The Voice of My Gender

Truth is

my father beat my mother.

He did so in my presence

although he did not notice,

for he was high on patriarchy.

Truth is

as he pounded her into submission,

I found my voice and resentment.

As his hands lingered on her neck,

suffocating it was to watch the impression

of his fingertips remain.

I found my tears, blinding me, blending

colors and shapes into indistinguishable

objects.

Truth is

my mother wanted for us, what she

lacked in her infancy

a father figure. She did not want to

leave grade school nor spend the

afternoon pelando nopales, oh and how

those fine thorns yearned to hurt.

Truth is

generations past have struggled,

to have even the slightest grasp of

the future. Desde la madrugada

hasta la puesta del sol, trabajando. Frigid

mornings and blazing heat, looking up at the

sun, squinting, with reproachful eyes.

Truth is

calloused hands and jaded brown eyes,

aren’t a thing of the past. The backbreaking

work continues and continues. Will it ever

stop, where is the glimmer of hope?

Truth is

I can and will be that hope. No longer

the nurturer, no longer the docile being, no

longer the lesser sex. Fuera machismo y

fuera la desigualdad.

Verdad es

que yo represento

la fuerza inherente de mi gente y la voz de mi género.