Puzzle Pieces (Still a Work in Progress)

The first poem I've written in years.

Trigger warning: some thoughts of death

Today is a good day to live
Today is a good day to breathe, to love, to remember.
To love + remember the fact that I’m still breathing.
With the pieces of my body
My history
Scattered around me
Like a baby surrounded by puzzle pieces
I don’t even know where to begin.

With my birth? My first word?
Or the hugs + kisses + books that got me here
And I’ll ride the wings
Of sparrows and bluejays to the dreams of my future
Our futures—grrl, the ones we’ve created and dreamed of in this nest
Are worlds where these pieces don’t fit
But neatly form something entirely our own, a home—
And I think it’s in that tree right there.

Or maybe I can throw all these pieces across these rooms
Dancing with joy for just a minute
Crying at this destruction
Knowing each piece of me is smothered in love and pain and heartbreak and hope
And I’m ready to move on; but find these pieces of my history on a rainy day
And they’ll each tell me their stories over and over again, these bits of evidence
Keep roping me in, and carry me to bed telling me
“I’ve been here before.”

whispering my struggle
to name
to honor
to embrace
to love
to let go and break the shame, like a lover telling me
“I love you when you’re hard-of-hearing and when you’re deaf.
when you’re here, all of you.”

And sometimes, just sometimes,
I want to disappear into the horizon
Into those gorgeous sunsets
At the coast
At the river
Smack dab in the middle of these cities because I don’t think I can make it this time.
Because I think I’m weak
Too imperfect that I’m not worth lovingly learning
The ropes of survival

Those times remind me; if today is a good day to live
Then today might be a good day to die
Because in those moments I don’t know which way is closer to home;
To these places that are still unknown and I’m so tired of feeling alone.

So here’s a kiss to survival,
To these bones
To the pieces of this puzzle where with which I’m still making a home for myself.
Here’s a kiss to ease the pain,
Here’s a kiss to my body;
These pieces I’m still figuring out,
These worlds I’m building,
The bruises from stranger’s words that feel like surgeon’s knives that have not yet come;
And while that’s not okay,
I’m learning that no place is completely safe.

I leave a kiss for when I wake in the morning,
As my body + history will never be completely stolen.
Maybe some bits are lost in unwritten diaries and
A photo book filled with pictures never taken
I’ll find them and put together
Piece by piece,
A home.

Embracing Change, Embracing Healing.

Ever since the new year came in, I’ve been thinking about a lot of changes. In about a week, I will be moving to West Oakland, and the San Fransisco Bay Area for five months to participate in the Anne Braden Anti-Racist Organizing Program that has been put together and led by the Catalyst Project, leaving the Southeast US where I have grown up and spent so many years (and to which I will be returning).

I will also not be in school during these months, making it the longest time I’ve spent not in school, which excites me, and scares me. Because that means I should get a job; the class privilege I have stares me in the eyes, knowing that if I don’t find or get a job that I’ll still be fine with parental support—as I’ll spend most of my time supporting radical activist work going on in San Francisco, Oakland and the rest of the Bay Area. But that will be good; I feel like I will become more mature, more grounded, and that I will change in ways that I can’t even foresee.

I’ve also been thinking about how I experience my gender and being genderqueer—I’ve let my parents know what’s up, which, thankfully, went over pretty well. My best friend got me my first dress and another close friend made me a wonderful pair of earrings, and I’ve had a really really supportive community of chosen family and friends; and that’s made this whole process be amazing, where I can present as I choose. Through this process, I’ve been finding a pride and self-care within me that is growing; knowing when to take care of myself, when to fight, when to just embrace and sit with things, and when to celebrate and be excited about the idea of changing identities.

But that pride and self-care can be so easily taken away. A little bit over a month ago, I was having a discussion with my parents that turned into a yelling match. After opening myself up and telling my parents that I had felt that I felt like we got cochlear implants because it was the only way to be a part of the family and that even still, I’m not a hearing person; my parents became defensive. My dad then told me that, I was, in fact, a hearing person. After telling them a story in which I felt that they had recognized my choosing to be deaf as “isolating myself from them” rather than choosing to be whole; my mom said that I had, in fact misheard her words (which I had not) and therefore was not credible.

At that moment, I felt overwhelmed; my body felt weak. After opening up so much I felt like I was wounded. As I started to yell and cry, I realized I was being triggered and had to leave, bawling, while my parents and my big brother gave me a look as if nothing had happened. Later I was sitting in my room; at that point it hit me; that I was dealing with the pain and the trauma of the contradiction of the demand to view myself as hearing, but could be dismissed and invalid due to the fact that I am not a hearing person by the same people that make that demand. That I held so much pain; that no matter which way I identified I felt wrong; that I was so alone. The very fact that the truth of my body was either something to be ignored or used against me felt like the idea of being whole not even an option to be created, built or recognized.

As a dear friend, Mia Mingus recently wrote: “oh, the intimate cruelty of ableism: robbing us from ourselves and our hearts. libratory access work is not just about access, it's heart work.” Reading this over and over again, I was reminded that part of liberation work for me is about healing, and not just healing relationships and connections that are fraught with ableism. It is about healing myself, healing the wounds I haven taken in, that have internalized, the violence I’ve done to myself. And not erase the memories and the words that have hurt; but know that they are a part of me, and letting these memories and words heal.

And it feels really hard to name it. I can tell my friends and chosen family that I was triggered and how it felt. I can’t imagine telling my parents that I was triggered, the pain I hold inside, the anger I feel, how I feel tired of explaining what’s fucked up, how I really don’t want to have this conversation with them, and how maybe we can’t have conversations around disability and ableism right now, just because that feels too wrought with pain for me right now. If I was to say what I meant by a trigger; I feel like all that I just mentioned would all come out. And that leaves me too open.

And I know this doesn’t really seem to connect with the idea of change, and future changes, other than things being able to change rapidly, for better or for worse. I hope to on use these next five months to change in a way that helps me heal; that embraces the pain I’ve felt, the insecurities ideal with; and uses them to build power and cultures of self-care and love. I will try to come back to the places of friends, chosen family, and blood family with more self-care, love, pride, and maybe a few more tools for healing, for liberation, for wholeness.