In Lak'ech Ala K'in | I am Another You. You are Another Me

I'm spending the morning in high school. Everything is much smaller than I remember ... except me.

La Clase

My friend Jackie Madrigal pioneered a US Latino Literature class at Shawnee Mission North High School in Mission, Kansas. She invited Chato Villalobos and myself to be guest speakers to help put some faces to Latino literature and to talk about the Latino Writers Collective and our writing processes. Both Chato and I are honored to be asked. Her curriculum is thoughtful and hits all the major notes in the rather large genre.

As this day grew closer, my social anxiety started to wrap itself around me. In fact, last night I spent some time thinking about how I could get out of this gig. Chato could do the presentation himself. He's a police officer and therefore automatically much more interesting, right? Besides I have to work that afternoon and there's a chance I could be late. My tummy still kinda hurts from when I was sick last week. Also my car is pretty old and I don't like to drive it more than necessary ...

Undocupoets: End Contest Discrimination!

Poets Launch Petition to End Citizenship & Residency Requirements in Contests

Roque Dalton García

"Too often, the submission guidelines read “Proof of US Citizenship” or “Legal Residents Only.” This small, but powerful, statement serves to exclude 11.7 million undocumented people (according to the Pew Research Center Hispanic Trends Project in 2013) from participating in a multitude of poetry opportunities—from first book contests to applying for major grants."

I work with amazing poets who happen to be migrant farmworker youth and I'm proud to have signed this petition. Chances are that some of the youth are undocumented. I don't ask. If they want me to know, they'll tell me either in person or or in their writing.

They are part of the reason I write to share our stories, our lives. My hope is that they will embrace their natural storytelling skills and become writers or at least be more confident in their ability. I know it's only a matter of time until one of them, one of them takes the brave step to submit work for publication.

That's why I signed the petition.

According to the organizers, some journals say they must support citizenship/residency requirements because they receive federal funds. Yes, that's true. However, having worked at nonprofits, I can tell you there are times when federal residency requirements are not and cannot be collected (street outreach, public lectures, workshops/panels, etc.). Even if it were possible to collect the information, nonprofits don't have the resources to investigate and confirm residency or citizenship claims.

Since it's unlikely that states and the federal government will eliminate such residency regulations in funding, there's a way around it -- DON'T USE STATE OR FEDERAL FUNDS FOR THESE CONTESTS.

I get it, offering a prize like publication of book is a really big deal and it can cost thousands of dollars. If an organization relies on one funding source for such an endeavor and that one source is the state or federal government, it's only a matter of time before said funding is restricted or eliminated. Clearly, the organization has bigger problems than keeping undocupoets from submitting work.

Aside from first book contests, some journals offer a cash prize. While some cash prizes are in the thousands, usually a contest prize is less than $500. Some offer no prize at all other than publication of the work and maybe a free copy (or discounted copy) of the journal. What's the logic in excluding undocupoets from these contests?

I know things are rough for presses and journals, but with the recent efforts of #WeNeedDiverseBooks and #DontSelfReject, excluding voices from publication based on residency is about as crazy as limiting them based on education (don't get me started on that). 

Because of these and similar efforts, presses and journals now feel the urgency for diversity in publication (whether they act on it is a different story). But maybe these publishers simply want the diversity of a community college course catalog where an older white guy sits at a table with a Black girl who has her book open while an obviously young Gay Latino on the other side of her smiles. An Asian man at the same table laughs at a joke and white girl sits in a wheelchair holding a tablet as they all study at one of the many outdoor study areas. It's fun, it's pretty, and most of all it's not complicated. 

Perhaps some publishers use this residency regulation to screen out possible "complicated" diversity that comes with undocumented writers, trans writers, disabled writers, or other writers with "intense"  or "messy" (meaning possibly offensive) issues. Avoiding complicated diversity means silencing complicated voices, negating complicated stories and histories, and ultimately shunning complicated readers. That might be alright with them but it's not alright with me.

One day soon a young farmworker from the Midwest, perhaps undocumented, who has shared her story only with a select few, will feel the support and encouragement of her mentors and friends. And with a prayer on her breath, she will be bravely submit her words to a contest for publication. 

Not only does she deserve the chance to win, she deserves an opportunity to be heard.

His Mother Didn't Need a Man

You say his mother didn’t need a man

and now he doesn’t know how to be one

all because he wears skinny jeans

and arches his eyebrows.

You blame his white faggotry

on his brown mother because

a woman should only birth

boy babies -- not raise them.

Since his mother didn't need a man,

he doesn't buy into all that

masculine bullshit about

what it means to be one.

Like his mother he’s not afraid

to show his vulnerability

or to temper his rage with wisdom.

Purpose comes from seeing her work

two jobs and feeling her love twice as much.

She’s the only model he wants to emulate.

He knows her happiness doesn’t come from

needing someone to validate her life

but rather from the strength

of being herself.

No, his mother didn't need a man

and neither does he.

#DiversityInSFF

The #DiversityInSFF hastag is a great conversation about the lack of diverse characters and authors in Science Fiction and Fantasy. This article in The Nation examines part of that conversation.

Rising Above the Failure of Imagination | The Nation:

"The conversation about diversity in SFF is also striking because it reveals how discrimination and its deeply embedded cultural effects are so pernicious that even imagination, the very thing that should transcend the world we live in, is constrained. Some writers suggest that they simply don’t know how to write diversity into their novels but have no problem creating elaborate worlds set in alternative times and realms, populated by beings human and otherwise."

Now lets watch some Latino cosplayers ...

Red Ropers aka #BootShaft

My awkward performance from the Fellows Reading

at the 2013 Writers Retreat for Emerging LGBT Voices

LLF DAY 5: Breaking Miguel

OK so I know I promised to keep everyone updated on the retreat. Unfortunately on the second day, I took a tumble down the stairs and have been needing crutches to get around. Navigating with them has been difficult since my room is on the 3rd floor and the meeting rooms are in another building in the second floor down and the cafeteria is just impossible to reach in my condition.

Anyway, it's been taking me about half an hour to 45 min to get to and from this meeting space. Because I'm so out of shape, it's been really hard to make a straight shot to my room. I have to take little breaks which add to the travel time.

So today when I got to my room, I was so frustrated at having to use these damn crutches and because I came all this way (and we paid sooo much money) and it wasn't the experience I'd planned to have. To top it all off, I haven't been able to shower since Tuesday morning. I smelled. 

Now you have to let me rant about this for a moment. Being a big fat guy, one of my big things is that I don't want to be the fat, sweaty, smelly guy. In addition, there's also that horrible thing that Mexicans smell bad. So in my real life, I try to go to great lengths not to even come close to those stereotypes.

But there I was a big fat brown boy literally crawling up the stairs to the third floor, sweaty, stinky and trying not to have a fucking lose my shit moment right there in the hallway.

I got into my room, somehow made it to my bed and ... well, I just cried. I lost my shit. I was living the thing I hate -- having to depend on others. I don't like it because people always let you down, right? They may not mean to do it but it almost always happens. I try my best not to be in a position where I have to do that. I have to be independent even it it means working three shifts in a row or crawling up the stairs.

But this isn't one of those I-don't-need-your-charity-or-your-money-because-you-just-want-to-have-power-over-me type of situations No, this is different because I have to depend on others. I need them to bring me food. I need them to help carry my bag. I need them to somehow get crutches for me so I can try to participate in this retreat.

After a nasty cry, I pulled myself together in time for one of my YA/Genre cohort members, dave ring, to bring me lunch. He wasn't the first. People have been doing that for almost every meal. The last few days made me realize I need to give people the chance to help. Ordinarily, I'd be the first one to offer because ... well, that's what you're supposed to do, right?

Don't get me wrong, I haven't been lone wolfing it all this time. I've been asking people to fill my water bottle, pull a chair out for me, hold the door and they've been happy to do it. But they don't know how freakin' difficult it's been for me to ask. I'm a stubborn old bitch.

But today, the breakdown cleansed me. And even though, I haven't been able to be the social butterfly I'd imagined myself being at this retreat, I'm thankful for the quality relationships that are developing because I've been able to lower my guard, let people see me be vulnerable, and trust that they want to help -- without wanting something in return.

Oh and I was able to do that shower in the bathroom sink thing. Your Miguel is clean -- spiritually, mentally, and physically.

LLF DAY1: Ghosts of Fellows Past

The day started at 2 AM with me loading up the car and driving to the Kansas City airport.
Economy lot.
Bus to the terminal.
Check-in.
TSA molestation.
Waiting for an hour to board.

Soccer boys on the plane.
Won the championship in KC.
One fell asleep on my shoulder.
He apologized then did it again.

Landed at LAX.
Went hunting for queer writers.
Went to the observation deck of that white thingy that looks like two McDonald's french fries crossed.

Waited for queers.

Waited for queers here.

Queers landing at American Jewish University

Gays lounging

Immediately after arriving, I felt a longing for last year's Lambda Fellows who weren't there with me. I took a moment to sort of absorb it for them and send them good energy to remind us of our time here last summer. 

I also made the decision that in order for me to get the most out of this year's workshop, I needed to be fully present. That means not longing for last year or for boring the new fellows with tales of how we did things -- unless they asked.

They're a fine group of writers and I owe it to them, and myself, not to cast a shadow on this year's experience. Though I feel the essence of last years fellows are here with me. And it feels nice.

So with that, I posted a message on Facebook to last year's fellows asking them for any advice to impart to this year's group.

2012 YA Lambda Literary Fellows

GOOOOAAAAAALLLLL!!!!!!!!!!

Thanks to everyone who donated to my Lambda Literary Foundation fund! 

I needed to collect a whopping $1,300 and you guys exceeded that goal by $170!!

The excess funds do not go to me but they will go to the Lambda Literary Foundation which does so much to support LGBT and Queer writers. Thank you for encouraging my efforts and strengthening them.

Please follow me on Facebook and Twitter to keep track of my progress at the Writers Retreat for Emerging LGBT Voices!

You can follow more of this year's LLF fellows by tracking the #LLFellows2013 hashtag

¡Otra Vez!

I'M A RETURNING LLF FELLOW!

2012 LLF Fellows Kima  Jones and Miguel M. Morales. photo by Kima Jones

How exciting to be a one of the few Lambda Literary Foundation Fellows who'll return to the LLF familia for the Writers Retreat for Emerging LGBT Voices at the American Jewish University campus in Los Angeles this summer!

Unfortunately, returning fellows are not eligible for scholarships. That means your Miguel has to come up with $1,650 $1,300 for tuition/board as well as secure my own travel.YIKES!!

Last year, I kept donors updated on my progress at the retreat using this blog (tagged: LLF) and by posting to Facebook and Twitter. This year I'll continue keeping supporters informed using the same backchannels.

The retreat takes place July 28-Aug. 4 so I'm offering the following:

▼ Anyone making a donation (any amount) will receive an original poem, short story, or essay.

▼ Anyone donating $50 or more will receive an autographed limited-edition bound compilation of my work.

▼ Anyone donating $100 or more will receive the autographed limited-edition bound compilation, a CD of some of my readings and speeches, and some sort of tote bag (hey, it works for PBS!).

Making a tax-deductible donation, is easy and safe -- simply click the DonorPages graph in the upper right corner or at the end of this post.

To inquire about supporting my travel expenses (not included as part of this Donor Page account), please contact me on Facebook or Twitter. Thanks!!

ABOUT MIGUEL

I live in Kansas but grew up in the Texas panhandle working as a migrant farmworker and child laborer. As a journalist, I earned the Society of Professional Journalists’ First Amendment Award. I currently serve on the board of The Latino Writers Collective board. I am also a founding member of Fabulous Queer Writers of Kansas City! 

My work is featured in: 

• Primera Página: Poetry from the Latino Heartland 
• Cuentos del Centro: Stories from the Latino Heartland 
• From Macho to Mariposa: New Gay Latino Fiction 
• To the Stars Through Difficulties: A Kansas Renga in 150 Voices 
• Joto: An Anthology of Queer Xicano & Chicano Poetry (forthcoming) 

ABOUT MIGUEL'S LLF PROJECT

I am working on an LGBT YA novel about a gay migrant farmworker and his family. In addition to being from this community, I help facilitate writers workshops for migrant youth. Trust me, these stories need to be told. This project takes inspiration from those students and from the works of Rigoberto González, Sandra Cisneros, and many others. A side project has developed from this effort -- a poetry manuscript detailing the life of migrant youth. 

I want to thank everyone for their support, not just on this project but for a lifetime of love and encouragement. 

gracias, 

 miguel

i found a cookie in the men’s room | National Poetry Month

I found a cookie in the library men’s room.

It laid on a green paper napkin

on top of a urinal just under

the chrome flushy handle.

It was the kind of cookie

one eats at a reception

and snags a few extras on the way out.

That’s probably what happened.

Except it’s owner drank too many

free sodas poured from cans

into those tiny plastic cups packed with ice

that keeps drinks cool

but melts too quickly and dilutes the drink.

There must have been cheese and crackers

that caused him to drink an excess of soda

or maybe it was the fruit:

red seedless grapes, sliced strawberries,

cut fresh pineapple and multi-colored melons

that cause his over hydration.

Maybe the reception was for a retiring colleague,

perhaps the person who hired him.

And she urged him to take a few extra cookies

because “they’re all paid for”

and she didn't want them to go to waste.

Or perhaps he didn't like the person

and showed up to make sure the old bastard

saw his face one last time.

Perhaps he took the last cookie

knowing it was his nemesis’ favorite.

Maybe a student club was selling

cookies for a fundraiser

and our fine fellow bought one

to support the Queers and Allies

or the Muslim Student Association

or the dance team, who are not cheerleaders

even though they dance with pom-poms.

Whatever the reason, he set his cookie down

on top of a urinal in the library men’s room --

a decision he immediately regretted.

As I left, I almost threw it away

but I liked the thought of the next guy

standing at the urinal confused by a cookie.

Epilogue 

I went back a moment later to take a picture to post to my Facebook page because my Facebook friends would “Like” the hell out of it. But when I came back with my phone, the cookie was gone. I looked in the trash and it wasn’t there.

So either the guy came back for it or someone else was like, “YES, I’LL HAVE A FREE COOKIE!”

Either way -- gross.

thank the work of our hands | National Poetry Month

“Thank the work of our hands …”

            -Richard Blanco, One Today

                           

I never thanked the work

of my mother’s hands

that sewed clothes for my sisters and me

that made comida out of a sparse pantry

that prayed and hand-crafted rosaries,

hands that cleaned other people’s houses

and other people’s children.

I never thanked the work 

of my sisters’ hands

that dutifully cared for me

when my mother could not

and that helped me with my homework.

Often it was their young overworked hands

that scraped together the rent.

To this day, it is their hands

that mean most to me.

I never thanked the work 

of my father’s hands

that sliced the flesh from fresh carcasses

in a chilled meat packing plant,

hands that helped me move,

that changed my oil.

Tired hands that say, “I love you”

when his words cannot.

I never thanked the work 

of my Tia Noche’s hands

that showed me how to work efficiently

in my first job out of high school

at the explosives factory.

Her hands invited me to work puzzles

spread out on the dining room table,

the one only used for special occasions.

I never thanked the work 

of my friends’ hands

that offer welcoming handshakes

enthusiastic support,

and comforting hugs.

Their talented hands show me

what is possible.

I never thanked the work of the hands 

of the men I loved

skilled hands that tilled soil, picked fruit,

danced across keyboards,

and augmented machinery.

Hands that caressed my face

and whose gentle fingers

traced my lips.

Hands that, in public and in private,

searched for and enfolded mine.

All these loving, working hands

that wipe countertops,

chalkboards, and windshields,

as well as sweaty brows

and mournful tears,

reach for me when I am lost.

They proudly pat my back

or gently take my arm.

No, I have never thanked the work

of these many hands.

Nor I have ever thanked the work 

of my own hands

that clenched a garden hoe 

as I walked uneven fields,

hands that blistered, cracked,

and bled under an assiduous sun.

These hands labor so my soul can search

and my mind can reflect on and thank

the work of our hands.

LLF DAY 6: Double Mitzvah

Awaiting Scholastic Inc Publisher, Arthur A. Levine

The YA cohort finally finished its manuscript critiques! YAY for YA! We enthusiastically turned our attention to our long-awaited writing prompts.

A few days after Lambda notified the us we’d been selected for the retreat, our mentor sent an email asking the YA group to do the following:

ü Read Anne Lamott's book, "Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life"

ü Bring a 15-25 page manuscript of an unpublished work-in-progress for critique.

ü Bring hard copies of all the other participants’ manuscripts noting (a) strong points, what worked, what kept you reading, etc., and (b) what you think could be improved/strengthened, what would inspire you to read more, etc.

ü Bring a favorite poem about growing up.

• Bring one photo of you taken during your teen years.
• Bring a CD with a song that was important to you when you were a teenager.
• Bring one pad of blank Post-It Notes.
• Bring a favorite scene (1 page) from either a young adult novel or a novel that inspired you when you were a teen.

Every morning we stared the session with a poem or two. By day 6 we’d burned through all the poems. Today we brought our teen photos. We all agreed my roommate Jef had the best photo. It was his prom photo and it was so horribly bad that it was good. It was out of focus, bad poses, people halfway out of frame, I mean it was classic. It was the kind of bad photo you’d proudly put on the inside of your locker door and know it was totally rad.

In preparing my list of items to bring to the retreat, I forgot about the photo. On the plane, I looked over the list from Alex and remembered I hadn’t selected a photo. When my friend picked me up, we went to his house and I logged onto Facebook to print a photo (any photo) of young Miguel.

My photo, like Jef's, was of my senior prom. I sat at the banquet table (it was a dinner-dance). The guys sat on one side of the table and their dates sat across from them. On my side, all the guys wore white tuxedo shirts. Mine was pink. Across from me, my date was the only one wearing a bow tie and a white dinner jacket. Everyone else in his row had big '80s hair and prom dresses to match.There we sat, two guys at prom, and no one said a word. We took our prom photo together like everyone else. Even then, 25 years ago, it was strange how natural it felt for us to go to prom together. I don’t remember anyone making a big deal out of it. If they did, I never heard about it.

Teen years can be difficult so I was happy most of the group shared their picture and their stories. Some didn’t and I respect that because looking deeper at my picture, I could’ve written some dark stuff. It wasn’t all rainbows and glitter for young Miguel.

LLF DAY 4: Twenty Lousy Bucks!

photo courtesy of  Alysia Angel

By day four, everyone settled into the routine of intense class work, homework, and rewrites. It seemed to me that we were being polite, professional and, well, a bit stiff. The evening program included a publisher’s panel that sorta sucked the energy from the group, energy that had been building over shared meals and classroom discussions.

After the panel, I returned to my residence hall. Deciding to step away from my uncomfortable dorm desk with its rickety chair, I walked down the hall to the dorm lounge. I spread out my work on a table. A few moments later, my roommate, Jef, joined me. We’d developed a friendship and rhythm that doesn’t come easily for me when I meet someone new. It comforted me to know I could still connect that way with another person especially since I’ve spent the last few years making sure no one got particularly close. Jef and I worked quietly in the lounge interrupting the silence with an occasional observation or question then returning our attention to our laptops.

The atmosphere suddenly changed when Christina Clover, the loveliest of Brits and one of the YA participants, stepped into the lounge. She was waiting for another LLF fellow to return to campus with her wine. Christina plopped down on the sofa and asked, “Present company accepted, who would you shag? Who do you fancy?”

Ohhh, she was naughty and inappropriate and we loved it! Since our pinky swear is still in effect, I won’t go into the details of who we dubbed shaggable and/or snoggable. I’ll just say we had terrific fun. Tequila made an appearance, as did Nina’s beer and Christina’s wine. Other members of the YA cohort joinedour inappropriate fun. It’s as if we’d been waiting for this breakthrough, a chance to let our hair down and to finally stop sucking in our guts. We laughed from that authentic place where we were free to be who we were and we were doing it around people who made us feel safe. I’m sure this happened to other LLF fellows across campus. LGBT writers were bonding.

Of course, we also talked about our manuscripts, about writing, about our writing communities. As Nina, Christina’s roommate, was talking about her graphic novel, I realized how easily I could’ve missed all this because of a lousy twenty bucks.

Back in the spring when I looked over the application for the retreat, I frowned at the twenty dollar fee. I mean, clearly, twenty dollars isn't much money but it adds up if you apply for several contests or fellowships. I was still trying to clear my credit card bill from the expense of the AWP conference in Chicago a few months earlier. I knew I wanted to apply to LLF but, twenty dollars, that's my gas utility bill. Twenty dollars is enough to get me to work for month. Twenty dollars is half of my cellphone bill. I mean, I kept thinking of the things I needed to do with twenty bucks. Finally, I had to say to myself, "Dude, it's only twenty dollars. Are you really gonna let twenty bucks keep you from what could be an incredible opportunity?"

That week, I easily cut back on a frivolous expense to cover the application fee. Actually, it was such a frivolous expense that I don’t even remember what it was. Clearly, my apprehension wasn’t because I couldn't spare twenty bucks. It was something else. It was the inner-voice in me that said, “They’re not gonna pick you. You’re just wasting twenty dollars. Sure, you’re talented enough for Kansas City but you can’t compete with people from all over the country. These are educated people, people with published books, people who won’t understand you – they never do.”

But another voice in me said, “You can do this. They will pick you. You know they’re going to pick you. Twenty dollars is nothing! You give twenty dollars to just about anyone who needs it. And let me tell you this, buddy, you need it. This is an investment in yourself. You have to decide if you’re worth twenty dollars. And if you’re not, well, then you’ve got a lot bigger problems than trying to scrape together twenty bucks.”

After our evening of inappropriate fun and bonding, I laid on my noisy concave mattress knowing I’d made the right decision. The twenty dollar application fee and the rest of the money spent on the trip was worth it – and it was only Tuesday.

LLF DAY 2: Retreat to Move Forward

The second day, which was the first full day of the retreat, began with my roommate, Jef, taking what I estimate to be a 90 second shower in the morning. Come on, Jef, that's not even enough time for me to snoop though your stuff.

We made our way to the cafeteria for eggs and soysage and good conversation with other Lambda Literary Foundation (LLF) fellows.

Once the morning sessions began, Alex Sanchez, our YA (Young Adult) mentor, guided us through some exercises designed to help focus our characters, plot, action, etc. I found these incredibly helpful and reassuring on some of the choices I've made. Then we started the week-long task of reviewing each other's manuscripts. We focused our attention on Annameekee Hesik's The You Know Who Girls: Sophomore Year.

I won't go into the specifics of the feedback participants receive. However, I will say that I took some of  the feedback and applied it to my own manuscript. So, thanks Annameekee for volunteering to go first and for letting me learn from your session.

My manuscript was supposed to be next but we ran out of time (yay!).

I took the afternoon break to clear my mind, reflect on the intense morning session, and think about where I wanted my story to go. I also have this thing about reading in public so I was trying not to freak out too much about having to read 2 pages of my manuscript to the class.

After dinner LLF presented a faculty reading. I took my flipcam to record it but at the last moment I decided to just experience it and not watch it through a tiny digital screen. I'm glad I put the camera away.

The faculty mentors read in reverse alphabetical order starting with our mentor Alex, then Cris Beam, Jewelle Gomez, and Dorothy Allison.

Thank goodness I had the presence of mind to recognize this opportunity to study their reading styles instead of just sitting there with my mouth open. LLF recorded the reading so I won't try to summarize them. When they're uploaded, I'll repost. Just be ready to be amazed.

After the reading came the opportunity for questions. Again, I can't relay all the important information these established and esteemed writers shared. Though, I was able to scrawl a few gems onto my pad.

Jewelle Gomez on mining personal experiences without letting it become traumatic:

Get to the place where the paper cuts you but you don't bleed to death.

on performance readings:

It's about the sound of the words as well as the meaning.

I don't have the exact quote from Dorothy Allison (I hope she forgives me for skewing/slaughtering her words) but she essentially suggested identifying those tragic family stories we've shaped to be funny in order to diminish the tragedy. Go ahead, brush away the humor. Rewrite those stories as the tragedies they are. Absorb them. Then, rewrite those stories again and layer some of the humor back into them.

She also mentioned the Chick-fil-A situation in the LGBT community noting that sometimes rage is the catalyst for writing. However, she was quick to add:

If I'm gonna write out of rage, it's gonna be layered and textured.

That wasn't just a reading -- it was a master class.

I returned to my room where Jef and I worked on homework. As we worked, sometimes talking, sometimes not, I knew I wasn't the same writer I was two days ago. I've changed.

When I worked in HIV education, we based our outreach on a behavioral theory model (I don't remember the name) but one of the stages proposes that when a subject is exposed to HIV prevention information, he or she absorbs the information and is presented with a choice. The subject can dismiss the information or move forward with it. Yet, whatever action the subject takes, the information can't be un-introduced. It's now part of the individual.

That's how I felt at the end of day 2.

My only choice is to move forward with the information the faculty mentors and LLF fellows have unreservedly shared. I mean, I came all this way at great expense. It would be illogical to dismiss their information.

My inner Vulcan agreed.

The Jotos Are Coming!

Last year Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano asked me to contribute to a queer Latino anthology of poetry he was editing.

I was honored. Frankly, I didn't even think he knew who I was. I knew of him because I attended the AWP conference in Denver. As part of a panel, he read one of his poems and all I could think was, "Damn, I wish I had written that."

I wanted to go up to him after the session and introduce myself but ... what was I gonna say?

"I liked your poem. It was good" or "You sure talk pretty."

So when I got his Facebook message last May asking me to contribute to the Joto anthology, I was like "Hey! It's that guy from that panel."

Then I thought, "Oh, he meant to send this to the other Miguel Morales." You see, at the conference, there was another guy named Miguel Morales and he read a poem at an off-site event that was well attended.

The more I thought about it the more I kinda convinced myself that he really did mean to send me the invitation to contribute. Then I started to think of what I could send him and, well, I didn't have anything. That really surprised me because I was sure I had poems about being a gay Latino -- but I didn't.

I took a day or so to figure out what I wanted to say and then worked through the thoughts and images that lived in the back of my mind. I emailed the poems ASAP to Lorenzo because he was on a tight deadline. For some reason, I sent him an email a few days later asking if he received the poems. I didn't want to be pushy but something told me to email him to make sure he go them.

He didn't.

My Queerness

The Writers Place

Now that I'm feeling more comfortable calling myself a writer, it seems the universe is offering opportunities to keep me on my path.

Last month in Chicago, I was encouraged to apply for a national LGBT writers workshop.

I'm going to take part in a reading at the Neon Gallery this fall. Watch for details.

I've also been invited to read at an LGBT event at The Writers Place in June with some of KC metro's most notable queer writers.

• Kelly Barth
• Crystal Boson
• Wayne Courtois
• Wendy Dow
• Charles Ferruzza
• Mark Manning
• Miguel M. Morales
• David Wayne Reed

It'll be an evening of visual and literary arts -- memoir, poetry, fiction, nonfiction and the photography of Andrea Brookhart.

Let me know if you plan to attend so I don't read that poem about you, you know the one ...

Celebrating Voices:

A Celebration of Queerness

7:00 PM, Friday, June 15, 2012

Cost: $3 - $5

The event is sponsored by The Writers Place, the Missouri Arts Council, CAMP Magazine and The Tenth Voice on KKFI 90.1 FM

AWP12 Day 2: Cinderella

View of Michigan Avenue from penthouse of The Cliff Dwellers the location of the Ragdale Reception

Despite my reclusive nature, I attended several sessions at The Association of Writers & Writing Programs (AWP) conference today. Most were Latino-focused, which was great. The last two times I've attended AWP there were very few. I also attended a session on Queer Writers building loyal audiences. It was informative. I was glad to see the audience had some queers of color. Gender and ethnic diversity on the panelists was good, but let's face it, most Queer/LGBT discussions about community always come back to the Gay white male experience.

Oh another thing happened. But first let me admit my blind ignorance when it comes to writers. I don't read as much as I should (thank you college for draining the joy of reading out of me). Apparently today I sat by, stood next to, shared jokes with, and rolled my eyes at some noteworthy people.

There was this one dude standing in front of the men's restroom blocking the path. Three guys stood in a line waiting for him to move. I mean, they just stood there. By the way, I should tell you that I had drank a liter of SmartWater during the previous session so I really needed to get in that restroom. So, I said, "Hey, Cinderella, move it. You're blocking the door." He sort of jumped out of the way realizing there was a line.

Judging from the reaction of those three guys who were waiting in line, I might as well have told Santa to go #!&* himself.

Don't get me wrong, Cinderella didn't seem particularly snooty or appear like he was above it all. I don't even know if he was a famous writer. Maybe he was just a guy who needed a place to stand in a crowded hallway and unfortunately, it was in front of the restroom. What makes it weird for me is that there were three guys, I'm guessing they were students, who were practically willing to pee their pants rather than ask Cinderella to move.

Why did I call him Cinderella? I don't know. It's the first thing that came to mind.

Anyway, I also attended two receptions, was asked to submit work to a literary journal, and was offered the opportunity to read at an off-site event tomorrow. I had to turn it down because I'm reading with the Latino Writers Collective and Proyecto Latina at an After Hours Salon that happens the at the same time. bummer.

COMMENTARY: Holocaust Remebrence Day

Walking on the Ledge:
▼Pride and Prejudice▼

Today is another reminder of why I am proud to be gay.

Holocaust Remembrance Day reinforces why it’s important for me to honor the gay men who died wearing a pink triangles and the lesbians who died wearing black ones. Nazis tagged them with a symbol, tortured them and finally slaughtered them.

When I first moved to Kansas City, I didn’t know much about being gay except that I was. One day in the public library, I found what appeared to be the gay section. One of the first books I picked up was a book about the Nazi persecution of gays.

I sat crying as I read the entire book. Then I picked up another and then another.

As I continued to check out books and videos, these men and women slowly transformed from being cases to being relatives. I was like an orphan discovering his roots.

They taught me that being gay isn’t simply about attraction to another man. It’s a history. It’s a culture. It’s … a gift.

I honor these lost family members by embracing my own pink triangle and the label that comes with it. I embrace their sacrifice. I cry for their suffering and I live to fulfill the dreams they passed down to me.

Sometimes that means when a gay issue arises in class, I have to become an instructor. Sometimes it means I have to write letters, e-mails and make phone calls to elected officials. And a few times, it meant that I had to commit civil disobedience.

What I find most troubling is that as society moves towards accepting -- not just tolerating -- gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people, our community is facing a challenge from many who reject those labels. Rejecting those labels means forgetting the men with the pink triangles. It means negating the existence of the women with the black triangles.

It means we’re one step closer to wearing them as symbols of oppression instead of symbols of pride.▼▼

HEADLINE: Queens

This headline about the writer's strike ... struck me as hilarious.

Writers strike costly for Queens

COMMENTARY: WORLD AIDS DAY

Walking on the Ledge:

Silence = Death

By Miguel M. Morales

After 26 years, AIDS no longer devastates or threatens the life of the average American.

While there is no cure for what is now known as HIV disease, it’s become a manageable chronic illness in the United States.

In fact, a report released last month by the United Nations and the World Health Organization cut the global number of estimated infections by approximately 7 million. This 16 percent reduction comes from improved methods of tracking infections.

Unfortunately, a similar revision by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention is Ivexpected to increase the number of HIV infections in the United States as much as 50 percent.

But we’ve clearly established, PWAs, or People With AIDS, can live long productive lives.

While I am not infected with HIV, it has affected my life.

Deciding to write this column for World AIDS Day, I searched the Internet only to discover that many of the friends I parted ways with have died.

In the early 1990s, I served as a member of the radical AIDS activist group called the AIDS Coalition To Unleash Power, or ACT-UP/KC.

I remember my new friends inspired me to fight for more treatment options at a time when AZT was the only drug used to manage HIV infection and when the only answer was to identify “AIDS victims” though mandatory testing of all patients.

That fight included three arrests for civil disobedience.

The first arrest came in a demonstration at the annual American Medical Association conference in Chicago. We were protesting the AMA’s proposal to support mandatory AIDS testing. As we the police processed the arrested protesters, I saw them beat a young man as he tried to assert that he had rights. I quickly looked away as not to be noticed by the officers. As I stared at the white linoleum floor, I saw blood fall like rain sprinkles and the young man’s screams grew louder until he was sobbing uncontrollably.

The second arrest came in Washington DC in protest of the murderous policies of George Bush. I guess I should be specific -- the murderous policies of George Bush, Sr.

Hundreds of AIDS activists marched through DC chanting their way to the White House. During the march, I met Nurse Bush -- a drag queen dressed as a nurse wearing a Barbra Bush wig and carrying a bloody hammer. Nurse Bush said she was simply carrying out her husband’s AIDS policies. And of course, she was hilarious.

Once we reached the White House, my group helped chain PWAs (People With AIDS) to the White House fence. We then chained ourselves. Naturally, the parks department revoked our permit and began arresting people. In teams of two, officers approached each protester along the fence asking him or her to leave. When the protester refused, officers notified the protester that he or she was under arrest and ask him or her to come willingly or be carried.

After the bloody mess in Chicago, I was ready for anything. But these officers surprised me. Obviously, they deal with protesters all the time and have worked out a system that ensures respect on all sides. Some protesters tried to resist, you know for the cameras, but the officers simply carried the protester to the arrest wagon or whatever its called. When it came my turn, I refused to leave but when the officer asked me to walk or be carried, I didn’t know what to do.

If I walked, I’d be the first one to do so. If they carried me, would I get charged with resisting arrest?

What’s an AIDS activist to do?

“If you carry me, is it an extra charge?” I asked the officer.

I guess no one had ever asked that before because he looked confused.

“We ... don’t charge,” he said.

“No, I mean is it an extra arrest charge like resisting arrest?” I explained.

“No.”

“OK, carry me.” I said.

When I arrived at the police wagon, he searched my pockets. That’s when I froze.

During the march, an elderly Mexican woman asked me to carry her jacket. I tied it around my waist and thought nothing of it -- until that moment.

My poor officer, he pulled out a little pink teddy bear from a pocket of the jacket. Then he pulled out some tissues and a lipstick tube.

“Is this yours?” he asked as he twisted the lipstick tube revealing a shade of red that would have make Nurse Bush drop her hammer.

I paused for a moment trying to decide if I should explain about the old Mexican woman but that big hulking man wearing riot gear suddenly looked like a confused nine years old boy. I don’t know why, but I lied and said they belonged to me. You should have seen his face.

My final arrest came at a protest. at Memorial Hall in Kansas City, Mo. Secret Service agents arrested me because they though I was someone else, a man named Mark Chaney who was my AIDS-infected hero. They took me to the KCMO police department where they found I had a warrant for not paying a $10 parking ticket when I attended classes in Texas at Tarrant County Community College. The Secret Service was trying to get me extradited to Texas but the campus police refused. A female Secret Service agent seethed as I paid a $25 fine and walked out of jail.

Soon I became a respectable and worked as one of the first HIV educators in Kansas City -- but that’s a story for another time.

As I learn uninfected friends are now HIV positive and friends who were positive are now dead, all I have left are stories and the knowledge that AIDS no longer devastates or threatens life of the average American -- unless you or someone you becomes infected.

Twenty-five million people have died from AIDS since 1981. Currently, there are more than 38 million people infected with HIV.