The Realness: Being an Unapologetic Xingonx (Issue 2)
The Realness:
Being an Unapologetic Xingonx
To all of us existing and resiting in everyday reality. March 2017
Untitled Collage
Nana Mendez
“Tounge Tied”
Maggie Ruschman
“Nuevo American Dream”
LizMarie
“America, you were never great”
LizMarie
“Painted White”
C.M.
“The Realness”
Gery Joyful Moore
Untitled Collage
Violeta Vora
Untitled Collage
Jacqueline Ayala
“Alli, Alla, Aca”
C.D. Kraken
“Yo Sangro”
Adrian Q
Untitled Photograph
Laura Mariela Aranda
“The Origin of Identity” by Tzara Aran
“spring” * VINNIE *
“I Couldn’t have Arrived at a Better Time”
La Janesita
“On Being a Saint”
Rocio Anica
Untitled Art
Jocelyne Flores
“Luchando Sobre Todo con Moonblood” Ari
“Frida and her Panzôn rant al estilo Spanish”
Lizbeth De La Cruz Santana
“You Bring Out La Nueva Onda In Me”
Liliana Sifuentes
Untitled Collage
Jax Ovalle
“Too Wild 4 You” Breyonce
“Seven Steps to Coming Out as an Unapologetic Xingonx Incest Survivor” Mikaela X
Untitled MZ MR
“Querida Conchita”
Maribel Valdez Gonzalez
“HQT Fries” MZ MR
Untitled Collage
Jose Rosa
“Thoughts” C.M.
“de bello saffico”
* VINNIE *
“El Diario De Una Xica Sobria” Zoulee
Cover Photo: Zoulee / Zine Design: Chrissy Puga, Zoulee, Adrian Q, LizMarie
“untitled collage” By: Nana Mendez
Tongue Tied
By: Maggie Ruschman
I came to America in the arms of a woman I would never see again, cradled like a football, close enough but unattached
I flew over a motherland that birthed me, but set me free, unaware that the distance would matter and that the memories would be few.
I was welcomed by hands who met in Detroit, young hands, hands that came from opposite sides, working towards the same, starving and hopeful, honest and unprepared.
I would witness the start of life in an old farm house
3 stories high on Cleveland St. running home with my eyes wide suddenly aware of the divide.
I found memories of my first country in laundry carts at the Washing Well on Clark St. laughing with raven haired kids, 3 siblings deep, whose mothers kept them quiet with promises of happy meals while my parents worked.
I began growing, slowly, shedding and untwisting my native tongue and the memories made began to fade away.
Nuevo American Dream
By: LizMarie Palomo
We are the Nuevo American Dream. With things like Latina magazine and BET it is hard to disagree that in this color blind world there is no them and us....just we.
We the people became a community created by the opportunities made in this great land of the free.
With a little hard work and some... good ‘ol elbow grease we were finally able to see that anyone can achieve the American Dream
America, you were never great
By: LizMarie Palomo
We have survived genocide. We have had our histories erased, our traditions extinguished, languages and lands ripped from us. People of color have endured so much and we will continue to endure more.
America, you were never great.
Where you stand is stolen land, and yes that is history but it is also the present and future - it cannot be erased. The history that has we’ve been fed is falsified and not mine, this American is not mine. Built on the blood of my ancestors, it is a land where I must resist to exist. America the free will never be real, just a facade created to build a blind nation. With a reputation of ignorance and destruction, all in the name of the American Dream. They have tried to breed sheep, but our people are not that weak. They’ve tried to bury us, forgetting we are seeds.
America, you were never great.
Please try and convince me of when this greatness existed.
Where was the era of wonder, I must have missed it.
Was it during Jim Crowe? When black and brown bodies weren’t human enough to vote
-> NO
During the indigenous genocides led by Columbus and other greedy colonizer’s?
-> NO
During the internment camps of WWII? Where forced relocation and incarceration were acceptable for our nation?
-> NO
During the 1960s of Nancy and Bobby Regan? When their war on drugs launched the push for black and brown bodies in mass incarceration.
->NO
Are these the times we’re searching for?
Amerikkka, you were never great.
We will not forget the atrocities that have been done onto our ancestors. The scars remain, I bear the pain of centuries of displacement and enslavement.
Amerikkka, you were never great.
Painted White
Painted white
By: C.M.
No one can take away my crazy hair, my hazel eyes, my dramatic curves, or my Dominican tongue. I won’t be told to get rid of my accent or to change the way I act because it’s not “American”.
I’ll let my r’s role faster just cause I can.
I’ll play my merengue and salsa as loud as I want. And while I’m at it, I’ll dance and shake my hips faster then you’ve ever seen hips move.
Because I know that to myself and others I am a piece of art. I am one in a million.
I am a force to be reckoned with. Because to you white is beautiful, but in my eyes, color doesn’t represent beauty or successfulness nor does it represent betterness. Color means history. I represent my shade because I know my same skin has had blood shed upon it. So while they sit there and try to change my completion and paint my eyes blue, just know that I’ll be damned if I ever let an American or European corporation tell me what my completion is.
I won’t be painted white.
The Realness
By: Gery Joyful Moore
The Realness
One within the elements. Calling upon you, channeling your essence. I shall one day return to the land of higher vibrations, glowing in such presence. Transport me to the realm where light dwells and love is the ruler. Aphrodite birthed me, Oshun runs her fingers through my dreadlocks. All my chakras opened, nothing is blocked. My 3rd eye shall never stray me from where I’m not meant to be, open to see what life unfolds. I love the way you exist so unique in your being.
Just so high, at last truly breathing. Radiating as you cause I’m staying true to my realness. Namaste, I love you, damn! You feel this???
One within the elements, for the very first time.
Lines being connected, from my past lives. A deity of love, the ladder I climb. Constantly searching, [intuition will help me find. Home in the 6th dimension rebirth in that space and time.
I’m lucid dreaming as I spit this last rhyme.
“untitled collage” By:Violeta Vora
“untitled collage” By: Jacqueline Ayala
Alli, Alla, Aca
By: C.D. Kraken
I first met her when I wrote a poem about her. About how she summon’s strength from her reserve, the one brimmed high with her mother’s teachings and hardy lessons of life’s slaps and curves.
She can smooth the harsh connotations of a chingona destructing patterns and norms by whispering breathlessly to her mirror“that’ll do for today” to her shabby mood and form.
She keeps everyone’s secrets, clammy roots hurting her more than the one thatplanted them on her.Even with her conscience and righteous habits she’ll re-invigorate her loyalty with smoke of myrrh.
She can control the pain of her wild woman bite. When she defends herself from society’s ugly bits
Or when she slips into a carnal love match where
she’d rather gnaw and put a finger between your lips.
A chingona writes poems about herself that no one reads, stashes them in the attic, next to the clothes that never fit.
This is the Realness. Climbing up to your poems.
The Realness is the push and shove on your mental staircase.
The Realness is the opening and closing of your suitcase.
The Realness is dusty and manifested already.
The Realness is a class-less, odor-less entity.
The Realness is a room full of girls being nice to each other.
The Realness waits for the chingona every damn day,don’t you?
“Yo Sangro” By: Adrian Q
Mis abuelitas never apologized for losing their
By: Laura Mariela Aranda
To me being a xingonx is, living everyday to make them proud
The most single “Yes” and re-worked “What are you doing?” comes in the form of
How do you feel now? Sit down, safe from the bugged offices, stand up, be fed into the sawed off attitude. “Thank you” is always a great puppetry skill. When the rain drops, the “Hellos” will still be there with grey eyes walking away. Good, let them. I happen to look down and feel unique, absorbed all the time by “in case of’s” and rubbing arms with contemporaries. The room is expected and the noise is physically bullying.
So that’s it, huh? The enemy is free from thought. Well, if you want to stomp out a cockroach you gotta crawl and became one yourself. Libertion, there’s no fooling around with that one. “It’s only a few houses away, getting warm.”, they always tell us. I got no body, so what’s liberation to me? Perhaps it’s time to get to know body?
No. Well, no in the sense of the most single “Yes.” The moment of identical reactions will occur regularly. Don’t ring up, you don’t want to remember to lose it.
Jump off and trade off again and again until you realize you’ve been fired into a questionable loop. The band wagon is Death’s personal vehicle of choice (as you may already know). Now kid, what are you doing over there with your DNA? A holographic gentlemen will always close the door on the written identity. The origin of identity is closely associated with doors closing and erased faces slapped in every possible inherent perception. Let the last of the “When did you” generation cry out.
Our time has arrived.
Xingonx
“spring” By: * VINNIE *
I couldn’t have arrived at a
By: La Janesita
better moment
She was attacked by jealousy & manipulation. Scarred with confusion and thrown into self-doubt.
They asked her to look at reality.
Frozen in fear carried over from mi abuelita’s abuela She finally understands the meaning of Evil.
As she faces her shadows realizing that it was trying to erase her she knows Evil is when people make you doubt who you are.
Ahora recuerda lo bueno She is taking a chance on a new direction. Taking action. Initiating change. With outrage, independence and unending energy.
That is la verdad and the truth holds its own eternal place in the universe.
On Being A Saint
By: Rocio Anica
I’m trying to grow a new muscle, and it hurts. I’m trying to grow this new muscle as soon as possible so that I can exercise this muscle and make it the biggest muscle in the world. I said aloud one day, “I was born without the ability to forgive, you guys”, but according to experts[1] no one is born with a forgiveness muscle.
It is a learned virtue, much like washing your car or quelling road rage in Los Angeles[2] or sharing your appetizers[3] or even not punching people in the face. It’s important for me to grow this muscle because I can hold a grudge for all of ever.
If in the misfortune of becoming a vampire, then, I’ll have a huge problem on my hands. I don’t like having problems. And I don’t like vampires, so. What else is there to say… Oh. People go to church in order to grow these virtuous muscles, but I have a better plan. The idea is to run around and get into a lot of serious trouble--by which I mean: to always say “you’re an asshole” to assholes, to sleep with whomever the fuck I want, to drink what I want when I want a drink, to not get married or not have children if that’s what I feel like not doing, to speak my truth even if the boys don’t like my truth or the way I say it, to look and dress the way I want and support others in their aesthetic choices too--and then hold out my hand in front of people who will judge me for all of the above, and I will say, “I forgive you,” to them all breathlessly and with sweet tears in my eyes. Maybe I’ll also tap their foreheads lightly and feed them wafers. Maybe I’ll wear a lot of loose white garments and weird hats and gold chains, too. I don’t know, I’m just going off of what I know about forgiveness.
Actually, maybe I’ll just work on forgiving myself first. I have a hard time forgiving myself for just about everything. Is this learned behavior? I think so. It’s anxiety-inducing. I don’t want it anymore. Fuck perfection. If the boys don’t have to be perfect, then I’m forgiving myself for not being perfect. TAKE THAT PATRIARCHY! So I will work toward unlearning the guilt I’ve internalized for simply being alive as a brown woman. Also, I need to be chill about being human. For example: I’m smacking the side of my head over and over and over and over and over--I can’t stop(!)--and over and over because I left all my groceries in the grocery store this morning. I paid for them and then I just walked out. Who does that, I ask you. Only an idiot. Only an idiot does that! Haha! Dammit![4]
Ouch, growing muscles hurts.
[1] My family. [2] I have very little virtue! It’s true!! [3] But I do love to share everything, come on over! [4] But seriously though I really need to learn how to let things go.
By: Jocelyne Flores
“Luchando Sobre Todo Con Moonblood” By: Ari
Frida & her Panzón
Mi abuela siempre solía decir que las muxeres somos las de la intuición. Ese día de mayo comprendí porque. Al leer el mensaje de aquel chico que tanto quise, escuche el sonido de la nada. En ese momento comprendí que existe ese vacío en el mundo errenal en donde por unos momentos entras en una coma temporal, sin reacción alguna ante dicho mensaje. Nada. Ya lo presentía, bastaba con sólo decidirme a abrir los ojos. In that moment I stopped loving the glorified story of Frida and her panzón. I won’t deny it, it has been open heart surgery to let go of the idea of you. A boy fictionalized into a man in the imaginary realms of the night. Desde su mensaje opté por una pausa forzada. La vida de nuevo me lo
arrebata de mi lado. Callo, me hago una con el silencio. De la fusión ya somos nada. Somos un silencio, y mientras callamos mi cuerpo humano queda congelado en las memorias de nosotros.Tantos recuerdos llegan a mí. Cuatro años pensando que todo sería diferente. Pero lo hizo y lo hizo público, dejándomelo saber así de bajadita. Tal vez así se ahorra las explicaciones vacías y estúpidas.!Ya que, de él ya nada me sorprende! There was nothing there for me to grow from anyways. Él se la pierde y yo me la ahorro, pero bien ahorrada. Whatever we were quién sabe. I bet he knew about Diego Rivera and made of him his ícono, que muchacho tan más tarugo caray. Aprendió bien, al menos eso le reconozco.
Rant Al Estilo Spanglish
By: Lizbeth De La Cruz Santana
Me engañó dejándome pensar the false notion that love is meant to hurt and betray and I had to accept it as such because I was in love. !Ni que fuera Frida, por favor! Nothing magical comes from a love that tears apart your in sights and carelessly attempts to manipulate its way back into your life. Ya no seguiré escribiéndote poemas panzón, ni te dedicaré canciones. Será difícil, pero es aún más difícil engañame a mi misma.
Toma este cuentito como nuestra despedida oficial. I guess we all have our panzón in our life. It’s a blessing to spot him and kick him to the curve, así como Beckham. Ya me imagino a mi abuelito bien alegre allá en el cielo porque su nieta ya aprendió.
Y él, ¿Quién se cree ese? ¿Don Juan? Aquí no hay tiempo para un mil amores y ojo alegre. Valgame Dios. Si me viera mi abuelito con ese tendría yo un regaño seguro. No one deserves a love story in the shadows. I am not part of a Mexican telenovela and my heart is not a playground. Ni pienses que te voy a dedicar unas rancheras, corridos ni mucho menos los anthems de las mujeres dolidas como Jenny Rivera y Paquita. Si a caso me quiero desquitar tú ni te vas a enterar. True love is out there, fortunately not with you. Adiós panzón, búscate a tu Frida en otra parte que con la misma piedra no vuelvo a tropezar.
You bring out la
de Liliana Sifuentes
You bring out la nueva onda in me.
The thin dried up sweat.
The ardor entre mi voz y el pensamiento.
The dark hair.
The paso tras paso al llegar al café.
You are the one. Allow the galaxies in your eyes, to find the light in my dark.
How?
You bring out the Ramona in me.
The tejedora warrior in me.
The half-ass creativa, morena in me.
The guerilla lunches in me.
The verde gorra, verde botas in me.
The Cuban guitarrista in me.
The agua contaminada in me.
The fake inglés y español in me.
The yellow marigolds covered in rocio in me.
The fosa de nuestro
dolido México in me. The radical piel de pollo in me. The flannel wearing cholía in me.
The disappointment, give up and gritar in me.
The consumer ciclo in me.
You are the one.
How?
You bring out the pesimista in me.
The Stevie Nicks lover in me.
The guitar picking arpegios in me.
The Tlatelolco massacre in me.
The normalista alien in me.
The Virginia Beach gringa in me.
The mandatory solidaridad in me.
The capitalist swindle war in me.
Cosmic brujo. Mi dulce querido, I am the look behind mis ojos negros, that generates esperanza between souls.
nueva onda in me
An ode to Sandra Cisneros
I rewrite the ideas de teoristas masculinos.
I want to lift you and smother you with empathy. I want to brush finger tips in la oscuridad. I want to convert that old blabber masculino, perverted and wasted, into flores secas reciclables.
Me sacas la nueva onda en mi.
How?
You bring out the ignorancia in me. The Catolica machista worshiper in me. The criticona in me. I could beat and destroy my life for this, justicia and sustainability, unreachable madre.
Aye, How?
I am melanin. I am the “pura” virgen Tonantzin. I am the magical hombreriego.
The ingrata, liar without care. The soft magic pussy.
You bring out the nalgas pa’rriba in me. The sonrisa al aire in me.
All you viejas, tradicionales and resilient,Dolores Huerta, Sandra Cisneros, I defy you.
I wish to be you, but nothing like you. Quiero desmantelarte. Destrozarte. Descolonizarte.
Love the way la nueva onda loves. Let me guide you. Love the new, and only way I know how.
How?
By: “untitled collage” By: Jax Ovalle
Too Wild 4 You
By: BREYONCÉ
I am dysfunctional, irrational, inconsolable, erratic, erotic, chaotic mess
I come from a long line of lawbreakers and no shit takers heart breakers and trouble makers
A succubus pretending to be genuine
sinners on their knees for more than just forgiveness
lost in expectations guilt in their head lust in their heart
the sins of the mother are passed to the daughter and the cycle never ends
no man can contain only ever serve a purpose a house to cover a sire to breed a purse some shoes
nobody gets all of you it’s much too frightening
SEVEN STEPS TO COMING OUT AS AN
STEP ONE
Become strongly grounded in this knowledge: You have already survived the worst.
STEP TWO
Make a nimble exit out of your protect-your-family’s -image- even-when- your-family-doesn’tvalue- your-humanity- and-right- to-safety void. This may require several attempts.
Trust your feet.
Trust your intuition. Trust your ancestors. Trust your chingonx impetus to carry you the hell out of here.
STEP THREE
Move into The godfuckingdamned Borderlands: xicanx child abuse survivor edition. Bring water. Pack all bounties of pain or gold you hold claim to. This process will transform you into your own she/ he/they-ro.
PSA: You will be required to sift through your meticulously obscured heartaches and shame. This is non-negotiable and will save your life, eventually.
STEP FOUR
Freely exist in this desert void of time, void of lucidity. Do not rush yourself.
Do not lose sight of the goal (freedom). Coincidentally, delicious post-PTSD lucidity will only be granted in the Unrelenting Heat and Ice Storms epilogue of said desert.
UNAPOLOGETIC XINGONX INCEST SURVIVOR
By: Mikaela X
STEP FIVE
Become bffs with your suicide self-loathing fear maladjustments rage misguided & mistaken love(s) By remembering how to exist in two planes at once you will learn to hold these feelings tenderly.
Becoming the (self)/parent you needed as a child will now be a cinch.
STEP SIX
Abandon all hope to live a ‘normal life’. ‘Normal’ = silence. Your silence ≠ healing.
STEP SEVEN
Become disciplined in the art of gently holding your BodyMemoriesMortalFearFlashbacksTriggers AnxietPhysiologicalDisregulationChronic llnessesDesperationHeartPalpations (physical&psychic)PTSDAutoImmunityHeadAches
PSA:
When this theater of self imposed restraint begins to break your back, take deep breaths and smudge heavily.
STEP SEVEN CONT.
In the madness of the desert you will find you are able to tolerate your emotions floating to the top, then gently returning to their shelves. You survived to meet this moment: space to safely process. feelings tenderly.
“untitled” by Mz Mr
Querida Conchita
By: Maribel Valdez Gonzalez
In the spectrum of color, you occupy all of the spaces. Pink, yellow, brown, white, and red
Mostly, you are brown.
The color of cafecito with a splash of leche de cultura.
Your taste is a multi-cultural jam session of finding ourselves.
It is your color that forces us to move with confusion. Embodying both the experience of oppression and privilege.
Not quite exquisitely dark-skinned like a marranito but not close to beige, either.
Wake up, Conchita!
Flashy icing and sweet textured crust
Your heritage, language, and ideologies stacked unshapely in a paper bag.
Various sizes, colors, and shapes of delicious pan
Each piece, rare and underappreciated.
You are Mestizaje
Rooted in inequality and unbalanced power
Every once in awhile, the anise is so bitter
The bitterness of our disconnection from the land
The result of colonial disruption
Sometimes it feels like we are Monsanto’d seeds of artificial identity.
Querida Conchita,
You are a powerful testament of survival. Multi-colored, bold, and resilient
Your existence, the answer to our ancestors prayers.
“untitled” by Mz Mr
“untitled collage”
By: Jose Rosa
Thoughts
Thoughts
By: C.M
Yours, mine or ours. It seems as though we can’t move. Immobilized.
Our want is vivid but not fulfilling those prejudged shoes.
The privileged stand against our current and speak some sort of truth. Not yours. Not mine. Not ours. Our consistent work for happiness has no inception. Broke with homemade paradise.
We high ourselves through to feel at least the tip of that “American foundation”. Hoping for a movement.
Or a nostalgic sign, that will take our freelance dreams to an escalated motion.
9 to 5 is on the top of our shelf, collecting dust—or so we hope.
Seeking a lie, if we can find one.
To feed our society with red, white and blue. To the flags of our holy ghost or beyond, we shift without a cause.
To the literal “OMGs” and “LOLs” we smirk to.
We can’t stand the norm. We paint it black and wait for sirens that always seem to be not far behind. We shoot our fists up in the air and yell for acknowledgment. Though soon we’ll watch as the elephant herd runs dry. Their search for water will become a need for survival.
But this time we’ll keep what’s yours, mine and ours. No questions asked. The minority ain’t so anymore. Better written as the majority with no cinematic evidence. You and I, sisters and brothers of ever growing souls.
The promise of freedom that will not be named, knows no truth.
Till the day we see this skin or yours on a screen with no judged types, is the day I sit and lavish.
Till then I’ll still be wavin’ and waitin’ for that kingdom come.
“de bello saffico” By: * VINNIE *
“El Diario De Una Xica Sobria” / “The Diary of a Sober Girl” By: Zoulee
Xicx Zine Collective is a media and Zine Collective focused on sharing the stories of femmes of color. We feel an urgency to organize and come together to celebrate our identities. Through writing, art, zine making, and storytelling we work to battle against the norm, create our own history, and uplift femmes like us.
Xicx Zine Collective, una colectiva dedica a compartir historias y la voz de femmes de color. Sentimos la urgencia de organizarnos y unirnos a celebrar y cuidar nuestra identidad. Con escrituras, arte, zines, y cuentos, trabajamos para resistir mientras creamos nuestra propia
