I Am

Hello hi hi hi I literally have two entire blogposts on hold that I started before this one (it has been impossible to come back to writing them for some reason) but the inspiration came to me (probably due to my own delirium) and I couldn't let it go #sorrynotsorry ;)

Anywayyyyy here's the piece I felt overwhelmingly compelled to write.

..........

I Am

by: Maya I. E. Wilson

I am not beauty, nor elegance, nor grace
Don't you dare speak my name
I am festering wounds
I am tumbling mouths
I am crumbs in the bedsheets, stale gum and plot holes
I am not softly falling rain
I am the hurricane
I am peppered on bruises
I am swollen tonsils and week-old stubble
I am talking hands and chipped nail polish and sand
I am sunburnt ego
I am too-large nose
I am too loud, too short, too proud
I am my mother's mistakes
I am my father's mistakes
I am above my past and I am forever grieving it
I am reaching for fireflies
I am making new histories
I am big, I am love, I am joy
I hold the entire world in my palms
I am the cracks on the sidewalk and the flowers that grow from them
I am freezing cold water and gasps for air
I am yearning for something that might not be there
I am not steady
I am not calm
I am not a product of everything wrong
I am kites flying high and piles of snow
I am not the rehearsal, I am the show
I am tuna melts and Yankee candles and pinky promises
I am tangles of ivy and Newport and clam chowder
I am frigid Novembers and colder Decembers and overweight Vermont turkeys
I am crackling knuckles and future arthritis
I am the dulce de leche my grandparents invited
I am the speeding sailboats and the swaying palm trees off the coast of California
I am the currents flowing through Río Ozama
I am the hymns from churches I've never been to
I am a New York sliced pizza and fights you've never been through
I am too scared of subways, too Hudson River,
too young and still too much of a giver
I am not the national anthem, I am not a prize to be won
I am the children's laughter at recess
I am the view from Pico Duarte
I am the unspoken progress
I am free time on a workday
I am the floors my mother slept on
I am the songs my father sang
I am my brothers' peace of mind
I am the help hotline you rang
I am the dream that never ended, the story always retold
I am terrified of staying, terrified of growing old

I am not fleeting, nor sudden, nor temporary.
I am present, ever constant, ever permanent.
Ever here.
Do not try to perfect me,
I am my own magnum opus.
You do not get to claim me.
I am not yours to be had.
I am mine and mine alone.
You got that?

..........

So I casually stayed up all night––it's currently 12pm (as in noon) and I have yet to fall asleep :-) I dunno, I felt this urgent call to write. Like, I just had to. It was gonna eat at me otherwise.

Would love to hear your thoughts <3

Hasta la próxima,

Much love xoxo

Maya

P.S.: I'm reading this over right now and I don't know if it's the sleep deprivation but I am absolutely in love with it <3

Young Love

Forgive me as I spill the contents of my brain onto this webpage but the thought's been itching to be written for a while now so...

..........

The trouble with being young and in love is that you've got far too little time.

I know it must sound contradictory to the common phrase, "Oh, you're so young—you've got plenty of time." In fact, it's quite the opposite. You see, teenagers... Well... Adults expect us to act like adults, yet they treat us like children. I mean, what sort of sick madness is that? Do your homework, be responsible, take out the trash, wash the dishes, get a job, get an internship, learn to drive, learn to cook, learn to clean, learn to sew, learn to care for yourself... But don't grow up too fast, don't crash the car, don't get any crazy ideas, don't you dare swear, don't you dare drink, don't you dare smoke, don't you dare do drugs, don't you dare have sex, don't even think about falling in love... Unless it's innocent and pointless or you plan on spending the rest of your life with them.

I mean, the mere concept of adolescence is horrifying enough, let alone having old people breathe down your neck, analyzing your every move. It's stressful! It really is!

Especially because these very same adults claim "puppy love" is normal, but "true love" is obsessive, and we should steer clear of it at all costs. They don't want you thinking about marriage, they don't want you thinking about babies, they don't want you to even fantasize what it would be like to wake up next to your favorite person every morning. Because they're afraid you'll fall into some sort of death trap.

Now, I agree, there's a time and place for everything and truth be told, some realities we are simply too young for. However, I strongly believe that kids will be kids and we need to experience certain things on our own.

You see, the trouble with being young and in love is that you've got far too little time.

Between school and clubs and jobs and responsibilities, any free time you have left is meticulously and precisely calculated by the adults. Sure, they'll act like they care and they'll pretend that every moment you spend with your significant other is so stupidly precious that it'll last forever.

Except they really don't believe any of that crap. All they really want to do is make sure you're not holding hands too tight and that no one ends up pregnant or with premature emotional abuse. They want to save you from all those real world problems by shielding you from potential threats. But in doing so, they steal all those stupid precious moments from you.

All those lingering hugs, all those peppered kisses, all those oddly comfortable silences, all those fingers intertwined, all those stares when you're not looking, all those secret giggles, and inside jokes, and blissful naps, and hair combing, and back scratching, and foot rubbing, and tongue teasing, and side tickling, and heart beating... It's all stolen away because we've just got too little time.

God forbid you start thinking they're the one.

God forbid you begin to believe you met the right person at the wrong time.

God forbid you dwindle into heartache from realization.

Some things are just too good to be true.

So you see, I understand why the adults decide it's best to protect us from all this confusion. But it doesn't make it fair. Love isn't fair at all. It's fucking magnificent if you let it. But it can crush your soul, just as well.

The trouble with being young and in love is that it's complicated.

Simple as that.

20 Things That Make Me Human

For the sake of all you that probably wanna kill me for what time I'm posting this at, I promise I was asleep until now and woke up because I had an idea and I had to write it down and I could not stop. That's just the way these things work.

Anyway, I always like writing original thoughts down on paper first. It just feels right to me, I guess. That's the way I started out, so that's the way it's gonna end.

Eventually, I end up typing things into my computer just in case the original copy gets lost. I guess I'm telling you this now cuz my fingers are already cramping up and I'm elbow-deep in blue ink. Nonetheless, I thought it might be worth it to y'all what I spent the last hour writing.

...........

1. I know what it means to be loved.

She opens her eyes to fluorescent hospital lights, beeping machines and labored breathing. Someone has swaddled her in a blanket. The feeling is warm and soft. Faintly, she can see faces blurring in and out of focus. The faces are smiling at her.

2. I know what it means to be curious.

Her father holds her over the bushes, allowing her to peer at the blooming flowers. The colors are bold and vibrant. She takes her little fist and grabs the petals right off the stem with a squeal. The flower is dead now but she does not understand why.

3. I know what it means to be ignored.

She is four when they tell her it's a boy. He arrives late January and nobody seems to want to play outside. They all sit and coo and smile at the tiny thing. They tell her she's a big sister now. She thinks if this is what being big is, she wants nothing to do with it.

4. I know what it means to be anxious.

2007, they tell her she must move to a new country. They say it will be better there. They say it will be hot and sunny and she will make lots of new friends. She gets that funny feeling in her stomach that this will not be as easy as they make out. She begins to wonder if her new friends will like playing hide and seek.

5. I know what it means to be special.

Four days into second grade, the principal calls her parents. The principal says the course is much too easy for her—that she must be moved into third grade. She begins to think that being special sounds awfully scary.

6. I know what it means to be afraid.

She's nearly 8 years old but her wild imagination only seems to grow wilder. She swears there are witches by the windows and ogres under her bed. No matter how hard they try, they cannot convince the girl otherwise. So they put bars on her windows and tell her she is safe. She can't help but feel very trapped now.

7. I know what it means to be excited.

It is opening night and she cannot contain her squeals. She is about to perform in front of 1,500 people and she doesn't feel nervous at all. No, she's excited. She knows her lines and she knows her songs and she will blow them all away. This time, she will not be ignored.

8. I know what it means to be goofy.

She sits next to her brother, hoping he'd let her be a part of his video this time. Reluctantly, he agrees, and allows her to speak in strange voices at the camera, pulling her face into this and that. He cannot help but laugh at the girl before joining in himself. She misses when he used to laugh like that.

9. I know what it means to be distraught.

She picks up the phone on a Sunday morning. All she hears is death on the other side. She goes back to seventh grade on Monday morning. She says she is angry with the world. She says bad things should not happen to good people. They let her go to his funeral and she is the only child there. She cannot remember how many adults looked at her with a sort of pity in their eye. She remembers feeling alone that night.

10. I know what it means to be tired.

Three more deaths follow that year like a race against time. All she knows is her homework and her books and her writing. She's not sure who her real friends are anymore and she can't bring herself to speak to her family. She doesn't like the idea of causing them distress. She rarely eats and she hardly sleeps anymore and she is just oh-so-tired. She wants it all to end.

11. I know what it means to be rejected.

She looks pretty that night. Or as pretty as a twelve-year-old can be. She tells herself she's going to have fun no matter what, and she does. She's the first one out on the dancefloor and she loves the way her blue dress is twirling about. Soon enough, the only people left are couples and this one other boy sitting all alone. The camp counselor pairs the two together but the boy says no. She can't help but wonder if she just wasn't pretty enough that night.

12. I know what it means to be overjoyed.

It's six AM and her father insists she check her email. Bewildered and a bit grumpy, she obeys, only to scream at the words before her eyes: Congratulations! You made it! Tears start streaming down her face and she begins to ask if this is all real. Her father laughs and assures her that she really has been accepted into boarding school, that this really is going to happen. She beams throughout the rest of the day.

13. I know what it means to be lonely.

She's only three weeks into school when she wants to take her life. She's not sure why she feels this way but she believes it is the only way to escape the loneliness. She remembers feeling nothing at all. Simply numb.

14. I know what it means to be confused.

She knows she always found the human body fascinating. It's beautiful. Simple as that. What she doesn't understand is why she's only supposed to love one of them when they are both equally stunning. She tells her friends she falls in love with people—not genders. Personalities—not genitals. And she's okay with that.

15. I know what it means to be applauded.

She remembers how nervous she was to begin with. And this was not a crowd of 1,500 people. This was a small group of her best friends in the whole wide world. They clap and they whistle and they cheer and she remembers what it's like to be loved again.

16. I know what it means to be jealous.

She can feel her starting to pull him away. A couple hours a day turns into a couple days a week and soon enough she gives up on seeing him. After all, if this is what makes him happy, she cannot tell him no. She misses her best friend and she feels mad at herself for letting him go.

17. I know what it means to be hurt.

She struggles to breathe as the words start to sink in. She tells herself the words aren't true but it's not the words themselves that hurt, it's whose mouth they came from. She tells herself that this is the end—that she cannot go on like this, and so she lets go. Except this time, letting go hurts so much harder than holding on.

18. I know what it means to be passionate.

Her sanctuary is the Creative Writing classroom. In there, she finds her real voice through pencils and paper and a teacher who never fails to push her further. She sings words onto the page and watches them latch onto each other, slowly but surely creating a world all her own. And she is in love with the words and for the first time in forever, she is in love with herself.

19. I know what it means to be family.

She is sitting around a campfire. It's a Thursday night and it's almost 11 o'clock but it's summer, so no one seems to care. Her best friends are lighting marshmallows on fire and she watches as they blow the flames away. Their laughter melts into music and she zones in and out of their conversation. Someone wraps a blanket around her shoulders and smiles before plopping down next to her. They begin to sing their favorite song and it is only now that she realizes she is home.

20. I know what it means to be human.

I know what it's like to crave perfection but never achieve it. I know what it's like to stay awake for over 48 hours just because. I know what it's like to fail and to succeed. I know what it's like to cry, and to hurt, and laugh and smile. I know what it's like to have permanent ink stains on my fingertips because that's the only way I know how to feel. And feeling is the very best part about being human.

..........

I don't really think this counts as slam poetry but it wasn't straight up prose either, so sorry about that.

Also just FYI, I'm brain dead at the moment and should be sleeping in just a few seconds so if I'm not making any sense oh whale

Hasta la próxima,

Much love xoxo

Maya

Para Papi

My Spanish skills were a bit rusty so I made my lamest attempt at translating a poem I already wrote ("To My Dad") and showing it to y'all in Spanish *insert awko taco smiley face here*

Mind you, there won't be any accents on the words that require them because I am not that skilled in the foreign keyboard department.

..........

Cuando era chiquita, mi papa solia decorar mi almohada con polvo de hadas porque decia que mantendría las pesadillas a calma.

El decia que yo tenia el poder de encender las luces aun cuando estaban apagadas.

"Papi," yo decia, "No tengo poderes especiales. Donde encuentro la abilidad de apagar todo lo que me aterra y como evito a que me consuma?"

Me conto de como mi nombre era magico--Maya significa magia--y de como todo ese poder viene de una magia antigua llamada creyendo en uno mismo.

Papi, durante toda primaria, me escribias notas en servilletas, doblandolas como tesoros antes de ponerlas cuidadosamente en mi lonchera, asique cada dia en el almuerzo, me acordaba de tu voz.

Papi, lamento que te pedi que lo dejaras.

Lamento que lo llame tonto.

En secundaria, me viste crecer de extrovertida a introvertida y aun nunca dejaste de sonreir cuando me veias en el escenario. 

Cuando me equivocaba, me abrazabas y me decias que tan bien lo hice.

Aguantaste cada momento de telenovela con paciencia unica, dejandome usar tus t-shirts como pañuelos.

Cuando reprobe mi primer examen, no me gritaste, sino me dijiste que intentara mejor para la proxima. 

Cuando te dije cuanto me odiaba a mi misma, no perdiste el control ni me mandaste a un manicomio.

Cuando te dije que talvez era torcida, no discutiste y lo dejaste ir.

Cuando te dije que te necesitaba, te quedaste aqui.

Papi, lo siento. Te tome por hecho.

Papi, gracias.

Gracias por besar cada herida, por secar cada lagrima, por hacer cada chiste, por cocinar cada cena, por cada intento de trenzar mi pelo, por aceptar el hecho de que no soy atleta.

Repito--No soy atleta. 

Papi, lamento que no me entrene mejor.

Lamento que no soy tan fuerte como pensabas.

Lamento que tire las servilletas, lamento haber dispuesto de ti, por pensar que era muy cool y por dejar la magia ir.

Aun dices que debo creer en mi misma y 

Papi, estoy tratando,

Pero no se si nos queda polvo de hadas y ya he limpiado las memorias tal y como estaban en mi almohada--ni una sola era magica-- y no se cuanto sera hasta que salga el sol en la mañana pero

Papi, te extraño.

Me preguntaste que queria para Navidad y Dios mio, que daria por tener uno de esos poderes magicos, pero creo que ahora quiero una luz en vez de.

..........

Not all the grammar is 100% the way I want it to be and since the original is in English, I couldn't translate it exactly the same way, so it may be missing some elements that I personally love.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed that even if you didn't understand a single word :)

Hasta la próxima!

Much love xoxo

Maya

Forgetful

Latest slam poem.

Thought I'd share.

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Forgetful

I like to think you’re very forgetful.

Like that time you pinky swore and promised you’d never leave me,

Or that time I was afraid to go to bed, told you so, and went to bed alone, anyway,

Or like the time I said my favorite color was purple and that I hated tomatoes and baseball.

I like to think you’re very forgetful.

Or maybe, you know, it could be that you don’t sleep enough,

Or you’re part deaf and didn’t hear me,

Or that some supernatural force got hold of your tongue

Because why else wouldn’t you say,

“I love you”?

Sometimes, I worry that I haven’t made myself clear,

So I say things over and over and over again.

I like to think you’re very forgetful.

Like that time you promised you wouldn’t do it

Or when I almost died from food poisoning

Or that time you said you’d come back

Or even when I said strawberry, not cherry.

I always say strawberry. Never cherry.

I like to think you’re very forgetful.

If not, why’d you go away?

Why’d you stop laughing?

Didn’t you hear me?

Didn’t I matter?

Didn’t you hear me?

Didn’t I matter?

Didn’t you hear me?

Didn’t I matter?

I like to think you’re very forgetful.

Because otherwise, you’d still be holding my hand, right?

You’d still look me in the eyes,

You’d still smile every morning,

You’d still be here, goddammit!

I like to think you’re very forgetful.

I like to think your tongue couldn’t remember the alphabet, so it stayed silent when I asked if you were okay.

I like to think you were blind so you wouldn’t have to see me break when you left.

I like to think you were numb so you wouldn’t feel the hurt you made me feel.

I like to think you’re very forgetful.

Beautiful, but forgetful.

I sometimes wish I were just as forgetful.

That way I wouldn’t remember the day you forgot about me.

..........

Hasta la próxima!

Much love xoxo

Maya

To My Dad

Hello magical people :)

I thought about it and decided I might as well post the other slam poem I wrote about my Dad, or Papi, as I call him.

..........

To My Dad

When I was little, my dad used to sprinkle fairy dust over my pillow because he said it would keep the nightmares away.

He said I had the power to turn the lights on even when they were off.

“Papi,” I’d say, “I don’t have special powers. Where can I find the ability to switch off everything that scares me and how do I keep it from consuming me?”

He told me how my name was magical—Maya means magical—and how all that power comes from an ancient magic called believing in yourself.

Papi, all throughout elementary school, you scribbled notes into my napkins, folded them like treasure maps before placing them carefully into my oversized purple lunchbox, so everyday at lunch, I was reminded of your voice.

Papi, I’m sorry I asked you to stop leaving notes in my lunchbox.

I’m sorry I called it lame.

In middle school, you watched me shrink from extrovert to introvert and yet you never ceased to beam whenever I stood up on stage.

When I messed up a line, you’d hug me and tell me how well I’d performed.

You endured every soap opera moment with godlike patience, letting me use your t-shirts as tissues.

When I failed my first test, you didn’t yell, you just told me to do my best the next time.

When I told you how much I hated myself, you didn’t freak out and send me to a mental hospital.

When I told you I might be bent, you didn’t argue and let it be.

When I told you I needed you, you didn’t leave.

Papi, I’m sorry. I took you for granted.

Papi, thank you.

Thank you for kissing every scrape, for drying every tear, for making every joke, for cooking every meal, for every attempt at braiding my hair, for accepting the fact that I am not an athlete.

I repeat—I am NOT an athlete.

Papi, I’m sorry I didn’t train harder.

I’m sorry I’m not as strong as you said I was.

I’m sorry I threw out the napkins; I’m sorry I pushed you away; for thinking I was too cool and for letting the magic fade.

You kept saying I should believe in myself and

Papi, I’m trying,

But I don’t know if we have any fairy dust left and I’ve already swiped all the memories from my pillow—not a single one is magical—

And I don’t know how long it’ll be till the sun comes up in the morning, but

Papi, I miss you.

You asked me what I wanted for Christmas and God, what I’d give to have some of those magical powers, but I think I’ll just be wanting a nightlight instead.

..........

And there you have it folks. I have to say this piece holds a very special place in my heart, just as Papi does, and I thought it would be nice to share it with you all :)

I hope you've all had a fantabulous day!!!

Hasta la próxima,

Much love xoxo

Maya

Dearest Disbelievers

I mentioned in a previous post that I might be posting one of my slam poems and I thought why the hell not? So here we go. Up next comes a strong opinion about being biracial, more specifically about being a white Latina.

..........

Dearest Disbelievers

Contrary to popular belief, Spanish was actually my first language.

I’m Dominican American, you see.

“Wait, so if you’re like… Hispanic… why are you like… white?”

Well, ignorant, uncultured stranger, I’m gonna let you in on a little secret:

Not all Latinos are tan.

I know. Shocker!

Just like we also don’t wear grass skirts and drink piña coladas by the beach all day.

My parents decided that if my siblings and I were to grow up in America, mingle with Gringos and speak English all day, we might as well have Latin sounding names, hence: Yan Diego, Javier Alberto and Maya Isabel.

When I was seven, my family moved to the Dominican Republic.

Lunch was always the mingling fireworks of sancocho in my mouth, the salty sweetness of platano maduro and the garlic aroma of arepitas.

Abuelo would hum to the tune of old bachatas while he spiced up the kitchen.

Mami always said she’d teach me to dance merengue because she claimed Latin music was in my blood.

Papi would laugh and stumble over a language he only learned to speak at age thirty, trying his hardest to blend into a culture that was too loud for his Californian vibes.

At first, I didn’t feel any different at school than I did at home.

But then the stares never left my straight hair nor did the kids remember that I, too, could speak in their language, forgetting I knew whom they were talking about when they snickered “la blanquita.”

I was only a little white girl to them, you see.

I wasn’t Dominicana. I didn’t dance salsa.

I couldn’t dip into every valley that was the rolling of my r’s.

But then how come Abuela called me nieta since birth?

How come I only feel at home when my hips are swaying to Bambas?

How come when I went home every night, I sat down to eat La Bandera?

How can a culture so present in me, so loud, so THERE be silenced by the color of my skin?

How come my cousins, sun-kissed and coil-haired, who have never step foot in Dominicana, be considered more Hispanic than a white girl who’s lived there more than half her life?

How come my first words were in tongues only found overseas?

Abuelo’s spoken to me about Trujillo—about a dictatorship that smothered our music, smothered our freedom; trampled the stamp that is our flag so we couldn’t raise it any higher than our feet, so we felt we had nowhere we belonged to.

When I go home over break, I want to dance in syncopated rhythms, speak the song that is Lengua Española, gorge myself with con-con, paella, tostones, mangú, fritos, guandules, yuca y salami—stand tall in a land I was not born in, but a land I call my own.

There’s a Dominican flag hanging above my bed in my room here at the Abbey.

It’s a red and blue treasure map, raised with pride, always guiding me home.

..........

There we go. Kinda proud of it, I will admit that. 

And with that, I leave you lovely humans/creatures/preferred-noun.

Hasta la próxima,

Much love xoxo

Maya