Untitled

What Wanders ~ Yazmin Monet Watkins

I Am Searching For Something...
Join Me For The Journey



I feel like I speak with a borrowed tongue
In the language of an oppressor
English does not feel like a place to call home.


-


I imagine all the possible dialects I could have come from
And try on creole? try on Yoruba?  
Like a young girl in her mother’s clothes
Too big, too complicated
More fabric weaved in to all my flags 
Than I know what to do with.
I don’t fully understand why


-


English feels like a foreign language
When this is all I know of nation:
My race my class my gender my sexuality 

All reminders of why I am more second class 

Than citizen 
Born in a country where my children 

are not safe from unjust laws 

with infrastructures built to oppress 
Feeling anything but 

Home
I wear this red, white & blue with trepidation
A wary outsider within
A complicated history 
Whispers of forgotten stories

And lack of representation
More question mark
Than origin tale


-


I know nowhere is perfect.
But all I’ve got for background
Is my grandparent’s light skin 

Gene expressing in my own

From the South without much collective memory
Our family tree has no crest.

No tidy explanation of our generations 

Just blank empty roots dangling in our family tree:

Wondering
Who was my grandmother’s mother 

and the mothers’ mothers before them?

What branch were they plucked from?

What languages did they leave back home?

Where did they learn to speak?

[Sorry (not sorry) plantation ain’t good enough]
I wonder what my voice would sound like 
Without the erasure
Without the colonization

-


Sometimes I dream of
Flying places
Even my ancestors do not remember

A space where our true song and dance

Drums deep in our speech pattern

The floral rhythm of rolling r’s
Full of mango and spice 

I am an orphan 
Robbed from a dialect
I will never get to move in to
I wish I knew where my blood comes from.

Perhaps that is why there is such an irresistible urge to travel

Wander lusting in my bones

Always searching for some place 

To call home.

+  05:21 pm, by jazyyazi3

There are some poems that leave such a huge impact on your spirit and “With Lorenzo at the center of the universe el Zócalo Mexico City” was one of those poems. I just met Sandra Cisneros (!!!!) and had the pleasure of connecting for a brief moment to share that her poetry saved me at one point in my life. This was her reaction. This is an excerpt from that poem:
“but i thought for a moment, i really did,
that a kiss could be a universe.
or sex. or love, that old shoe. see.
still hopeless. still writing poems
for pretty men. half of me alive
again. the other shouting from the sidelines,
sit down, clown.

ah, lorenzo, i’m a fool.
eternity or bust. that’s how it is with me.
even if eternity is simply one kiss,
one night, one moment. and if love isn’t
eternal, what’s the point?”
#poetry #labookfest #bookchella #nationalpoetrymonth #love #sandracisneros #readthewholepoem #medicine (at Los Angeles Times Festival Of Books)

+  06:05 pm, by jazyyazi3

Posse love in the building! Thanks so much for coming out to support @glendagrrrrr and Judith (yudith)! Shout out to the mothers of la Ciudad Jaurez, and the other incredible visual artists as well, what a powerful exhibit. Thank you for welcoming me in to your space @rockrosegallery. I so loved sharing my poems with you all. #WORD! #poetry #nationalpoetrymonth #highlandpark #posse #posselove (at Rock Rose Gallery and Studio)

+  11:13 pm, by jazyyazi2

08.30 “La Sirene (After Watching Blue Is The Warmest Color & visiting a Haitian Voodoo flag exhibit)”
She speaks
In ocean
La Sirene
Living
In her bones
First love
Taboo tangled
What confusion
Lust
Must
No choice
but to grab a hold.
She brings me music
Has me singing
“Mistress de oseyan,
manman nan lanme’ a”
Magick miracle
Sun shining
Behind our kisses
I am altar
She is shrine
Light blue candle
in a crystal bowl
She be light house
I, shipwrecked treasure
Floating diamonds and champagne.
Oysters on the half shell
(She says she likes the way they taste)
Coral and pearl
Offerings
I bathe me in her honey drop
Sea salt and condensed milk
Dripping down my walls
Azul flowers in white basin
Poured slowly over body
I am rushing river
rippling to her doorstep.
Tonight we worship
The tug and stretch
The grasp and grab
She is mermaid, she is healing
Ensnares my moon with all her tide
Voodou witchcraft
Beloved goddess
Yemaya in different tongue
Ruling hypnotherapy
in my dreams
She sees secrets
Holds them closely
As near as she does me.
Her ocean pulls me under
And I willingly dive.
“La Siren, La Balen
Chapo’m tonbe nan la me.
The Mermaid, The Whale
My hat fell in to the sea.

07:29 pm, by jazyyazi1
For it is not the anger of Black women which is dripping down over this globe like a diseased liquid. It is not my anger that launches rockets, spends over sixty thousand dollars a second on missiles and other agents of war and death, pushes opera singers off rooftops, slaughters children in cities, stockpiles nerve gas and chemical bombs, sodomizes our daughters and our earth. It is not the anger of Black women which corrodes into blind, dehumanizing power, bent upon the annihilation of us all unless we meet it with what we have, our power to examine and to redefine the terms upon which we will live and work; our power to envision and to reconstruct, anger by painful anger, stone upon heavy stone, a future of pollinating difference and the earth to support our choices.
Audre Lorde, “The Uses of Anger” (via so-treu)

Oh audre


06:08 pm, reblogged by jazyyazi950

mmmmbeefy96:

sunnyanarchism:

catbountry:

ex-wife:

did-you-kno:

Source 

"When I got my first cat, it changed me. There is something about holding a cat that makes your anger melt away. And if someone does something that upsets me—I have to remember my cat. I can’t keep my cat if I get into trouble.”

"I asked if Major Cabanaw had concerns for the safety of the cats. “Of course, we always want to ensure the safety of the cats, and the staff is great about keeping an eye out for them. But mostly, it’s the offenders keeping them safe. I have never once seen an offender kill his own cat. We screen them to be sure they have no history of animal abuse. But I’ll tell you this, there was a guy killed in here because he had spit soda pop onto someone else’s cat.”"

Wow.

I watched a documentary on how animal therapy really helps rehabilitate prisoners, and I can’t remember what it was called now. But anyways it’s amazing the way animals can help restore empathy and reverse anger. 

Until you somone fucks with that persons animal then they get this rage that can only be quenched with that persons blood

06:05 pm, reblogged by jazyyazi107441

7.30 “I Too”
I too belong
I too preach pulpit prophet
Great gold organs before me
And the souls of Black folk behind me
I too
Speak rivers
Holy water pouring from my mouth
I too am holy
Healthy, whole and holy
Worthy
Of sharing story
Queering spaces
Communion of community
With every shade of rainbow
Creed and color
I too listen
Channel God
Channel Spirit
I too am Spirit
Am all the change I was looking for
I too am healer
Make whole the pain
Bear witness
Inspire
I too am path paving
Ground shaking
Reframing language
I too self love
Transform
Create in me my own image
I too am history
Brave enough to speak
Been called to preach
Freely
Poetry is a gospel
I too be saving lives
Bringing heart
Can I get an Amen?
Can I get a soul clap?
I too am gift
Embrace my calling
I too am called
I church
I praise
I too be Black tradition
Non traditional
I be grateful
I too am valid
-And here-
At the shores of my mother’s garden
Ocean/ Oshun rushing rapid through my spirit
I come to know Universe
Indeed
I too am God.
#poetry #nationalpoetrymonth #namowrimo #spokenword #spirituality #lgbt #bisexual #queer #God #Universe

+  01:29 pm, by jazyyazi4

rinmatsuokasfree:

the-singular-experience:

a-mock-turtle:

federalists:

are you really bisexual?

Prove it, complete this bisexual obstacle course

omg can I please?

that sounds fun

Like some kind of bisexual Wipeout

image

image

image

image

image

If you think the Bisexual Obstacle course was hard, just wait until you see the Pansexual’s Labyrinth.

I wasn’t sure if I was going to reblog this until I saw “Pansexual’s Labyrinth”.

Lol

03:44 am, reblogged by jazyyazi149918

Challa!! 🍞 #ucb #diversity *ice cube voice** yeah-y- yay!

+  07:01 pm, by jazyyazi1

9 things I really meant to say to the white boy who thought it was okay to shove his hands in my hair last night at the bar after I politely said don’t do it:

1) Not sure why you haven’t learned this basic concept in life already

But for your first lesson in acceptable human social behavior:

DON’T PUT YOUR HANDS IN MY HAIR!

I do not know you.

There is absolutely no reason why

I should feel 

your grubby fingertips 

on my 

scalp!

Ever!

Don’t do it.

2) I get it.

My hair is amazing, yes I know.

You’ve never seen anything like it.

Perhaps you don’t have any Black friends back home

Who could have warned you but-

Don’t touch a Black girl’s hair!

I am not your chia pet.

My hair is not some exotic creature 

My body is not a petting zoo

For your personal perusal.

Paws off!

3) You just fucked up my curl pattern, man!

Do you know how much Miss Jessie’s Curly Merengue 

I had to use to tame this ‘fro??

That stuff is not cheap!

NOT. OKAY. 

How would you like it

If I came up to you 

Out of nowhere and

Ruffled all that bleach blonde goo

You call hair and shook your head uncontrollably?

4) In what world is it ever acceptable

To touch strangers 

Without their admission?

Is there some particular reason  

You felt welcome to invade my section of the bar

With your neocolonialist exploration

And lay your hands on my person?!?!?

I am not your property.

Stop looking like I kicked your kitten

When I told you don’t touch my hair

You don’t have the right to grope me!

5) If you truly have questions about Black hair

And its care

There’s this amazing new fangled device called 

The Internet

Look it up.

6) Real talk,

Why is it always white people

Who feel so privileged to reach right on in?

Who taught you that our

Bodies were yours 

For the touching 

For the taking

Who taught you that 

Consent does not matter?

I don’t care HOW curious you are

Your primitive interest 

In a cultural exploration of “other”

Does not trump my discomfort

7) While we’re at it

When was the last time 

You walked up to a white woman

And fondled her hair?

What makes you feel so entitled

To violate MY personal space?

I was trying to be nice but,

8) Fuck I look like?

Hottentot Venus? Saartjie Baartman?

This is not some 1800’s exhibition

I am not on display.

Further

I don’t know you like that!

I’m sitting here like everyone else

Trying to enjoy my lemon drop martini

Which I was *peacefully* doing before you came along

And shoved your hands deep inside me

That’s creepy dude

9) Did you forget that it’s 2014?

I don’t owe you an explanation.

My body, my hair, my space

Period.

Unless I explicitly give you permission

For the last time dude,

Look but 

Don’t

Touch.

www.yazminmonetwatkins.com

IG- yazminmonetwatkins

+  06:40 am, by jazyyazi1
I learned that people can easily forget that others are human.
"Prisoner" from the Stanford Prison Experiment (1971)

(Source: eolithandbone)


04:27 am, reblogged by jazyyazi170562