Who will walk these wooden streets?

all poetry is written by Ryan Kai Cheng Thom, who is (obviously) an aspiring poet. Contact them at ryan.thom@mail.mcgill.ca!

April 16, 2014 at 1:02am
3 notes

You always dreamed of being a writer.

And then, one day, you wrote. 
And by the birth of this miracle beyond 
anything with which you had ever before been blessed,
your dream came true. 
And you worried that one day,
you would stop writing, and thus,
cease to be a writer.
You never dreamed, or rather, nightmared,
that you might continue to do what you love
and still, somehow, lose what you are.
That you might write an ocean of ink and a sky 
of paper, and still,
never say a thing.
You don’t stop being a writer when you stop writing.
The soul can always sing poetry inside.
You stop being a writer when you bend your pen 
to the academic tongue.
You stop being a writer when you write to please someone.
You stop being a writer when you do it to be loved
by somebody other than yourself.
You stop being a writer when you forget your ancestors.
You stop being a writer when you stop telling the truth.
You stop being a writer when you don’t believe yourself.

April 14, 2014 at 12:00am
3 notes

Well, not this time

I have grown into a field of reptilian flowers / I am all jaws and tongue and poisonous appetite / god, how I have loved you / I am oleander and belladonna / you’ll leave me and go to sleep dreaming of nightshade / wake up with the scent of hemlock / clinging to your pillow / boys like you untaught me gentleness / a long time ago / I am not the secret Oriental garden you were looking for / I am no tea ceremony, no demurring fans / I am not the girl I used to be / I am not the boy you thought I was / you won’t forget me

March 31, 2014 at 9:59pm
23 notes

stolen

 i was only the Orient to you after all,

shards of ancient pottery buried in the clay of the Yellow River,

bits of dragon bone inscribed with the names of the dead.

i was broken terra cotta arms and swords

to you,

the phantom limbs of a nameless legend.

you looked at me

and saw foxfire,

a shimmering shifting shape-changing mirage:

from woman to man to beast and

back again.  you loved me so much

that you skinned me and wore

my fur like drag.

i was only silk and spices to you,

i was mango, lychee, longan, durian, an exotic fruit,

to be sliced open and savoured,

you ate your fill and went to kiss your lovers,

my flavour still clinging to your lips and tongue.

in my skin you saw crystal seas and a searing desert;

you plumbed my depths for lost treasures, 

combed my sands for bits of gold.

in my hair, you smelled the fragrance of sandalwood forests,

and could only think of burning incense,

of what you’d take back home.

you entered my dreams like a pirate, a privateer, a conquistador,

and found a wild garden twined

around the ruins of a temple dedicated to a forgotten goddess

half woman, half snake,

and your first instinct was to plant a flag.

to carve the face from my statue,

and wear it as a mask.

is your own body so barren?

are your own dreams so small?

don’t you see now my hair shorn short, the ashes

painted under my eyes?

i was a dark continent to you, full of secrets and riches;

i was the myth-land ripe for plunder.

take what you will, it will do you no good,

we are only who we are,

you are always what you are,

no matter whose mask you wear, whose face

you steal.  i see you now:

colonizer, bandit, brigand, thief.

10:18am
1 note

women’s shoes

clearly, men invented them.

1:35am
2 notes

i could peel off my skin

if only this poem would be born

March 30, 2014 at 5:22pm
0 notes

supplicant

wind and water,

light and shadow,

rage and tears,

blood and bone,

love and darkness,

ancestor spirits,

haunting goddess,

rivers all,

salt and sweetness,

secret forgiveness,

i open the doors

of my home to you.

i open the doors

of my body to you.

will you come?

friends and kinsfolk,

forgotten lovers,

tired stranger,

weary mother,

vengeful father with hands stained red,

wounded village,

lonely child,

all persons stained by shame,

i come to you with my head bowed.

i come with salt water and honey.

i come with truth and forgiveness.

my hand is on the gate of the garden of your soul,

will you answer?

4:37pm
3 notes

accountability

that night in the club,

the bedroom,

the bathroom,

the alley,

the interview,

the classroom,

the community meeting,

the therapist’s office,

the hospital,

our parents’ home,

our childhood bedroom,

the camp,

the desert,

the snowstorm,

the rain,

the car,

on the highway,

in the forest,

in the old country,

in the new one,

it was not our skin color that betrayed us,

it was not our clothes or our gender or our spirits that betrayed us,

it was not our bodies that betrayed us,

it was you.

March 25, 2014 at 6:34pm
7 notes

unexpected gifts

today, the university professor

in her tasteful jewelry and 

professional clothing,

her perfect make-up 

on her perfect white face,

paused in her academic lecture on the science

of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,

swallowed,

and said quietly

"a lot of bad things happen in the dark"

and our eyes met.

hers saying, i see you,

and mine saying

thank you

March 23, 2014 at 9:41pm
27 notes

Asking For It: Critiquing Sexual Rhetoric on the Political Left and Moving Beyond the Sex-Positive/Negative Binary

*Presented at the Study In Action Panel: Whose Body is It Anyway? A Panel on Access, Sexuality, and Self-determination on March 23 2013

Hello everyone.  I’d like to start with a warning that this presentation contains discussion of sexual assault.   Those of you for whom such stories are painful, traumatically resonant, or overwhelming, please be warned, and know that I honor your choices to listen, to leave, or otherwise take care of yourselves.   Know also that this is not a trigger warning per se – as a friend of mine likes to say, triggers are for guns, and I am not a gun.  My body is not a gun.  Our stories of truth are not weapons.  Rather, truth and the pain it sometimes causes are instruments of healing.  And just as bones that have broken and re-connected in the wrong way must be re-broken in order to heal once more, I believe we must use the truth of our painful stories to break open the silence in activist communities around sex, rape, trauma, and desire in order to find a greater, more connected way of being.  So let us begin:

Let us take a moment to breathe.  Let me hear the sound, the song, the swell of your lungs. Let us take a moment to remember our bodies, our beating hearts, and our ancestors.  Let’s remember all of those people who cannot be here today because of illness or work or barriers to access.  Remember those who worked and continue to work so hard, often in situations of exploitation, so that we can sit here in this university building with all its amenities.  So that I could sit and write this (scintillating, of course) presentation in the comfort of my home and present it to you here today, on unceded Kanienkahake territory.  Breathe and remember the bloodshed that created this city, the ongoing violence that maintain the university and nation-state.  Breathe and remember our spirit, our strength, our many different stories and experiences, our diverse and conflicting truths.

It is from the place of remembrance and conflicting truths that I would like to issue a challenge to you students and community members here in the room, to the organizers of this panel and QPIRG, to all of us who do radical, anti-oppressive work in the area of bodily sovereignty and sexuality: I think that we have failed.  We have failed to talk about sex and sexual assault within our circles, and we have failed to bring to light to the hypocrisy and violence that lies hidden in the difference between the ways we talk about sex, sexuality, and sexual violence; and the way we practice and experience (or don’t practice and experience) sex.  It is difficult for me to say this, but I think I must, because the truth is that when I first fled my Chinese-Canadian family home on traditional Musqueam land for what I imagined were the rainbow-paved streets of the gay and queer community, it was in the arms of that community – that so-called safer space, that sex-positive, feminist, leftist community – that my body was violated for the first time.  It is difficult for me to say this, because I love all of my communities, and especially the politically radical ones so deeply – but here I would like to share some words from that great poet and Black lesbian writer, Audre Lorde:

I was going to die, sooner or later, whether or not I had even spoken myself. My silences had not protected me. Your silences will not protect you…. What are the words you do not yet have? What are the tyrannies you swallow day by day and attempt to make your own, until you will sicken and die of them, still in silence?

My communities had not protected me.  The Chinese community in Vancouver did not protect me from internalized racism and shame, or from the homophobia and gender-based violence at school that left me unable to turn to anyone in my family or neighbourhood to talk about my burgeoning sexuality or gender dysphoria.  The gay and queer community did not protect me from being raped by our own people at seventeen –or nineteen, or twenty-one.  The radical leftist community in Montreal, who praised and benefited from my writing and performance art and the volunteer labour I did as an event organizer and support worker, did not protect me from sexual fetishism and exploitation from well-loved activists who were instrumental in organizing the student strike in 2012.  You did not protect me from seeing my rapists at the anarchist bookfair or at queer art vernissages or at Prisoner Correspondence Project fundraisers or events like this one.  And those of you for whom these words strike a chord that resonates to the tune of your own experiences – did not protect you

How could this happen?  How could it be that, for all our leftist rhetoric around consent, bodily sovereignty, anti-ableism, queer positivity, fat positivity, and sex-positivity, we have somehow managed to perpetuate a culture of rape, silence, and shame?  There is more than one answer, more than one truth, but one of them is, I think, that progressive rhetoric around sexuality itself is fundamentally flawed.  The popular frameworks used in community work: bodily sovereignty, the consent model, and sex-positivity, are insufficient to encompass the complexities that inform the lived experience of sexuality in a context also informed by racism, ableism, and colonization.

The concept of bodily sovereignty is often used in community dialogue around sexual assault and abortion – it is the notion that each individual has the right to decide what happens to their body and when.  That we are, or rather should be, sovereign over our physical experiences with other humans.  Yet bodily sovereignty cannot not be divorced from the current context of colonization and white supremacy.  The spirits and bodies of racialized and Indigenous peoples were colonized in concert with our lands – we have been subjugated to an ideal of sexual experience and physical beauty that locks us outside of our own ideals of beauty and pleasure.  Ideals which are, of course, white.  As the activist and writer Alok Vaid-Menon writes:

“How to explain to a body that it is Brown? How to explain white fetish in a country which has been fucked for years? To a city whose most famous landmarks are the cum stains left from the British? To a city with a commercial street where you can buy Adidas sneakers and watch Hollywood movies in 3D.”

How indeed?  How to conceptualize and speak to my own experience of assault when the boy who violently penetrated me until I bled in my own home was also the most “conventionally” attractive (read: white, non-disabled, masculine presenting) that I had slept with?  How to resolve my own sense of pride that at last one of those beautiful radical queer boys had chosen feminine, Asian me with the memory that he refused to stop when I told him it hurt, that he pinned down on the bed when I tried to get up, that he forced himself inside me from behind not once but six time over the course of the night?  How to claim my right to bodily sovereignty when I did not scream, did not tell, did not just leave when I had the chance?  

The Fillipina poet/activist Ninotchka Rosca writes that “consent is only possible all things being equal.”  White supremacy renders bodies of colour less than equal in the colonized landscape of sexuality – silences us by creating an illusion for people of colour where the violation of our bodies is represented as identical to our liberation, promises that we might become beautiful if only we allow ourselves to fucked by, to be fucked into, whiteness.  The kinds of sexual assault, abuse, and rape that this allows for is most often invisible to the models of consent and bodily sovereignty invented by white feminism and used in community work and rad organizing – and allows whiteness, heteronormativity, and ableism to dominate sexuality in organizing spaces. 

White feminist concepts – bodily sovereignty, and sex-positivity – are the tools that I used when I first began community work.  They are the foundation of my understanding of what happened to me.   And yet they left no room for an experience of violence outside of and between positive and negative, outside of and between the words yes and no.                                                     Worse, they are often employed in such a way that regulates the access of racialized and disabled bodies to the language of sexuality. 

The rhetoric of bodily sovereignty and consent was first articulated to me during a sexual assault support centre volunteer training in the form of a catch phrase: “No one is entitled to sex.”  A white, able-bodied gay man told me this in all earnesty – told me that I was not entitled to sex!  As if I didn’t know that.  As if white gay men hadn’t made abundantly clear to me with and without words that I did not deserve desire, pleasure, beauty, or respect – but that I was, on the other hand, entitled to rape.  I continue to hear this phrase echoed in workshops and by community organizations in the Montreal context and abroad.

At the same time, the concept of sex-positivity is often employed in the understanding that “consensual sex is a pleasurable experience that takes place between two consenting adults.”  Where does that leave those of us for whom giving consent is rarely or never an option?  For whom sex is fraught with the implications of colonization and/or ableism?   For whom sex is rarely or never wholly pleasurable, yet still a deeply ingrained, socialized desire?  For those whose bodies, psyches, and experiences do not allow for pleasure without pain?  And for those who would rarely or never be chosen as sexual partners except for as objects of fetishism or rape?

 I think that we must move away from a politic of safety for some bodies but not others, of comfort for some people at the expense of others; away from a middle-class and ableist and white supremacist understanding of which kinds of sexuality are appropriate and positive, and whose bodies are appropriate and positive.  Away from catch phrases such as “no one is entitled to sex” and toward embracing the terrible and magnificent complexity of bodies that survive neglect and violence and abuse in the most intimate places yet still find a way to burn like flames with a desire that will not yield.  Toward the understanding that we are, in fact, all entitled to sexuality – to feel and to want and to dream erotically – and also to respect and protection from violence.  I want to move outside of a sex-positive/negative binary to a place of sex affirmativity – a place of deep listening and belief in our truths and stories.  Toward an affirmation that sex and sexuality are complicated, ever-transforming processes that span a vast universe of pain, pleasure, and power that is so much more than simply positive or negative. 

This is the challenge I present to you, to this community, today: I challenge us to break the silence.  I challenge us to believe and to affirm each other.  I challenge us to see our own hypocrisy.  I challenge us to protect each other.  I challenge us to speak, to listen, and to believe.

March 18, 2014 at 1:51am
5 notes

you are afraid to tell me your stories,

you are afraid that they might hurt me.

your stories are a foreign alphabet

composed of your scars: this one, knotted, snakelike

crawling up your inner thigh; 

the jagged tears lining the edges of your palms; 

the crescent-shaped dart

above your left eye. the ones they left

inside you,

your soft inner places. your stories are a jungle 

full of fists and

teeth and you live there, strangled and gnawed

by flora and fauna you cannot name.  your stories 

are the ocean that surges to burn salt in your veins,

threatening to crush you beneath its weight, you are afraid

to tell me your stories.

you are afraid that they will hurt me. 

and you know that when you hurt people,

they cease to love you.  

dear: 

my own skin is not so soft.  i am a novel, several one-act plays, a book

of poetry written in the language of scars.

there is a razor forest that grows through

the gaps in my pores: lions, tigers, bears,

all mine,

did you think you held the patent on pain?

did you think that you were the only one

who could learn to carry the weight of the ocean?

did you think so little of me,

my love,

that you did not believe i would stay?

i am listening like the shore

listens to ocean.

i am breaking beneath you, i am broken by you, i am crushed

to sand by the sound of your voice.

still i remain.