Cusp
by Wendy C. Ortiz
Y̶e̶s̶t̶e̶r̶d̶a̶y̶ ̶I̶ ̶a̶w̶o̶k̶e̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶c̶o̶o̶n̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶l̶o̶v̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶f̶r̶i̶e̶n̶d̶’̶s̶ ̶h̶o̶u̶s̶e̶.̶
Yesterday I awoke in the cocoon of queer love that is my friend’s house. We had read the news reports trickling in via social media. She made poached eggs with avocado and hot sauce, pink salt, pepper, over thick slices of oven-toasted bread. We rejoiced that we’ll see each other again in less than a month when she dropped me off at the airport.
The airport: where cnn drones on & on & no one has power to change the channel. I went from my cocoon of queer love to a place where a bunch of humans sat or stood, chill, waiting to board a sophisticated piece of metal machinery that would fly some of us home as talking heads broadcast that this was the worst gun massacre in the nation’s history. I wanted to scream my face off.
It’s one thing to feel vulnerable with your loved ones vs. feeling vulnerable out in the world.
I think of my gay nephews. I think of people who want queer bodies dead. People who want brown bodies dead.
I sifted through social media reading expressions of grief and rage. My friend Sylvia Rodemeyer wrote a Facebook post and in it she said, “If you are anti-LGBTQ I want you out of my life.” It was a sentence couched in other sentences of sorrow, anger, and lament. That sentence stood out to me. Its simplicity is sharp and direct. And I could hear our collective wails encapsulated inside of it.
I came home to my queer cocoon called home and managed to be with my family and not lose my shit completely, though after a few episodes of sputtering sobs with my child sitting near, her other mother suggested I might not look at social media for a while.
This morning we returned to our routines and I went off to hike.
I read Myriam Gurba’s instagram on the trail and soon I wasn’t just sweating but also crying. That trail, over the years, has absorbed so much of my sweat and tears.
I thought of all the times in which people have wanted me or those like me, dead.
People have wanted me dead because I am a woman. Wanted me dead because I am of Mexican heritage. Wanted me dead because I had an abortion. Wanted me dead because I fell in love with a woman, wanted me dead because I have sex with a woman.
And there have been times when I wanted me dead, too.
I think of all the people murdered at Pulse nightclub in Orlando and wonder what their stories are. I wonder how many times they escaped the death pull before this–all of us humans have it, but some of us are encouraged by the culture to succumb. They hadn’t. They were in the club. They were dancing. Maybe they were laughing. Maybe they were piss drunk, maybe they were angry, maybe they were tired, maybe they were looking forward to sleeping in the next morning.
All the ways in which my basic humanity, the humanity of those like me, has been, to someone, a threat.
I am dangerous because I’m a woman. Dangerous because my family of origin’s roots are in Mexico. Dangerous because I can control my fertility. Dangerous because I birthed a baby. Dangerous because I am educated. Dangerous because I have had sex with women and men.
Dangerous because my main creative drive is to write.
I think of all the places in which I personally have derived power. I have derived power from being a woman. I have derived power knowing that my family’s roots are in Mexico. Derived power from choosing to end an unwanted, unplanned pregnancy. Derived power from my education both in the streets and in institutions. Derived power from my body as it moves in the world. Derived power with every move my muscles make as I run the trail. Derived power from pushing against the woman whose hand is fucking me. Derived power from her cock as I closed myself around it. Derived power from having a mouth and a brain. Derived power from reading, from taking in art and music and the brilliance of my fellow humans.
Derived power from writing.
All the ways in which I am dangerous/derive power, the ways in which the existence of me and others like me are considered by some, “a threat.”
My kid has two mothers and her biological father is gay. This is my life. Brown, queer, here. Never going back. If you see me or others like me as a threat, I want you out of my life. It’s that simple.
All my outrage, all my love, all my grief and danger, all my power to those who were senselessly murdered in Orlando, to those who were injured, to their families, and to all the young queers watching this shitshow unfold. I love you.
Wendy C. Ortiz is the author of Excavation: A Memoir (Future Tense Books, 2014), Hollywood Notebook (Writ Large Press, 2015) and the forthcoming Bruja (CCM, Oct. 2016). Her work has appeared in The New York Times, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Hazlitt, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, and The Nervous Breakdown, among other places. Wendy lives in Los Angeles.
Find her: Web: http://www.wendyortiz.com | Twitter: @WendyCOrtiz
Instagram: Wendy.C.Ortiz | tumblr: wendycortiz.tumblr.com
