In the Elementary School Choir

Gregory Djanikian

I had never seen a cornfield in my life, I had never been to Oklahoma, But I was singing as loud as anyone, "Oh what a beautiful morning.... he corn Is as high as an ele!hant"s eye," hough I knew something about ele!hants I thought, #oming from the same continent as they did, $nd they being more like camels than anything else. $nd when we sang from %eet %e in &t. 'ouis, "#lang, clang, clang went the trolley," I remembered the ride from (amleh &tation In the heart of $le)andria $ll the way to (oushdy where my grandmother lived, he autos on the roadway vying *ith mule carts and bicycles, he %editerranean half a mile off on the left, he air smelling shar!ly of diesel and salt. It was a !roblem which had dogged me +or a few years, this confusion of !laces, $nd when in ,th grade geogra!hy I had !ronounced "Des %oines" as though it were a village in +rance, %r. -e!hart led me to the ma! on the front wall, $nd so I"d know where I was, .ressed my forehead s/uarely against Iowa. Des %oines, he"d said. (hymes with coins. 0ow we were singing "1i!!idy2doo2dah, 1i!!idy2ay," $nd every song we"d sung had in it 3ither sun or bluebirds, fair weather Or fancy fringe, O beautiful $merica4 $nd one tier below me, here was 'inda Deemer with her amber waves $nd lovely fruited !lains, $nd she was !art of $merica too $long with sun and s!acious sky hough untouchable, and as distant $s !ur!le mountains of majesty.

" his is my country," we sang, $nd a few years ago there would have been $ scent of figs in the air, mangoes, $nd someone !laying the oud along a clear stream. But now it was "%y country 5tis of thee" $nd I sang it out with all my heart $nd now with 'inda Deemer in mind. "'and where my fathers died," I bellowed, $nd it was not too hard to imagine $ host of my great uncles and 2grandfathers &tunned from their graves in the urkish interior $nd finding themselves suddenly On a rock among mai1e and !oultry $nd &/uanto shaking their hands. 6ow could anyone not think $merica *as e)otic when it had %assachusetts $nd the long tables of thanksgiving7 $nd how could it not be home If it were the !lace where love first struck7 *e had finished singing. he sun was shining through large windows On the beatified faces of all *ho had sung well and with feeling. *e were ready to file out and march back o our room where %r. -e!hart was waiting. $lready 'inda Deemer had disa!!eared Into the high society of the hallway. One day I was going to tell her something. Des %oines, I was saying to myself, Baton (ouge. erre 6aute. Boise.

Janani - trans/national (CUPSI 2013)

When I tell my mother how long Ive been sitting

in the shiftiness of a female body, she cries a million different kinds of monsoon tears. She tells me about the white men who colonized her country, her nightmares. her mothers sari soaked in saltwater, the traumas she screams about this is what I remember when I talk to white trans men and witness the million different ways they take up space in my community, and speak for trans women of color, and treat femmes as arm candy, and do not own their position as white men. Brothers, what I mean is did you think the M in FTM stood for misogyny? What I mean is what about your female socialization do you think affords you a free pass to patriarchy? What I mean is I understand your bodies have not always been yours but they have always been beautiful, you have always had words for them. My testosterone is made by Israels largest company. There is colonization running through my bloodstream Every time I take a shot my muscles feel out of place for several days. But there is some perverse satisfaction in this, that even in my body masculinity takes up too much space. Mom, youre right. this is a painful process. It is violence. It is scarring. But Im trying to believe in something greater: that there are ways of being a man that do not involve being a white man. When I tell my grandmother that Im ready to be honest with my body, she says, ok, make sure to call me more often, and Im sending you a drum set.

For days I have no idea what she means but then I realize in India only boys ever play the drums, and what my grandmother means is there are ways of being a man that do not involve being an American man, that you can still play your music with us, that I do not have words for this process of your becoming but I will work around it with art and love. Grandmother, mom, there is a way to do this ethically. I will build some other, new-old kind of masculinity. I will not worry about the words for it in English. I will honor the mothers in my history, the goddess in my name, I will play the drums for you.

If they label you soft, feather weight and white-livered, if the locker room tosses back its sweaty head, and laughs at how quiet your hands stay, if they come to trample the dandelions roaring in your throat, you tell them that you were forged inside of a woman who had to survive fifteen different species of disaster to bring you here, and you didnt come to piss on trees. You aint nobodys thick-necked pitbull boy, dont need to prove yourself worthy of this inheritance of street-corner logic, this blood legend, this index of catcalls, three hundred ways to turn a woman into a three course meal, this legacy of shame, and man, and pillage, and man, and rape, and man. You boy. You wont be some girls slit wrists dazzling the bathtub, wont be some girls, I didnt ask for it but he gave it to me anyway, the torn skirt panting behind the bedroom door, some fathers excuse to polish his gun. If they say, Take what you want, you tell them you already have everything you need; you come from scabbed knuckles and women who never stopped swinging, you come men who drank away their life savings, and men who raised daughters alone. You come from love you gotta put your back into, elbow-grease loving like slow-dancing on dirty linoleum, you come from that house of worship. Boy, I dare you to hold something like that.

Love whatever feels most like your grandmothers cooking. Love whatever music looks best on your feet. Whatever woman beckons your blood to the boiling point, you treat her like she is the god of your pulse, you treat her like you would want your father to treat me: I dare you to be that much man one day. That you would give up your seat on the train to the invisible women, juggling babies and groceries. That you would hold doors, and say thank-you, and understand that women know they are beautiful without you having to yell it at them from across the street. The day I hear you call a woman a bitch is the day I dig my own grave. See how you feel writing that eulogy. And if you are ever left with your loves skin trembling under your nails, if there is ever a powder-blue heart left for dead on your doorstep, and too many places in this city that remind you of her tears, be gentle when you drape the remains of your lives in burial cloth. Dont think yourself mighty enough to turn her into a poem, or a song, or some other sweetness to soften the blow, boy, I dare you to break like that. You look too much like your mother not to.
For My Son
Eboni Hogan

Epitaph When I die Give whats left of me away To children And old men that wait to die. And if you need to cry, Cry for your brother Walking the street beside you. And when you need me, Put your arms Around anyone And give them What you need to give to me. I want to leave you something, Something better Than words Or sounds. Look for me In the people Ive known Or loved, And if you cannot give me away, At least let me live on your eyes And not on your mind. You can love me most By letting Hands touch hands, By letting Bodies touch bodies, And by letting go Of children That need to be free.

Love doesnt die, People do. So, when all thats left of me Is love, Give me away. - Merritt Malloy When someone you love dies, and youre not expecting it, you dont lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades away from the pillows and even from the closets and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the part of her that are gone. Just when the day comes when theres a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that shes gone, forever there comes another day, and another specifically missing part.

Something About the Wind, Sidney Hall Jr. There's something about the wind coming o the ocean, the wa!es washing the roc"s that ma"es a #erson who is $uic"ly annoyed by cigarette smo"e and men #utting nails into roo s orget ul and unconcerned. I you are easily disturbed you need to get an ocean.
Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. Id wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, hed call and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of loves austere and lonely offices?

I like how you mispronounce words sometimes, how you fumble and stammer and stutter looking for the right ones to say and the right ways to say them. I appreciate that you find language challenging, because it is, because everything manmade is challenging. Including man, including you. When you sleep on your side, I like to map the constellations between your beauty marks freckles pimples, the minuscule mountains that sprinkle your back. I like the tufts of hair you forgot to shave and the way you smell when you havent showered in a while; I like the sleep left in your eyes. I like the way your skin dies in the middle of the night, how you die from embarrassment the next morning; how you writhe in the snake casing youve left behind. I like that you think pillow snowflakes carry more weight than pillow talk; that you think my opinion of you is so fickle that it could change overnight. (Its not.) I enjoy seeing you insecure, vulnerable. I like to watch red steam light up your cheeks, a spreading mist of shame when you think youve done something unacceptable like missing a step on the stairs or not having the perfect answer to something Ive said. Its like you honestly dont know how wonderful you are, its like you have no idea. The burns, the scars, the black and blues on your face body heart, I want to know their stories. I want to know what hurt you, who hurt you, how bad the damage is. I like your hard, ugly toenails and the layer of fat that lines your belly, the soft parts you try to hide. Its okay to be soft, sometimes.

I appreciate your ability to get inappropriately angry as much as I appreciate your willingness to apologize afterward. I like how your passion manifests unpredictably and uncontrollably, how your feelings cannot be caged or concealed, how youre incapable of apathy. I like how you cant dance, how you have pedestrian taste in music, how the worst song on every album is your favorite. I like how enthusiastic you are when you hear it, its like you dont know how terrible it is, its like maybe how youre able to love someone like me. (Perhaps thats your biggest flaw, perhaps thats the one I love most.) Your flaws single you out, set you apart, make you different from the rest, and thank god. I dont just put up with settle for accept your blemishes, I like them. I like them because they make you human, and humans are easier to love than photographs and illusions and ideals; humans fit more easily between arms and between legs; humans are welcome to their imperfections because if theres one thing humans can do perfectly, its love. Humans can love, they can do it flawlessly.

Thin"ing best #ractices % what are the most hel# ul ones you'!e seen& How are they used at 'e!erage& 'e!erage % tal" to me about your biggest success. How did 'e!erage accom#lish that in ways that would ha!e been hard or anyone else& What current #ro(ect do you antici#ate me hel#ing with the most& Salary and healthcare bene its )ust I li!e in your house&

A!erage wor" wee" % still *+ hours& Anybody lea!ing the house or any #eriod& ,o you legitimately #lan to orm a #olitical #arty& Why are you at 'e!erage and not wor"ing to build schools, or getting rich, or creating #olicy& What ma"es you thin" you're better than all o academia combined& Where d# you see le!ersge and yoursel in a year& In i!e years&