cry | COVID-19

Miguel M. Morales

Strange, 

I have not 

cried from 

the horror we 

are enduring.

Instead, 

I have cried 

because of 

the beauty 

in kindness and 

in song and 

in voices and 

in smiles and 

in laughter. 

I legit cried 

watching a 

livestream of 

ocean waves 

crashing on a 

Hawaiian beach. 

But I know that

a bitter cry is

coming ...

Unintentional Rainbows

Miguel M. Morales

Ever since I woke up / this morning, I've been seeing / unintentional rainbows.

The seats on the bus with / curving multicolored lines in the fabric/ reveal
a cascading array of rainbow figures / endlessly jumping and dancing through sunlight.

In the library / art students file past / my desk moving toward / a table in the back. They
spread out / colored pencils. Sharp tips / reproduce deconstructed rainbows on sketchpads.

A small black girl in the grocery store / her hair separated with vibrant / elastic hairbands,
pulls her mother / to the display of fruits and berries / a kaleidoscope of colors.

Sitting in the kitchen listening / to a report marking one year since / the Pulse shooting,
I finally let my tears flow / as a luminous sunset gifts me / another rainbow.

Don’t Call It an Anniversary

Miguel M. Morales

Anniversaries celebrate our best moments
like weddings and first dates.

They recall our special connections from 
a first kiss to the day we met our best friend.

There will be no anniversary toasts to the 
discriminate massacre of 49 people. 
No specially compiled playlist or 
dancing for the injuries of 53 more. 

There will be no surprise parties 
for grieving families and friends.

No dinners will celebrate the sustained 
pulsing pain of brown and black queers.

We will sign no cards with images of cakes 
on the cover and scripted writing inside

nor will we exchange wrapped gifts 
while searching for the nearest exit.

Anniversaries celebrate our best moments. 
Many followed in the aftermath. 
We will applaud and embrace them
in the days and months to come.

But for today, just for today, 
don’t call it an anniversary. 

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 ...

What Does Your Name Mean??

For Wo Chan

it means you can't change it

just because you can't pronounce it.

it means just because you can't spell it,

that you can't throw in extra letters

or take others away.

it means you can't shorten it

because you think it's too long

or that you can "americanize" it.

it means when you accidentally
and repeatedly fuck it up,

you’re actually doing it on purpose.

it means when some people read it

or hear it’s soft vowels and rolling r’s,

that they will instantly hate me.

it means people will assume

that i speak Spanish.

it means people think they have the right

to interrogate me about

where i'm from,

where i'm REALLY from,

when my family came here.

it means people think i'm holding

or that i know where they can get some.

it means if i have the day off from work,

people think i'm unemployed.

it means when i use my credit card,

i have to show a “valid” ID.

it means when i do show my ID,

store managers look closely at it

to see if it's real.

it means when a friend says it,

tension leaves my body.

it means I am safe

and that good things

are about to happen.

when a loved one says it

it assures I’ll respond with my heart.

it means when i see it published

all the pushing back against

the bullshit that surrounded it

was worth it.

it means when people with similar names

see it in an anthology next to other

beautiful harmonious names,

that they can smile knowing,

but not fully knowing, the journey

it took to get them on the page.

it means we can love own names

and forgive ourselves

for all the times

we hated them. 

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.

My Ferguson Story

I didn't want to leave the house today.

After last night's news of the failed successful non-indictment of Michael Brown's killer, I just didn't want to see people going about their lives. I didn't want to hear helpless sighs and patronizing conversations about healing or moving forward. I didnt want to hear people's mouths shooting details of the riots or debating the character of a dead boy.

But I had an engagement at the Kansas City Art Institute and I promised a friend that I'd attend. So I dragged my brown ass to downtown KCMO and roamed the campus like someone's lost father as I looked for the venue.

Inside the small auditorium students gathered displaying their work, sharing food, and ... they were living. They were laughing and having fun. It kinda bothered me. I mean, how dare they?

As I looked closer I could see the students were Latino. The art was Latino. The food was Latino. My cheeks started to burn and my chest tightened.

I realized this is where I needed to be. I needed to be around the young creative energy of my own culture, not locked away in my house Tweeting and posting my outrage.

As part if the event, the organizers asked my friend Maria and I to read a few poems. Not having brought my notebook, I briefly panicked but then I remembered I'd uploaded some poems to my Google Drive for just such an occasion.

I read one of my fat poems, I'm Big and I'm Brown All the Way Down; my poem about being the first to go to college, F1RST; and my signature poem, Madre de los Campos.

After that poem, which deals with my frustration as a young kid at being a farmworker, I wanted to talk to about Ferguson. I needed to talk about it. I was experiencing the same frustration as the boy in my poem but at the same time I felt the safety and comfort of the room.

We talked about our art. We talked about how we long to create beauty and joy through our work but that there is also beauty in pain. We have a gift and sometimes that gift requires sitting in our pain, processing it, and putting it through the artist's lens.

It means taking what's inside our hearts, inside our heads and on our tongues and putting it in words, on canvas, or in clay -- that's our ability, our gift. It's our super power. In doing so, we can help others process their feelings. We can stand as examples to young people on creative ways to deal with these difficult emotions that make so many turn to, and live in, rage or to simply shut down -- shut down like I wanted to do hours earlier.

I don't know what will come from the meeting today. Hopefully it will be the beginning of new partnerships and collaborations for area Latinos in the arts.

But for now, for this moment, it's what I needed. I needed to be among brown and black faces who connected in a safe space surrounded by and sharing our creative energy.

That's my Ferguson story.

#JCCC Alert/Suspicious weapon

Alerts issued by my college yesterday after reports of an armed assailant was spotted on campus:

My poem from those alerts:

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.

For Alexia on Her 27th Birthday

I’m going to tell you a secret,

my darling girl, about how

we became a family.

Even before you were born

you changed us.

Your arrival renewed

our damaged spirits.

Nurturing our new love

required selflessness.

When we stumbled,

your faith in us set our footing.

We found strength in vulnerability.

We found wealth in giving.

We found power in peace.

Soon this collection of individuals

found ourselves in a family.

So the secret, my sweet one,

of how we came to be

is one word,

you.

Sun Damaged

Working in the Texas soybean fields as a kid

under a blazing and insolent summer sun

that tempted him with mirages of

cool rippling lakes along the horizon,

he dreamed of a future working

in an chilled, air-conditioned office.

He’d sit in a cushioned chair

and wear a dark, clean suit, and a fresh thin tie

instead of muddy, oversized boots

and sweaty bandannas.

He’d have shiny black dress shoes with black laces

and folded white handkerchiefs.

He’d wear a sleek watch and a thin belt

not a thick one showing a man riding a bull on its buckle.

He’d go to lunch whenever he wanted

instead of having to eat when the sun was at its highest

and when they were closest to the car

that had everyone’s lunch

packed into a foam cooler in its trunk.

He’d walk with a purpose

and smile at people.

He’d talk to strangers

and they would welcome it.

He wouldn’t constantly scan the toiling soil

looking for thorned weeds to scissor.

He wouldn’t talk quietly to himself in order to pass the time.

He wouldn’t wonder what everyone else in the world was doing

at that exact moment.

He wouldn’t be ashamed to tell his friends

what he did over the summer

because he’d have gone on vacation

like everyone else

and not worked the fields

dreaming of a time when

when he would escape

the assiduous sun.

¡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

this photo of you | Mother's Day

Delia R. Morales

Strange how in this digital existence

when everyone uploads, tags, and shares

photos instantaneously,

I have so few pictures of you.

The scanned photos I do have

show you as a young girl

in grey tones that hint

at the depth of your spirit

and playfulness.

Other photos show an older you

more like the mom I remember

when the responsibility of being

a wife and mother

settled into your soul.

Yet this photo has always intrigued me.

Despite the vibrant colors and vibrant times,

the photo fails to match yours.

You’re wearing a genuine smile of confidence

that I rarely saw except those times

when you were your own woman.

There was the time when you worked

at the community center

and dad worked out of town,

you’d take my sisters and me to dinner

on Fridays when you got paid.

Sitting in that small family diner,

converted from an old Dairy Queen,

eating hamburgers and fries

was the best part of the week

At the time I savored our weekly detour

simply because we ate out and ordered cokes.

Now I understand that our excitement

came from your new found sense of self.

For us kids, that was the real treat.

As much as I love you for being my mom,

I wish I had known more about you

at this time in your life,

and I wish that you had, too.

vernal | National Poetry Month

his body knows it’s too hot for 

the dense kinks of his Puerto Rican hair

that comes from his mother’s side.

his body knows it’s too hot for

the curly twists of his Mexicano locks

that comes from his father’s side.

his indigenous spirit knows

it’s time for cleansing,

time to acquit the past,

time for renewal.

with a snap of the shaver,

his hair spills and tumbles

onto his shoulders

and then to the floor

like the feathered mane

of Quetzalcohuātl.

with the repose of Yúcahu

his hands trace his scalp

for the first time since

he last performed

this sacred ritual.

his brown gods

have returned in the

in the tribal rhythms of his heart,

in the serenity of his breath,

in the artistry of his craft.

gently closing his eyes,

he welcomes them back

with an appreciative smile.

©Miguel M. Morales

patterns | National Poetry Month

Usually she’d eye my sister,

turning her slowly,

estimating measurements,

to create a pattern in her mind.

Ordinarily mom cut fabric freehanded

sometimes from a pattern of newspaper.

I’d laugh at seeing one of my sisters

pinned with the Sunday funnies.

If needed, mom examined an old dress

following the cut, contemplating the facing.

But when faced with unseemly seams,

she’d load us into the car and head to TG&Y.

In the stale, air-conditioned sewing department

she’d sit under humming florescent lights

on one of the metal stools with cushions

crafted by the store’s sewing class.

Rows of wooden tables displayed

Butterick, Simplicity, and McCall’s catalogues.

There in that retail library, she’d study

new techniques and memorize patterns.

With new buttons and zippers and threads,

she’d attentively work into the evening

feeding the sewing machine fabric

guiding and twisting with a steady hand.

In addition to constructing

shorts and pants,

fashioning shirts and skirts,

designing tops and blouses,

(I remember a little red leisure suit – it was the 70s),

there were the gowns:

      homecoming,

            party

     wedding,

christening.

Each stitch,

      a prayer,

delicate

and

      enduring.

wake your brown ass up | National Poetry Month

Just because your abuelitos came here

and (eventually) became legal

and had nice brown legal babies

that became your mamá and papá,

doesn’t mean your brown ass

doesn’t have a stake in immigration reform.

Even though you were born in this country,

you’re still an illegal.

Even though you espeak without an accent,

you’re still a wetback.

Even though you have white manteca legs,

you’re still a spic.

Don’t get me wrong, cariño,

go to work and do your best,

earn those raises and bonuses,

because living well is the best revenge.

But, mijo, don’t you dare ignore

your coworker’s comments

about the women

who serve you food,

who clean the restrooms,

who empty your wastebaskets,

the women who look like your tias,

or else you’ll suffer a fate worse

than that of la llorona.

It is not I who place this curse upon you, mi amor.

but rather the curanderas from your clan

whose whispers you dismiss

when they come to you at night.

No, you can’t sit this one out, pendejo

Educate!

Facilitate!

Communicate!

Hermanito, I’m not saying this to be mean,

I’m saying this to

wake

your

Brown

ASS

UP!

hermana del cielo | National Poetry Month

Before cloaking herself in flesh

she made an eternal covenant

with the being

who was to become my mother

Their sacred bond

predates the universe.

Untested by the physical and the temporal,

they each chose flawed vessels,

perhaps purposely.

The being who was my mother,

struggled to prepare for the arrival

of my sisters and me,

with whom she also shared eternal covenants.

Sometimes she failed.

Sometimes she lost herself.

Sometimes unconditional love

had too many conditions.

In my mother’s despair,

that’s when she arrived,

a frail blue baby,

from the heavens.

We named her Celestina,

though she remained mortal

for only a few hours.

She came to my mother

to touch her soul and

to share a moment of the divine.

Before cloaking herself in flesh

she made an eternal covenant

with the being

who was to become my mother

Their sacred bond

will outlast the universe.

you will not erase me | National Poetry Month

There will not be a

blank

white

page

where the story

 of my life unfolded.

No button can delete

my culture

my community

my creativity.

No, you will not erase me.

My passion lives beyond

files

and

folders

that are so  easily

lost

misplaced

erased.

You will not make me

un-documented

by deleting the documents

of my life.

You will not erase me.

It is beyond your power

to purge my existence

 from memory.

My thoughts live.

My heart loves.

My soul soars.

No, you will not erase me

because I am free.

liar | National Poetry Month

No one believed me

when I tried to explain

that I missed school for a week

because my mom wouldn’t let us go.

No one believed me

when I tried to explain

that she couldn’t sign our report cards

because she tore them up.

How could I explain that sometimes

there was no food in the house?

How could I explain that sometimes

she stayed in her housecoat all week?

How could I explain that sometimes

she sat in the living room late at night crying?

Instead of trying to explain

that we weren’t allowed to answer

the door or the phone, I lied.

I told the lies that were expected

convinced I was protecting my mother,

my family, and myself.

Instead, my lies absolved those

who did not want to hear,

or bear the responsibility

of acting upon,

the truth.

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.