The Gran Varones is a legacy project that uses video and photography to tell the stories of Latino & Afro-Latino Gay, Queer and Trans men. Our stories shine light on what being “out” and “proud” means to us, our families, and our communities.
resurrections are real.
to all of the varones who once lied on hospital beds with a sinking t-cell count counting the minutes until you could hold down down your food.
to all of the varones who avoided looking into mirrors because the sunken face reflection did not reflect the beauty you behold.
to all of the varones who pieced themselves back together piece by piece after the violence of stigma left them broken and beat. to all the varones who survive life by surviving one night at a muthafuggin’ time.
we salute you.
we praise you.
because even AIDS, stigma, homophobia, racism, white supremacy, and oppression can’t keep us from rising. and when we become ancestors, we will continue rise in the voices of those who speak our names without shame.
so keep rising varones because resurrections are real.
The floors have been painted,
But it was not by choice
This room was not in need of renovation
This room was filled with innovation
Masterpiece after masterpiece
What an exhibition of artistry
Yet hate brought his concept of interior design
And with it he painted the dance floor red
With his bullets
He destroyed priceless works of arts
Oh beautiful earthen vessels shattered in pieces
Hidden treasures
The world had yet to behold you
In all your splendor
Rumbling in the distance
Are the sounds of the steps of many
Which took the road less traveled
So that we could enjoy our liberty.
WE are not sick nor diseased
WE are strength, WE are bold
Damn it, WE own everything
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.
them, whom i love: but the news
said… me: listen to your eyes. them, whom i love: but the law
says… me: listen to your eyes. them, whom i love: but not all… me: listen to your eyes.
or at the very least, listen to
the shackles of your chains. listen to the ache and weight of
worry you carry every day. listen to your mind, when it
says, if i “talk” white, i
will be alright. my love, listen to your eyes
