POEMA SOBRE MIS DERECHOS
También esta noche
También esta noche
y todavia
necesito salir a pasear para aclararme
sobre este poema
sobre por qué no puedo salir
sin cambiarme de ropa,de zapatos,
cambiar mi forma de moverme,
mi identidad de género, mi edad
mi hecho de mujer sola al caer la noche,
sola en las calles ,
'sola' no siendo la cuestión
la cuestión siendo
que no puedo hacer lo que quiero
hacer con mi propio cuerpo,
porque soy del sexo erróneo
tengo la edad errónea
el color de piel erróneo
y supongamos
que no fuera aquí en la ciudad,
sino en la playa
o en la espesura de un bosque
y quisiera ir allí sola
para pensar en Dios
o pensar en las personas,
o pensar en el mundo,
todo ello apareciendo ante mí
sostenido por las estrellas y el silencio:
no podría ir y no podría pensar
y no podría
quedarme allí sola,
como necesito hacer,
sola porque no puedo hacer
lo que quiero con mi propio cuerpo
y quién mierda montó esto así
y en Francia dicen que si el tipo penetra
pero no eyacula entonces no me violó
y si después de clavarle un cuchillo
si después de gritar y gritar
si después de suplicarle a mi torturador
si incluso después de darle fuerte
con un martillo en la cabeza
si incluso después de eso si él
y sus colegas me follan después de todo eso
es que yo lo permití
y no hubo violación
porque finalmente lo comprendes
resulta que me follaron brutalmente
porque yo era el error erróneo
de nuevo ser yo, siendo yo donde estaba
erróneo ser quien soy
lo que es exactamente como Sudáfrica
penetrando Namibia
penetrando Angola
y significa eso quiero decir
cómo sabes si Pretoria eyacula
cómo se reconocen las pruebas
la prueba de la secreción.
de la bota militar,
del monstruo en Tierranegra
y si después de Namibia
y si después de Angola
y si después de Zimbawe
y si después de todas mi hermanas y hermanos
resistiendo incluso la autoinmolación
en los poblados
y si después de eso
igual perdemos qué dirán los hombrecitos,
alegarán que consentí.
Comprendes lo que estoy diciendo:
Somos el pueblo erróneo
de piel errónea,
del continente erróneo,
y qué mierda es eso tan razonable
que está aceptando todo el mundo
y según el Times esta semana
hacia 1966 la CIA decidió que tenía un problema
y el problema era un hombre llamado Nkrumah
así que lo mataron
y antes de aquello fue Patrice Lumumba
y antes de aquello fue mi padre
en el campus de mi prestigiosa universidad
y mi padre con miedo
de entrar en la cafetería
porque dijo que él era un error,
allí con la edad errónea,
la piel errónea,
la identidad de género errónea
y estaba pagando mis estudios
y antes de aquello,
fue mi padre diciendo
que yo era un error diciendo
que debería haber sido niño,
porque él quería uno,
un hijo
y que debería haber tenido la piel más clara
y que debería haber tenido el pelo más liso,
y queno debería estar tan loca por los chicos
sino que más bien debería haber sido
uno de ellos,
un chico
y antes de aquello,
fue mi madre empeñada
en cirugía plástica para mi nariz
y un aparato para mis dientes
diciéndome
que soltara los libros
que los abandonara
en otras palabras.
Conozco bien los problemas de la CIA
y los problemas de Sudáfrica
y los problemas de la multinacional Exxon
y los problemas blancos
de la América blanca,
de Estados Unidos en general
y los problemas del profesorado
y de los predicadores
y del FBI y los problemas sociales
los problemas de las personas en Trabajo Social
y de mi Madre y de mi Padre en particular conozco bien
los problemas porque los problemas
resultan ser
mi persona
yo soy la historia de la violación
yo soy la historia
del rechazo a quien soy
yo soy la historia del terror
de la encarcelación de mí misma
yo soy la historia de los malos tratos,
la agresión 'sexual'
y los innumerables ejércitos
en contra de lo que yo quiera hacer
con mi mente humana
y con mi cuerpo
y mi alma
y sin importar,
si es salir a pasear de noche
o amar a quien amo
o la virtud de mi vagina
o la sacralidad de mis fronteras nacionales
o la intocabilidad de mis líderes
o el derecho a serde todos
y cada uno de los deseos
que yo conozco
porque nacen de mi personal e idiosincrático
e indiscutiblemente único
y extraordinario corazón
yo he sido violada
por esto,
porque soy un error,
soy del sexo erróneo,
tengo la edad errónea
la piel errónea,
mi nariz es un error
y mi pelo
mis necesidades erróneas,
mis sueños
mi geografía errónea
mi aspecto completo un error
yo he sido el propio significado de la violación
he sido el problema que todos pretenden
eliminar por la fuerza de la penetración
con o sin las pruebas de la polución
y ...
pero dejemos esto muy claro
este poema
no es consentimiento
yo no consiento,
no doy mi consentimiento
ni a mi madre,
ni a mi padre,
ni a mis profesores ,
ni al FBI
ni a Sudáfrica
ni a mi barrio de Brooklyn
ni a Park Avenue
ni a American Airlines
ni a los salidos exhibicionistas
que esperan en las esquinas
ni a los retorcidos viciosos
que se esconden en los coches
Yo no soy un error:
Error no es un nombre para mí
Mi nombre es el mío propio, mío , propio
yo no sé quién ha montado esto así
pero sí sé que de ahora
en adelante mi resistencia
mi sola y diurna y nocturna
determinación a ser yo
podría sin duda
alguna costarte la vida
Poem about My Rights
Even tonight and I need to take a walk and clear
my head about this poem about why I can’t
go out without changing my clothes my shoes
my body posture my gender identity my age
my status as a woman alone in the evening/
alone on the streets/alone not being the point/
the point being that I can’t do what I want
to do with my own body because I am the wrong
sex the wrong age the wrong skin and
suppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach/
or far into the woods and I wanted to go
there by myself thinking about God/or thinking
about children or thinking about the world/all of it
disclosed by the stars and the silence:
I could not go and I could not think and I could not
stay there
alone
as I need to be
alone because I can’t do what I want to do with my own
body and
who in the hell set things up
like this
and in France they say if the guy penetrates
but does not ejaculate then he did not rape me
and if after stabbing him if after screams if
after begging the bastard and if even after smashing
a hammer to his head if even after that if he
and his buddies fuck me after that
then I consented and there was
no rape because finally you understand finally
they fucked me over because I was wrong I was
wrong again to be me being me where I was/wrong
to be who I am
which is exactly like South Africa
penetrating into Namibia penetrating into
Angola and does that mean I mean how do you know if
Pretoria ejaculates what will the evidence look like the
proof of the monster jackboot ejaculation on Blackland
and if
after Namibia and if after Angola and if after Zimbabwe
and if after all of my kinsmen and women resist even to
self-immolation of the villages and if after that
we lose nevertheless what will the big boys say will they
claim my consent:
Do You Follow Me: We are the wrong people of
the wrong skin on the wrong continent and what
in the hell is everybody being reasonable about
and according to the Times this week
back in 1966 the C.I.A. decided that they had this problem
and the problem was a man named Nkrumah so they
killed him and before that it was Patrice Lumumba
and before that it was my father on the campus
of my Ivy League school and my father afraid
to walk into the cafeteria because he said he
was wrong the wrong age the wrong skin the wrong
gender identity and he was paying my tuition and
before that
it was my father saying I was wrong saying that
I should have been a boy because he wanted one/a
boy and that I should have been lighter skinned and
that I should have had straighter hair and that
I should not be so boy crazy but instead I should
just be one/a boy and before that
it was my mother pleading plastic surgery for
my nose and braces for my teeth and telling me
to let the books loose to let them loose in other
words
I am very familiar with the problems of the C.I.A.
and the problems of South Africa and the problems
of Exxon Corporation and the problems of white
America in general and the problems of the teachers
and the preachers and the F.B.I. and the social
workers and my particular Mom and Dad/I am very
familiar with the problems because the problems
turn out to be
me
I am the history of rape
I am the history of the rejection of who I am
I am the history of the terrorized incarceration of
myself
I am the history of battery assault and limitless
armies against whatever I want to do with my mind
and my body and my soul and
whether it’s about walking out at night
or whether it’s about the love that I feel or
whether it’s about the sanctity of my vagina or
the sanctity of my national boundaries
or the sanctity of my leaders or the sanctity
of each and every desire
that I know from my personal and idiosyncratic
and indisputably single and singular heart
I have been raped
be-
cause I have been wrong the wrong sex the wrong age
the wrong skin the wrong nose the wrong hair the
wrong need the wrong dream the wrong geographic
the wrong sartorial I
I have been the meaning of rape
I have been the problem everyone seeks to
eliminate by forced
penetration with or without the evidence of slime and/
but let this be unmistakable this poem
is not consent I do not consent
to my mother to my father to the teachers to
the F.B.I. to South Africa to Bedford-Stuy
to Park Avenue to American Airlines to the hardon
idlers on the corners to the sneaky creeps in
cars
I am not wrong: Wrong is not my name
My name is my own my own my own
and I can’t tell you who the hell set things up like this
but I can tell you that from now on my resistance
my simple and daily and nightly self-determination
may very well cost you your life
Poem about My Rights
Even tonight and I need to take a walk and clear
my head about this poem about why I can’t
go out without changing my clothes my shoes
my body posture my gender identity my age
my status as a woman alone in the evening/
alone on the streets/alone not being the point/
the point being that I can’t do what I want
to do with my own body because I am the wrong
sex the wrong age the wrong skin and
suppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach/
or far into the woods and I wanted to go
there by myself thinking about God/or thinking
about children or thinking about the world/all of it
disclosed by the stars and the silence:
I could not go and I could not think and I could not
stay there
alone
as I need to be
alone because I can’t do what I want to do with my own
body and
who in the hell set things up
like this
and in France they say if the guy penetrates
but does not ejaculate then he did not rape me
and if after stabbing him if after screams if
after begging the bastard and if even after smashing
a hammer to his head if even after that if he
and his buddies fuck me after that
then I consented and there was
no rape because finally you understand finally
they fucked me over because I was wrong I was
wrong again to be me being me where I was/wrong
to be who I am
which is exactly like South Africa
penetrating into Namibia penetrating into
Angola and does that mean I mean how do you know if
Pretoria ejaculates what will the evidence look like the
proof of the monster jackboot ejaculation on Blackland
and if
after Namibia and if after Angola and if after Zimbabwe
and if after all of my kinsmen and women resist even to
self-immolation of the villages and if after that
we lose nevertheless what will the big boys say will they
claim my consent:
Do You Follow Me: We are the wrong people of
the wrong skin on the wrong continent and what
in the hell is everybody being reasonable about
and according to the Times this week
back in 1966 the C.I.A. decided that they had this problem
and the problem was a man named Nkrumah so they
killed him and before that it was Patrice Lumumba
and before that it was my father on the campus
of my Ivy League school and my father afraid
to walk into the cafeteria because he said he
was wrong the wrong age the wrong skin the wrong
gender identity and he was paying my tuition and
before that
it was my father saying I was wrong saying that
I should have been a boy because he wanted one/a
boy and that I should have been lighter skinned and
that I should have had straighter hair and that
I should not be so boy crazy but instead I should
just be one/a boy and before that
it was my mother pleading plastic surgery for
my nose and braces for my teeth and telling me
to let the books loose to let them loose in other
words
I am very familiar with the problems of the C.I.A.
and the problems of South Africa and the problems
of Exxon Corporation and the problems of white
America in general and the problems of the teachers
and the preachers and the F.B.I. and the social
workers and my particular Mom and Dad/I am very
familiar with the problems because the problems
turn out to be
me
I am the history of rape
I am the history of the rejection of who I am
I am the history of the terrorized incarceration of
myself
I am the history of battery assault and limitless
armies against whatever I want to do with my mind
and my body and my soul and
whether it’s about walking out at night
or whether it’s about the love that I feel or
whether it’s about the sanctity of my vagina or
the sanctity of my national boundaries
or the sanctity of my leaders or the sanctity
of each and every desire
that I know from my personal and idiosyncratic
and indisputably single and singular heart
I have been raped
be-
cause I have been wrong the wrong sex the wrong age
the wrong skin the wrong nose the wrong hair the
wrong need the wrong dream the wrong geographic
the wrong sartorial I
I have been the meaning of rape
I have been the problem everyone seeks to
eliminate by forced
penetration with or without the evidence of slime and/
but let this be unmistakable this poem
is not consent I do not consent
to my mother to my father to the teachers to
the F.B.I. to South Africa to Bedford-Stuy
to Park Avenue to American Airlines to the hardon
idlers on the corners to the sneaky creeps in
cars
I am not wrong: Wrong is not my name
My name is my own my own my own
and I can’t tell you who the hell set things up like this
but I can tell you that from now on my resistance
my simple and daily and nightly self-determination
may very well cost you your life
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario