Blood is a Dried Up River

Most days, I am scared to read the news. I am afraid that I will see yet another story of yet another queer person ostracized from their home, rejected by their family members, beaten up on the street like a dog, shot at a nightclub, beheaded, branded a pedophile, or any of the 100 other things which are happening. All the while, listening to religious zealots repeat the mantra of “family values” as they ravage and plunder all that remains of humanity, but what about my family, queer people who are killed every day – who cries for them? Who weeps at their grave? All I hear is an echo filled with the silence of the murdered.

I recall my mom, before she passed away, telling me about an old profession that is, somewhat in one of those weird ironic ways, dying out. Narikače were women, typically in smaller villages, who would weep at the grave of the recently deceased. These grave weepers held an important function, and they would often imbue their performances with a ritual swaying back and forth, and a song that would break out through their tears.

Perhaps when we have shed all our tears for the murders of our chosen families, we can find some solace in the tears of professional mourners. Perhaps that’s who we’ve become, professional mourners for all those we do not know, for all the nameless and nameable bodies that pile up, lost souls to a culture of cruelty that wishes nothing more than to burn our existence out of history books. Our tears are for the lost memories, unlived days, and unrealized smiles of our people. It is upon us to mourn the loss of life as a loss of beauty in this world. Their beauty must shine through us.

Death is, and always was, inexorably linked to life. But it seems death is much closer to us; those of us who end up living in this world set to kill us. Maybe Audre Lord was right, we were never meant to survive. But somehow, we did.

It sometimes seems that by the very fiber of our being, we are not allowed a happy end – and so, we settle for an at-least-I-didn’t-die-today end. We get accustomed to it, we fight every day to survive that we forget how to live. I am tired of it all, tired of the pain and misery inflicted upon us. What keeps me going is that I know today is not the end; and tomorrow there is hope.