February 9, 2017

The second time I expressed my anger outwardly I was about 15-years-old. I was so angry that day that I broke three tennis trophies; one of them flew out the window seven-stories down.

The anger I felt that day was very different than anything I had experienced before. You see I was in Love. But I wasn’t just any teenager-in-Love. I was in Love with my first girlfriend. Her skin was like canela dulce. Sus ojos negros and long dark hair were a strong reminder that our Taino ancestors are still very much among us. I felt their anger also.

Earlier in the day after school, Sunshine and I met up at a diner we both liked on the corner of 116th and 2nd Ave. There was this little place where we’d meet and sit at a booth. Our feet would intertwine under the table. We could talk for hours. We tried to be as discreet as possible. This was 1994. And while Ricki Lake was talking about the gays, we were Latina. And female. And Pentecostal.


Credit: ehrlif via iStock/Salon


There we were, 15 and 17-years-old trying to grasp what we were feeling and everything it implied for us. We were too young to fully comprehend what was happening but what we did know was that our relationship was both incredibly beautiful and intensely frightening.

We played footsies under the table. I had proposed marriage to her a few weeks prior. I literally ran to her house, from Spanish Harlem to the Bronx, my feet in cadence and moving like Thundercats Cheetara over that Willis Avenue Bridge and down 3rd Avenue, just to get down on my knee and ask her to spend her life with me. She said, “You so crazy,” in that soft voice of hers that made my body feel all sorts of feels.

Suddenly and without any warning her brother and my mother walk in. The look on both their faces was of complete disappointment. They both looked like they could kill us. My stomach sank. I felt like someone had punched me so hard, I’d lost my breath.

Sunshine’s brother looked at her and said, “Let’s go.”

My mother said, “Ni una palabra.”

We left. I have no idea who paid the bill or anything related to the restaurant.

The entire walk home (about 3 blocks) felt like an eternity. We walked in silence. My anger was boiling. I felt the heat in my body and at the center of my throat. I could feel my mother’s rage. In the building we went, seven flights of piss-scented elevator combined with my mother’s fury ablaze, it could’ve gone up in flames.

When we walked into the apartment my mother went off on me. Everything from how I would burn in hell to “Yo prefiero una hija puta a que sea pata.” That shit was so hurtful that I looked at her in the eyes and said, “I wish you die” and I locked myself in my room. And my mother yelled from the other side of the door, “Cuando me muera, no te quiero en mi funeral.” It was so intense.

I stared at the trophy that read, State Tennis Championship Runner-Up 1990 and below it my name. I took that trophy and smashed it against the wall. Quickly, I grabbed the other one and smashed it on the ground. My mother was banging on the door, asking me to open it and I flung the last one out the window as she managed to break down the door and grabbed me by the face. I stared at her so intensely. And she did the same as she said something along the lines that made me understand that if I were going to live under her roof, I would have to live under her God’s commandments and being a lesbian was not one of them.

I didn’t like the way my body felt in that moment. I felt out of control. I didn’t like that I didn’t have enough things to break that weren’t valuable. I didn’t care for those trophies so I wasn’t emotionally connected to these items; I just needed to release that energy somewhere. But I couldn’t control the anger, the tears, and the injustice was suffocating.

I saw Sunshine at school the next day but she didn’t say much to me. And I could tell that fear was stronger than the Love she had for me and I wasn’t ready to just give up on this. I challenged the very church we grew up in (this is what I think drove my mother mad often). I challenged what she was feeling and asked her to consider that if Love was wrong then there could be nothing right in this world. But eventually, it all faded away and I moved to Connecticut during the end of my junior year of high school.

She visited for some time and then on February 14th, 1995 she came to visit me. She caught the Metro-North to the last stop and my cousin drove me to pick her up. We spent the day together. She brought me balloons and I gave her flowers. Towards the end of the visit, she said she had to tell me something and broke up with me. She said this couldn’t continue because “God and church” and who knows what else because I tuned her out. I dropped her off at the train station again, said goodbye and went back home.

At home my cousin asked what was wrong and I shattered. And then the first break-up cry that is reserved for your first romantic Love happened. The amount of mocos and tears was just overwhelming. It was a cry that came from my soul. Valentine’s Day was never the same. Anger looked different than it had in the past. I started getting involved in LGBT youth related activities. I engaged in community activism and wanted to fight to change this for the better. I wanted to fight so that I would never experience that anger the church and my mother made me feel. I wanted to fight so that people like Sunshine wouldn’t feel like they had to deny a part of themselves that was clearly a beautiful piece of the Divine Creator’s work.

Anger led me to activism. I turned to community. And it was then that I started my journey as an Organizer. I was going to be the change. And anger was my fuel.





breathing anger

February 8, 2017

I’m trying to breathe in a world whose air is toxic.

I can’t even fucking write because every time I turn to the page I just want to burn it. How the hell do we tell our children that this world is anything but about to implode? How can I look at children in the eye and possibly utter a word of affirmation when this shit-show is on loop?

History repeats itself in the wombs of our daughters.

When I was a little girl, I had all the hope of a new life. I always sought ways to make people smile, or feel better, or anything that I thought would brighten their day. I thought that if I did my part, in time, things would get better. I grew up in NYC, in the 80s. During the height of both the AIDS epidemic and the crack vials that lit up the concrete ground my little feet walked on. But I was surrounded by Love and I was a firm believer that Love wins.

But Love doesn’t win folks. In fact, it loses more every day.  And don’t ask me to keep the faith because faith walked out of this world when that little girl was raped. Faith died at the hands of genocide and wars and corrupt governments and world hunger and poverty. Faith died when men decided to put money and power over people.

Recently I was asked how I felt about everything happening with this new evil circus in town. I expressed myself pretty clearly. I spoke about my fears and my concerns. And as I spoke my voice was shaking, I felt tears in my eyes and I swallowed them whole as the person responded to MY EXPERIENCE with shit like, “you need to breathe.” Privilege will come in dressed in white trying to tell you to breathe like yo’ ass ain’t got a set of lungs screaming at you that what you’re breathing is hurting them. I had to walk away otherwise I’d be calling my wife for bail.

Que cojones tiene la gente. I have a right to be disillusioned and scared and even fucking furious cuando me de la maldita gana. I have to a right to say that I don’t believe Love wins and that I’ve lost faith. You don’t have a right to tell me to relax around the issues that are directly and indirectly affecting me and mine. Your words are unsolicited and unwanted.

I get it USA. I get that you have NEVER witnessed the atrocious realities (many of them created by your policies) the rest of this world has lived through but fuck you. I don’t need to experience something directly to understand its impact on humanity. I don’t need an international organization commercial highlighting malnourished children to know that hunger pangs are real and these children exist. I don’t need a campaign to raise funds to get clean water when I bathe myself daily in these hatred infested water that continue to fill our bodies with lead. Somebody turn this shit off.

You want me to write from a place of hope? Give me something to be hopeful for that is tangible. Give me a hope I can breathe into. But until then, don’t tell me to relax and breathe like I’m on a fucking yoga mat, wearing lulu lemons and sippin’ Starbucks frappes.

This world is imploding. My children are watching… our anger is the only thing tangible in my skin.



January 24, 2017

You know that feeling you get when you feel something eerie approaches? It’s a feeling that something bad is going to happen. It’s the feeling that sits in the back of your throat like heavy metal and then plunges like an anchor to the center of your chest?

Last week my partner described me as someone who is conflict averse. I nodded in agreement but it didn’t quite sit with me until later that evening. It made me feel some type of way when I thought about it again. I wasn’t mad at her for the comment, I was mad at myself for being that person, for so long. It’s not that I didn’t know this about myself but that I heard it out loud that triggered a series of memories.

My parents are both conflict averse. They’re peacekeepers. They’ve always said that “la gente se gana con cariño.” And so I’ve always managed to avoid conflict, even at the cost of walking away with zero fucks to give about not having engaged because it takes two to fight and my biggest battle has always been with myself. So I don’t feel the need to add another. I am the type of person who will never escalate a situation. I’m the complete opposite. If an argument or a disagreement is brewing, I start thinking immediately about how I can diffuse it before it reaches any level of discomfort or awkwardness.

The very few times I have ever exhibited a hint of conflict initiated by me, I was immediately told that it “doesn’t suit” me. I was told that anger wasn’t something that I was known for. That in fact, I was known and admired for the opposite. I was told that people have always known me to be pretty steady in character and mood; that my temperament is very relaxed even in times of stress.

I have always thought that for the most part, there wasn’t a valid reason to get worked up about things. Life is too short. I’d rather spend my days here in peace. And conflict is messy. And it takes up energy and it exhausts you spiritually and emotionally and physically. Conflict will leave you feeling defeated and deflated. Conflict is that word that by nature invokes tension. It makes the heart feel scared and confused. It makes the soul weary and the Spirit fatigued. So no, I don’t do conflict because who the hell wants to feel all that heaviness? And this is why I will do everything in my power to find my way out of the potential conflict so as to not have to feel that anchor in the center of my chest.

Pero conflict has come to me.

And it has done so in the most spiritually damaging way. This situation has me feeling anger so strongly that for the first time in a long time I feel hatred. And my thoughts lately are filled with an anger that has me outside of my skin and I no longer fit in it.

I sit with conflict in this body that feels too much. I have to figure out how to put it to work for me because right now it just feels like puro odió. It feels like hatred and evil. It feels like violence. It feels like defeat. It feels like struggle.

But I read somewhere that conflict and growth go hand-in-hand. That growth is impossible without conflict because conflict is the catalyst for change. But change is unsteady. It could also be good or bad.

You know that feeling you get that something eerie approaches…

the fire

January 12, 2017

​Most days I wake up completely exhausted. It’s not the exhaustion from not having slept enough but more like that spiritual exhaustion you get from not being able to quiet the noise in your head or the angst in your heart.

I’m an empath. I feel everything. Everything. Absolutamente todo. So when I read/see the news about what’s happening around the world or right down the street, I can’t separate myself from it. I don’t have that “outta’ sight outta’ mind” mentality. In fact, the reality that I am not there to help exacerbates my anxiety.  

Then there is this country I live in. A place my Puerto Rican grandmother came to in hopes that her family would have better opportunities; this place that didn’t witness my birth but has watched me grow since the age of five.

Based on where I grew up I wasn’t supposed to succeed. But I took advantage of many of those opportunities Abuela envisioned and some she never even imagined. 

I’ve lived in this country since I was five. I have lived through six presidents. Though I only recall five of them. My maternal family has never really been political. And one of my first memories of any political talk was abuela telling me that she never pulled a lever that said republican candidate because “esa gente no nos quiere mi’ja.” I never understood why they didn’t like us. And when I asked why, she pointed to her brown skin and said, “Porque a Dios le placio hecharnos sazón.” I loved how she said it too. So much pride in her voice –it made me feel strong. Like I was untouchable. Pero right now I feel everything but fuerte.

A fire is coming.

A fire that most of us have never witnessed. One that many thought would hopefully never come again. And I am trying to manage my sentiments and temperament around it but the reality is, this fucking sucks. For years I was an idealist. I was that little girl who always found a way to make things better. I was that teenager full of energy and a fire that blazed not to burn but to provide warmth and light.

My first career was in politics because I believed I was going to change the world. I had a fourth grade teacher tell me that I was going to be the 1st female Latina president because I never gave up. I believed that if we remained honest with each other we could overcome our differences and find the common ground in Love. But Love is hokey for many and for the Powerful it is a five letter word that grows in their bank accounts along with their hatred.

This world may want to change but the Powers that be are ruthless and heartless. Those muthafuckas’ could give three shits about any of us. That includes about most of you who voted for Voldemort.

The fire is still coming. 

And I’m trying to keep my shit together, you know? I’m trying to hold on to hope but I find myself holding on with these arms that cramp every time I hear or read another headline. I’m struggling not to let hatred enter my heart. But that has become increasingly difficult as well. While I don’t promote violence, I get why folks wanna’ hurt somebody. In my head, the idea of taking a bat and swinging for the fences is sometimes appealing because I wonder if it will take away some of this anger that’s brewing inside me like lava in a volcano that has never erupted.

I know that there are better ways to deal with this. I know I could use my writing as a weapon of mass reconstruction. I know that I could use my profession to build meaningful relationships where we can engage in conversations that can truly heal. Pero coñaso eta’ vaina no ta’ facil, no. It makes me feel helpless and hopeless. And I have never felt that way even in my darkest days –and rape is pretty fucking dark. 

So I am trying really hard to stay centered. I wake up every day and do my best to create positive changes. I ask myself, what can I do differently to uphold Love and healing, to bridge communication, to encourage conversation and promote community? But it is becoming more and more difficult to keep this once untamable Spirit fired up. The noise in this head when everything is quiet gets louder with the passing of each day.  

For now, I plan to do the only thing I know: imma’ hold on to the Love from my wife, my parents, my beautiful nieces and nephews, my siblings, my friends… I am gonna’ hold them closer. Because Love may be hokey for some or money in a bank account for others but to me Love is the only thing that is anchoring my sanity. Y anyway, Abuela said that Dios me hecho sazón. So let it burn asarozo’, because it is in the heat that we release our true essence. We thrive in the fire. We are fire. And we are here to burn. 



June 7, 2016

A mother asked her daughter to forgive her perpetrator.

you say forgive him like you’re telling me to change my shoes or something.

you say forgive the man who raped me when i was 5-years-old. that i should forgive him for myself, not for him. as if this was some magical act that would heal that little girl and erase the memory of the pain between her tiny skinny legs.

you say forgive him because god has forgiven me.

Lady there is no fucking way in hell that i would even consider it so much as a thought.

there is no God in rape.

there is no God in taking your dick and forcing your way into a 5-year-old’s body.

No. no Lady. i will not forgive him now or ever. he doesn’t deserve forgiveness.

i will tell you that every time i read another rape headline, i wish i could be the person to carry out the punishment.

i will tell you that i watched that Scandal scene where Olivia Pope kills her perpetrator over and over and over. and i was scared at how good i felt after watching it.

i have imagined me, a wooden bat and Fran in a room many times. except i didn’t kill him. death is easy. i want that cabrón conscious. fully awake for what i’d like to do to him.

God made a mistake. God has made many mistakes. he was one of them. the four men who raped you, they were a mistake as well. and so is every single rapist. mistakes made by your god. mistakes disguised as, “oh look at how much stronger you are. you survived.”

you have no idea how fucking difficult this is. you say you do, but you don’t.

you don’t know what it’s like in this head or how heavy is this heart. you don’t know the years of therapy i’ve got sitting on that couch trying to make sense of senseless, fucked up, shit.

thirty-three years ago Fran decided it was ok for them to rob me of my innocence. and not ONE FUCKING day has gone by that i don’t think about it. thirty-three years. and every day the headlines rape me all over again. every day this world reminds me of the fear that little girl felt that day and so many other days after that… i carry that shit in  my heart, so heavy at times i get chest pains. and anger sits on my throat.

so no. no Lady. i will NOT forgive him. if your god wants to take on that bullshit, he can.

blasphemy is the only unforgivable sin?

you mean to tell me your god is more concerned about how i speak about him than about one of “his creations” raping a 5-year-old?

no. i’m all set Lady. but you… you figure out a way to forgive yourself for asking your daughter to forgive that fuck face when neither you nor your god, were there to protect her.

aún no

July 27, 2015

llevo lágrimas sentadas en la repisa de mis pupilas
se me empañan los ojos de dolor.
aún no he recobrado lo que perdí aquel jueves.

solo llevo enojo
oprimido y exhausto.

infinite love

March 18, 2015

As performed at BAAD! Theater on Thursday, March 12, 2015. Bronx, NY

I have ten minutes to tell you about lesbian love.

Me quedan minutos para contarte… explicarte… sobre el amor de mujer a mujer. ¿Y como te digo? Eta’ vaina no e’ to’ le que pintan. Y yo reconozco -y me encanta- que el choque de dos almas femeninas conlleva una pasión por si sola que no requiere explicación para la que lo vive.

How can anyone condense in ten minutes the life and death of an infinite feeling?
How can I summarize the still lingering effect of my first girlfriend’s grape flavored bubble gum kiss? I still remember her perfume… I can still smell it, as strong as the scent of our fear for what we had just discovered that day.

It is difficult to place in time what the feeling of my college girlfriend’s hands in mine felt like, as we walked through Boston city streets… enjoying the freedom to do so, fully aware of the sacrifices so many made…. that we may enjoy that moment.
When we grasped hands and she spun me around fast and we became little girls as we twirled and twirled.
She and I are still intertwined.

There is not enough time to describe in detail the first time an older woman taught me, not just how to make love to her, but how to make love to my self.
She outlined the edges of my skin, found the place where I surrender, and then stopped.
Tan solo para saborear ese momento, donde ella fijo su mirada en mí, y vio en mis ojos el deseo insaciable de mis antepasados.

There could never be enough hours to explain the astronomical fall of me… into her. It’s as if I had fallen into an abyss. I am floating in fear and excitement.

The only thing that fell harder than me, was my heart. It plummeted

Y como dejarle a las manos del tiempo un corazón hecho pedazos? Es que es imposible en cuestión de minutos poderles decir que el día que ella decidió no seguirme, sentí exactamente cuando el lado izquierdo de mi corazón se contrajo… (me imagino) para detener el adiós de sus labios y no correrlo por mis venas.

No sé si me queden suficientes segundos para por lo menos comenzar a decirle que se me retuerce el estómago. That the butterflies in my belly have turned into knots. I’m tangled in despair. There is a tragedy in Love running out of time or worse… you running out of my Love.

The love lived between women is so intense, that we are never fully disconnected from an old love if we hold on to the things that were beautiful. We are bound to each one of those moments for the rest of our days.

Los restos de nuestros Amores nunca descansan en la paz del olvido. El verdadero Amor es infinito… hace un ocho del sexto sentido. And I am left with a number of emotions that multiply in the silence of the night.

I’m certain that I have but nano seconds left to tell you that the way our Love goes… it never goes.

Y me acuerdo… que en el tiempo, hay Amor pero en en el Amor… no hay tiempo.

sebastian no. 14

December 11, 2014

you sleep.
i stare at your face.
the sunset of your childhood
draws a shadow right above your lip
-your body is growing

i heard the pitch
of your words when we played earlier tonight.
biology is tuning the chords of your voice…
i hope you always speak from your Heart.

and as your bones stretch your body
may you grow comfortably into your skin
because you are indescribably beautiful my Love.

i hope you forgive.
especially your Self,
‘cause along the way,
you will fall.
‘spart of life.

please remember:
you will always have to live with your Self.
when alone,
make sure you’re in good company.

there is a lot of ugly hate in this world
but Love is prettier than ugly
and stronger than hate.

may the core of everything you do be
rooted in Love.

you are so much Light to the infinite power.
you are brilliance. pay attention.
stay awake.

people are mean.
rest assured.
nothing they say is really about you.
it is,
a reflection of their journey.
send them light.

contrary to what the world
is showing you today,
Love will trump hatred.
this world is not all cruel.
Love is winning.

your Love has expanded the walls of my chest,
my heart no longer fits this body.

this world needs you to continue creating
Love everlasting.

ruta 2: desvio

December 31, 2013

En aquel estuario, ahogue el dolor de tu recuerdo. A Yemaya le entregue mi pena. Sus aguas bautizaron mi libertad. Dibuje en la arena nuevos sueños. Y ahora me toca vivirlos junto al Amor que merezco. 

the life we give

September 6, 2013

life is a simple breath.

if we’re lucky, it will last
the length of a long exhale.

i fell asleep on my books last night. literally. i was studying for an exam i have today. my body just succumbed to the comfort of my bed and i fell into a deep sleep. six hours later i awakened almost abruptly. wondering what time it was, i reached for my phone and noticed i missed a few calls. i checked Facebook (these days mainly for messages from my Nursing School classmates), when i read the top feed news that tells me of the passing of a man i considered an amazing human being.

we kept in touch often, he was a very well known and respected musician, an amazing composer and poet. the community Loves him. he was always so full of LIFE. really, FULL OF LIFE. a contagious smile that had you at the first strum of strings.

at open mic events, he’d always ask me to come up and sing while he played his guitar. we talked about collaborating on a project i have, that he found, in his words, “brilliante.” he was always so encouraging. promoted Puerto Rican culture and history, with a pride and an honor that was refreshing. and he did so in such a classy jibarito style. i loved watching him play his cuatro. such passion.

life… if we’re lucky… will last the length of a long exhale.

life is about the deep breath.

it is what we do during the inhale.
it is what we put into the breath.
simply put…
it is the life we give life that makes all the difference.

descansa en paz Borikua querido.