The Sweetest Lemon

Movement | Justice | Thoughts

[the-sweetest-lemon]

The Story Goes

her shtetl was just outside odessa it doesn’t exist anymore the story goes they fled in the middle of the night shortly after the soviet army came in and murdered all the men cutting off their beards, burning them in a synagogue with the holy scroll doors locked the story goes that my grandma arrived to boston she hadn’t seen her mother for nearly a decade she was stunned and afraid of the brazen red lipsick on her momma’s lips who had this docile shtetl woman become? a whore? the story goes that they came here for a better life to give each offspring the best they could education, full bellies, dreams the story goes that shabbat prayers left their mouths **baruch atah adonai** never to be shareddon’t tell them your jewish my momma would say don’t speak in yiddish, otherwise, they’ll know **you don’t look jewish** lucky me my ancestors found refuge on a land where my white skin and blue eyes hide my history the ancient language and rituals striped from me i became white without even knowing this skin is a fortified assurance i will be protected from the police from the jails and more likely to find a date on tinder the story goes we didn’t need the nazis to put tattoos on our arms or stars on our clothes all we needed was a nation that enslaved black bodies erased the native peoples and demonized the newcomers the story goes that i am now affiliated with the white women who voted for roy moore and that is a burden i will not ignore a racist commander in thief who calls haitians - africans - mexicans - arabs shitholes and rapists the story goes white supremacy erases if we let it the story goes 

[the-sweetest-lemon]

Skin

if I could peel my skin off and hand it to you I would if I could erase what my skin’s history means I would if I was able to change the color of me so I could be the color of you I would I want to crawl out of me turn into you and eventually, return to nothingness

[the-sweetest-lemon]

Humanity

If we do not claim our inhumanity, we have no right to claim:

Love.

Respect.

Humanity.

We are living inside a monstrous home that has been reinforced by a wicked past.

The dirty laundry of our constructed hatred has been piling up.

The stench so strong it has risen from our foundation.

It became too dank and heavy, the house is splintering to an unavoidable pile of spears and sharp edges.

And we are all inside.

No longer able to pretend like we don’t see the mess

It is past due we realize the destruction of our home.

Once we surrender to the responsibility of our inaction, silence, placated hearts

We can commit to re-claiming our humanity.

[the-sweetest-lemon]

Un-Love-Able

Undo the string that keeps these fabrics on my body

I was led to believe love comes in all shapes and sizes

Told to be able to surrender when it becomes

Undone

Licking love wounds is never tasty

But we are all able to do it

Love, that is.

An active verb that demands so much of us

Unraveling our securities

Questioning our abilities

Laborious love is the most exhausting.

Unable to be IN love, with love is to be

Unloveable.

[the-sweetest-lemon]

Just like the others

I need to know the deeper reason why you vacated so swiftly.

The connection was so sweet and warm,

Did I not create enough space for you to lash out?

What we built was sturdy and humble

No need for glitz or glamor

It was raw, real.

You quickly turned sour and cold.

Was it something I said?

Did I not have the right panties?

Did I make you face yourself and you couldn’t handle the reflection?

Did I love you too much?

I always seem to do that.

Offer warm, sweet spaces with love painted walls.

Openly welcoming the wary and lost

You were just another visitor, passing through on your own time

With complete disregard for what was created

For the effort

For the offerings

For me.

You’re just like the others.

[the-sweetest-lemon]

Who

His big eyes were locked to the sky, searching beyond the clouds. 

Lifetimes worth of war and bloodshed limited him, keeping his dreams locked in cages. The keys were lost a long time ago. 

They dropped bombs, chemicals, leaflets, and lies on his playground. They covered his grandmother’s home with bullet holes. They burned down sacred places of ritual. 

His eyes glued to the heavens. No tears could break his stare, his abundant emptiness impossible to fill. 

Who is responsible for this? He silently wondered.

Who made weapons? Who called the fighters? Who took that lives of the innocent, and blamed the other for the loss? 

Who dropped poison on their community? 

Who stole lives with complete awareness? 

Who.  

[the-sweetest-lemon]

To the heel-lovers and sneaker-wearers.

This goes out to all the women who have to sell their bodies to support their babies. This goes out to all the women and girls who are told by our myopic understanding of gender that they are not female (you are, queen). This is for all the ladies working 8-5 (7am-10pm, really) and getting paid 20% less than their male counterparts working 9-5. This goes out to all the full figured goddesses, you are yummy. This is for all the skinny biatches, you are tasty too. This is for all the seen and unseen. For the black and brown women idolized and then spat on. For the hijab and the bikini. This is for us...you are powerful.

[the-sweetest-lemon]

Teeth

Last night, I was at the theater with you, fully enjoying the show when it happened.

My mouth began to throb and I left your side in search of resolution. I stumbled down the cascading velvet covered stairs with my hand sealing my mouth shut. I was trying so very hard to keep them in, locked in place.

The right mandibular cuspid, a canine tooth, slipped out of the gums that held it and pushed its way through my pursed lips.

I couldn’t control the flow, by the time I made it through the translucent theater doors, my incisors were falling out like heavy marble.

I became dizzy and tired. The weight of my body was pulling me down, deep into the earth.

In my right hand, I held a pile of my teeth. I didn’t see blood.

I knew I was dying, it was poetically clear my time had expired. But I refused to fall to the earth without grace.

As I slowly slid down the glass door, one hand holding the teeth, the other steadying my decent, I heard a deep, commanding voice whisper:

We are eliminating all those we did not eliminate in the Holocaust. We are eliminating your family and all those you ever loved. There are many of them, and it will take time, but we will win.

“Holy shit,” I said aloud as I woke up with my face pressed deep into the pillow. I swiftly ran my tongue across my teeth, they were all intact, but my jaw was sore.

I lifted my heavy bones out of the bed, my head still spinning. I took a sip of cool water from the glass at my nightstand and slowly folded back into the sheets.

Like rubber glue, I closed my eyes tightly and took a deep breath. Rest did not come easily, but as soon as it did I swore I heard “resist” softly whispered into my ear.

[the-sweetest-lemon]

River

They named her River  

For the waters disappeared many days before her birth

Her momma said that we took too much and that the only way to receive forgiveness was to remember what we lost

Her poppa filled his arms with her flowing body, hoping his weeping would fill her up

Water once flowed here, her grandma murmured with salty, dry eyes

But we took it all

They named her River so that each time they said her name they were calling back to the waters that once lived

The river that flowed on in her spirit

[the-sweetest-lemon]

Rotten Meat

She cut deep into the flesh, separating the meat from fat from bone.

“I’ll boil this,” she announced as she pointed the sharp knife toward the pile of bones. 

The winter had been a long one, filled with heartache, disappointment, and angst. The looming pressure, it’s weight seeping into the floorboards and windowsills, could be felt by all the occupants. 

The meat had been rotten for some time, sitting on a shelf, ignored by the residents who didn’t have to pass by it every day. For too long, the repugnant smell of the flesh was relegated to those who were privy to degradation.

But now, the whole house stank.

She cut bits and pieces of semi-edible meat, plopping what she could salvage into a boiling pot.

The house was filled with a sour stench of lemon and salt. Hungry bellies and wide eyes stared disappointed at the messy cutting board. They had come here to find fulfillment.

Trim along the edges, down the center, to the top. The lifeless slab had little abundance left to offer.

“I don’t remember this meat ever tasting good,” she laughed as she wiped sweat from her brow. “Heck, it is possible the meat was rotten from the start.”

[the-sweetest-lemon]

Yes, yes, yes, yes

Have you ever sat on the edge of a dock during a rainstorm, letting the drops splash directly into your open mouth?  

How about curling up in a crevasse of the earth, wrapped and folded between arms and legs of strangers you’ve completely fallen in love with?

Have you spent an evening sauntering down a mountain, allowing your eyes to see the complexities of nightfall? 

Did you ever allow yourself to laugh so fully, with so much unadulterated joy, that you peed your pants? If so, did you tell someone about it?

When you last prayed, did you call to the heavens, beneath dangling stars that beckoned you to hoot and holler?

Did you ever eat a meal at a sprawling table with dishes made of love, and drinks filled with soul, with company that fed you more than the food?

Have you given yourself fully to a moment, with no expectations of how long it would last?

Tell me, in truth, did you?

[the-sweetest-lemon]

(Live to) Tell the Tale

The ancient story smoothly slipped from your lips. Each word projecting lively visions, and truths founded in exaggeration. Your knowledge of the tale was filled with amusement and clarity.

I swear, if allowed, you could tell the tale for centuries.

When you departed, we all felt the loss. Your vacancy is irreplaceable, and not because it is empty, but because we still fill it with our memories of you. 

You gave true beauty in a time where beauty appears contrived.

You appeared in moments when we least expected your arrival.

Your art and love and heartache and passion was consumed without resolve.

Does it bother you that we asked you to re-tell the tale over and over? Or are you so abundant in its scripture that it is impossible for you to be depleted? 

I didn’t know this before, and I’m not sure I totally comprehend it now, but you gave the story without knowing its ending.

You passed on the tale to ensure its safe keeping. You kept saying:

“remember this. remember me. remember those who came before you. remember yourself. remember that you are not the end.”

It takes a lot of practice to remember. Devotion, too.

[the-sweetest-lemon]

Keep, Create

Never hush.

You said so much when you made art, when you made love, when you made that which was worth making.

Your art reverberated in ear drums and heart pumps.

Oh sweetness, you kept creating the most beautiful art. It was impossible to keep up with you, but how we relished the chase.

You gave a gift that was blindingly bright, a craft the illuminated spirits.

Your offerings were needed, and so cherished. 

Your family, your community are crippled in pain as our salted eyes witness the light dimmer.

But how blessed we are that you left us in your creation. That we got to experience you, hold you, kiss you, admire you.

Never hush. Keep on creating, we still feel you.

[the-sweetest-lemon]

Night Before Last

The night before last I had a dream that brave people fighting for water and scared land were being massacred by law enforcement.

I watched the scene from Facebook, a guy I knew was live streaming the events as he ran for his life.

I heard the screams as though they were happening right next to my slumbering body, curled up against me in the sheets.

Wrapped in the threads of my pillowcase.

Waking to California rain against the windowpane cast a spell of unforgiving heartache into my belly.

I wept with fear that my nightmare was truth.

I shivered with the knowing that honor of land and water, devoted love to life and unwavering justice is uncertain...

but that struggle is certain.

Wilting out of bed, my shoulders felt the hands of my ancestors holding me, encouraging me to move forward.

Their gentle push a reminder that before me, they passed through barriers of violence, hate, and agony.

They pushed on for me. They survived for me.

I hear my great-grandparents telling me to stand on them. Firmly.

They are as strong as a rock.

Even stronger.  

[the-sweetest-lemon]

He won

It was a rage from deep within me. Buried in the crevices of my consciousness.

I screamed on the street corner, straight from my belly ‘FUCK!!!!’

I slammed my delicate hand against the chainlink fence - Pow! Pow! Pow!

I punished myself for being hopeful, for being complacent, for being and being.

'You are being dramatic,’ he said. 'I’m trying to feel grounded.’

How am I being dramatic? I am merely embodying the pain and hate that I’ve witnessed, that has been spoon fed to me like cough syrup on a cold day.

Take this, you’ll feel better.

I’m being dramatic? No. This is my reaction to the reality that we just elected a hateFUL man who sees womens’ bodies as objects, people of color as threats, and land as profit.

I am not dramatizing, I am expressing resistance.

I will not be silenced by your discomfort. I will not remain still because you think I look better that way, instead of this.

I resist. And you discomfort empowers me.

[the-sweetest-lemon]

Still in silence.

Every morning he takes his mother for a walk. The doctor recommended they go the same route each day, to maintain consistency:

1. Exit left out of the building, head down Broadway, past the growing shops, youth-full workers

2. Turn right on Grand Ave, reach the tip of the lake where the water fountain spouts

3. Continue towards Fairyland, but not too far.

4. Stop in the shaded grass and pause there for a few moments.

5. Try to hear the birds feasting and flying. They are so alive. 

6. Return home, the exact same way, for consistency. 

Mother doesn’t say much these days. Her words became too repetitive, too predictable.

Why speak when you already know the result? 

She used to be an incredible storyteller, making listeners cry and wail, woo and holler.

Silence.

Her clear blue eyes remain wet with unannounced tears, making her cheeks salty for kissing.

Mother sits still while her son pushes. Letting her tired body bounce and shake with the divots and cracks of the pathway. If she could remember anything, it would be how this walk feels on her aching bones.

But does she remember? 

His aging hands on the bars of her wheelchair are covered with sunspots mapping the journey of his life. He once dug deep into the earth, in search of the mysteries and unknowns.

But why think about those impossibilities when these walks exist?

The heels of his shoes are splitting open to reveal his white cotton socks. He likes to wear the same pair two days in a row. It saves on laundry.

Rain or shine, he pushes his mother along the path. Arriving to the same destination time and time again. Waiting. Waiting, Waiting, for the day when there will be nowhere to arrive to.

Habits are hard to break.

[the-sweetest-lemon]

Water is Life

Do you hear that?

Sit in the stairwell to hear the pitter-patter of rain outside.

It's singing tunes of life and growth. Songs of ancient wisdom and knowing.

And then you can see.

We are witnessing, live from North Dakota, the active oppression and colonization of the people native to this land.

How will history books tell this story? Will they once again create false narratives of peace and unity? Or will they be written with the truth?  

Native tribes and allies are standing solid,  as a rock, to protect water. To protect life.

When will we wake up,  to once again hear the ancient calling?