STORIES

OF
QUEER
DIASPORA
Poems,
Pensamientos,
and other Offerings...
Compiled by Erika Vivianna Cspedes
Layout by Chino Martinez

Table of
Contents
Introduction
Erika Vivianna Cspedes

Ojo De Lobo
Alex Martinez

Local Politics
Mai Doan

Pride
Yosimar Reyes

10

guava
Yvonne Fly Onakeme Etaghene

12

Intersections
Terisa Tinei Siagatonu

14

Photographs
by Jean Melesaine

17

unraveling
Hark Sun

19

What its Like to be Sri Lankan in 2012

Leah Lakshmi Piepzna- Samarasinha

20

espejo
Kristina Jackson

22

Naam
Amman Desai

24

Matters of Fact
Noor Al-Samarrai

26

I love you
Jan Bustamante

28

For Those Of You Who Arent Brown Trannies

Askari Gonzalez

30

Para Las Mujeres De Aztln y Las Jot@s de San Pancho, Califas

Erika Vivianna Cspedes

32

Introduction

This intergenerational anthology is composed of 14 Bay Area artists,

students, educators, and overall beautiful souls. It is an assembly of
voices who in some way have supported The Stories of Queer
Diaspora 2012 Series. A few of these submissions came from
youth participants who took part in our 8-week paid writing
workshop led by Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha. Others
came from adult writing mentors who supported the youth during
their creative process.

The Writing is my whole life, it is my obsession. This vampire

which is my talent does not suffer other suitors. Daily I court it,
offer my neck to its teeth. This is the sacrifice that the act of creation
requires, a blood sacrifice. For only through the body, through the
pulling of flesh, can the human soul be transformed. And for images,
words, stories to have this transformative power, they must arise
from the human bodyflesh and boneand from the Earths
bodystone, sky, liquid, soil. This work, these images, piercing
tongue or ear lobes with cactus needle, are my offerings, are my
Aztecan blood sacrifices.

Whether their participation was on the stage, in a workshop, or on

the page, all 14 of these artists represent the intention and mission of
this series: to celebrate how Queer im/migrant, undocumented, and
1st generation folks unapologetically navigate their bodies, gender,
culture, sexuality, and history.
This compilation is for those of us living on what we use to refer to
as the margins. It is for those of us who love without limitations. It is
for everyone who takes up space and looks good doing it. It is for
our families: the selected, bloodline, and re-imagined.

-Gloria Anzaldua Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza

This is a testament to all forms of survival. Displacement was never a

choice and warfare is part of our living memory so we carry these
stories with pride and legacy. We belong even when no one wants
to claim us. This anthology is an offering. A moment for us to remember how complicated and fully alive we are.
This is for everything we carry that has yet to be documented or
created If you or anyone you know would like to support or participate in future workshops, anthologies, or showcases please write us.
We are here and stronger in union jot@s.
with hella queer love,
Erika Vivianna Cspedes
Curator of The Stories of Queer Diaspora Series
callequmbia@gmail.com

Stories of Queer Diaspora

Ojo del Lobo

Alex Martinez
Linocut

I have been playing tug-of-war with a persona of mine, the lob@, for
quite some time. The lob@ first appeared on the face of a loverI had
animalized this person to explore their effect on me Later, I
would come to identify with the lob@ and s/he would appear as an
accomplice to my self-abuse. Here the lob@ appears again, this
time howling at the moon, both emerging from and engulfed by a
sea of eyes.

Stories of Queer Diaspora

Local
Politics

Mai Doan

My mother never let me cut my hair short. By the time I reached

twelve she began to tell me, Mija, you have such beautiful hair.
Let it grow long. She would say, Mija, dont wear those sneakers,
they make your legs look short. She would say, Mija, you better
watch what you eat, you dont want to end up like Tonys kids.
And my mother would tell me all these things; my mother who
wanted me to be popular, who wanted me to have the life she
never had but always wanted. She would tell me, Mija, you know, I
always wanted to be an airplane stewardess. They never let me.
My skin wasnt pretty enough. And my heart would cower small
into my chest as I brushed my long black hair, exchanged sneakers
for a jean skirt, and left home hungry to hang out with the girls who
liked the boys that slapped our asses before we even knew we had one.
I did all this because she was my mother and I wanted to show
that I loved her.
By ninth grade I had become a cheerleader. My mother gleamed
like the gold in my pom-poms when she saw me hot and awkward in
the tight wool skirt. I hid my discomfort and embarrassment
deep, deep inside until it fabricated itself into a plasticky acceptance sweet to the smell, bitter to the taste.
At school, lunchtime was a concrete petting zoo with the aroma of
pizza and hot metal roasting under the afternoon sun. I sat in a
circle of blondes and brunettes, whose eyes were framed with
black lashes that whispered Come Hither as their lips curled into
sticky, strawberry smiles. All the girls smelled like Love Spell and
tampons from P.E class as they sat down to talk shit and not eat. I
guess it was the only place to be once you were chosen as a boys
playgroundonce you were marked as desirable by their obsession with throwing cheetos between your newly developed
breasts. While there were other cheerleaders who were exiled for
fat thighs, dark skin or just not fitting in, I had no idea why I was
still there.
As soon as the five-minute bell would ring, I would hurry towards
class, taking the route I always didbehind the administration
8

building, around the quad, all the way to the other side of the
school. It was there that I discovered wholeness, basking in the
alley between bungalows C and D. Moving between the safety of
long hair and the violence of miniskirts, I had come to realize that I
had two lives to live. I had two lives to live and a painful struggle of
bridging the two. But it was there that I found solace in the cracks, as
it was between those bungalows, between the five-minute bell and
calculus class that she would wait for me. Always so brown and
beautiful against the whitewashed wall of the building, she would
take my hand as we snuck off to the back where the weeds grew
into dandelions. Once in the shade, she would sit up close against my
back, separate my hair into two, and begin to braid: one half to
melt away the awfulness of everywhere else and the other for her
hands to climb down from my neck to my shoulder to my arm,
down to my stomach where she held on tight. One time, I plucked
a dandelion from its muddy roots and let the fibers dance on the
baked skin of her fingers when she said, I dont know how you do it,
as she wiped the bright orange dust of a cheeto off my chest. I
turned around and gave her a look, a look that told her how it was
this very moment that allowed me to survive all the plastic and short
skirts and girls who pretended to smell good. She stared back with
a steady face, eyes without judgment. They swallowed me in my
entiretylegs that were short in sneakers, hair that didnt want to
be long, a coffee brown that was creamy enough to pass. She swallowed
me whole and for the first time in my life, I did not feel fragmented.
It was that day I remember. That day that I came home and my
mother told me, mija, dont wear your hair in those braids, you
look like an Indian. My mother who wished I was everything she was
not; my mother whos skin was never pretty enough to serve on a
plane; my mother, who they bleached from the inside out.

Stories of Queer Diaspora

Pride

This is who we are

No cuerpo solo espritu
Voices of people not celebrated
In white capitalistic wannabe inclusive parades of individuals

Yosimar Reyes

Nosotros somos Two-Spirit

And their pride is not ours
Because as they celebrate pop stars
And liberate their bodies
We are still caged
In their system

I am more than body

Beyond the rainbow flags and free condoms
The celebration of me is not found in parades
In a sea of half-naked men dancing to techno
The celebration for my spirit
Is not found in wet underwear contests
Random hook-ups Over-sexualized drama
Or STDs
More than Dick I often think of spirit
And the fact that Ive been broken
Through systems that keep me blind to my own self-actualization
Prevent me from seeing that I am Two-Spirit

Still silent
Not speaking about spirituality
And that fact that we need
A sacred space
To share Intersectionality
We need espacios
In which the focus is not getting laid
But empowering our spirits
Arming ourselves
With the truth
that we all must heal
Move pass this fake notion that we are liberated individuals
And finally state
That we are caged creatures

Como sacred ceremonias

Mi cuerpo es elemento
Something powerful
Algo that goes beyond the flesh
And is manifested through these poems
I am not Gay
Yo soy voz del ms all
Bendicin de Ometeolt
Las dos energas
Something that cannot be described through a simple three- Letter word
Like GAY
My sexuality does not define me
It is a simple intersection of my being
Because more then body, I am a complex identity
I am of energas flowing like rivers
Movements of our people pimping a system
Yo soy piel de tambores creando ritmos de corazones
10

Stories of Queer Diaspora

11

guava

I wrap my pain in ankara and cowrie shells

they want to know when Im getting married, they worry I have no
children
I want to hear stories about family that I forgot I knew
like guava
immigration to america has you
forgetting who you are/then remembering
then never feeling good enough
home

Yvonne Fly Onakeme Etaghene

for most of my life I had no idea what a guava was

until one manhattan morning a couple years ago I tasted it
knew that gritty, sweet, grainy flavor but not the name
the taste catapulted me back to my childhood in Nigeria
Lagos streets saturated with masquerade costumes scary enough
to make
my feet race for cover faster than thudding heart thunder beats
palm leaf skin palm oil blood
red soil sizzling to a slow boil
home
that Ive spent so many years away from,
my Ijaw-Urhobo soul feels translated into english/shoved onto
highlife turntables
expected to spin/instead just excessively literate in everything
but whats indigenous to my skin.
the afrobeat hip hop on the vinyl of me djs the remix that is my
home
where the sound of my own voice grates like a strangers in my ears
oyibo returning home, abi?
sweet bitter syrup-thick malt
aricocoa-spiced ogbono soup
never feeling Nigerian enough
sugarcane-lined dusty roads
agege bread soft as freshly picked afro
traffic gridlocked on the go slow
its the go slow cuz you go slow on it
a symphony of shouts and curses is my afrobeat Naija lullaby
home
after 10 black ice-coated syracuse winters,
4 corn field-frozen oberlin winters,
4 brick new york city winters
I
swan
flew
tiptoed
home
relative after relative came by to visit, I disappoint
them
they want computers, ipods, dollars
I want hugs, to dance, eat egusi soup, eba.
12

ran

Stories of Queer Diaspora

13

Intersections

To dress
And look
And act
Like I want sex in one way,
That my name is Terisa,
That I am a womyn because I apparently look like one
Because I need a definition not for my safety,
But for everyone elses

Terisa Tinei Siagatonu

On Monday,
I felt like wearing make up and curling my hair and letting people
get away with calling me beautiful
By Tuesday,
I stayed cupcaking with the boy from out of town
While boycotting the make up of my feminine appeal
It be like that sometimes
On Thursday,
I really wanted to have sex with her again,
Touch her where we both left off to get her off
Taste her down there
Like Ill never know the sweet skin
Inside a mango
Ever again
But a booty call she is not,
Anymore
And at the end of last week,
I pulled out
and it was over.
I cleaned up after myself
like I know how.
Ive known this body well enough to know
What brings the boys to the yard,
And keeps them there
And what brings the girls to my bed
And keeps them there
With their full consent
In my experience,
The perils of my sexuality
Make a loud
Crashing
When found piled up
Onto the expectations
Of me to be
Womyn,
Straight,
14

Sound

to be

In my experience,
Men only like women
Who like women
If they can stay here and watch,
Women only like women
Who like women
When theyre the stars of Greys Anatomy
But let my experience in the bedroom
Threaten their masculinity,
Threaten their Thursday night line up
And its a knife fight in the back alley
Treat me like a rabid dog
Who has taken their meat
When you threaten a mans ability to eat,
When you look like a bitch with a collar that doesnt fit you,
They will look at you like game
And you better know how to bite back.
...And I do.
And she likes it
Leave lovebites on the nape of her neck
Around the supple of her breasts
On the tender between her thighs
Leading back to the mango tree for dinner
Fit for 2 queens
In a bed named after us
But a throne for a king it can become
If he said so
The love of my life
Is someone whose body
Has all the same parts as mine.
How their skin spills into me like a secret
How our lips taste of sweet and our other lips taste of safety
How this bed can transform into a chemistry set so quickly
Experiment until the formula is perfect, letting the bedsheets
chemically combust
The love of my life identifies as a two-spirit
Transgendered man
Female to male
He taught me
That it is possible
Stories of Queer Diaspora

15

To love a traffic jam

Into open road
That if I wanted to wear the strap-on tonight
When we made love,
Then I could
Our sex is revolutionary
Because we have everything to lose
On purpose
Nothing is off limits
If we can help it
That we are fighting for our lives
When we fuck the gender roles
Right out of each other
Lose our clothes.
Loss of breath.
No more fear.
You cannot see us as sexy, but then think our sex is disgusting
You cannot call me sister while you cut me off the family tree
You cant respect me, but not accept me
This isnt even about you.
This is about the car crash
At the intersection
Of where the expectations
Of me to be
Womyn
to be
Straight,
To dress
And look
And act
Like I want sex in one way,
Like i want you to respect me in one dimension
How my name is Terisa,
And I am a womyn when I feel like being one
Because I need a definition not for your safety,
But for my own

Jean Melesaine
Paint + Photograph ^
Photograph >

Because on nights like these

Where all the streetlights stop working
And the traffic at this intersection
Has come
to a screeching
Halt,
No one can really say
That they have the right answer.
Because no one knows this city
Inside of me
Better
Than I do.
16

Stories of Queer Diaspora

17

unraveling
Hark Sun

sometimes the battle starts before i have even finished putting

on my eyeliner
it lives in that in-between moment before i switch from my left
to right eye
my body maps feel tired and heavy today
the gazes wrap my around my neck and lungs like a too-tight
ribbon
the violence of this invisibility tastes like tar
i get lost in this sticky
cat calls
men licking their lips
masculinities looking me up and down
i escape my body walking down the street in order to get home
OK
and somedays I can hold my head UP
and act like I dont mind
when you attempt to consume my wholeness and spit it out into
bits o glass in a matter of seconds
but to be real
fierceness is a performance that im not always up for
and this isnt just happening on the outside
we are writing invisibility on one anothers bodies and spirits in
the club, on the street in passing, in dialogue
and it makes me wonder what you really mean by femme solidarity
cuz most of the time it still looks like the same old bullshit
you talk over me while i daydream in my head about all the ways
that i want to unravel you
it is not always violent sometimes it is a silentscream this is new
to me
i can thirdspacespeak all i want
i am going to practice unfolding trumpets
until lily pok hee park hears it
until jennie hark sun lee hears it
im growing my soul for the matriarchs who came before me
femme is enuf
18

Stories of Queer Diaspora

19

What Its Like to be

Sri Lankan in 2012
Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

Its an empty, broken heart hoping that the tears/the rivers/

the ocean/all this wet
will fertilize the seeds
hidden/deep/in darkness
still to be born
Its all your aunties wanting to talk about something else
Its still being alive.

Its being dead.

Its still being alive.
Its No Frills finally has Dilmah brand tea
Its buying four packages to take home in your carry-on
because you live in the Bay Area now
Its little Jaffnas everywhere but Jaffna
Its silence
Its enormous fights on the internet on every page that purports
to be about Sri Lanka from a multicultural perspective
Its being on a raft that takes you from a hole in the fence of the
refugee camp to Malaysia to Christmas Island, Australia to
immigration jail
to Fruitvale
because someone on the raft Googlemapped it
and it looked pretty
Its weve known forever
how to keep small boats in big water
Its fake buddhist temples constructed by the government in Jaffna
Its going home and seeing bullet holes in your grandmothers
empty house
Its lighting 23 candles in her window
one for every one whos died
since you and everyone
have not been able to return
Its going home to Jaffna if youre young, Tamil and male and not
automatically being snatched by either army
Its creepy child molesting uncle
Its drunkass uncle at the wedding singling baila with sexually
inappropriate lyrics
Its bravery
20

Stories of Queer Diaspora

21

espejo

pero
reflections
pueden cambiar
melting merging into
new skin

Kristina Jackson

adelante
i move
grow
skin becomes
sacred shelter
voice becomes
vibrant
rising vibrations of
visionary dreams
propel me
adelante

a look into
my espejo
shattered slivers
of self showcase
subjugation

este es mi camino
thru espejo
sometimes i glide thru
swimming in sunshine
sometimes
path is scary
uncertain if i can
face my espejo
without diverting eyes
from themselves

years
of searchin
for sweet talkin
words wrapped in
hazel skin
to tell me im worth somethin
wantin to feel
good enuf

pero i remind
myself that
slivers
can be gathered up
put back
together

aos of hair relaxers

piles of makeup
to hide my face
to downplay my
indigenous eyes
my african nose

whole
again

afraid
to look into espejo
and see
doubt
staring back

este es mi camino.

deep uncertainty
about my ability
my intelligence
my strength
22

Stories of Queer Diaspora

23

Naam

If her first miscarriage changed her complexion

If she questioned whether she married the right man
Does she see her home disappearing when she looks out the window?

Amman Desai

I. Bombay
Amman was born before I was
My father dad had heard the word
and kept it close
I can imagine it now
Dad lanky, bearded, a fistful of chest hair
all sideburns and starched bell bottoms
and the voice of Lata Mangeshkar
swimming through crackling stereo
perhaps shrill in Bollywood technicolor
an audience transfixed in mimetic awe
and dad, neatly pocketing the Sanskrit for his unborn son
II. Fortworth
I was carried in the loose folds of my mothers sari
tightly tucked in as she watched
her family,
her life,
her home,
disappear into tiny specks in the corner of the window
After the forks, spoons, thhali, and vatki were set
The queen bed covered in sandalwood scented chaadar
All the spices
turmeric, rai, jiru, cinnamon sticks, bay leaf, hing
settled in cabinets
(a tin of saffron resting for special occasions in the freezer)
What was left to say?
Did my father feel responsible for this countrys emptiness?
III. Huhve
I wonder if she wept on the plane
or pursed her lips,
the way she does when shes holding her tongue
if she felt foreign,
nervously as she played with her coconut-scented chotli
If the smell of rai and jiru sputtering in hot oil softened her
shoulders
If perfecting the roundness of her roti tired her forearms
If she clicked her tongue in disapproval about the ways goros
spoke about sex
24

IV. Thyah
I am six
I am losing my sense of touch
The streetlight is my spotlight, the lawn my stage
The voice of Lata Mangeshkar swimming through crackling stereo
And I am channeling my inner Madhuri
The crabgrass is hiding my intricate foot work
This sari is doing an adequate job of disguising my genitals
If the goro neighbors squint they might mistake me for a girl
My father watches from the window
My feet are kicking up awareness
A smattering of claps
I smile sheepishly and bow
My chest feels uncomfortable
Nervously, as I play with my coconut-scented chotli
V. Ghare
There is a building near my fathers mothers flat in Parle
The Glucose Biscuit factory
the most ubiquitous of accompaniments for hot chai
Packaging of faded yellow,
a fair child hands askew, eyes lined in kohl
reminds me of the sweet scent that perfumes Parle
and its sister, Dadar
20 minutes by train, 45 by rickshaw
tucked in Hindu colony, my mothers mother,
nanima in the kitchen
and the sunlight that peers sheepishly through moist air
pools gently on cracked hands
purses her lips while rolling round roti
softens her shoulders with the scent of jiru and rai popping
in hot oil
A bed where her husband used to sleep
The gadlas that her four children once laid out neatly every night
Now the hallway is filled by whispers from tattered Amreekahn photos
echoes from phone-calls when her grandchildren make small
talk
Gujarati with slurred uhngrejee accents
The ground unsteadied by her roots spreading too far, too thin

Stories of Queer Diaspora

25

Matters of Fact
Noor Al-Samarrai

Instructions upon receiving

these stories
are the type
that can get told
only outside
of the family circles:
Last night, I got on my bicycle and rode
West
dark
Berkeley streets,
singing
the streets sang too
my voice echoed like
the color of new trumpets in a forest
at
City Hall
Police Station
Traffic and Safety Division
empty pool hall caught it,
and gymnasium
they were hungry for noise
at four a.m.
air was ice and my throat cracked
Che Guevara, too, was an asthmatic.

Mama this is my plan:

Tomorrow I plan to scope out street corners
for busking. Lessons on getting over shyness
pattern of pushing hair behind ears with wrists
palmed perfectly perpendicular to nose. Or walk
around my city and its bordering municipalities all
night long. Read in bed all day without bothering to
change out of my pajamas or even make any tea just
because I can. Take a train to Portland, Oregon count
tulips or bicycles. Learn to play the piano by practicing
at one a.m. each night. Sleep at six when the light is pale
blue and wavering.
What can I say?
Nothing loud enough.
It is not that
my voice is stuck
it is that
I cant speak
it is not that
your voice is stuck in my head
it is that
your voice is mine
in fragmentary
splinters of tarsus
in my mouth.

The boys are allowed to sell the spare shirts off their backs.
I have all the colors but pink.
When will red be back in style?
I buried my nose in some once, not mine.
Before class, telling Michael Pollan that he stoops like Clark Kent.
This proves I have seen Superman.
My mother loved Christopher Reeve like a lost brotherthey were
born in the same year, but now hell be younger than her forever.
I remember watching Superman the summer I turned six,
bright green kryptonite
and my dream of staying up all night,
until I saw the red tinges of sun pink the sky.
26

Stories of Queer Diaspora

27

I love you
Jan Bustamante

I love you.
You said it for the first time, though it was somewhat hesitant.
It took a while but I knew for sure you and I both meant it.
We are young to society but our minds have
reached an age far past any of those ignorant bastards in
Hollywood.
I love you.
I say it again and again, with each time, my love, it grew.
I pour my heart and soul into those supposedly cheesy lines.
I cry as I accept your embrace,
the embrace of someone who loves me for who I am.
I love you.
Friends say sternly, Its just a phase.
Friends tell me to leave and find someone better.
Friends yell at me, saying I should focus on more important
things,
ignoring how I feel about you.

I love you.
I cant believe it,
it was never true.
You stuck with this to keep me happy!?
Thats called a pity relationship!
My friends kept telling me it was a lie,
but I loved you enough to keep it going.
My family was right all along.
I should have stuck to my religion and fallen in love with a woman.
Even though you could never mean those three sacred words,
I truly did, and its something
Ill always keep because Ill always remember it.
I love you.
My love,
Carlos
I know for sure, that in that one moment, you and I meant it.
You know how I know?
Because we went against all others to prove it was real,
and no one would do that if it was fake.
Because even with all
the disappointed looks, the unaccepting society we live in, and all
those hateful people,
we both at the end of the day could say those words happily.
Because from the first kiss, to the last hug,
I could feel your soul, your heart, your being
tell me, Im here for you, I love you.
Goodnight my dear sweet Carlos,
I love you.

I love you.
Family casually says it isnt love.
Family angrily tell me their hateful arguments are love.
Family denies the fact that we are
happier together than they are.
I love you.
Religion tells me it will get better by being good.
Religion hatefully tells me that our relationship is an abomination.
Religion would be disappointed,
finding out what Ive done to please you.

28

Stories of Queer Diaspora

29

For Those of you who Arent

Brown Trannies, but Wanna
Know what its Like
Askari Gonzalez

tools you can find just to have enough motivation to Believe In

A New Day.
Being a brown tranny aint no walk in Dolores Park. Each step we
take is a bullet dodged. Each time we fuck its a RepublicansHell-Come-To-Life.
Each time we take a moment to breathe on the streets, in the
grocery store, on public transportation, we are victorious.

It aint safe.
Its having to shave against the grain every day to blend in to the
crowd of guns waiting to shoot you down in the front of a restaurant,
(Rest in Power, Brandi), and then its wondering if youll be
arrested and jailed for defending yourself against a white
Neo-Nazi attacker (the War Wages on, CeCe).
Its having to summon the courage to explain to a potential date
that you still have a dick and prefer to wear plum lipstick with
your summer romper and $10 Hot Topic tights, and once intimacy
develops its not knowing if the person truly loves you, or simply
wants to cross out a fetish on their sex checklist.
Its having to feel the pain of each HE/HIM/HIS pronoun in
conversations that happen daily without anyone correcting it.
Its having the burden of mens clothing in your backpack to
change into before you visit your family for dinner.
Its sometimes falling into the arms of a Romantic Monster because
the mirror doesnt give you enough validation, warmth, or love.
Its having to climb into 40+ year-old white mens caves, closing
your eyes, and hoping they cum faster than the time it takes to
recite the Pledge of Allegiance.
Its being ridiculed, beaten, and constantly blasted with the shade of
a strangers stare without the voice to stop the violence because
Marriage Equality is somehow more imperative.
Its stealing make-up from CVS to curb your dysphoria cuz you cant
afford hormones. Its stealing food cuz you wouldnt be able to
pay for the bus ride home. Its creating happiness from whatever
30

Stories of Queer Diaspora

31

Para Las Mujeres De Aztln

y Las Jot@s de San Pancho, Califas
Erika Vivianna Cspedes
Linocut

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