What are your transmasc stereotypes?

My friend starting reading me for fitting the bill

and I was like....no I'm unique

Here's my me stereotypes

I am a romantic = i.e. I love gothic literature, Brontes sisters (wuthering Heights), Sheridan Le Fanu (Carmilla), Angela Carter (bloody chamber, heroes and villians)

Some of my favourite music artists are: Tom waits, Leonard Cohen, The smiths, The cure, David Bowie, Cocteau Twins, Bob dylan, Billy bragg, Grace Petrie, The Rolling Stones, Lou Reed, Fleetwood mac, Meatloaf,

Ex-catholic (raised that way x2 catholic schools)

Did a Psych degree

Dress sense: electic but I wear a lot of gothic pieces including silly collars and my personal style icon is Astarion Acunin/Howl.

I live in England.

Where the majority

rule is Christianity.

The religion of colonalism

in my mind.

The cross, the bible,

missionaries.

Flooding to other countries

to educate the 'savages'

This isn't a new game.

The forced Isamifcation

happened to the Armenians

who remained under Ottoman rule.

But I don't want to hate middle easterners

or muslims. Simply for existing.

I was traumatised by the catholic church.

The rosary, the cross,

the bible.

It punished me.

It frightens me.

I don't trust Christian kindness one jot.

Not as far as i can throw it.

Raised in the catholic church

and punished by it.

The thing that always struck me,

looking at the iconographies

was how white Jesus looked.

Jesus of Nazareth was born

in what is now Palestine.

A middle eastern man.

Dark skinned and curly hair I imagine

not .....this fair skinned ayran.

A man who

american customs

would've gaurded with suspcision.

Is there anything sadder

or funnier than Christianity

being used as a tool for white supremists

and bigots
when Jesus himself was not white?

And I have brain worms

on how people use religion

as a tool of oppression.

It doesn't have to be this way,

'peace be with you'

were words I uttered in the church.

Whilst I was torn apart

by the congration.

I went on my knees

and I prayed

and whilst the cancer ate

my mother's body

The good christians prayed.

And bullied me.

And isolated me.

And told me I was a sinner born

every week in church.

And christian kindness

amounted

to very little.

In catholic school.

I wear the marks

of their harm.

And I will never forget.

What the Catholic Church stands for

absolutely nothing.

Genuinely curious. As far as my uneducated english ass knows Anatolian covers: Greeks, Turks, Armenians. Am I missing anyone from the list? I've got Greek/Armenian grand-parents but culturally I'm english so I can't lay claim to understanding the caucuses first hand.

The  possession,

of being yours

took me fast.

At first,

being in your gaze,

I felt like I was

empowered. Powerful.

You. This man.
So known. So trusted.

And he was seemingly

enraptured.

Whatever I did, or

said, you treated with reverence.

I felt the way you looked at me,

as some kind of walking miracle.

At the time,

I was so lost.

No one would look at me.

No one wanted me near them.

You, you treated me

like some kind of unknown saint.

And I remember when we first met,

I didn't consider how you viewed me.

As a hunter,

stalking his prey.

You teased me

for getting a non alchoholic drink,

so I bought one. Because I've always

been of those 'I run with the boys'/

'I wanna be a boy', sad little pick-mes.

And you noticed that.

And you liked that.

And. you noticed

I was eager to please.

Hard on myself.

And entirely skeptical

of the goodness of your intentions.

God I hate being right.

I had a bad feeling.

When I was a shiny new trinket.

That the fall would be steep.

And oh my lords,

was it.

Jesus christ on his fucking cross,

bleeding with a crown of thorns.

You took me,

Isaac instead of the lamb,

and you bled me.

You took me the lost child

with stars in their eyes

and you dragged me down

the primrose path.

God hath given you one face,

and you made himself another.

You signalled your virtue,

used my pronouns,

declared yourself disgusted

by men so cruel, as the ones

who came before.

And my darling, you were every

bit the villain you claimed

you hated so much.

You rankled

at the crimes of other men against me,

and then you pulled the same tricks.

Used my vulnerabilities

to blind me. Kept me uneven

and on my guard,

with constant tales,

of your other loves.

The lone traveller.

The lost artist

who lives firm in your mind,

his name forever on your lip.

And now I too,

imagine I will be another tale

you will tell.

Will you use my dead name?

Or my given one?

Will you describe me

as your lost cause

and use me to make your next beau

weep?

I lost my heart,

I lost my mind,

I lost my hope.

And all the while

you became my faith,

my relgion.

You took on my prayers,

and unbidden anointed me

and crowed me with your thorns.

And you called it love

as you took everything I gave

and called it worthless.

Whilst I sat by the sea,

and wept for the lost girls

the ones I had been.

The ones I wished to forget.

The new face emerging

from my skin.

As you walk on

striding in my city.

Wearing a new face.

Wearing new lies.

Ready to hunt.

To prey.

And all I as your survivor can do,

is wait for the inevitable

climb of your new love,

and their horrifying fall from grace.

I gave up my prayers

long ago.

But for this one.

I will pray

that they escape.

To no God

other than fate.

I met someone,

in the haze of dark bodies,

and in the poor lighting

of a dingy bar.

There was music blaring

so loud, the room vibrated,

with the sound of 'Boy's Don't Cry'

muddled into 'Pearly-Dewdrops'

and I watched and waited.

And then I passed her

by, as she lit a fag and

exhaled her smoke,

like it was an art-form.

Choker and combat boots,

a skirt that looked like

the scissors had been taken,

to create the jagged plumes.

This rugged apocolypse survivor,

last standing femme in the earth.

Love-bites and self-harm scars,

tattoos and piercing.

I left the evening,

with the memory of dancing,

and her name.....

scrawled next to a number.

Once bright in ink,

with a star and heart,

now faded into a crumple

lost at the bottom of a drawer,

but the memory of that night

lives on and sinks in my skin.

Her laugh,

her smile,

the way she

made me feel

endless.

And the lost

pieces of

who I once was.

Back when I was

eighteen and everything

felt new.

I met someone,

in the haze of dark bodies,

and in the poor lighting

of a dingy bar.

There was music blaring

so loud, the room vibrated,

with the sound of 'Boy's Don't Cry'

muddled into 'Pearly-Dewdrops'

and I watched and waited.

And then I passed her

by, as she lit a fag and

exhaled her smoke,

like it was an art-form.

Choker and combat boots,

a skirt that looked like

the scissors had been taken,

to create the jagged plumes.

This rugged apocolypse survivor,

last standing femme in the earth.

Love-bites and self-harm scars,

tattoos and piercing.

I left the evening,

with the memory of dancing,

and her name.....

scrawled next to a number.

Once bright in ink,

with a star and heart,

now faded into a crumple

lost at the bottom of a drawer,

but the memory of that night

lives on and sinks in my skin.

Her laugh,

her smile,

the way she

made me feel

endless.

And the lost

pieces of

who I once was.

Back when I was

eighteen and everything

felt new.

The legacy of violence

I know well.

And the strangest thing

about violence. Is the silence.

My great-grandparents escaped

the Ottoman empire, what was once,

Armenia now makes up modern day turkey.

Haig and Agvanhi.

1.5 million armenians died.

The rest were displaced to

Syria, Iran, Russia, Lebanon,

and still to this day the Turkish Government

claims there was no genocide.

I know the violence

because the violence

was passed down in my own family.

The violence was passed down

in my Armenian-Greek's father

refusal to protect me over many years.

My legacy four gens down,

is the gift of violence. Of silence.

Of transgenerational trauma from

a father who could not protect me.

Had an overbearing Armenian mother,

and a Greek father who I suspect,

was on the autism spectrum.

Owned a carpet shop,

was incredibly tight with money,

and changed his surname to fit into

American life.

Two first gen born armenian/greek children,

survivors of the genocide.

I was born by ceasasrian,

arriving late on 24 April insert-year-date-here

same day as the commemoration

for the armenian genocide

not 1915. That would make

me older than I can claim.

I am still traumatised

by confessing to a random turkish woman

that the Armenian genocide happened.

That my great-grandparents survived it.

That that's who I am related to.

And she denied it to my face.

And I apologised to her.

Because I was uncomfortable.

Which.....wow......okay

The genocide didn't happen to me.

The genocide affected my great-grandparents

who left Armenia and Greece,

the displacement affected them.
They tried to fit in with Americans.

Greek-Armerican

and Armenian-American,

my grandparents married

and made my father.

Five children in fact.

He was the youngest of them all.

And apparently

as a child

he never cried.

I don't know what they gave up

There used to be a phrase

in 1900s america 'No Dogs, no armenians'

whiteness was not something Greeks or

armenians were given.

They fought for it.

Now four gens down,

and I've got white privilege

and I'll never deny this.

And I'm half english so
I'm part coloniser.

But still I see

this legacy.

Who I could not be

and who I am.

Because of this cultural loss

on two sides.

And in one man.

My father.

My father who watched

my mother.

My father who watched

my step mother.

My father who bore

witness to violence

I have experienced my whole life

and shrugged and said

'There's nothing I can do'.

The pain.

The pain.

The knowing. The running.

The meeting of strangers with

dark eyes and dark hair.

Whether they're greek

or syrian or iranian or kurdish.

Desperately looking for home.

Dark eyes like my grandma

dark hair like my father.

Dark eyes and dark hair

and I feel instant relief.

I don't look like that at all

You could call me snow white

if my skin didn't turn olive in the sun.

I don't look like that at all

I've got steely blue/grey eyes.

English nationalists would never attack me.

Turkish nationalists on the other hand....

I now have it in my head

that admitting i'm even partially Armenian

means a turkish person may take offence

and get their pitchforks.

But turkish people....look like home

they look armenian to me.

I have never met Armenians outside of my family.

Some of them are partially armenian,

or greek. The dark eyes, the dark hair.

I met a man Turkish,

and he's got thick black eyebrows

and eyes just like my dad.

I wonder is Turkey, Armenia, Grece

where they hoard eyebrows.

The nation of attack eyebrows

the nation of dark eyes.

Whatever it means

it feels weird to meet people

whom I share such a fraught history with

and go. Wow, I like you for some reason.

My body has never experienced

that violence at the hands of the Ottomans directly.

But my brain, my body, the experienced

that loss. That uprooting.

That loss of cultural knowledge that

was never past down.

All I have are stories.

All I have are bad photographs.

And a cultural tear

between American and English.

Double disasporia

being away from America.

Never having set foot

in Armenia nor Greece.

And yet knowing

this is part of my heritage.

A hidden part.

A part people don't know

unless I say so.

And then respond with

'but you don't speak Greek eh?'

I'm a size 16-18. I'm pretty chubby. I'm also hourglass shaped, big chest, big hips, big ass. I am sure have a body fat shift on low dose T. I swear fat has switched from my body to my stomach. I don't know if its bloating as I've also had a lot of stress on and with HRT I've been eating a lot of processed foods just to get food in me/combined with a broken hob that's limited my ability to cook. I've got a hotplate now so that's helping. I am mostly annoyed that my trousers don't want to fit and I don't know if I need to swap out my clothes or wait in general before I buy new outfits. This has happened before when I worked out a lot and found clothes stopped fitting me because I got too broad. I am mostly kind of wondering when it's um....'safe' to start buying clothing and I don't want to throw out my current trousers that I love but I'm having issues with certain outfits because my stomach has started to get dug into with certain things.

Mercury/Quicksilver

The needle gently slid into the skin of my thigh,
The ink started to bloom on the skin several 
Fingertip spaces away from my mons

And inside of me I awaited the change,
That you gave me with the alchemy symbol
Of quicksilver. 

There’s a power in running,
There’s a power in letting go.
But oh boy have I gotten tired,
Of burning bridges and calling my life
Scorched earth.

Oh boy have I gotten tired
Of betrayals on both sides 
And burning bridges or 
Watching someone walk off 
Because I was ‘too much’ again.

And there’s a fear that is fed
With every new heartbreak

Every new friendship that fizzles
I always take it personally.

There’s no way not to.
I fight this inner belief.
If I love someone,
If I trust them,
Eventually they will either betray me 
Or leave.

And the tattoo once bright 
Has faded and I haven’t seen 
You in years. 

But you are in me.
Every one I have ever loved
Or known.

They have made me.
They have formed me.
I am built of many things
And I see myself 
As not one entity.

But a collection
Of people I have known,
People I know.
And I take little pieces
To make myself.

Because the inner self
Is so fragile, so moveable 
Funnily enough just like quicksilver.

Signed up with vision for education to do TA work as a 'trainee teaching assistant'. I've been anxious because I waited 6 weeks for my DBS to pass and I got signed off on Tuesday. Since then I've waited 2 days which I realise isn't that long in the grand scheme of things but it feels more anxiety provoking because I waited so long for my DBS to pass after I accepted the offer in March. I'm not sure if this is normal as its' June so coming to the end of term. I don't know if I should apply anywhere else because there's not long left in the school term anyway and I signed up for agency work because I'm neurodivergent and haven't worked full time, I wanted some flexibility. But the not knowing if I am going to work or not has me in anxious limbo. I've done my training, I've gotten some suitable outfits ready. I'm not sure what more I can do.

I don't know what's gone on. Went to two different place and even tho I was told I could print a return label in store both place said to go across the street. I just want to return my sky box and it's stressing me out. I don't know if this is some new policy or thing. I don't own a printer and I can't just write out the returns. Planning on trying a third royal mail office today but I'm anxious I'll get told the same thing.

The needle gently slid into the skin of my thigh,
The ink started to bloom on the skin several 
Fingertip spaces away from my mons

And inside of me I awaited the change,
That you gave me with the alchemy symbol
Of quicksilver. 

There’s a power in running,
There’s a power in letting go.
But oh boy have I gotten tired,
Of burning bridges and calling my life
Scorched earth.

Oh boy have I gotten tired
Of betrayals on both sides 
And burning bridges or 
Watching someone walk off 
Because I was ‘too much’ again.

And there’s a fear that is fed
With every new heartbreak

Every new friendship that fizzles
I always take it personally.

There’s no way not to.
I fight this inner belief.
If I love someone,
If I trust them,
Eventually they will either betray me 
Or leave.

And the tattoo once bright 
Has faded and I haven’t seen 
You in years. 

But you are in me.
Every one I have ever loved
Or known.

They have made me.
They have formed me.
I am built of many things
And I see myself 
As not one entity.

But a collection
Of people I have known,
People I know.
And I take little pieces
To make myself.

Because the inner self
Is so fragile, so moveable 
Funnily enough just like quicksilver.

There's a lurch in my stomach,

when I step out of my house.

I walk into someone in sunglasses,

she throws me a look of derision.

I stop to think and interrupt a tourist

leaving the station and she glares at me.

When did so many of them arrive?

When did they get bolder and ruder?

Why is it I'm on trial for ruining your holiday,

whilst you ruin my walk around my own damn town?

I pay rent damn it.

I pay too much rent.

I pay bills damnit.

I pay too much for bills.

I live in fear

of the doors opening.

Of the phone ringing

with an unknown caller on the end.

I was sleeping with the enemy

for an entire year,

swallowed more poision,

than one should ever bear.

Gave up so many parts

of myself, to keep someone close.

Sacrifice, pain and duty.

Love must be earnt,

I learnt that young.

Love is only present,

when you grant

a pound of flesh.

Back to the streets,

back to fighting my internal demons,

back to fighting the mood swings

I never asked for.

Back to fighting the self-hatred,

that comes from looking in the mirror,

and not seeing a person.

Seeing the shade,

seeing the face

you never want to see.

'This is their 'victim'

'This is their discard'

'This is the creature that

children will run from and point at.'

This is the person

who after one year of straight torture,

goes back into the world.

Sans male privilege

and gets fed another

set of poisionous lies.

Watching men take up space,

without giving a shit.

I get glared at by a man

for sitting as he does.

Glared at by men,

for daring inhabit their

fucking space.

The HRT inside of me,

has had a funny affect.

Now when men come at me,

I don't cower. I tell them to fuck off.

It's the rage of a year of silence.

It's the rage of a year of getting forced

into things I never asked to do.

It's the rage of years of of years,

of wearing the mask of 'woman',

when all I ever wanted,

since I was little,

was to be viewed as 'one of them'.

And I never wish

to be like the men who have hurt me.

And I never wish to be seen,

as 'the oppressor'.

But what I want

is to be my own kind of man.

Masculine in the right ways.

Kind in the right ways.

Aware of the patriarchy because

it has dominated me for years.

And willing to stand up,

when I see a man,

throwing his weight around,

and say 'not today satan'.

Ribbons and rumballs,

glitter on your eyelids,

you smooth your lips

into a soft kiss.

Cigarettes outside the bar,

smoke rings puff into my face,

and you pull me close.

Her hand on my leg,

and it feels dangerous.

Frond like his hair,

falls around his face,

framing as he

sips on beer.

Two cruisers watch the

girls, waiting for a soft,

little butch to take home.

Good music and better company,

the It girl surveys us

and she wears her attitude high,

and her trousers pegged low.

Someone's brought a dog,

and they steal the show.

Surrounded by girls,

and swooned over like a celebrity.

He tries to drag the dog in,

but why would he leave,

when surrounded by such love?

It's not a long walk to get to the sea,
Or you can get the bus and be there in minutes.

But what I will never get used to
Is the thriving mass that
awaits in the centre of my town....

Men, women, children.
All on a lovely summer holiday.
Sunglasses and tans,
fanning themselves on the street,
A prayer against the heatwave,
Sweat annoinated skin and their bodies
Flushed in lobster red and browned
From too much sun.

Men going shirtless and whooping,
Day time drinking from women
in high heels and mini dresses,
The click of their walk,
The calling cards of 'girls on the lash'....
Someone drops a bottle that skitters
and hits my foot
False eyelashes
and false apologies as she skitters away....

Groups of people taking selfies in the street,
A woman in Gucci sunglasses gawks at my outfit....
Nestled in her wealth superiority as a British tourist,
With money to pour into the city,
As she regards me as trash....

Man, I just wanted to go to Boots
I didn't sign up for a singular gay pride march.
They see my short hair, my boots
Old men oagle my chest with eyes
Of ownership, as their wives glare at me.

It's not my fault I'm built this way
I've got great grandparents who slipped
The noose of the Ottoman Empire in 1915

A Turkish woman in my local shop
denies the Armenian genocide happened
As she's selling me a coke
And I apologise to her.....
As she insults my great- grandparents
Greek and Armenian survivors both,

passed on no language,no cultural inheritance,

but boy did I get hit with the armenian curves,

and grecian eyes like a sea after a storm,

an unusual hybrid creature, both english

and not english.....

Too white too claim white privilege is not mine,

it is

too othered not to feel different, from 'the other english'

the 'fully english' which means

a mixture of privilege, nationalism

and colonial fetisihism.

Who told you being white and british

was a protected characteristic?

Who said we must keep war immigrants out?

But let all the gawking tourists in?

Man I just wanted her to stop
Treating me like another ignorant white saviour
Buying a Gaza cola

Because what is happening Palestine
Feels eerily familiar to what happened
24 April 1915 which the Turkish government
Vehemently denies, to call it a genocide.

It's four generations down
I live in this country
This place i call home

I live in this town
This town i call home
But currently it feels under siege

From day trippers, from holiday makers
Strangers who mock me as I pass them,
Strangers who give me looks of judgement,
As they sit superior with a coffee
and a prada handbag.

Man I hate the crowds,
I just wanted to walk into my city
To run some boring adult errands
Not be treated as a live specimen

Under his eye

It's my legs  held down by
your hands, locked in. 
My leg tremors,
And your hand locks it 
In place. 
Under his eye.
'Stop'
He keeps going and pushes me back.
'No I don't want to-' muffled by your hand. 
Under his eye.
I succumb. I give in.
I give up. I look at the ceiling.
A silent prayer
gapes between us. 
I turn the ceiling,
And look at the stucco, 
Counting down. 
Back to his hands on my leg,
fingernails dug  into my skin. 
There's a bruise blooming
on my thigh,
and he's quick to make another one.
There's a switchblade flicker in his eyes.
He's gone now. I see only the shark
circling at the blood of their prey.
He's gone now,
there's only a crow
digging at carrion.
My skin blanches with 
Goosebumps, I shake again,
And I don’t look at him. 
I look at the ceiling.
I pray.
 Holy father
His fingernails drag,
possessively on my skin.
Who art in heaven
My body locked in place. 
Hallowed be thy name
’‘You like that don’t you?
Little whore?’
The words falter in my head,
And I gave up my faith,
Long ago. 
Glassy-eyed a frozen poppet,
I nod. 
Under his eye. 
There’s a loss of air from my lungs,
I try to exhale but it comes out,
As a whimper. 
You chuckle affectionately, 
‘So cute’. 
I feel sick. 
My treacherous body 
Responds to his command. 
Under his eye. 
At any point during,
The beloved act,
I am waiting for him to become a snake,
Unhinge his jaw, 
And swallow me whole.

Under his eye. 

‘What’s your body count?’

I say seven pointing to my body. 

The first, who didn’t ask permission,
I walked myself home afterwards. 

The second who stuck his hand up my skirt,
And mistook pain for pleasure. 

The third who needed a nursemaid
And never said thank you. 

The fourth who said he loved me, 
Then walked out the door. 

The fifth who found me alone and lost, 
And was convinced he was the solution. 

The sixth swooped in with promises,
And didn’t ask if I wanted the glass slipper 
on or off.  

The seventh hunted me like prey,
And took me off, a crow with carrion. 

And countless more.

Men  who followed.

Men who took pictures.

Men who asked me to smile

‘Don’t be so vain.’

‘Don’t be so selfish.’

‘Just please.’

‘Why not?’

‘Come on’.

‘I’m sorry’. 

Empty words.

Empty deeds.

Empty promises. 

A litany of ghosts. 

I have too many skeletons 
Inside of one body. 

It's been a few months.

I still think about you,

all the time.

I caught myself crying

at the bus stop the other day.

All I could do,

when I was by your side,

was long for the man

that I met to come back.

The one who is funny,

charming and sweet.

The one who I actually fell for.

He had vanished,

where did he go?

Instead I was left

with a jailor, with a tight leash

wrapped unwillingly around my throat.

Bruises on my body

like love notes from

a sadist.

The fucked up moment,

where you got me

to read my letter aloud to you.

The fucked up moment,

when I told you,

something important was happening,

and all you could,

was poke flaws in my plan.

Telling me I wasn't ready,

that I didn't know,

what I was in for?

And I thought,

who is this?

Who is this man?

I cry for me.

I cry for the meals

I cooked.

I cry for the outfits I wore.

For the way I started covering up

my body. The more

you started to abuse it

with your 'tender touch'.

I cry for the look of panic,

I developed.

I cry for the apologies I made,

on your behalf.

I cry for the people around us,

who saw us and didn't know

that you had been putting the screws to me.

I cry for that lost little kid,

the one who was scared

of this very demon.

That you proved

yourself exactly to be.

Gods you're just like

every other man,

who sold me snake oil in exchange for my whole heart.

Breadcrumbs and headless roses

my whole heart.

No call. And three days missing.

My whole heart.

I told you my truths, only for you to weaponise it later

for my whole heart.

I wear a new rose

in my lapel.

I cut my hair short,

I hid my tears.

I failed to hide my tears.

I stopped dressing up as much,

and started dressing down.

I gave up on shaving my legs.

I let myself sink into a new self.

I wear more trousers.

Less skirt.

A little less flirt.

A little more fuck you.

A little less little girl Lolita coy,

a little more Little Prince,

and I swear at men in posh cars

who try to mow me down,

with their trophy wife glinting beside them,

fake smiles and plasticine,

and stomp in black doc martens.

And I am missing you.

I am missing the part of my heart,

that craves you.

I am missing the version

that never existed.

I am still loving

the lie. The man.

Even though I know

the monster is all I had.

And I grieve.

For what I wanted.

What i was denied.

And every bit of innocence,

I had left.

That you stole from me,

like a crow picking up

a trinket off the dirty street corner.

The Heart Of It 

In 24th April 1915 they came,
They killed anyone who stood in the way,
Of their glorious empire,
And displaced the rest.

Shoving out the Armenians.
Ridding themselves of the ‘problem’. 

My great grand-parents arrived at the doorstep,
Seeking the american dream.

And they damn well found it,
Had five children 
All different from the last 

My grandmother 
American in name 
Armenian in looks. 

Married my grandfather 
Who, Greek-American, 
Change his surname:
a trade off, heritage hidden 
Over avoiding discrimination. 

Because no one wanted 
To buy carpets from a man 
With a surname ending in 
-dis or -ou or -tis

When he could buy it from  
Mr Cooper. 
Mr Wheeler. 
Mr Smith. 

They had five kids,
And the story goes on.

My dad  left the US 
before I was born
He married my mother.
They had two kids. 

My brother.
And me. 

Call my birth a coincidence 
I arrived late, 
An Emergency C-section
And on what date? 
24th April
 *insert year date of your choosing here* 

I can just imagine 
Someone cosmic thought that 
It was a funny joke. 

Either way 
I emerged,
Out of the wrong exit

An emergency bolt hole
Sliced open in my mother’s body,
And I never forgave myself,
For the pain I caused. 

The legacy of a double diaspora, 
The legacy of longing for my Greek/Armenian American family, 
Who I have grown up, 
Knowing mostly as strangers 
Occasionally calling me on my birthday.

Familiar and unfamiliar.

My auntie sounds just like 
My grandma used to.

God she would hate that comparison. 

I don’t speak any language
Other than my mother tongue 
Which is ‘the queens’ english’. 

I have no ties to any country
Save America, and I am simply 
Watching…. as Babylon falls down. 

'The greatest country in the world'

Driven to ruin by one man, 
In a stupid suit, and a silly tan.
The jokes run off.
It’s not funny anymore.

I can’t keep up with the cruelty.
I can’t keep up the violence.
I can’t keep watching the Republicans
Tear into human rights.

And pretend it doesn’t affect me.
Or I’m not worried about what it means
For my family overseas. 

'The greatest country in the world',
Babylon is falling. 
Who will intervene? 

If none of us can. 

I want to do more.
Than be a bystander
To forces larger than myself.
To have some say 

In what happens, 
To the people I call family.
Even though, for the most part,
We are worlds apart. 

I get to sit,
With ring-side seat tickets.
To watch....

'The greatest country in the world'

Babylon is falling

Who will save it now?