Pensacola

Eating up the highway like starving 12 year old boys on a journey with friends who are more kin than not. Horseplay and water fights at the gas station soaking the not so innocent bystander. Conversations take turns round the interior like squirrels leaping from limb to limb. Throwing hands out the window wind whistling through fingers as we chant "Almost there, almost there" and the sky's all blue like the kind that marks those perfect days as lyrics float out of the speakers, hidden voices singing us on our way as we dance in our seats on the way to sun, sand, the ocean. The forecast predictions of scattered drunkenness, delicious meals and dancing as if we never had before.  And it will all be so amazing that we'll look back on this time and say, "yeah. That was a hell of a trip!" Hey! Just saw a sign! We’re almost there!  Almost there…

Randi M. Romo March 2013 ©

The Night You Disappeared

The Night You Disappeared

The screen door

slammed shut

a rifle crack of sound

that split the air…creating

a silence so profound

it was as if the earth

and all she carries

upon her face

had together of

one accord…

stopped breathing

And then the crickets

begin again and a

man on the front and one

on the rear carries you

across the porch

their breath coming hard

as they lift you up

over the step

and you’re so beautiful

eyes closed peacefully

hair a shining black halo

framing your silent face

stark against the white

of stretcher sheets

I sit up high in my

crow’s nest of a

strange man’s arms

peering over his shoulder

heady with the scent

of his aftershave

Old Spice, I think…

not really knowing

what the tableau

before me means

as you disappeared

into the gaping maw

of a white, red bubble

topped vehicle that

flashed and screamed you

away from me / from us

into the void of night

I didn’t know then

the hurt that you carried

so deep that it was ground

into the DNA of your

bones, your blood and

your brain…all tiny

silvery razorblades of

pain that cut away your

smile a little more

bit by bit until your teeth

no longer saw the

light of day

I didn’t understand an agony

that could make you

want to disappear…forever

For a long time about

that night I didn’t remember

the ceremony of your

preparations to leave us

how you bathed us and

dressed us all up

in our Sunday best

my two brothers and I

how you sat us upon

the sofa all in a row

so shiny and perfect

while you took yourself

in your finest raiment

behind the bathroom door

where with the click of a lock

you embarked upon

your journey…no luggage

needed as you swallowed

your one way ticket

You came back one day

but not really…the absence

it was there…in your eyes

for a very long time

I missed you so much

R.M. Romo June 2013 ©

Home is Where the Rooster Crows

My mother lives and works in a rural agricultural farmworker community that sits on the outskirts of Dade City, Florida. I love to go home to visit, this place where I too have lived and worked. But no matter how often I go home, it always takes me a bit to adjust to the sounds. There are cars going by on the street, just outside the window with their stereos blasting Mexican music. It’s always the whine followed by the quick riffs of the accordion that you hear first. Sometimes it's other folk who come driving through and the bass rattles the windows, boom, boom and you can feel it all the way into the back of your teeth. Sirens at intervals punctuate the days and nights, their piercing cries a sharp reminder that it’s not only angels who walk among us. And every now and then a sheriff's car rockets down the main street of this little community so fast it lifts shirt tails and blows back your hair,  

There’s lots of people who walk in this neighborhood; workers going to and from work, mothers with strollers and little ones tagging behind, teens trying to hold themselves at just the right angle to be considered cool enough and elders out for constitutions. Calls of buenos dias along with the ensuing conversations fall like sporadic spring showers as people pass one another. Yes, it’s a tough neighborhood, but manners still matter.

The taco stand across from my mom's house stays busy. Cars and trucks pull in and out, doors slamming throughout the day as people stop by for food. You can get the best agua frescas there. I like the sandia the best. They also have my favorite tacos, barbacoa con cilantro, lime and onion with just the perfect salsa verde on freshly made hot corn tortillas. On Sundays the men line up for their menudo to counter the cruda from their celebrations of the night before. The covered picnic tables in front of the trailer are filled with people eating, talking and laughing. Children dart between the tables and race around the little stand. An errant dog picks its way carefully between the feet and legs at the tables searching for bits of food that may have fallen to the ground.

Serving as a backdrop to the Sunday ritual at the taco trailer is a mixture of Mexican music from nearby houses and cars driving by as well as the small African-American centric church on the opposite corner. The church has a speaker wired up outside and they broadcast their services. The musicians and singers are quite good. And it is in the midst of all this cacophony that I feel it most, this is home.  

But I must confess that there is one bit of noise that no matter where I have encountered it, I have never become accustomed to it; the crowing of a rooster. At home it is not uncommon for there to be various broods of chickens ranging about different parts of the community. Despite her claims that they are not her chickens, one such brood has taken up residence in my mother’s backyard, accompanied by their very own rooster.

This past trip home, a very rude and overly ambitious rooster crowed me awake every morning around two am. Once he stopped I would eventually fall back asleep, whereupon he would almost immediately begin his next round of crowing. It was as if he had a little chicken spy peering in the side of the blinds giving him the signal of when to commence again. Talk about your “peeps”!

I truly desire to bring none harm, but I fear that had I not left and returned to my own home when I did that there may have well been a rooster gone missing. And if any thought to notice the absence of Señor Gallo, that loud, raucous early morning songster, I would have smiled serenely as I ladled out servings of a delicious pollo en mole pobalno.

We The People

The U.S. has had a long history of separating out some of its residents and treating them as less than. In some cases actively causing harm and/or death as well as legislating against them. Indigenous people, Africans and their descendants, people of different faiths, Asian Pacific Islanders, various immigrant groups, women, Latinos, etc. And in each and every case, it has ultimately been acknowledged that the treatment of these and other groups was oppressive, unwarranted, cruel and inhumane. 

An often overlooked fact, despite being a critical lynchpin to an analysis, is the fact that various manifestations of organized religion has in every single case of these occurrences been a significant part of the foundation for the justification of the systemic oppression, harm and even murder of different groups. Example: The concept of Manifest Destiny. The idea that white men had a divine destiny to expand across America.

Today the LGBTQ community struggles to be equal under the law, just as so many others have before us. And yet, despite all of the historical examples and the knowledge that this country has been rife with harmful, even deadly prejudicial discrimination the discriminatory practices and laws continue.  And as it has harmed so many others, organized religion (not all but enough) continues to serve as a foundation for oppression.

“We the People” -  it means ALL of the people!

You Can't Undo Dead.

My heart is so broken over this newest incident of mass murder. I've had to just be quiet with it for a bit. My thoughts and prayers go out to the families of all who lost their children and family members in CT last Friday.

How in the hell does anyone shoot a six year old 11 times? I cannot begin to imagine the suffering and sorrow of those families and that town. And at the same time I am angry! I am so freaking pissed off! Because this was not the first time such a shooting occurred and at this rate it certainly won't be the last!

There have been SIXTY TWO (62) mass shootings in the past 30 years. With a total of 959 victims who were either murdered or injured. That's NINE HUNDRED AND FIFTY NINE HUMAN BEINGS!! And the majority of the shooters got their weapons legally. (http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2012/07/mass-shootings-map) For me the deeper horror beyond the immediate acts is that these events continue to happen and they are accelerating in occurrences at an alarming rate. But despite this knowledge we as a nation still do not address the dual cause, a lack of accessible quality mental health/addiction care that includes as needed long term residential treatment and the ready access to the kinds of weapons exacting such carnage.

I know there are those who resist the idea of restricting and regulating further the access to certain types of weapons. They argue that they are responsible gun owners. Just as I'm sure Adam Lanza's mother most likely considered herself to be as well as other family's whose guns were stolen to commit a mass shooting. You must admit there is something very wrong with the fact that we can get such a weapon far more easily than we can get competent mental health care. There is no denying that as our mental health system access has disintegrated our rates of these kind of shootings have grown. 

As the parent of a child with extremely debilitating mental health issues I have long seen firsthand the disparity of access to mental health care, particularly for low-income and uninsured families. For years the mental health system has been systematically dismantled closing the vast majority of long term treatment facilities. For those dealing with mental health issues by self-medicating there are even less resources that focus on a duality program of mental health and drug and/or alcohol addiction. (http://readersupportednews.org/opinion2/272-39/15054-americas-dangerously-gutted-mental-healthcare-system)

Five of the world's top ten weapons manufacturers are American companies. So, I'm pretty sure we know why the NRA keeps pushing the lie that our rights as Americans are intrinsically tied to the need to own assault rifles, large ammo magazines and other rapid fire weapons. During the time this country had an assault weapons ban gun manufacturers modified many of their products to evade the law and still sell high powered rapid fire weapons. These same manufacturers also lobbied incessantly to have the ban removed. A new and effective ban on these kind of weapons will take guts, strict laws and enforcement. Other countries are doing it. Why can't we, a world leader, stop this violence in our own back yard? To date, from where I sit...it looks like it's because the NRA, the weapon manufacturers and the politicians that they own are simply not going to allow this to happen.

I have no idea why we as a country are so enamored with the idea that we must  own assault weapons. Seriously! Why do we need handguns that can rapidly fire multiple rounds of high powered ammo? Other than the military and law enforcement to what end do we really need these? I'm sick to death of hearing about "the criminals have them and we need to be comparably armed". Seriously? In most cases people with guns are at a high risk of having them stolen or in the event of a crime, taken from them and used against them. And the reality is that if you ever, ever find yourself in a situation where you need an assault rifle or a semi-automatic handgun with maximum capacity magazines chances are you won't be where the gun is or we have been invaded by foreign interests using guns instead of the current weapon of choice, banks. We certainly are not in danger of being unable to hunt given the various rifles that can be used quite suitably for that purpose without having the capacity to kill scores of people all at once.

Our country has eviscerated our mental health system allowing folks who do these kinds of shootings to fall through the cracks. We keep being told there isn't enough, despite the fact that we are one of the wealthiest nations in the world. We can't afford to take care of our citizens, but we can continue to purchase and disperse billions of dollars in weaponry as we continue our armed conflicts.

Me. I'm a gun owner. I love to shoot. But there is nothing I do or ever hope to do that requires assault weapons or semi-automatic handguns with large clips of ammo. And I bet you all of those who had family members murdered or injured in this newest mass shooting can't begin to imagine why we ever needed such weapons either.

What is wrong with our society that we love the idea of freedom to own these kinds of weapons, these inanimate objects more than we love the actual people; living breathing children, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, etc. How do we justify the need to own these weapons in the face of all of the deaths of innocents from them? What is wrong with this country that we love war more than we care about taking care of our citizens who are in need of care?

I wonder how these NRA folks, the weapon manufacturers, our congress members and the gun fanatics who have chugged the kool-aid would really feel about these guns availability and the lack of mental health care access if they were crouched inside a cubby listening to the pop, pop, pop of gunfire as their friends and teachers were being murdered. How would they feel sitting there, hiding and waiting for that terrible moment when the shooter finds them...what if it were their children they had to go and claim from the morgue? Dead is dead. There are no I'm sorry's. There are no do overs. There's just dead. 

We must hold our elected officials accountable, the means for mental health care must be found. And if you really, really need to have access to such guns, go join the military and in the meantime let's stop this madness. Literally.

Creation

"Queer people have two creation stories. The one of their emergence from the birth canal and the other when they tell the truth about their identity. And like any birth, we can live or die in either of those moments." ~Romo~

TAMO

What a journey this has been! A bittersweet sampler of grief, renewal, enduring love and the joyous rediscovery of self. Some times we can get caught up and lose ourselves in another's journey. We don't mean to and they don't mean for us to, yet without our realizing it, we find ourselves lost.

All of our lives we have been programmed to believe that if you just have love, it will be enough to see you through anything. I don't believe that's quite true anymore. Yes, love is critically important to the equation. But sometimes a love can be so great and undeniable, yet still not enough ultimately in all of the factors that dictate how we relate to each other as human beings. Especially as couples.

Love often means that one or both in a relationship will have to sacrifice some significant aspect of their dreams, hopes and desires in order to compromise and keep the relationship afloat. Often times these sacrifices are the first toll of the death knell for the relationship. It's hard to negotiate the desires of self while balancing the desires of the other person while having to juggle the stability of the "we".

Regrettably we often fail to discuss before hand in detail the nuts and bolts of the how to be a couple; the wants, dreams, desires, how to handle money, where to live, the long range vision of the future, etc... Instead we willingly fling ourselves headlong with wild abandon into love's deepest pool. Only to find after the fact that we can't swim and no one thought to bring along a life jacket.

Despite these hardships, the near drowning, we don't give up on love nor do we give up on trying. It is for most of us in our nature to love and to desire love and to seek love. It's what we do with it afterwards that always seems to be the struggle.

As I have traversed this journey that began in loss, it often seemed an insurmountable pain, a mortal wound. And then one day it was easier and I could breathe again, my heart resumed its faithful beat; peace flowed though my veins, immersing my soul and mind and I knew that I was more than okay.

A greater gift was the discovery that despite the grieving, the anger, hurt and pain, the love itself was still true. Sometimes something "just is", it may not look anything like what we originally thought we wanted, but it's a grand thing to realize that different isn't worse or bad. In some cases, different can be just fine!