Poetry

Marching in the Crossroads of My Black, Disabled, Queer Identity

“When an individual is protesting society’s refusal to acknowledge his dignity as a human being, his very act of protest confers dignity on him.” — Bayard Rustin

They hear the voice of my gender As we yell for equal pay But “She must be on her period,” Is all you’ll hear them say.

They see me march alongside brothers, Sisters with deep caramel skin, They say we’re “Thugs, criminals, and gangstas,” And a jail cell’s all we’ll win.

They see me march with many others Bearing flags striped with all colors. Rainbow, pink, blue, white and green, Gay, ace, pan, and all in between. Men and women, both or neither. Gender binary? What’s that mean?

They see us march in harmony, Showing the pride we have within, But all you’ll hear them say Is that our lives are “full of sin.”

They see me walk, or rather, roll With other “cripples” just like me. From MS to spina bifida And autism to CP.

They see me for my shortcomings. Compare against the status quo. But if they’d look beyond my chair, They’ll learn things they’d never known.

They don’t realize how strong I really am, I’ve done things beyond their dreams. And when it comes to my identity, There’s more to me than there seems.