Man, you wouldn’t believe the most amazing things that can come from some terrible lies…

***

I spend a big part of my life on highways and freeways these days. Anywhere from 10-20 hours a week. You wouldn’t believe how much death I’ve witnessed while traveling. Racoons, squirrels, and possums are regular roadside casualties. Dogs spring up on rarer occasions–you can usually tell that they’ve been dumped from cars by the way they’re smashed into the median, as if a driver couldn’t find a passenger willing to help and had to do the grisly deed himself.

One time a kitten tried to cross a four lane highway, and the last thing I saw before the tire flipped him under the car was his too long teenage kitty legs stretched as far as they would go, like a teeny leopard streaking across the jungle of concrete.

It surprised me when I saw this incident, because cats are notoriously shy and cars are loud angry creatures. But the surprise only lasted until I drove pass him. That’s when I saw his mangled body, still twitching, even though I knew he couldn’t possibly be alive.

I cried the rest of the way home. And tried to imagine if the cat was stupid, brave, or just plain terrified when he decided to try crossing over four lanes of raging death.

***

My father and I are sitting in a tiny smoke filled restaurant. It’s early morning, before school. There are men in factory blue uniforms all around us, several of them greet my father as we walk in and find a table. For a while, he fills the space with greetings and small talk with the other men. But eventually he turns to me.

I feel his gaze and my hands sweat. I don’t know what to do or say. My sweaty hands twist together under the table.

He doesn’t know what to do or say either. He picks up a menu and opens it.
I let out a sigh of relief as quietly as I can.
I try to ignore the twisting in my stomach.

It is my birthday.

***

I started watching Battlestar Galactica recently. I didn’t want to watch it–I’ve been avoiding watching it for years. I hate space shows, frankly. I need green. Water. A little bit of nature somewhere. The third Star Wars (Return of the Jedi), was always my favorite of the series. Because finally, the hard clean lines were softened. The relentless black and white faded into brilliant green and brown.

I didn’t want to watch BSG. But I finally did the other day. And I couldn’t stop watching. I’m not finished with the series yet, but I’m watching at least three shows a day, if not more. I always knew that Admiral Adama was played by Chicano actor, Edward James Olmos–but I never really understood what that *meant* until I started watching the series.  This little Chicano commanding an entire fleet of ships, giving orders, staring people down. And basically defying the first rule of science fiction–that there is no place in space for Chicanos. Not unless there’s a plantation somewhere that needs slaves to harvest food for the heros.

And who can think of Edward James Olmos as anything BUT Chicano? The ulimate pachuco? One of the first actors to openly claim the deeply politicized “Chicano” rather than the more ambivalent “Mexican-American” or the assimilated “Spanish”?

The proud thrust of the head, the deep lean in the stance, the defiant care given to each article of clothing–the control, the sneer, the confidence–Admiral Adama learned everything he knows from El Pachuco. Born leader. Meant for more than relentless picking in green fields that don’t belong to us.

But then Lieutenant Adama shows up. The son of El Pachuco hurts to look at. Only barely able to meet his father’s eyes. More comfortable addressing his father with “sir” than the more vulnerable “dad.” And angry. So angry he ran away. Only came back because there was no place else to run to. Only world-wide genocide could force the son to face his father again.

The son is not simply “everything the father is not.” It’s more complicated than that.

The son is the crack in the fierce arrogance of El Pachuco.
The son is all the mistakes the father has made.

***
Death is not the only thing on the highways of Michigan. The other day, I dressed up for a work presentation–had my titties all shoved up and my hair all sexy and my dress just right. Within ten minutes of getting on the freeway, two truckers had honked at me. The first time I was ever honked at, years and years ago, I was driving across the state and operating under the misguided belief that nobody could see what I was wearing below the windows of my car. So, I only wore a pair of shorts and the top of a bikini.

I got honked at relentlessly by truckers. Each new honk scared the shit out of me–I was only a teenager, hadn’t been driving for more than two or three years. By the time I reached my destination, I was a nervous wreck. Up until that point, I thought the only reason people honked at you was because you cut them off or they were trying to signal something was wrong with your car. I was sure that my car was on fire or that a wheel was falling off (which, oddly enough, had happened to me). I didn’t find out until a few years later when I shared the story with a trucker friend that they were honking trying to get my attention. Highway harassment, if you will.

I’m never honked at anymore. Except when I put lots of effort into what I’m wearing. And even then, usually not. It’s not that sexism on the freeways ends once you get older. It’s that the lack of interest is as much of a statement as the honking is.

***
I wanted to be my Dad when I was a kid.

Talking with a friend the other day, I remembered sitting in my childhood living room, watching the MTV official release of the Billy Joel video, Uptown Girl. Remember that video? Where she’s in a flowing white dress and he’s in workers blues? I understood for the first time that my dad was important. Somebody that people made videos about. Somebody that people admired. Somebody the girl wanted.

I wanted to be that man. I wanted to be my dad.

Everything that he was, I was not.
He was brave, I was not, he was smart, I was not, he was a good worker, I was not, he was desirable, I was not. Everything he was, I was not.

I wanted to be my dad.
Not a mistake.

***

home/hōm/
Noun:
The place where one lives permanently, esp. as a member of a family or household.

esp. as a member of a family or household.

esp. as a member of a family

family

***
I’m the son nobody wanted. I’m the son my chicano dad didn’t want. I’m the son that my Chicano dad never learned to want, once he got to know me better. That’s what’s supposed to happen, right? The unwanted pregnancy turns into a wanted kid?

That never happened to me. That never happened to my dad. I had a Chicana friend who had a Dad like mine. Who wasn’t wanted by anybody. And wound up the coddled baby of the family. The apple of the eye, the protected baby, the one who got that cherished name–m’ija. m’ijita when the love was overwhelming.

I couldn’t talk to her for months after I found out that she confronted her father. And wound up in his lap, their tears mixing, their love reaching to each other and finally touching, gently, fondly, the start of a new world. Something I never will have with my father.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve clung to the feeling of rejection a lot less fiercely. I’ve learned how other communities deal with absent fathers. With father’s that never wanted their children. With men that never *will* want the children they create. Will Smith in the Fresh Prince of Bel Air loses it in front of his uncle. Winds up in his uncle’s arms. Crying. Why didn’t that bastard want me?

Why didn’t he want me?

I have learned that that is question that can never be answered. I’ve learned that even if I could ask it of the man who lived in the same house with me for all those years, the answer will be imperfect. I’ve learned that men answer “I don’t know” to hard questions. That to answer anything more would require years of therapy and resources that men  just don’t have or even know exists. I’ve learned that at the core of their hardline machismo is what’s at the core of my hardline anxiety.

Fear.

El Pachuco doesn’t care if he is loved. He doesn’t need to love. That’s what makes him so fierce. Desirable. What we all want to be. That’s what makes us love him.

But El Pachuco is afraid. He is more comfortable running than he is with staying. He often doesn’t need to run because he was never there to begin with. The family man, my family/mi familia. Used family to “be a man.” Doesn’t need to be loved, and so never loved. Not because he is brave. But because he is afraid. Unused to the work of love. Usused to the work of home. Unused to being vulnerable to another person.

So he sits, a stranger in his house. All around him too afraid to speak, to be loud, to be noticed. By the man in the chair with beer and the always on TV.  The man who worked to earn the silence. Worked to justify his lack of attention.

Your father has worked all day! If you bother him, you’re going to be whipped!

A home is a human right. A home is the definition of humanity.

esp. as a member of a family or household

A home is a human right.
Family is a human right.

What are you if you never let yourself have a family?

What are you if you share a house with somebody who never wanted a family?

Who never wanted you?

***
i try to imagine that letter. you know–that one that all the therapists say to write to people who you have things to say to, but can’t say them. i try to imagine it, but it’s still too preposterous for even my imagination to talk to my father. what do i say? to a person who doesn’t want to talk? who has never wanted to talk?

i talk to a friend about how much i struggle with the macha me. that i am learning more and more the story of my femmé self. but the part of me that i counted on for so long–the part of me that is tuff and kept me alive and fought even when i didnt think i could fight anymore–now that i’ve stopped fighting, i don’t know who that macha is, who that son is. what story the macha son needs to tell.

it’s been harder for me to come to terms with the son, than it ever was for the daughter. i never hated the daughter. the daughter, i did not value–and so the journey has been learning to value her. when you go on that journey with other latinas who love through sharing what they’ve learned on their own journeys–this is almost a fun journey.

the son–i actively hated. the son–i punched, kicked, beat, and even stabbed. it was the son who cut. not the daughter. it would be too easy to say it was all my father’s fault. in this world that hates queers and ambiguity and fluidity–it would be just too easy.

but the father was everything the son was not. and neither one of us had the skills or resources to notice or point out that the father was broken. and that the son was trying to break himself, not fix himself.

the son is all the mistakes the father has ever made.

dear father. father. dear sir. sir. sir.

I crumple up the paper. i don’t try the letter writing again.

***

I could say I learned to love my father, or at least come to peace with him, by becoming a mother. By learning how hard it is. I could tell you the stories of being macha tuff with my kids. Telling them. Ordering them to stop crying.

But the truth is, parenting just reaffirmed that I was a failure. I learned that I was not prepared to do what it would take to make those kids shut up. I didnt have the heart to beat anyone. I didn’t have the heart to turn the t.v. up louder. I didn’t have the heart to just not come home.

But boy did I know how to run. How to be there without really being there. One day I pull the car off to the side of the road. I’m headed to work. But before I left, W* and I were fighting. The kids were angry at us for fighting. I couldn’t stop tho. I kept yelling and yelling and yelling, until it was finally time to go. I slammed the door as I left. Fuck them all, I told myself.

But then I felt that ugly cry coming, and I had to pull off to the side of the road. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed into the steering wheel. I knew the choice that was in front of me. I could leave. I could keep driving and never ever come back. And it would all be over.

I cried until I almost threw up. Because I knew what choice El Pachuco would make. And I knew that I couldn’t make that same choice. Because just the thought of leaving…just the thought. I can’t leave my family. I can’t leave my home. It takes me a while to realize it’s not fear that keeps me there. But love.

The son…he is all the mistakes the father has made.

Right?

***

The other day a white *F*eminist said that she “could care less” about minority representation on film. Somebody had asked her about an interview she did with another white woman who has said publicly that she doesn’t include characters of color in her work because “she doesn’t know any people of color.”

You have to write what you know. Right?

There is a scene in Battlestar Galactica. Where the insecure son asks El Pachuco that terrifying question. That one that haunts all of us with macho fathers who use family to “be a man.” Who don’t care if they are loved.

Would you have gone through all that trouble you went through for that person–if that person was me?

In the show, El Pachuco wants to stay in a dangerous situation in the hopes of finding the girl that he loves like a daughter. He fights to stay in that position. Trying to buy time. Maybe a few more hours. A few more minutes. He uses the power of El Pachuco to stay in the dangerous position. He fights for the girl he loves like a daughter. But who isn’t his daughter.

Eventually, El Pachuco finally realizes–it’s time to go. He is potentially sacrificing the lives of his entire fleet for one person. It’s time to go. And face the devastating loss of the girl he loves like a daughter. But who isn’t his daughter. But who he loves.

The son pulls El Pachuco aside. Asks him. Would you have done all this if she had been me? Which is code language for: do you love her more than me? Do you love *me* like that? Do you love me as much as you love this girl–who isn’t even your daughter?

Do you love me?

Edward James Olmos knows this question is not an outrageous question. Edward James Olmos knows not to be outraged that this son would ask his father this question. Edward James Olmos knows he is a Chicano. Edward James Olmos knows his responsibility as an actor to his community. Edward James Olmos knows we need stories too. That we need more than just Chicanos in space. Edward James Olmos knows what it means for El Pachuco to pull his son (m’ijo) into his arms and whisper fiercely, if it was you? I never would’ve left.

El Pachuco has finally stopped running.
El Pachuco is finally a dad.
El Pachuco finally is brave enough to love.

Because we need stories too.

***

our land is the freeways, the highways, the backroads nobody knows about but us. gloria anzaldua defined us as movers, and border crossers–but she was careful to point out that the goal is to get back home. even if it’s not the home we left. if we have to build it ourselves.

because what are we, without a home?
what would happen if we stopped using all the roads slicing through our communities to run? and used them to come back home?

even if it’s not the home we left?
how can stories help us to build the home that is our human right?
our human right.
because we’re not mistakes.

***

I am sitting in my car, waiting to pick up kids from school. I’ve been traveling all day, up and down I-75, back and forth over I-94, across M-13…to finally wind up in a line of cars of parents waiting to pick up their kids from school.

My butt hurts from the hours of sitting. My hair is whipped into a rats nest from the open windows on freeways. I usually walk in to get the kids–today my hair is a mess, so I wait in line. In the car. Under the misguided belief that nobody can really see your hair when you’re sitting in a car.

The radio is on. I am flipping through the pictures on my i-pod. I find the one I am looking for. Of me. The sun is over my shoulder, my face is in the shadow. My eyelashes stand out against my cheeks. I see my son’s eyes in mine. I see my father’s eyes.

The song that has already played about thirty times today comes on. I don’t crank it this time. I don’t want others to share this moment. It is my son’s moment. My dad’s. Mine. We are together.

Man, you wouldn’t believe the most amazing things that can come from some terrible lies…

It is just family in this moment. Just us.
El Pachuco has finally stopped running.
El Pachuco is finally a mami.
El Pachuco finally is brave enough to love.
I would never leave.

Ever.

It is our story.

as a great sky in clear light green i wish my heart would be as vast….

-japanese waka poem

i’ve been doing research around archetypes, because i’ve just been so sick and tired of hearing about the witch archetype in healing work (i.e. the witch burnt at the stake seems to be pretty much every single *F*eminist healer’s past) or the crone archetype.

everybody thinks they were a witch or a crone. and that they have to heal their wise selves.

ok, so i don’t mean to make fun of it, because i’m intrigued by it all, i really am. it just, as i’ve mentioned often, gets really really fucking frustrating.

because i don’t think people are being honest. i don’t think we’re all a bunch of courageous witches that got burnt at the stake standing up for our right to midwive the towns people. I also don’t think we’re all some wise crones either. i think that so many people (and let’s get to the point, so many *white* people, and in this case, white women), always think of themselves as these very positive images (oddly, this goes again to the “strong badd ass” *F*eminst figure in literature/media) is a symptom of 1. being human (everybody thinks they’re positive amazing people, lol) and 2. liberal reformist white supremacisy mixed with a heavy does of classism (i.e. the “i’m a good person” syndrome, where it becomes impossible for middle class white liberals to imagine that themselves as “one of them” (redneck white trash lynching black people) because they’re “a good person.”

i mean, i think there’s more to it than that, because obviously, human beings are complicated beings—but for my purposes, i’m just thinking about these two major points.

so anyway. low and behold, i get into researching archetypes—and just like everything else that western folks get their hands on (and as far as i can tell, the irony here is that archetypes ARE a western created concept), the complicated shit most times gets boiled down into some easy peasy shit—like, i’m uncomfortable—that must mean that i’m a witch being burnt at the stake!

there’s actually scores of archetypes—which i didn’t know. and from what I can tell, they’re not supposed to be used as a way to read your past lives (i.e. i was a witch in my past life!) but as a *symbol* to understand your current life. clearly, there’s some academic out there somewhere who can explain this better than me—but archetypes are representative of the *symoblic*—which is why they’re so often used as *literary tools of interpretation*. for example, a little red riding hood going into the forest has several archetypes—red riding hood is the archetypical “virgin” figure and the forest can be interpreted in several ways—but most often i’ve seen it interpretted as representative of the “womb” or the “mother”—the daughter is ‘eaten’ by the forest and then emerges from the womb a new person—no longer a virgin.

so. here’s my official “feel free to clarify and/or more clearly explain things” to anybody who knows this stuff—because i’m no expert. but what i’ve learned so far—this is a very general understanding of archetypes.

ok—so when it comes to *healing*—archetypes exist as a way to understand patterns in your life symbolically. so—whereas a *F*Eminist saying she’s a witch generally makes my eyes roll—at the same time, she may actually have a point and there may be a reason that so many *F*eminists understand themselves as witches—because *symbolically* a witch is a person who is identified by her gender and her oddness/scariness/threatening power stems from her gender. so a *F*eminist may not be a witch in a past life—but it makes sense that she *interprets* herself *currently* as a person who is “grotesque” so to speak *because of what her gender makes her in current society*. the healing part comes when the person who identifies with the archetype “witch” understands that she is not *inherently* grotesque—it’s how others interpret her “witchiness” where the *value* of grotesque comes from.

I think. I’m using all my literary super powers right now. bear with me. :p

my inclination is to go in the opposite direction. to hunt down the worst worst worst archetypes out there—and go, oh. that’s me. which is what makes me think know that however scantily i understand this archetypal stuff—there’s a whole bunch of interpretation going on and as such, because interpretation carries social values with it, points 1 and 2 that i made earlier are extremely relevant.

and that means that a while middle class cis white woman may have to really be aware of her tendency to want to be “a good person” when using archetypes—*I* have to be really aware of not interpretting myself as I’ve *been trained to*—which is *through* the eyes of white supremacist heteropatariarchy. (and I think this is fanon, correct? it’s been a long time, so PLEASE correct me here!) that non-white people have been trained into a third consciousness (or maybe it’s dubois?)—whereby we understand ourselves as if we’re outside of ourselves—we’re constantly looking at ourselves from a third person position, using the eyes of white supremacy to mold ourselves into who we deem white supremacy wants us to be. but we’ll always be nothing more than a pale imitation of colonizers—even if we become colonizers ourselves. see: george zimmerman.

so—i’ve been trying to go back through archetypes again—and really centering myself and asking myself lots of questions (like: does this archetype speak to a *pattern* in my life—rather than, yes, i am a very monsterous bad person-so it’d be experiences versus judgement).

and one of the archetypes i really identify with is “the destroyer.”

I’m not going to talk much about this, as if you look beyond sterotypical “safe” achetypes like “the witch” you’re going to find that there’s actually a lot of vulnerability sitting in these descriptions.

but i did want to just write about it breifly—and note pointedly—that working with archetypes actually is very beneficial in many many ways. and that it is exists as a western tool of analysis and healing that is extremely helpful *without* (again, want to stress here, AS FAR AS I CAN TELL) depending on or kicking in the western vampiric blood sucking crap on eastern spiritualities/healing methods/modalities/etc.

oh, and there is a way to use archetypes which is not filtered through the (very straight, very white, very middle class) *F*eminist earth woman model of interpretation as well.

There’s room for us monsters in healing too.

grief…

scream at me
until my ears bleed
i’m taking it
just for
you

do not anger.
just for today, do not worry.

Hey all—I just got this email from a person I am very dear friends with and have done lots and lots of organizing work with. The organization she’s works with is EMEAC, or, East Michigan Environmental Action Council. They do *fabulous* and much neeed work around environmental justice (see here for a close up of the principles they follow) and have been leaders in committing to “community commons” as an response to the gentrification of Detroit.

In an effort to become self-sustaining (i.e. reduce their dependency on non-profits, become more accountable to community), they are currently holding a membership drive to raise money!

What’s up with EMEAC? And what exactly do y’all do? I’ve heard this before so read up!

We teach environmental media classes to youth and adults, we do environmental programming in DPS schools, charter schools, and at after school youth sites, we have an awesome youth leadership program!

What we may not have is your support as an EMEAC member!

This is the ask: A $20 membership donation will help us continue this vital community programming AND you will be subscribed to our monthly newsletter that will keep you up to date on what your membership has made possible!!
You will also receive first hand notice of fun and fabulous EMEAC events such as CommuniTEA’s, nature outings, parties, and film showings/discussions!!!

BONUS INCLUDED: that warm fuzzy feeling you get from supporting something you believe makes a difference in the lives of community.

WE WORK FOR YOU!! Air Quality, Waste Management, Water Access and Affordability, and Food Justice.

This is an opportunity to INVEST in the future of Detroit! JOIN OR RENEW YOUR MEMBERSHIP TODAY!

Donate on the EMEAC website: WWW.EMEAC.ORG and put “Tumblr” in the memo line.

FOR REAL! $20.00 is all it takes!!

Peace and Love,

If you can’t afford the 20$—I talked to my friend and she said that was fine—all donations are absolutely welcome!! but if you want that charming newsletter and the first choice invites—$20 bucks it is! :D:D:D:D:D:D

Seriously, tho. I can’t speak highly enough of this org or my friend (and again for full disclosure, i do have a relationship with both of them)—if you can’t donate, please reblog! Help this organization do the radical work of reworking their funding structure! (hahaha, that sounds so dorky—only ***I*** would be excited about something like that—let’s try this again…)

Help this organization continue it’s ground breaking environmental justice work! Go Green by investing in environmental justice!

The old girl is back up and running again–and I have to say, I’m glad.