Thursday, Day 40: Bracelets

An article I read in the New York Times a couple weeks ago prompted me to find an old poem about the neighborhood I loved most in Cincinnati--the Queen City, where I first came out in my early 20s, where I first learned to love myself. I reworked parts of that old poem and added a few more stanzas; it's still a work-in-progress, but ready, at least, to be shared here. 

Over the Rhine

Cincinnati was the only city in the nation whose charter expressly barred ordinances related to gay rights; critics called it “the most anti-gay city in America.” Today Cincinnati has its first openly gay city councilman, and leaders market the city as friendly to lesbians, gays, bisexuals and transgender people…Changing demographics have indeed led to a shift in attitudes. Cincinnati’s Over-the-Rhine neighborhood, a historic district known for its Italianate architecture, was once blighted and dangerous. Now it is home to boutiques, restaurants and many gay residents…

--New York Times, April 25, 2015

1994:

We would walk hand in hand past the corner church during Latin Mass, toward Kaldi's, remember? And the boys on the corner would tease us, "Two girls together? You're asking for trouble. Might as well be black."

And how we laughed.

And how they whistled.

And how it happened, over and over--or maybe just once?

1995:

The homeless woman on Elm and Clay shoved a bracelet in your hands in exchange for a dollar, and when you tried to refuse, she said, "You white girls take it, now, you hear? You take it

and think about how come it's always the black women begging for money…"

and I'm embarrassed to say it, but didn't we weep, didn't we weep our white guilt then go back the next day to the only place we felt safe  holding hands on the street?

1996:

And when Jeff and Mark kissed in the wrong neighborhood--

was it Clifton, or West side, or down by the river?--

didn’t they come to Kaldi’s, black and blue, and remember what you said?

“Don’t you know by now, boys, that you’re only safe here in the ‘hood,”

and didn’t they laugh, loud and hard, until Jeff doubled over, the pain of the laughter too much?

2001:

Did I mention I'm weeping?

Do you want to know why?

I'm reading the news

(Cincinnati, another black man shot by the cops)

and I'm thinking, maybe one of those boys

from the corner
took the bullet, maybe one of

those boys

became the man

who took the bullet.

2014:

Did I mention I’m weeping?
Do you want to know why?
I’m reading the news
(Cincinnati, another queer kid, another
suicide)
and I’m thinking of Katie
and Lizza and Maura
and Jack and Maurice
and all of those ropes, pills, and guns.

2015:  

Let me tell you, old friend, what I read last night.

They’ve cleaned up the ‘hood, cleaned up their act,

and now the mayor’s declared a day for the man
who died to make marriage legal,
once and for all.

And I’m weeping—

you want to know why?

Because who was pushed out to make room for the queers?

Because who was ignored to make room for marriage?

Because the police are still killing black men.

Because queer kids are still killing themselves.

Because our bosses joked about fags.

Because we had to lie to our bosses.

Because we had to lie to our landlords.

Because we had to pretend to be straight on the bus.

Because we didn’t ever call the police.

Because we kept silent and made ourselves beautiful, flannel and jeans, because we danced and drank and played pool all night, because Bullfishes had the music on the jukebox we wanted, because the Wild Iris had coffee at dawn, because we read every book at Crazy Ladies Bookstore, because we marched in Cincinnati’s first gay pride parade, all 30 of us, and prayed for our lives,

Because, in the end, despite everything, we loved, and survived.

Addendum:

Let me tell you, old friend,
what I dreamed last night.

Do you want to know?

Can't you see them now,

those skinny black boys calling out their tired joke,

only this time, we don't look back and laugh,

we don't keep walking. This time, old friend,

we stop on the corner and take their hands in ours

and go into the church and everyone's there,

Jeff and Mark
and Katie
and Lizza and Maura
and Jack and Maurice--
living and dead, remembered,
forgotten,

and all the friends we had those years,

all of us weeping while that homeless woman
distributes communion and bracelets
and forgives, and forgives,
and we begin to preach to each other until
the words move beyond words,
make more sense than words,

until we believe
there are things in this world we could change.