maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if that means having to read 
every op-ed posted on facebook
written by mostly grad school educated folks
who use words that i have to google,
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means that my real life experiences
will be reduced to particles
if my responses to said articles
do not meet the king’s english
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means having to explain,
demonstrate and prove the pain
of hiv positive latino gay men
who are still forced again and again
to live in secrecy,
while processing that shame in secrecy,
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means that i have to burn sage over lighting blunts,
or sipping wine instead of long island iced teas to heal,
to chill or to fill a space in me
that continues to be peeled away by ridicule,
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means that i can’t sing along
at the top of my fuckin’ lungs
as i hit the quan
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means that i have to disregard
and pick apart varones 
who are not always equipped
or have the words to articulate
their contribution to the revolution
because breathing and surviving 
oppressive institutions
isn’t impressive for some of us,
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means that i have to recite quotes 
and passages from books
celebrated and hailed by the “movement”
over my ability to quote and spit lyrics
from my fave mariah and nicki song,
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means having to choose
my politics over sucking dick
and having to present as masculine
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means using “movement” terms
only to prove that i have learned
that words matter only when popping off
or creating a spectacle
but NOT being impeccable with my word.
then yes, maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means just speaking about social justice action
but never following it up with action
beyond the traction of my finger tips on keyboards
to eloquently write out my thesis for freedom
that my mother cannot read,
then yes, maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means that my ego 
is the only fragile thing that matters
over safer spaces used as bait to shatter
the teeth of those who are tricked into the belief
that a college degree
will add weight to the very necessary things 
that should be spoken,
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means only feeling comfortable sitting on panels
because i can’t handle sitting on porches and stoops
because of how i speak the “truth” 
stopped being accessible
to folks i “speak” for but not speak to,
then nah, maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means that i have to police the grammar
of the same people i fight for and write for
just so academics can celebrate my work –
then nah, maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means celebrating those 
who have chosen to get arrested
while shaming those of us who live 
in arrested development
because of the complexities of our trauma 
isn’t as beautiful and dutiful 
as a five-noun political identity
then, maybe, i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means having to choose between
raising my fists over raising my kids,
because loving son my with all i have
isn’t a trending hashtag,
then no, maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means overthinking
until i am on the brink of losing connections
from the people who provide me oxygen,
then nah, maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means that being a leader
requires me to be a constant bleeder
teetering on the edge of insanity to prove
to the next “woke as fuck” muthafucker
that i myself am woke,
then nah, maybe i am not woke as fuck.

“Caminando, mirando una estrella.Walking, looking at a star
Caminando, oyendo una voz. Walking, listening to a voice
Caminando, siguiendo la huella, Walking, following a footstep
Caminando, que otro camino. Walking the path]that someone else walked
Caminando, buscando a la vida. Walking, searching for life
Caminando, buscando al amor. Walking, looking for love
Caminando, curando la herida, Walking, healing the wound
Caminando, que deja el dolor! Walking, to leave the pain behind”
                                                                                            - Rubén Blades

I still get nervous walking down streets alone. Or when I walk into a barbershop. Or while I am just fucking walking and minding my business. There is a part of me that still telling me to hold my breath and brace my spirit for the sound of the word “faggot.” Sometimes, it doesn’t even have to be spoken. People can say it with their eyes. This is why I still hold my breath whenever I am walking.

I saw you and your friends as we crossed the street. My friends and I were coming from the opening rally of the Philly Trans* March. We were feeling inspired. We were also feeling angry that yet another black trans* woman had been murdered, this time in our city. We were walking with that weighing heavy on our minds and hearts.

You and your 4 friends glanced at us; all of you, black and brown, reminding me of my 13 year old son. I could see the curiosity in your eyes. I could see the smirk creeping across your face as you noticed that one of us had on skinny jeans and two of us were holding hands. I could feel the jokes formulating in your minds, sense the giggles about to burst from your lips. I saw it and I looked away hoping you would make a different decision.

As my friends and I chatted about the best way to meet up with the Trans* March, one of you shouted “Ewww you’re gay!” I am not sure whose lips spewed those words but I know exactly where the hell they landed. My first instinct was to go off but instead, I said aloud “Black and Brown lives matter. Right now, even in this moment.”

As we continued walking, we heard a voice shout “Which one of you is the guy?” Implying that one of us was less than a man because of who you assumed we were. We heard you laugh that laugh that communicated “Ha! Faggot!”  

We kept walking. We nervously laughed it off. I was burning on the inside. I was trying to manage my anger. I was doing a great a job too – until you approached us, from behind, on your bikes. I was blind with rage and I let ya’ll know, loud and clear:

“I dare y’all to say that shit to my face. I will smack your ass off of that damn bike. I dare you!”

Y’all looked taken aback, as if you were taught that harassing men like us was okay, maybe even the “normal” thing to do. But clearly you missed the lesson on our refusal to stay silent.

You surrounded us on your bikes. I was too enraged to even notice that we stumbled into a wedding party of white folks posing for photos. I approached y’all and shouted “Why would you wanna make someone feel bad on purpose? Why would you want to do that?”

You stood silent as if you were just now realizing that your words actually had power—the power to make grown-ups feels like shit. All of your faces reminded me of my son. All of your faces reminded me I was a father. The space fell silent. I stood still, quietly re-evaluating my approach. I knew then that a bridge was going to be built, however painful, and this bridge was going to get us BOTH across what felt like an endless divide.

“Keep it down. Can’t you see they are trying to take wedding photos? And why are you trying to make them [the teens] feel bad?”

You and your friends heard this uninformed, self-entitled scolding dished out from a passerby as a permission slip. You felt, as the silence broke, suddenly empowered to call us faggots as you got back on your bikes and road away. The white woman kept shouting as she walked away, cheering you and your friends on.

You may not have noticed that an entire wedding party of white people was not only laughing at ALL OF US but also filming and snapchatting the scene as we stood there, utterly horrified and dehumanized. It was clear that the white woman who cheered you on would have rather seen us called faggots than see black and brown people try to heal and build community. You may not have noticed that the entire wedding party of white people literally laugh at our expense – at the expense of a group of black and brown folks. These are the very same white folks who, any other day, would have clutched their purses and phones if y’all had approached them on the street.

I walked away returning to the march feeling a tremendous loss, of not only my temper and composure, but a loss of a piece of my humanity.  Truly, a loss of connection, both as an elder and father.

My screaming and shouting will never be the motivation you and your friends need to make a different decision.  My shouting will only teach you all not to get caught teasing people. That was not the lesson I wanted to share that day. I wanted to say “You hurt me. You embarrassed me. Your words hold all the weight in the world because you are the world.” I wanted to remind you that all those who were laughing at us will laugh at you soon. That really, we are not so different, and that we are united in a greater struggle. That this petty hatred will tear us apart. That it is in these very moments, when toxic messages of socialized hate show up within our own “families”, we must remember love.

I wanted to take back every word. I wanted to replace every “I would smack the hell out of you” to “I will love you harder because that is what we MUST all do.” I wanted to tell you that my heart was broken and you had the power and opportunity to provide healing. But white supremacy and homophobia prevented that.

I want you to know that you and I tried. I know you did because y’all stopped riding your bikes and gave me the floor to speak. I wish our few moments together were different.  But we don’t always get second chances. We don’t get to undo trauma. We simply get to process and move on – if we are lucky.

Yesterday, as my son and I walked around in the super market, I told him this story. His immediate response was “I wish I were there because…” I stopped him and said “Baby, you were. Those kids were young teens, just like you. They were beautiful just like you. They were all coming into an understanding of their power just like you.” He looked puzzled for a few moments and then said, “Maybe no one told them that teasing people is wrong. Maybe they forgot that ALL black lives matter, even you and your friends.”  Then, he took my hand in his, and we walked.

I honestly feel complicated about trans day of visibility….because not all of us are able to be out. not all of us look “trans” by mainstream media’s standards. because visibility alone won’t save us.

but we are here. we always have been here and we always will be here, despite state violence and the violence we enact on each other from working out our own traumas.

so i stand here. for black, latin@ and mixed trans masculine folks who don’t see themselves reflected in others. for trans folks who pass as cis to be safe even though their gender is much bigger than the binary and become invisible inside their own communities. for femme boys who get constantly asked “why didn’t you just stay a woman?” for queer boys whose father’s say they are ok with dykes for daughters but not fags for sons.

i see you. i feel you. i am you. ‪#‎TDOV‬

I write this to all varones involved in and impacted by the two violent fights that took place in Philly’sGayborhood on March 11^th and March 12^th.

I wanted to address this issue because I understand that our silence means more violence. We may not hang out or even be friends on Facebook but our mere existence, the community we are inherently a part of, is what connects us. We have all walked the streets of North Philly either ready to fight or purposely falling deaf whenever we heard the word faggot. We have all had to become harder to protect our hearts, our mental health, our humanity and ourselves. This is what binds us. This is what now threatens to tear us a part.

It would be dishonest for me to say that I was anything less than horrified by the details of the violence that occurred. I would be lying if I said that I did not immediately and involuntarily choose a side by making someone right and someone wrong, a coping mechanism to explain the continued cycle of violence. But then I remember what my aunt Janet once told me, “People find power in the strangest places.” Her words echo through me, making sense of something senseless. On last Wednesday and Thursday night, a few found power in creating physical pain and watching rivers of blood flow.  

Choosing sides does a disservice to the process of revealing the truth behind heartbreaking events like this. I am committed to not choosing sides because I know it is a set up. We, Latino gay/queer* men are set up to hate those who look and sound like us. We are socialized to be angry all of the time.  I get it, survival of the fittest. You can cry, but fists must fly either before or after the massacre. I get it. We are sending a message.

No one will ever make us feel dumb again. No one will ever make us look stupid and if they do, then they must pay for every time someone made you feel less than human. I know, I have been there and even now I sometimes just want to rage and set the world ablaze when someone attempts to make it even more difficult to be a Latino gay man. But I don’t and Lord knows it requires so much faith in the beauty of the world that prevents me from starting that fire.

I wish we had as much courage to fight oppression, as we have to fight each other. I wish we knew that the presence of another gran varones’ magic is not the absence of our own. I wish we could remember that the pain of feeling ugly, dumb, fat and invisible is not an isolated feeling. I wish we knew that we are all fighting our own battles daily. I wish we knew that we are all enough and beautiful as we are.

I hope these recent or any violent event does not make you even harder. I hope that this does not dim any of the light that you provide the universe. It is our duty to stand with, by and for each other. Violence and anger will not sustain us. It cannot. It will not protect us from all that is working against us.

With this letter I am asking you to summon the courage to love yourself and each other harder. We must occupy this void. We must be willing to build a castle TOGETHER with all the bricks that society alone throws at us. Our survival requires no less. Until we recognize the beauty and wonder in each other as gran varones, we will always struggle with finding it in ourselves.

In love, community and solidarity,

Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca