PRIDE and Poetry

[raze]

In the early-morning hours of June 28th 1969, New York police officers barricaded patrons inside the Stonewall Inn, a popular gay bar, and began the then-common process of identifying and arresting individuals who were in drag. The outcome was unprecedented: patrons fought back, refusing to cooperate and submit to unjust arrests. The scene spilled into the streets, where resistance from bar-goers and bystanders alike snowballed into rioting that forced the police into retreat.

For many, the Stonewall riots heralded the unofficial start of the national Gay Pride movement. Shortly after the events dubbed "The Liberation of Christopher Street," there was a proliferation of pro-gay mobilization in Greenwich Village. One year after the riots, in 1970, the first Gay Pride march was started on Christopher Street, traversing 51 blocks. This historic event symbolized a change in gay activism: it was an end to quiet, apologist strategies and the start of openly celebrating homosexuality.

Today, the Pride movement carries on in the same spirit of creating visibility for the QUILTBAG community while promoting acceptance (both self and societal) and equal rights. This week, at Poetree, we'll be celebrating sexual and gender diversity by highlighting the works of QUILTBAG poets and poetry.

The poem I will be sharing with you today is by activist-poet Buddy Wakefield. Wakefield won the World Poetry Slam Championship for two consecutive years, has several published poetry collections and records, and makes his living touring the United States presenting his art. Known for his lively delivery and bold, hard-hitting use of language, Wakefield is a big name in the world of Slam Poetry and an inspiration to other queer poets.

While homosexuality is not the predominant theme of his works, I thought it appropriate to share the activist poem A Waste. I am not certain of my permission to re-post its full text, and it does contain profanity, so below is a short snip of it; the rest can be found at this link - I highly recommend the full text.

A Waste - selected verses

....

The way she said it still blurs me up like a massacre.
In an attempt to make me feel handsome, Sweet Angel said, "If I was a girl your age and I found out you were gay, I'd just think, ya know, what a waste."

Okay, hey, Perky Cheeks,
if that was supposed to be a compliment
please don't ever send me a care package.

....

"A waste is a nine-year-old boy
Playing catch with the roof of his garage
Who already knows that
His existence makes for the perfect insult –
GAY"


Readers: feel free to share and discuss your reactions below!

Comments

[alee_grrl]

I spent most of my childhood and adolescence in rural Northwestern Louisiana, where in many ways it could still have been 1959. There was so much hate in the culture, so much awkwardness, and so many lies. This whole poem really echoes my experience. These lines in particular spoke to me

Do you have any idea how gross it feels
To have to hide inside the piles of lies it takes to make you,
Sweet Angel,
Comfortable?

I remember so well the lies I told to make other people comfortable. I left Louisiana just after I finished my undergraduate degree. I did my best to leave the lies behind as well. Thank you for sharing this evocative poem.

[alee_grrl]

I also want to thank you for this amazing introductory post to our Pride week! Well done!

[ashestosnow]

I think this was the part that haunted me most, from multiple angles:

These are the children who will never be told there is nothing wrong with being human
Who are not allowed to love themselves
Despite their crimes
Who will have no one there to help them arrange
Chaos in alphabetical order
Once they realize that sometimes
Being born
Is really inappropriate.

I've dealt for a long time, for a number of reasons (including my struggles with my sexual/romantic orientations), with the question of whether it was okay for me to have been born.

It's a question so vague as to be meaningless, honestly. Okay by whose standards? We act as if there were some objective benchmark of okayness, defined by the shifting whims of society yet at the same time solid and unshakeable. It's an idea that falls to pieces once you begin to analyse it.

Yet it still holds power over us, for all its foolishness, and something about these words really captures that. Sometimes, no matter what you tell yourself rationally, you feel inappropriate. And that emotion is something that can't be, doesn't deserve to be, brushed off. We feel it. It's real.