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    Spring backward. #photoaday #flowerstagram #firstdayofspring #spring #lastofwinter ❄️❤️ So yesterday, I ran a poetry workshop at a middle school and hearing the words from these youth, I feel a lot better about the world. One boy wrote a poem & was very shy about reading it. I offered to read it for him. To my surprise, he wrote about people wanting freedom and not being “illegal.” I hope he finds the courage some day to read the poem because these days, hate voices itself louder than love. Our kids deserve better role models. I didn’t grow up thinking about my immigration status, but I think many children have to now. 💔I’m at a very low point in my hope bank. I’m taking notes on how to say goodbye to a country. I think one way is love and one way is poetry.
#loveislouder #happyworldpoetryday This Sunday I made it to church at a Unitarian Universalist congregation. I arrived as a panelist for an immigration and human rights discussion. My audience was majority White. I started with a poem and then my college journey narrative. It is a heavy feeling to be a person who potentially faces deportation or undocumented status and to stand in front of an audience that though sympathetic, cannot imagine what your world is like. They listened to me and the other panelists very actively. One of the panelists, Klara Bilgin, showed us this poster-size cover of Time magazine’s March issue with her own addition “Why America?” At the end I was surprised that most people had comments rather than questions. When we say immigration is a controversial issue or a “hot topic,” it’s true. I got to see it today by people commenting on their experience traveling abroad without borders or their observations of how much labor is expected of undocumented immigrants. Many of them were proposing solutions. I wish Congress were as productive as these people were in their 15 or so minutes to comment and ask questions. #rageatCongress #votesmart #speakup Little sister poem. Be woke.❤️ #ajamonet #poem
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1,000 miles: step 16

With a biology test and a precalculus exam this week, it would make sense for this to be another week spent poem-less. And it will be. Right after this drafty interlude: 

second breath
Stick a needle

through my tongue,

stitching your thin string,

spell out your grievance:

its icing so thick,

it’s almost sweet.

You asked me to sing

right after you dropped

your razor blade on the ice

then took me by the hand,

let my feet slip

and blamed it on my grip,

so that I would ask you to dance with me

thank you, for reminding me

I can feel.

Too many die

without having tasted resilience,

never having the decency

of spitting in the face of fear.

In the silence past the tipping point of loud:

You whisper that you were never

against my existence until my last sigh

became defeat.

You always said:

The drums in my chest were

captivating enough to compete

in your orchestra of strings.

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