1. Not significantly different but here’s my new hair! Tinted darker, 6 inches shorter, and baby bangs.

     

  2. I know that asking folks for money over and over can feel insulting as many of us have very little to nothing to give from the start but in the off chance you have some extra means right now, please consider helping Dustina and Jennifer. This wonderful qpoc couple based out of Portland with their two kids, need help. Dustina is a fighter, a tireless advocate for survivors, and an outspoken queer fat woman of color who has not only gone above and beyond for her community but has personally been there for my family a great deal. I will be donating as soon as I get paid. Please spread this far and wide! 

     
  3. Morning mischief.

    I’m gonna keep it real and admit this selfy almost cost me my bus to work.

    Mischief indeed.

     

  4. Some unedited thoughts on femmeness.

    I haven’t been on tumblr a lot lately but today while scanning a bunch of posts I realized quickly how much I don’t care about white femmes. I mean I’m sure folks are lovely but I only have time to cultivate femmes of color community in my life. Part of this is frustration in what happened in the femmes united group here in Portland (folks being really divisive and defensive around racial justice accountability) and partly in that I just don’t think my femme identity can be separate from my poc identity politics. While this is probably obvious to lots of femmes of color, it just became concrete to me that like my feminism versus womanism, I just don’t think white femmes and femmes of color share enough for me to think of them as the same thing. At the end of the day, I guess I’m realizing that femmes of color have their community, culture, and identity  that femme identity alone just doesn’t have and I’m really ok with separating those two things and not seeking out anything but femmes of color community. 

     

  5. If the notion of “Health” and “Healthy” are steeped in morality.

    (some thoughts/questions I’m processing this morning, as I’ve been bombarded with a variety of different messaging on health today)

    What happens to these ideas once we remove the notion that there is a binary of health and healthiness that one can succeed or fail at. This idea that what we do with our bodies must align to a static notion of the ideal means that our inability to adhere to what is considered right and worthy for our bodies is viewed as an individual failure to perform or participate in society. This notion underlies the way we view fatness, to food politics, to the fictionalize creation of the welfare queen and her inability to perform in society. This moral idea of health pervades race, gender, sexuality, and class. The morality of that which is right versus wrong, whether you’re fat, brown, or queer, can be viewed from way our bodies are positioned as either healthy or right or broken and wrong.

    What if we view health as simply the notion that our bodies can tell us what we need and we have the choice to listen and respond, with no judgement assigned for whatever actions we choose—understanding however that our ability to listen has been tampered with by the external noise of morality, commercialism, colonization, and Lutheran work ethic. 

    How do we get here, is it even worth arguing for? How can I practice undoing the morality I assign my own body? How do I understand morality as a construct that has been forced upon my queerness, my gender, my sexuality, my brown skin? When does morality serve me and when does it not. How does morality serve to keep me oppressed? How is morality institutionalized into our systems of power? 

    I’m chock full of questions today with very few answers. 

     
  6. Queer Prom 2010

    I miss my college days where I made a family with these fierce muxeres. 

    Also, I made this dress. 

     

  7. I’m thinking about working on putting together a Queer/Trans People of Color and Size zine focusing on radical visibility, family, finding community, and low/high days (or whatever really). There are a lot of amazing QTPOCAS here are tumblr that I admire and I would love to see a zine full of these amazing voices. 

    Anyone want to help me co-create this zine? Anyone interested in contributing? If I get enough interested in both co-creating and contributing I’ll put together a call for submissions. 

     

  8. Surviving as queer praxis

     

  9. blackgirldangerous:

    by Lovemme

    I don’t love myself. It’s not that I haven’t tried or that I don’t want to, but it’s due to the fact that people don’t love brown trans femmes like me. How can I love myself when the only time I see myself is in tragedy? When trans women of color are being murdered on their way to…

    This piece is beautiful, deep, and full of truth on the way self-love rhetoric fails and hurts. Amazing point about how self-love removes the responsibility from community to the individual and makes us as individuals, ill-equipped by society and our oppression, to then be also solely responsible for all the healing, the love, the unlearning and relearning, and community we need. I know I’ve been talking a lot about self-care lately and this gets at one issues I have with this individualists and dare I say—pull yourself by your bootstraps/blame culture that exists when we aren’t able to do it all by ourselves or for ourselves. 

    Read this—please. 

     

  10. Queer historia.

    First draft of a piece I’m working on for a QPOC zine.

    I met my abuelita for the first time at my mother’s wedding weekend last summer.

    I was so ready to hate her. Ready to hate her for rejecting and disowning my mother out of fear of la jota. And so I was ready to disbelieve everything she said to me and I worked hard to resists her stories and comments.

    I steeled myself against her truths so they would pass me by unlike the years that passed by me without a single call, letter, or attempts at acknowledgement of my existence.

    Sunday morning, with sunrise cresting, she sat me down over weak milky coffee and started to pour forth story after story about being a single mom and making ends meet, about the fighting and abuse between my grandfather and her, about the way she rejected the normal mujeres roles to live on her own terms, about the way she fought back the pressure to accept the abuse and the lies. It was hard to hear her pain, hard to hear the history that made her arrive at a place where her bitterness with life would make her capable of pushing my mom away. I didn’t hate her. 

    She would reject my interpretation of her life yet I found myself immersed in her queer history of redefining her body, of negotiating her femininity, of claiming with both fists the role of madre y padre, in rejecting her abuse and bashing back literally, and her queering of Mexicana identity within the confines of both what she was taught and what she had to learn.

    After talking with my grandmother I stumbled outside to porch. I couldn’t help but think about my mom and her own relationship with her body, her womanhood, her manhood, her queerness. How she parented us to believe in fluidity of body, sexuality, health. That she gave up/lost her family in many ways to live as the queer person she was born. The way she smiles through crying eyes when she recounts the first time she was told to put a shirt on after years of running topless with the neighborhood boys, and the time she brought her partner home to closed doors many years later. I was heavy with the pain on either ends of the broken hearts of these queered and queer women in my family.

    Sun shifting overhead, I looked back over my own understanding of my mom when growing up and how it was through filtered terms both fixed by society and through my own burgeoning queer sexuality. I went back to the time I asked my mom why she didn’t wear dresses like the other moms and the times I would ask her why I had two moms and no dad. I wondered what she thought when she caught me kissing the little girl from school.

    And I was forced, with the sun in my eyes, to confront my own womanhood as a queer fat femme xicana. I saw the truth of my own watered down understanding of my culture because I was shuttle away from the center of my family’s roots to be safe in my queer mother’s arms. I had to acknowledge the way in which I think of my life as watered down and weakened. How I have yet to arrive at a place where I don’t see my neplanta history as anything but pressed and reduced like a silky sliver of a flower that once bloomed. And even more at the core, I felt clarity about the way my xicana roots feel unwatered yet my queer identity feels like natural skin that has been fostered in my mother’s strength. 

    A year later and I am still looking into the sun and blinded, seeking clarity and understanding. I’m left thinking about what it means that my grandmother never ever dated a man again—about what it means that my mother would be my father if given the opportunity—that my own legacy of relationships keeps me queer as fuck and jota chingona to my core.

    I have to wonder that where I feel disconnect to culture that my queerness may in fact be my culture, legacy, mi historia, mi presente, mi pasado, my futuro.

    And I am left with the unanswered paradox of if losing my mother’s tongues really has meant gaining my mother’s jota lengua.