Why I Marched in Semi-Slushy, Melting Snow Today in Lexington, Kentucky


I first heard of the ERA when I was about eight years old. I overheard a conversation between my cousin, who was about a year older, and my aunt who had adopted me at age four. There was a seriousness in the air. Perhaps, they thought I wasnʻt old enough to understand, or maybe I was just dawdling behind them in our stroll across the lawn—my cousin with burning questions, my aunt with gentle explanations, and I was just there, listening, a silent observer. It had never crossed my mind that we werenʻt equal. I knew there were boy things and girl things, but as far as I was concerned, I could cross the line anytime I wished. My aunt never said, “thatʻs only for boys.” When I told her I wanted the round, rubber-tip boyʻs tennis shoes, she got them for me without trying to squeeze me into narrow, girl shoes. When I wanted to wear Searsʻ jeans with supportive patches on the knees, in the boy section of the catalog she never batted an eye. After all, I played rough. I climbed trees, crawled under houses in good “Hide-and-Seek” games, and was never afraid to get dirty, and plus, they had pockets. Her only complaint was that all my clothes were stained from rolling in Hawaiian, red dirt when playing “Statue Maker.” She told me I was the “dirtiest kid in the neighborhood,” and I accepted that with a sense of pride.  When a doctor suggested active projects to keep me from terrifying nightmares, she bought me a hammer, a saw, wood, and some nails at age five. For my sixth birthday, I asked for Legos and dolls. It never occurred to me later, at age eight, that I would grow up without equal rights because of my gender. But, I did know that my skin color was different. Often white people thought they were complimenting me, but it just reminded me of how I didnʻt belong to white cousins, and how it would be worse if I were darker. The kids next door called me a bastard, because I was a brown child in a white family. Their words hurtled from their mouths, weapons on the wind, taunting jeers that I couldnʻt respond to, because I didnʻt know what that word meant, but I knew it must be bad.

When I was eleven, old white men stared at me, making me uncomfortable. One, telling me what a nice color I was, how I wasnʻt as dark as some natives were, as he groped me with his eyes, later his hands. And I was silent, ashamed of who I was. Ashamed to speak out, until years later.  I had heard stories, but never thought it would be me. My aunt warning us against strange men, but never about men we knew. Just say “no” they always said. Yet, despite the advise, sometime in my life, I couldnʻt stop the catcalls, couldnʻt stop the sexist remarks. Boys will be boys, people said. And women put up with it. I avoided passing groups of men. But, when something sexually violent happened to someone I cared about, I split wide open; the horror, the pain, unable to breathe, shaking from the devastation that had occurred, anger that I couldnʻt prevent this violence from happening to a loved one, remembering my own trauma. The sense of helplessness, rage, yet afraid to speak out.

When Donald Trump was elected President, I knew that Americans had gone mad. A self-proclaimed rapist, supported, upheld, venerated by mostly white men and women.  Some how it was okay to joke about grabbing women by their “pussies”, okay to grope them, to humiliate them, to treat them as lesser beings. And women voted for him, ignoring the fact that 3/5 of all women are molested or raped in our country. Yes, despite the years of work some women have spent trying to bring equality between sexes into our country, some women still voted for him. A sickening sense of betrayal suffocated me for weeks. Also, some Brown and Black people voted for him despite his support for the KKK, despite his disregard and disgust for people of color, people who have migrated from what he now calls “Shit hole” countries, people brought here through slavery, and people who came here hoping to experience the American Dream. Again, a sense of betrayal. I just canʻt even think…how this is okay in this century, after hundreds of years of destroying native lands and native people for money, a devastation that they are still reeling from through poverty, land loss, cultural loss, and western illnesses, along with the highest rate of suicide, depression, and the disappearance of native women, that no one else seems concerned about. Yet, some people of color still voted for him. My words must be garbled, because how does any of this make sense? All this political talk is just a cover up for rape. Raping the land, raping the people—people of color, women, LGBTQ communities, Dreamers, setting the world on fire, pointing war and death missiles at my children. Every day, another rape of my mind. Every day, a holocaust of ideas. I have tried to stay away from the news, tried to stop posting angry rants on social media, but last Saturday, when I thought my children were dying from a false missile attack in Hawaii, I woke from my fake news slumber. And I want to know, what is really going on? I want to know why some of my own non-white, Hawaiian relatives support him. Why is it okay for “Christians” to elect a rapist to office? Why is it okay for a “Christian” to support a President who thinks the KKK is okay? Because I really donʻt understand. I really donʻt. I think they must be asleep. I think they have lost their minds. And maybe even their souls. For money? Because they have run-up their credit cards? Because they are living pay check-to-pay check? Are they really willing to sell out humanity and compassion for this? We have to do better than this.  It reminds me of the chapter in Elie Wieselʻs Holocaust book, Night, where people were literally killing each other for crumbs of bread, but the real monster was Hitler.

I went to the March alone today, watched people I know give impassioned speeches, clapped and cheered, put on my gloves, took them off, smiled at strangers. It rose to 40 degrees, clumps of snow turned to slush. I was surrounded by smiling faces, children, and dogs. In this Red state of Kentucky, hundreds were out, speaking out for women, speaking out for people of color, speaking out for Dreamers, speaking out for LGBTQ issues, speaking out for a loving God, one that believes in compassion, and not fire and DamNation.  The Government shut down on this rally day. And despite the fact that Republicans have the majority in all three houses of government, relatives are still posting that it is Schumerʻs and Pelosiʻs fault. Amazingly, they are really serious about believing that. Despite this crockery, I believe there is still hope, because here, where slavery was once a booming business, where the auction block was once the norm, here where the KKK have rallied, here where Republican Mitch McConnell calls home, there were hundreds out, who stood up for whatʻs right for all humans. I have to believe that things will get better when the people finally wake up. things will get better when the people wake up.

Conflict/Resolution


Hope

After the Rain

 

I move into the rain

Where life is real,

Detaching from dry dust of day

Its residue coating my thoughts

Like broken words

Orchestrating, motivating,

Stirring, pushing to external heights,

Crashing,

Dissolving in liquid

And wet socks.

 

Rain streams

Over eyelids and cheeks,

Over-flowing rivulets,

Cleansing,

Falling on fertile lips

Waiting swollen

For a happy ending,

Winter clinging to an earth

Of resilience

Despite blight and sounds of cold snaps,

Increments of anxiety,

Internal waves deafening momentum,

Breaking inward, outward,

Out of proportion,

Or is it only an illusion?

 

Raindrops trickling,

Reminding me,

Surface of skin, warmth

Of salt, and memories

Like pale pink berries still warm,

Still succulent with summer’s sun

In that rain long ago,

Water remembers

My heartbeat fluttering in fine mist

Wanting to taste you then

In soft soil,

Wet between rows of peas

and cantaloupe, tongue-watering,

A quickening pale shoot

Moving forward,

Hands, hair, hope merging

In reality,

Conflict is a sweet word,

Surging sap between winter and spring

Red and blue,

Pele and Hi`iaka raging in a blizzard of

Fire and snow

Dualities tangled together

In love for an eternity,

Tongues, veins, blood, skin

Moving into streams

Of rain,

Falling gently.

 

Karen K. L. Espaniola         February 1, 2015

 

 

 

Ode To Maya Angelou


Maya,

I will always miss you.

A great tree is who You were,

Roots surging past jagged stones,

Steady, sure, sifting

Through the gravel in my bones,

Waking each cell,

Feeling each bruise,

Absorbing life’s

Battered branches sprouting with light,

And giving me strength,

And breath to breathe,

A beacon in a dark land,

Hope, when all seemed broken,

A free bird soaring,

Picking up the pieces of my heart

Where your cage fell apart,

Following the drinking gourd.

In your trail of living water

I live

In your promised land,

And though you didn’t know me

Your voice was familiar to me,

Comforting, warm like honey,

A resilient old negro spiritual,

Surging, throbbing beyond southern soil,

A thriving river soft like tear drops,

Yet strong,

Running deep where cuts lashed with sorrow

Tangled in veins, and skin, and memory.

Your words healed me with your passion,

Woke me with self-compassion.

You are the rising spirit on the backs of history,

You are the dark ocean moving,

Threading a journey into tomorrow.

Bright diamond,

In the star studded sky,

Lead the way to water,

And I will follow.

 

Karen K. L. Espaniola,

June 1, 2014

 

Sky River


IMG_20130917_063014_975-1

I look to the sky river,

A fluid, timeless, spaceless current,

My heart wide open,

Ready to gather ripples

From the universe,

A hopeful flow that pulls me in

And bathes me

in fingers of light.

Rain Tanka


 

IMG_20131215_162813_422-1-1-1 (1)

Where sad soil lies

Soft patter of rain alive

Green rejuvenate

Dreams that take hold in water

Rooting where hope is dormant.

 

Poetry

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© Karen K.L.Espaniola and hinarising.com. 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Karen K.L. Espaniola and hinarising.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.