fingers caressing these weary cheekbones
    and button up nose and whip eye lashes
    and cracked slam-spitting lips
    till I grasp after her touch
    by getting reacquainted with
    my
    own
    face

    it
    is like
    the persistent penny in my pocket
    reminding me to save
    my
    own
    face

    it
    is like
    breathing through the
    bruises of disrespect and the
    hollows of self-neglect
    trying to recognize
    my
    own
    face

    it
    is like
    finally feeling safe enough
    to peel off the designer brand new skin,
    armoured make-up, too cool for you look
    and reveal dreams that live on
    my
    own
    face

    it
    on
    my
    own

    face it

    …

    darling

    I am so sorry
    that I left you behind
    that I gave you away
    that I told you to trust them
    and believe them and obey

    I am so sorry
    that I told you love was sacrifice and pain
    that you were worthless if you
    couldn’t make them stay

    I am so sorry
    I starved you of touch, food, and rest
    because I thought you weren’t good enough yet

    I am so sorry
    that when you were crying
    I drowned you with beer and
    other people’s fists to keep you quiet

    I am so sorry
    I only wrote you lines fit
    for a bit part tragic villain

    I am so sorry
    I told you no one would ever be willing
    to love
    that
    kind of
    face

    it was wrong

    face it

    I was wrong

    I couldn’t see what was right in front of
    my
    own
    face

    it

    is the promise

    that from now on

    no more shaming
    no more denying
    no more punishing
    no more lying
    no more running
    from this reflection that cannot be erased

    this is the promise

    to love on my own

    this is the promise

    to love face-to-face

    Wanna hear the rest of the poem? Better yet, want to commission me to write a poem for you? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/throwback-face-23322261

  • Throwback Thursday: Being Fey #2 (2004)

    Image Description:

    The cover of the zine is a picture of a person with cat ears and tail, curly black hair, purple and black arm warmers, black jeans, striped suspenders, black sneakers, purple socks, with a tiny panda on the person’s head. The title is “being fey #2” and “VERSES / VERSUS”.

    The second picture has many beings– a curly-haired Asian person wearing fishnets and a skirt, with several spirits (a short-haired face with glasses, a partially-shaved face, a person with a tie, a person with long hair, a black cat, and a panda). They are facing away from a white person who has glasses and wearing a black vest, with a dragon spirit on their shoulders. The dragon and the panda are reaching for each other. The title of the picture is “Hex and Verd”.

    Wanna see the rest of the artwork and the full pages from this zine? Better yet, want to commission me to draw something for you? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/22142796

  • Throwback Thursday: Being Fey #1 (2003)

    Content Warning/Trigger Warning: questioning reality/schizophrenia mention/casual saneism

    Image Descriptions:

    The cover of the zine is an abstract art piece done in charcoal with shapes that look like claws, spirals, eyes, stitches, tails, wings, etc. The text reads “being fey Issue *1 {one}” and “an experiment in self-aggrandizement”.

    Title page of a comic done in black ink and charcoal. The main picture is a bespectacled pale-skinned figure with a goatee and short spiky dark hair sitting at a computer on top of a next of tentacle wires, with a shadowed winged reptilian silhouette looming behind them. There is a small panel close-up of the person’s eye glancing to the side over one of the lenses of their glasses. The title is “Issue #1: Steam”. The thought bubbles read: “I can feel it again, watching me… gah. Everytime I turn around, or look at it directly… it just disappears. Gone. But I KNOW it’s there.”

    Four panels. The person is leaving their apartment while the shadowy figure hovers above them, follows closely behind, and at one point is snaking a tongue into their ear. The person ends up facing a closed door, with a shot of their undercut/partially shaved head. The thought bubbles read: “Only a matter of time… before. I… fuckin’… snapped. I had to make sure I wasn’t schizo.” In a speech bubble, the person is saying: “Brad! Open up! I need to talk to you. There’s this thing that keeps fol–“

    Two panels. In the first panel, the tall bespectacled person in a black trenchcoat is staring down a second, smaller person with long pale/white hair, pale skin, bare foot and in a frilly dress. They are having a conversation on the second person’s doorstep. The conversation is as follows:

    • “Yes?”
    • “!!!”
    • “Can I help you?”
    • “Uh, I musta gotten the wrong house…”
    • “Are you looking for Bradley?”
    • “Yeah, are you his little sister or something?”
    • “No silly…”

    The last panel is a close-up of the second person’s face as they say: “I AM Brad.”

    Below the panel is the words “To be continued…”

    Wanna see the rest of the artwork and the full pages from this zine? Better yet, want to commission me to draw something for you? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/22142123

  • Throwback Thursday: Mnemosyne’s Carcass

    Artwork from Mnemosyne’s Carcass, a zine I published in 2005 with my original illustrations and some creative non-fiction rambling.

    Image Descriptions

    The first scan is of the cover and back cover of a black and white ‘zine/chapbook. The cover is an inked drawing of a pale woman with pale hair. The title is “being fey #4” and the subtitle is “MNEMOSYNE’S CARCASS”. On the back cover is a poem in heavily stylized font. This is the poem:

    “This is for Mnemosyne
    the Goddess of Memory
    whose sullen carcass lies in my
    mind
    riddled by the carrion birds
    of elusive Time
    so that my Ever-Present is
    assaulted by the stench
    of her rotting immortality

    here’s to you, Mnemosyne!
    for leaving
    only broken bits
    of me
    to remember.”

    At the bottom of the poem there is a logo of an eye bursting out of stitches and the words “NEKUSIS PUBLISHING”.

    Wanna see the rest of the artwork from this zine? Better yet, want to commission me to draw something for you? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/21843836

  • Throwback Thursday: Sticks & Stones

    Image Description: A black-and-white ink drawing of two dark-skinned hands holding each other. The hands are framed in a diamond/square, where each side of the diamond/square is made of different things. On the bottom, the left side is made of a long stick and the right side is made out of stones, rocks, and pebbles. On the top, the left side is made out of a sword (specifically a tabak/machete from Bicol, Luzon, Philippines), and the right side is made out of a robotic arm. The font has the title “STICKS & STONES” twice, following the borders of the diamond/square. Lukayo’s signature in English and basahan/baybayin is inside the frame, near the side made out of stones.

    Content Warning: sui* ideation, bullying, violence

    Sticks & Stones (Original 2008, Updated 2018)

    [sung in the original “sticks and stones” rhyme]
    Sticks and stones may break my bones
    And words can cut and hurt me
    But if I know I’m not alone
    Then my strength won’t desert me
    [/end song]

    She is sitting in a bathroom stall, holding her insides in
    Cradling her guts in her arms, waiting for the slaughter to begin
    She knows it’s too late
    They’ve got her surrounded
    There’s nothing left to do
    But let the crowd in
    And take her
    Down

    He’s standing by the door, getting ready to gear up
    He puts each armor plate in place, helmet down, fear tucked
    Deep inside metal and machine
    They can’t touch him here
    Covered up, unseen
    To face them
    Down

    How did she get to this place? She wonders.
    It began with a swarm, of dead flesh and stark hunger
    Ambushed, slammed, pushed—she started fighting
    Drew her sword, steel flashing bright lightning
    Cut them to pieces but still they kept coming
    And now she’s grown tired, tired of running

    How did he get to this place? He wonders.
    In a suit of mecha, marching down the street like thunder
    They launch missiles at him, but they bounce off his shields
    Damage done to the outer core, so he adjusts his data fields
    The enemy gathers their forces, amassing might and clout
    He has to come out sometime, and so they’ll wait him out

    All alone she kneels, the blade pressed to her skin
    Cuz she’d rather die with dignity than let any of them win
    She’d rather let her blood run out and cut off her own head
    Than let them make her just like them– unrelenting, cold, undead

    And the tanks, the jet fighters, the bombs and the blasts
    Hound him through city rubble, shields failing at last
    In one final attempt, he seeks refuge in the forbidden
    Hoping they won’t follow, hoping he’ll stay hidden

    And she comes out, a warrior, ready for a final sacrifice
    And he climbs out of his robot suit, confused and wide-eyed

    She says: “What the hell are you doing in the girl’s washroom?”

    He says: “Why are you standing there holding a knife to your wrist?”

    And they look at each other and see the bruises, the blisters,
    His broken glasses, the trash in his hair, the scrapes on her fists

    And they look at each other, and slowly, so tentative
    She reaches out her hand, and he looks at it, contemplative

    She whispers, “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you, I know how to fight.”
    But he shakes his head while he squeezes her hand tight.

    “I know what’s outside, and what’s waiting for us
    It’s not like the movies or anime or the comic books
    Sometimes the grown-ups don’t come, sometimes we’re left on our own
    Sometimes there are too many zombies and robotic drones
    And I know we’re just kids and we’ve done nothing wrong
    We just look different and sing and dance to different songs
    But sometimes you have to stop running,
    Sometimes you have to stop fighting
    And hold your head high
    Sometimes you have to be the example,
    by ignoring their lies

    Cuz sticks and stones may break my bones
    And words can cut and hurt me
    But if I know I’m not alone
    Then my strength won’t desert me.”

    And with that, they walked hand in hand, outside.

    Wanna hear the rest of the poem or get a larger version of the art piece? Better yet, want to commission me to write a poem and draw something for you? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/21682579

  • Throwback Thursday: The Civilizer

    Original 2008; Revised 2018

    Hello.

    Have you ever felt that your life was savage, barbaric, less than ideal?

    Tired of living close with the earth?

    Bored of your rich, oral traditions?

    Suddenly doubting the validity of the herbal knowledge that’s served your community for hundreds of years?

    Fed up with the symbiotic relationship of humans, animals, and the land, which maintain a balanced ecosystem?

    Irritated with your animistic views and the cultural heritage that’s an intrinsic part of your self-worth?

    Ever had that deep down feeling that somehow, on some intrinsic level, you weren’t actually human?

    Well, suffer no more!

    Introducing…

    The Civilizer!

    The Civilizer comes with Freedom, Democracy, Equality, Individualism, the Pursuit of Happiness, and a Judeo-Christian set of morals and ethics—all completely free!

    Benefits include:

    A fair and democratic system that can only be used by the rich and incorporated!

    Worldwide technologically advanced media to disseminate one-sided perspectives rife with cultural stereotypes!

    An allopathic medicinal society that is mostly driven by offering cures instead of actually curing you!

    Education that privileges productivity over knowledge!

    Material success symbolized by items you don’t actually need!

    And best of all, whiteness, heterosexuality, one form of masculinity, one form of relationship arrangement, one form of body type, and one form of monotheism as the Golden Standard we should all try to achieve!

    All of this and more is scientifically proven to come from The Civilizer!

    Don’t just stare like a fence-sitting bisexual!

    If you call now, we have a very special offer where we take all of the terrible parts of you that make you inhuman, as well as your natural resources and cheap labour, and replace it with the Civilizer’s benefits—but now with 50% more democracy and 200% more freedom!

    If you call within the next ten minutes, we’ll throw in guilt and self-hatred as you strive towards Civilizer ideals but can’t quite break free from your inferior indigenous roots!

    This is a limited time offer only!

    Order the Civilizer now!

    Dominators are standing by.

    Some side effects may include slavery, misogyny, homophobia, violent revolution, patriarchy, racism, imperialism, colonialism, cultural genocide, segregation, stereotyping, diaspora, exploitation, sweatshops, free trade agreements, debt, obesity, starvation, war, and more.

    The Civilizer refuses to be held responsible for any and all side effects that may ensue.

    The Civilizer! Cleaning up the world one nation at a time!

    Wanna hear the rest of the poem? Better yet, want to commission me to write a poem and draw something for you? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/21547819

  • Throwback Thursday: Scars

    Image Description: A black-and-white ink drawing of an eye with dark sclera emerging out of a wound with three stitches on either side. The word “SCARS” is superimposed on top and faded, with Lukayo’s signature in English and basahan/baybayin under the “R” and “S” of the word “SCARS”.

    Content Warning: allusions to death, sexual assault, self-harm, and bloodplay.

    Scars (Original 2008, Updated 2018)

    We push our boundaries, reaching for a sky full of stars
    Until we burst open, skin sprouting scars

    Like trophies
    And only lovers & doctors
    mothers & morticians
    Traced by hand and stethoscope and lips
    See these bodies go out with more than they came in with
    Bodies full of scars till we become subway system maps
    Each tendril of hard, healed flesh an underground tourist trap
    Staring down long dark tunnels of memory
    Hopping on that train of thought & theory
    Speeding all the way

    All the way to the end of the line
    Past the “Slow Down” and “Just Stop” signs

    Pushing boundaries, reaching for a sky full of stars
    Until we burst open, skin sprouting scars

    Like loathing
    A monster in human-skin-clothing
    Awkward in my kilt and ironed-out-white-blouse
    Because every boy was going to be my redemption
    Every boy my ticket out, every boy
    Had a height and a depth like a mountain
    So full they almost supernova’d right there
    In the locker-lined hallways
    And smoke-laced, booze-stained parties
    Their explosions forcing inside me all the way

    All the way to the end of the line
    Past the “Slow Down” and “Just Stop” signs

    Pushing boundaries, reaching for a sky full of stars
    Until we burst open, skin sprouting scars

    Like armor
    Because what doesn’t kill us only breaks us stronger
    And she is crying as I hold her close in the candle light
    Bedroom door locked as tight as her fingers around that knife
    And I’m wrestling with her pain, I’m pleading “baby, please let go”
    And one night she’ll toss the blade across the room in a fever
    Another night she’ll kiss me hard and ask me to do it with her
    Players in an Anne Rice-ian fairy tale fantasy
    Not satisfied with hickies of violets and daisies
    We had to go all the way

    All the way to the end of the line
    Past the “Slow Down” and “Just Stop” signs

    Pushing boundaries, reaching for a sky full of stars
    Until we burst open, skin sprouting scars

    Like forest fires
    Evidence against the two-faced and the liars
    While we rage against family dramas or corporate spires
    Fueled and sparked by our half-healed criss-crosses
    To keep fighting, keep fighting against our losses
    Because every wound made must be given time to close
    Every fissure in our fleshly fabric is as much a lesson as a blow
    To our pride, to our hubris, to our ego, to our core
    And if that’s not the point of dying,
    then what the fuck are we living for?
    We have to go all the way

    All the way to the end of the line
    Past the “Slow Down” and “Just Stop” signs

    Pushing boundaries, skin sprouting scars
    Until we burst open and finally
    reach that sky full of stars

    Wanna hear the rest of the poem? Better yet, want to commission me to write a poem and draw something for you? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/21260746

  • Throwback Thursday: Self-Portrait

    [Image Description: A black-and-white self-portrait of Lukayo wearing a baseball cap and shirt that is falling off one shoulder to reveal the strap of an under-shirt. They have long hair on one side. Half of their face has facial hair, and the other half is shaved. The drawing has the word “SELF-PORTRAIT” at the top, and their signature in English and basahan/baybayin on the bottom.]

    Self-Portrait (Original 2006; Revised 2018)

    Ako si Lukayo

    And I am searching for the equation in the centre of the dream
    I am unraveling the thread of modern mythological seams

    Sino yan?
    An anti-hero unsung
    Sino yan?
    A faith healer just begun
    Sino yan?

    An ideological disaster blasting capitalism faster
    Than ricocheting bullets from a verbal Gatling gun

    Ako si Lukayo

    I am a construct of your bias, experience, and dreams
    I am a congruence of light and sound that insists I’m heard and seen

    Sino yan?
    Known by many names
    Sino yan?
    Burned by social flames
    Sino yan?

    Your entertainment one-stop, on a soap box with a joke dropped
    Between phrases carved from fire that heal as much as maim

    Ako si Lukayo

    And I am making poetry my temple so that I can be redeemed
    I am a voice, a vision, or an SJW laser beam

    Sino yan?
    An artist just for fun
    Sino yan?
    A trickster on the run
    Sino yan?

    A 33-year old catastrophe, no apathy or atrophy
    But tired of this poem so this intro’s finally done.

    Wanna hear the rest of the poem and get a larger version of the new artwork I drew? Better yet, want to commission me to write a poem and draw something for you? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/21101395

  • Throwback Thursday: Why I Wear Black

    I had other pieces I wanted to release this week on Thursday and Friday, but due to the death in the Ontario pagan community, I’m moved to post my poems on grief. Consider this your content warning.

    (The original piece was written in the summer of 2009 and called “Slam Noir”. This is the updated 2018 version. The graphic was made using Canva.)

    Why I Wear Black

    Because I’m bored.
    Because I’m weird.
    Because I’m hoping you’ll re-examine your belief systems.
    Because chicks dig it, bro.
    Because it’s my armour.
    Because I like to sweat.
    Because it probably hasn’t occurred to you that in certain cultures this is a symbol of prosperity.
    Because I’m such a rebel.
    Because I’m so sophisticated.
    Because it’s harder to stain.
    Because I’m actually the government and I’ve been sent to monitor your activities very, very closely… we’re watching you, Mr. Anderson.
    Because it makes me feel sexy.
    Because I feel angry and depressed.
    Because… Viva la Revolution!
    Because I’m a ninja. Seriously. I’m a ninja, I’m Asian, it all makes sense. I’m dangerous and I’m invisible and I clearly know karate.
    Because it looks good with anything. Especially rainbows.
    Because he broke my heart.
    Because she broke my heart.
    Because they broke my heart.
    Because my heart was broken a long time ago when I was raised to believe I had to be whiter, thinner, and a specific gender to be loved and to be beautiful.
    Because… face it, you don’t give a shit.
    Because I’m a cynical misanthrope.
    Because I want you to think twice about jumping me in the street.
    Because I want to feel powerful without having to dominate.
    Because I want to be closer to my Ancestors.
    Because it’s supposed to hide my imperfections.
    Because, like, y’know, whatever.
    Because I don’t want to contribute to a culture of consumerism by promoting brands that claim to symbolize one set of values while actually championing emotional manipulation and economic exploitation.
    Because everybody hates me.
    Because I want attention. HEY! HEY! Pay attention to ME! Thanks!
    Because I want to be a superhero.
    Because I’m just like everybody else.
    Because he died.
    Because so many have died, and there’s so much injustice in the world that sometimes we forget to live. Well, I want to REMEMBER.
    Because I want to have a choice.
    Because it IS my choice.
    Because your reaction tells me more about YOU than it does about ME.
    Because I’m what you fear.
    Because I’m not anything to be ashamed of.
    Because grief is not anything to be ashamed of.
    Because someone has to mourn the world.

     

    I wear it for the sick and lonely old
    For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold
    I wear the black in mourning for the lives that could have been
    – Johnny Cash, “Man In Black”

    —

    Wanna hear the rest of the poem? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/throwback-why-i-20931783

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