I don’t normally re-blog, but The Dark Globe had a reasoned, enlightening view on LGBTQ rights and the Constitution that did NOT include religion.
It’s a well-crafted essay by a person who is NOT “pro-gay,” nor is he “anti-gay.” Intriguing, and I heartily suggest you read and comment. Peace to all, Amy
Sorry I didn’t post for two days, but here’s a slice of life from a teenage girl’s point of view.
UGLY.
Mirrors are cruel.
They never say she’s
the fairest one, yet she
dares another look.
She doesn’t see
herself, she only sees:
Ugly.
Horrible acne, festering, hideous.
A lump is in her throat as she
steps back for the full-length view.
Flat chest, not the
jiggling fullness boys like.
Hips SO not there.
And her hair, a disaster
of biblical proportions;
not really blonde,
not exactly brown,
more like puddles after
a long, soaking rain…
or the worms that come out to
get squished on the sidewalk.
And the scars on her wrists,
constant reminders that she
tried to rid the world of
this pustule of a person.
Rubbing lavender lotion on her
warm belly (at least I’ll smell good,
not that they’ll get very close),
then, donning the final insult:
the glasses.
(Bifocals at 16. I mean, really?)
She sneaks downstairs for breakfast
before catching the bus to school.
Her mom, who is of course GORgeous
and dressed the same, pours juice.
See her hands, perfectly manicured,
her flawless skin, and long,
auburn hair pulled back carelessly
in a scrunchy. Effortless.
She measures herself against
the impossible, easy beauty of her mother.
(I’ll never be that pretty, never.)
Mom turns and says,
“Paul, remember your biology test today.
Oh, look, you’re wearing the shirt
I got you at the mall!” A kiss on the forehead.
“My handsome boy. Don’t break any hearts today!”
Don’t worry. She won’t, not while
that worrisome bulge is in her jeans.
The thing that doesn’t belong on a real girl.
Gym today… she shudders,
takes a bite of a muffin,
feels the Adam’s Apple
bounce with the swallow.
Ugly.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday Scribblings, the prompt was “Costume,” (and, indeed, that’s what this teenager wears every day) and ABC Wednesday is on “U.” Also posting to dverse Open Mic Night, where a collection of more than 100 poets usually post their favorite poems of the week. All descriptions, all diverse subject matter, all manner of poets. Look for Aaron Kent, if he has posted a spoken word, too!
NOTE: Life is more than difficult for transgender teens; it’s often impossible. Too many kids commit suicide, caught in the confusion of their gender identity and an undefinable shame about how they are built vs. who they know they are. As with other teens with gender identity confusion, they are constantly on guard, worried their secret will come out. This “young man” yearns to go the the prom in a dress with cleavage. Who can blame her? She is, in her heart, a girl who happened to be delivered into the wrong body. Pray for our kids. High school sucks for straight kids – imagine yourself in this kid’s shoes. Peace, Amy
DECLARATION OF AN ALLY OF THE QUEER COMMUNITY
Queer. That word stops
folks from my generation
dead in their tracks.
We don’t say that word.
Queer.
Always an insult, the word shouted
by football players before stuffing a
loafer-light boy into a wastebasket.
Queer.
Not right. Wrong.
In Matthew Shepard’s case, dead wrong.
Tied-to-a-bumper wrong.
Queer.
The word my daughter uses
in identifying her orientation.
She dresses boyish but loves women.
Queer.
They’re here. Your accountant, your dentist,
your kid’s teacher (not the one with the
porn on their computer, either).
Queer.
Homophobes use it to describe
boys other than their own sons, who
ship out in the Navy to prove they are “real men.”
Queer.
Mom explained it when I was five.
No graphic descriptions of sex,
just, “Uncle John loves Uncle Tony.”
It’s simple.
People are people.
Half the sexual acts straight couples do
could get them arrested in Mississippi.
Queer.
They’re here. Get over it.
They are committed couples.
They adopt kids straight couples don’t want.
They rehabilitate crack babies.
They are wonderful neighbors.
They shop; they pay taxes.
Some are slobs, some are fashionable.
Some drink wine, some drink beer.
Some go to church, some don’t.
They are human beings who are
capable of love, of compassion,
of snottiness, of loyalty.
They deserve life, liberty,
and the pursuit of happiness.
Just like you.
Just like me.
Just like everybody else.
Amen.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter Q.
And no, that is not a picture of me. It’s me in 20 years or so!
Poetic Asides had an interesting challenge: “A World Without ____________.” Yeah, go figure how this one came to mind (wink)! Amy
A World Without Gay Men (what a bore)
No Dr. Kildare
Nor “Night and Day”
No “Pillow Talk”
‘cause Rock was gay
No Sistine Chapel
Virtruvian Man
No Mona Lisa
No inventions grand
No Karloff’s Monster
(James Whale’s work of art)
No Benjamin Britten
Johnny Mathis, my heart
Gershwin, Sweet
Embraceable You,
the Man I Love
is a classic, it’s true
Greg Louganis’
diving perfection
Leonard Bernstein’s
symphonic direction
The list could go on
til night turns to day
but what a dull world
without men born that way
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also posted at my NaPoWriMo home, Writer’s Island, and at Poets United.
At Sunday Scribblings, we were asked to create a poem around the word “befuddled.” Not “bewitched,” nor “bothered,” nor “bewildered,” unfortunately… but then, that one was already written! (That’s for my music buddies.) A little gender-bender limerick for y’all. Amy
The Right Stuff?
A man with whom I often cuddled
Confessed to becoming quite muddled
Our sex was okay
But he told me today
With Bradley, he’s far less befuddled
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Poetic Asides, the prompt was, Celebrate. Could not think of a better celebration than the day two of my dearest friends were united in love and dignity. Amy
Celebrate Today
(For Christopher Kennedy and Jimmy Ricketts)
Christopher and Jimmy
both in tuxes, Dapper Dans.
Not the groomsmen,
but the grooms.
I’m running around in
a dress tight as Saran Wrap
(and just as pliable).
My heels click click click busy busy…
So light the candles!
Bring on the guests!
Family and friends;
Amy’s taking requests
at the baby grand with candelabrum
As I sing, I meditate on the wax
slowly slinking down the tapers.
This is real romance.
The pastor was beautiful;
the buffet, sublime.
Every state should have gay marriage –
their catering businesses would thrive.
I sing the song I wrote for their wedding,
“The Best I Have To Give.”
Then Jimmy yells, “Do the Santa song!”
I grin and launch in.
It’s my rendezvous with Kris Kringle
Naughty but nice. The glasses clink
and the newlyweds share a little peck.
Nothing gross like at straight weddings.
A tasteful affair from beginning to end,
all couples dancing, bubbles in the air.
I remember Mom saying that true love
is marrying your best friend. Amen.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This takes some explanation. To begin with, my generation has a problem with the word “queer.” It ranks up there with the “n” word and the 6-letter “f” word in our sense of disparagement of people who have to work much harder in this world, controlled as it is by white, straight men.
Joseph Harker, one of my favorite poets (see his blog on “Poets I Love”), posted to a prompt to “answer” a poet of yore. He chose Gwendolyn Brooks’ “We So Cool” with an interpretation that included the word “queer.” My daughter, Riley/Laura, taught me that I am the first to chide people for “not changing,” and that since she identifies as “gender queer,” I will have to adapt. So my understanding of the queer world (and well as the “Q” word) has indeed expanded. Parents, it’s not always YOU teaching your kids – it goes both ways!
Then someone posted a homophobic rant about “Village People” and damnation, so I replied in a poem, riffing off Joseph. Long explanation – loaded with controversy – I welcome any and all comments on this one.
You Are Queer (with love to Gwendolyn Brooks and Joseph Harker)
You are queer. You
are dear. You
live free. You
please me. You
speak out. You
whisper, shout. You
are loud. You
are proud. You
were dates. You
find mates. You
live longer. You
grow stronger. You
catch hate. You
know fate. You
are shoved. You
are loved.
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Not your typical Christmas offering, and yet I feel called on this, the Solstice, the longest night of the year, to think about different paths. I’ve spent the day reflecting on what Jesus means to me, as I await his birth again in my heart with the calm and preparedness of a midwife. But this season excludes many, and counting agnostics and atheists in my circle of friends, I figured I’d offer up some food for thought!
The Atheist and Me, the Lay Minister
Try to explain to a fellow Christian
why atheism is acceptable
Try to explain to a deaf man
why the radio’s undetectable
One man’s meat is another man’s candy
One woman’s faith does not fit all
Every journey has pitfalls and triumphs
There is not one true, right call
I know my call is to Jesus, to God
My soul is filled to the brim
But if my friend thinks otherwise
That’s his right – up to him.
If he doesn’t believe in the Bible
and God’s not his only light
Yet he does good things in this bleak world
I won’t shove God down his throat tight
I’m called to be the best Christian I can
so I will not presume to oppress
my friend disillusioned, let down by his church
’cause he’s going from pants to a dress
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Sunday Scribblings (glad I’m back on course after a break), we were given a one-word prompt: LIMITS. Click the Scrib link and then on the poets’ names (which are linked to their blogs) to check out other folks! Peace, Amy
HAD IT UP TO HERE
I’ve had it up to here
‘cause my daughter, who is ‘queer’
is not welcome in my sister’s home
I’ve taken all I’ll stand
from all those who would demand
that I discard my kid like a dead battery
I’m telling all the world
she is perfect, she’s my girl
If you don’t love her, please don’t waste your prayers
On Riley or her mom
because we know we are BOMB
and anyone who doesn’t get it can get stuffed
I tried to make this rhyme
to some extent, it is fine
but I couldn’t rhyme “battery” with “flattery” because that concept is entirely absent from some people’s hearts. But at least it’s truthful!
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 