On Tuesday.

On Tuesday within an hour of reading a powerful and articulate poem written by my heartsib E, I read a status by my dear friend Robert on his Facebook where he said he was

going out to do more work on his flower beds. Hopefully no hillbillies scream out "faggot" today.

I will post E's poem at the end of this blog and separately as well. She spoke of being forced to write in English with her left hand when her spirit was left handed and Spanish. She introduces the poem when stating

I used to think

in something other than English.

Both authors are being labeled as other just for being their own beautiful selves. I try to imagine what it must be like to be informed on a deep and primal level every day that who I am in my essence is wrong and my heart is scraped raw for my friends. I am deeply angry with anything that negates who someone is based on a random criteria decided upon by a group of people who think they are justified in where they draw those rigid lines.

I can't even really express it I am so angry. And I'm just so sorry for my friends and for anyone who suffers this type of behavior.



Here is E's poem:

Right English

I used to think

in something other than English.
I used to write
with a hand other than my right.

But teachers at mi escuela my school
taught me the correct way
to think
sólo en ingles
sólo Eenglush
only in English
as they made me sit on my left hand
and put a fat pencil in my other one,
calmly refusing to believe
that the thick drunken
letters staggering across the
lines could be
better done if they’d only release
my captive hand
my captive mind.

Eventually I learned
to think and write The Language
crisply, with a surgeon’s precision.

Occasionally though,
I stare at my neglected left hand and
sometimes,
once in awhile,
I dream in Spanish
talking con mi abuelita.

Estoy comiendo arroz y frijoles.

Yo sueño con algun dia, hablar en mi primer lengua.