Open letter to my generation

To Whom it may concern/may it concern many:

Two important letters I have read in my life begin: I have written this letter five times and torn it up five times.

1. I have begun this letter five times and torn it up five times.  As with anything, trial and error have presented their predilection for shininess.

There is a gloss.

1. Life does not exist in a vacuum.

Begin with what you know.

1. You need to choose. This is a lie. You choose.

This is a lie that I tell myself daily.

1. I hope you feel you can talk to me.

This is a lie I tell others. TALK TO ME.

1. You really have to think about what you give to people

I can only give you this letter. It is unfair to think these lonely years have been in vain. Unfair to think the meaning of this life is lost on you. unfair to think that art initiates life in some cruel way.

2. I have begun this letter five times and torn it up five times. This is the beginning I choose.  I hope that you can talk to me about this life. this thing we are all here rehearsing together. Create the space and the story will be told. Create the space and your life will explode. Create the space.

When you were born a  nurse told your mother she would do a great job. When you were born a doctor smacked your ass and made you cry. Made you BREATHE.  You sucked your thumb, went to school, had friends, had a peanut butter sandwich, probably kept a journal, maybe broken a bone or a heart. hopefully have danced to a street band, smoked a cigarette and drank a beer. if you are lucky at all you have done these last three at the same time. You have a history. You have a history.

You have a history: someone has called you stupid, called you nigger or chocolate face. Called you bitch, whore, man-whore, spic, called you chink. Called you out and spit on you. You have a history. It’s OK cause it is yours.

Nobody has reminded you of your beauty. Nobody has reminded you of your humanity. Nobody has assured you, nobody has embraced you. Nobody has forgiven you because you don’t have no body. It hurts you to know you can’t even ispire hatred from an enemy.

You still cover your scars with Flintstone band aids and dress your wounds in dope and dirty martinis  because you liturgically have no where to hide in a nation so oversexed and intersexed and undersexed in the literal sense in their ideas of knowledge that Hell hath no fury like like you towards the seventh month of your dryspell.

You say you’re ugly, you’re not. You say your cash poor. This is true but try not to dwell on it. You say “fuck you, I’m leaving” when you really mean living. You say.

You’re mean, it’s true. It’s also true you are sad. It’s also true that sad is lovely. It’s also true that you are not bad. You are not bad. You are not bad. You have a history. You say the opposite.

I want you to remember that we are the movement. You have a history. We have a history. We are the movement that is happening at this time in the present and the progressive and the movement. We are a collective. We are the movement that we have been waiting for, we are the life’s breath.

When you were born the doctor slapped your ass to make you cry. To make you breathe. With that information remember how this letter began.



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