Old Pro
I wanted to be a poet. I hustled my way
into the literary scene much like I had at the piers.
They watched me dare to speak my truth. They said,
“Good for you! Talking openly about your
experiences as a queer poet of color and being
sex positive.” They felt what I was doing wasn’t
poetry. I heard them say I was only popular
because I was a whore. I listened to them.
Gave them permission to use me. Let them
take pictures of me in my underwear to
promote readings. They mispronounced
my name and spelled it incorrectly. And expected
me to show up and perform for them.
Bring in the crowd. They slut-shamed me into
a cage in a small dark room that smelled like piss.
I wanted to be a poet. I wanted to escape my past
as a prostitute. Maya Angelou had been a sex worker
and became a poet. In bed I wrote poems. I cuddled
with cats. I thought what I was sharing was
important. I thought what I was doing was significant.
I thought poetry was meant for everyone. I made
mistakes in my rebellion. I was almost killed.
I believed Audre Lorde that my silence would
not protect me. I wrote to be more like Assotto
Saint. I was inspired by homophobic
contemporaries who hated me. I did not attend
their workshops or teach alongside them
in schools. I watched them become famous.
I watched a new generation of poets pretend
they did everything first. I watched them
innovate and influence as I became invisible.
Again. I used my first and middle name to be
remembered. My last name belonged
to a deadbeat dad. I tried to write about what I
knew at a time when they did not care about Houses
or underground communities. DEI was not an
acronym for diversity, equity, and inclusion.
More like disenfranchise, exclude, and ignore.
I read in front of large audiences and by myself
to a phone camera. I thought I would reach
my father this way someday. I thought I would meet
the love of my life this way someday. Instead, we met
the old school way—at a seedy bar. After marching
against racism. He jokingly calls me “A-Manuel.”
He can recite the lines of my better-known poems.
He loves to tell stories. He knows there is only one
m in my first name. We both learned the truth
about my father. Now know his name. Where he
lives in Florida. He lets me discuss my past. He lets
me find the time to read and write. He is my literary award.
I am his laureate.
Notes:
“Old Pro” is from Love(ly) Child (Queer Mojo, 2023) by Emanuel Xavier.
Source:
Poetry
(November 2023)
