Latinx Heritage Month: #FemmeInMourning 26

I cope often by writing love letters. I was better at this in the height of my grief. I wrote people love letters to stay connected and to crawl out of the deep lonely abyss of grief. Everything about writing love letters I adore! Picking the right stationary, crafting the best message, using the fine point pen, sealing it with a wax stamp, finding the best stamp, and the sound of the mailbox as it closes. 

That sound I miss as there are not as many mailboxes in New Orleans as there are in other places. 

I'm behind on letters. It's overwhelming. Often those who write me I write back. If you haven't written me there may not be a letter for you for a while. If you have hold on! I'm working on it! I try to add something special to my love letters so it's not only a note but something else, a sticker, image that reminded me of the recipient, a recipe for them to try. Something fun and enjoyable.

What better way to remind someone you care for them than using the ways we can connect to send letters that may shift our entire day? That's what happens when I get your letters. Let's do that for each other. Ask me for my address.

Read post 25 here. 

Latinx Heritage Month: #FemmeInMourning 25

I got, and get through the roughest times of my grief and mourning because of technology. Texting saved my life numerous times. I just started texting, ya'll. Seriously, I started about 6 years ago in 2011. My first smartphone was in 2013.

When I started to get texts from folks during my mourning I didn't respond to them all. I probably still haven't. Things are a blur still. To say they were is not true, they are less blurry now, but there's still a constant intense blur. I didn't have the capacity to talk to people on the telephone let alone on facetime or skype or a google hangout.

One thing about my isolation is that my vanity is still very present. I don't want folks seeing me post-hysterical meltdown chaotic presentation. It was a huge move to document my crying tail in the Instagram #FemmeInMourning posts I made. Nonetheless, some folks did see me in those times. Anyway, texts became a way for me to still remain social and not have to bathe or put a mask on to act like everything doesn't feel plastic.

We put those masks on for ya'll who are not mourning or grieving in the same way. It got exhausting quickly. It's still exhausting and required because we don't have spaces for non spiritual ritual ish to grieve and mourn. All those spaces are used for ritual in a different way and it rarely was what I needed. Mourning in non-traditional and non-linear ways can be scary. When I wasn't my full present self, like I still am at this time, it was texts that allowed me to respond and share or seek grounding.

Folks have no idea that when I reached out to them what it was that I was really needing or doing. I kept it to myself. I didn't share that I needed specific help. I just sent those "checking in on you" texts to numerous people and who responded responded. Sometimes I got responses quickly. Other times I got responses slowly through the day that I'm glad I was around to respond to.

I still don't respond to texts quickly on hard days. Those days are becoming more limited but also becoming longer in duration. I'm still here so keep texting me.

Read post 24 here.

Latinx Heritage Month: #FemmeInMourning 22

My parents raised us agnostic. They had a very traditional and rigid Catholic upbringing. When they arrived in the continental US they were both shocked when they met people of various faiths outside of Catholicism and Christianity. They felt lied to about there being "only one path."

When death comes religion provides a comforting ritual that your numb and in shock body and mind can easily just follow into the ritual. You know the steps, you've probably done them before or seen them in media. Nonetheless, what I learned sitting shiva with a homegirl several years ago after her mom died was that ritual, no matter what it may include, is comforting at times.

I chose to make my own rituals.

This isn't anything new. So many belief systems have rituals and many of us who fled organized religion still practice ritual. My rituals were about me choosing to stay alive because thinking and talking and dancing to death and dying and the erotic of the state of the body shifting to another space does something. Sort of like knowing you are being called for or by something and you must go and do and answer the call!

I made ritual for all the things that got me out of bed. While showering my ritual became touching parts of my body and really looking and feeling them. I would touch my hands and remember the freckles on my hands are from my mom just as the freckles on my face and shoulders are from her. The body parts that don't resemble my biological families I chose to think of who in our family, which ancestor was enslaved that I resemble the most? I don't know their names and I try to connect with them. I never found comfort or connection or myself in the faces or bodies of family members I grew up with.

When I had the energy to eat I chose to focus on reminding my taste buds what they were missing as ritual. What have my family and ancestors been forbidden to do that I can honor doing now to nourish my body? I did the same with choosing clothing, changing bed sheets, applying makeup, and reading books. I did sex magic again and made fucking others and myself a ritual.

I had to be reminded that ritual allows for release and also for comfort. I did what I could as I could and it was enough.

Read post 21 here.

Latinx Heritage Month: #FemmeInMourning 20

When I landed in Puerto Rico I went directly to the ocean. I sat at the water and spoke to my mother. I walked through the seaweedy water until it was up to my chest and I lifted my feet and let myself float.

I was weightless.

I chose the ocean as my lover. Who else could make me feel weightless during the shock and trauma of the cellular disconnection on the planet? I felt held and protected. Home.

I've always felt this way but this time felt more urgent and grounding in the reality and knowing that this open ocean water is always home and always loving me. Going to the ocean is a coping mechanism for me. It has always been. Something about going to place where each bead of sand and the vastness of the ocean is a reminder you are something smaller in a massive planet yet your shine is bright.


Read post 19 here.

Latinx Heritage Month: #FemmeInMourning 18

I made a lot of agreements with myself to stay here. To survive this grief that amplified all my feelings. I would do a lot of internal self-talk to figure out what I could show up for that day.

It started with makeup. I used to never leave my house without mascara, liner, and something on my lips (usually chapstick or gloss). When I was grieving and had to show up to work five days later I told myself I would beat my face because then I couldn't cry at work or in front of others. I would hate to have my mascara smear in public like that! Nobody really deserves to see me in a mascara smeared face unless they are really taking care of me!

There were lots of selfies. I started taking selfies the day my mother died and posted them on IG with the #FemmeInMourning hashtag. On March 9, 2016 I posted my first selfie of a full face, red lip, deep black liner, mascara, and it being my first time since mami died I put on makeup. Makeup became the way that I mourned and took care of myself and paid homage to my mami, the first femme who taught me red lipstick is appropriate at all times and a Puerto Rican cultural artifact.

I still believe makeup is a form of media making. I was developing the message of I'm still here. It wasn't an act of covering up my grief. Instead it was a ritual I had developed under my mother's guidance that was familiar and firmly grounded me in having pride in my appearance. Pride even when I was completely destroyed. Pride that I was still here. Sometimes showing up with your grief triggers folks who are ignoring or can't hold their grief. Sometimes people get scared and stare in awe or are curious. Either way I let them have it most times.

Agreements: If you beat your face you don't cry until you are either alone or home!


Read post 17 here.

Latinx Heritage Month: #FemmeInMourning 17

One of the things about not having the skill of driving because it's always had a cost attached to it that you cannot afford is that traveling takes a while. Traveling as in running daily errands. Traveling as in going to social gatherings. Traveling as in figuring out a plan to/from an airport. This was one of the main reasons I chose NYC to live in at 20 years old. Sure NYU had one of the only programs in Human Sexuality in the country at the time, and who doesn't want to "go study sexuality in NYC?" especially since I had been awarded the Token POC Scholarship titled Dean's Opportunity Scholarship.

Here's the thing: when grief comes and all of your homies live in Brooklyn and 98% of them don't visit you who lives in the Bronx unless of course they have to be in the Bronx for work or a paid gig already to consider seeing you, until they realize how large the Bronx is and what they thought was the Bronx is not where you live. The Bronx is massive and I lived off the 1 train in the west Bronx, Kingsbridge, take the 4 train and get on a bus to get to me. At least an hour and a half ride to Brooklyn if I transferred to the A express or the 2/3 express. NYC and a lot of places where you don't have reliable transportation (and busses are not reliable according to all those job openings I've seen...) means travel is intense and sometimes a social event even when you don't want it to be.

I had to remind folks to invite me to things even if I wasn't going to attend. As my grief kept shifting so did my mood and capacity to show up for and with other people. It comes and goes. Right now I can manage to get out of my home a few times a week on my own. Yet I'm not really going anywhere that I cannot be productive because I'm not being productive at home. Plus all this writing I'm behind on doing means I can be social and out/about but also quiet with other people!

The other part is that when I did go out to more social events I had to do it with homies. I needed a handler. Someone who was my point person, who would make sure I had a cup of something to drink and was comfortably situated in a social enough environment watching people and thinking nothing.

Sometimes I had a more present experience, but mostly I still feel like I'm a shell, some kind of person haunting others like a ghost reminding them how fragile we are because if this is how I look and I'm a strong ass broad in all the ways, their tender tails are gonna really get it hard! And sometimes I show up and leave the house to remind folks they too will survive it even if they dread it and we just may have less to offer others.

And other times I feel fuller and can be around more than two people and try to soak all of that experience up. It drains more quickly but it helps remind me what is possible.

Read post 16 here.

Latinx Heritage Month: #FemmeInMourning 16

With my skin hunger constantly growing and my desire for impact play with someone who cares for me and wants to see me survive not available, I had to find coping mechanisms as none of these needs were being fully met.

One of the things I did is a longtime act that many folks who have cravings for things like nicotine practice. I put several rubber bands on my arms and would pluck one as I needed sensation and touch. I would move some of the rubber bands up my forearm for more sensation or more sting.

The thinner rubber bands leave a sharper sensation, similar to a riding crop. The thicker rubber bands leave a deeper impact that is not as sharp, similar to a paddle. These rubber bands left some marks that were red and lasted at most an hour, depending on how often I plucked these rubber bands. Sometimes the red marks turned purple or deeper red and that made me happy.

When there were deeper reds I would push my finger into them to feel the ache. To feel something other than numb. I walked around with these rubber bands on both arms and no one asked or really noticed. The plucking of rubber bands was an easy and accessible way to cope. To feel. To remember I can now control the amount of pain I choose to experience and how much and often I wish to mange however I choose.

Read post 15 here.

Latinx Heritage Month: #FemmeInMourning 12

I became really good at saying and asking for what I needed when my mom died. I have been pretty solid in directly communicating. A lot of people don't like this communication style. I learned a lot of people also think they have capacity to give you what you need, but actually they don't.

This is a hard place to be. Because you can see how someone wants to help, that intention. Yet, when they cannot do what is needed or requested they end up requiring care, care that I just don't have the capacity to offer or provide. We are both in need.

Sometimes people like being needed. Other times we feel good when people ask us for help because it's our opportunity to give them a gift of allowing them to care for us. Both of these are legit in their own way and at their own time. Yet, when people say they can bring you food, do your laundry, clean your tub, drive you somewhere and then don't and cant find a proxy, it really fucks you up. It also really made me reexamine my ideas of consent. Because if you're asking people for things they get to say "no." And sometimes our homies don't feel solid saying "no" to us when we are in such a tender state. Consent is still there. And holding that boundary for others may still feel too much when they can't hold it for themselves. It's so much energy to care for others when you are so clear you need to be cared for and need and want it. Being cared for by others was the life saving care I required.

I'm here because people care for me and cared for me then. It's ok to say what you need and ask for it too. It's also ok to remind people of that and that your capacity is minimal for their bs trickster tactics. This may be so much easier when you are emerged in the numbness of grief and the state of IDGAF is ever present than how it may feel reading it now.

What I learned in seeing people who said they could but couldn't is thank them in an internal way, for me it was positive self talk about our relationship. Thing's like "They really love you and want to show up and it's hard for them now, it's not about you;" and "They got out of bed, showered, put on clothes, got on the train/car, and came here to have breakfast with you. If that's all they could offer that's enough because they are still here too!"

If I want others to recognize my human experience of shock trauma grief and mourning I got to recognize their human experience too. That, I feel, is as much compassion as I could muster. Reminding yourself people are human is a great coping mechanism.

Read post 11 here.

Latinx Heritage Month: #FemmeInMourning 11

We had to go to Puerto Rico to get my mom.  I was on a plane by the end of the day to meet my sister. I landed and went to the hotel that I had booked that was across the street from the beach. I had immediately went to the beach to sit and talk with my mom. I didn't realize my bank card had been deactivated because I rarely used it to purchase items as I had purchased most travel on a work credit card.

I had no money and no way to pay for items outside of a paypal transfer. I had also been living at my ex's house in Brooklyn as a man in my building who had sexually harassed me for 10 years started to touch me as part of his harassment and I needed a safer place to stay while I put together a safety plan for my return home.

My ex gave me $500 to travel that day, brought my 5 homegirls who had come by to eat with me and send me off. dinner, and paid for the cab ride to the airport. I reminded myself that there were lots of reasons why my ex and I did not last and there are lots of reasons why we are drawn to each other. My ex shows love via money because that's what is available to give and is easy. We loved each other the best way we could and it just didn't work out.

Traveling was the beginning of my mourning process and it's stayed as part of the entire process. I invited myself to other people's homes. I invited myself to stay with them and shadow them with their everyday lives and daily work. I just didn't want to be alone! I traveled to LA, San Diego, New Orleans, Portland, Chicago, Las Vegas, Philadelphia, Northampton, Atlanta, Dallas, Orlando, Aruba, Houston, Miami, Oakland, Colorado Springs, and Washington, DC.

I wanted and needed folks to take care of me. My friends were generous and shared their homes, beds food, resources, and love with me. I have met children who love me and who I would not have met so young had I not chosen to travel. I've swam in oceans I didn't think I'd have access too and saw night sights I wouldn't have known about had people not welcomed me to heal with them. I wouldn't have had homegirls to comfort me as a cried about talking about my filing for divorce from my ex, or babies to step on my thighs as they learned to walk, or witnessed a homies child learn to swim, or taken a homegirl away from her sabatoged plantation job for ocean healing! In my grief I was able to see others grow from my presence as I grew too. We all connected even if we dont want to be all the time.

Traveling taught me about myself, about my community, and it brought us all back together in a new way. Even though I still cry when I look out and see clouds and me above them, there's a comfort in knowing anywhere in this world I have people who love me. My next stop is welcoming my homies to my home in New Orleans in two weeks! Then planning a trip to Brussels (and Paris and Amsterdam).

Read post 10 here.

Latinx Heritage Month: #FemmeInMourning 10

There came a point a few weeks before the first anniversary of my mother's death day that I couldn't sleep at all. I also had been thinking about death and dying for so many months for hours a day. This eventually turned into a desire to want to not be alone in discussing these topics. So I turned to music.

It started with my own playlist on iTunes. I titled it "Erotic Death & Dying" as I was very interested in the erotics and pleasure of dying. My mother had been naked and held by someone who loved her as she was being bathed. It's such a human and erotic experience, one that shows love in a way that we often summarize as "care taking." Yet I found it to be beyond care taking. She was my mother's death doula and that is an incredible role to fill.

I tried to tap into my mother's pleasure and I found that in music. I then started a Spotify account and created this list again. Here is my EDD (Erotic Death & Dying) Playlist It has a variety of songs about death, hell, dying, and the like. There are dark songs and there are love songs! Everything from Björk to The Ohio Players to Alien Ant Farm and Zap Mama.

This list will keep growing. I like that it begins with Björk's "HyperBallad" where she sings "I go through all this before you wake up so I can feel happier to be safe again with you" and it really touches on how my coping practices became rooted in taking care of myself so I could show up for other people or be social. This is an expanding list. It has songs others have shared as well but not all the ones folks have shared with me! What would you include for your death and dying playlist?


Read post 9 here.

Latinx Heritage Month: #FemmeInMourning 9

In many communities there are rituals for death and dying. Much of these rituals center around mourning and preparing a body for whatever customary passage the dead are to follow. My mom donated her body to science and to the University of Puerto Rico. It was a small office, everyone had the same telephone and email address. The forms had not been updated in at least 60 years as they asked for information about our four grandparents! In short, it's rare people chose to donate their body like my mom did in Puerto Rico, but she had convinced a man at the hospice where she was at her last years to do the same. He told us this when we went to gather her items.

Wearing black was something I already do as someone in their 13th year living in NYC. It's also somewhat expected for mourning wear. I didn't have it in me to constantly wear black or really think about wearing anything other than what I already had on! Seriously, if ya'll saw the suitcase I packed to go to Puerto Rico when I was in shock you'd know I was in shock! I had polyester dresses and two more bad choices for 95 degree weather.

Anyway, I decided to use the way I adorn and decor my body to firmly demonstrate my mourning. I chose to have "mourning nails." For a year I began to get acrylic manicures with black nail polish only. When I moved to New Orleans, I found two Black women nail artists and the second one, Morgan, I have been with ever since. Thanks to Yvette and her niece who sent me her way. Check Morgan of M.A.D. Nails out!

I love supporting Black femmes making art on a regular basis. Each month I make it a priority to save money to pay for this wearable art. It's been an amazing experience because when folks see my nails I get to share they are my mourning nails. It was a nice subtle way to begin talking about my grief. Art was one way that allowed others to talk with me about death, coping, and hear stories of my grieving process.

My mourning nails were one of the best coping mechanisms I was able to do for myself. It costs money and I happily gave what I had for the services. I'm not sure how much longer I may be able to afford this practice that is helping me to find my way back to myself. It's really been an amazing way to remind myself of the beauty of my grief and the ways I'm surviving the best way I can right now and showing others the same thing!

Here are fotos of my mourning nails and my nails post-mourning, because I've continued them!

Read part 8 here. 

Latinx Heritage Month: #FemmeInMourning 7

As I've shared: grief is a shapeshifter. One of the many ways I had to learn to cope with my grief was to find ways that helped me feel and stay alive. There were so many things and ways that I tried and asked for advice from others. The things that worked for others definitely did not ever work for me. This is why I know it's ok to recognize how grief shapeshifts, how we need to work on suspending expectations for those in shock and trauma.

I'm going to share some of the ways I cope with my grief. Today I am focusing on my coping via sensation. The shock, trauma, and grief is so encompassing and overwhelming that you become numb. I hated being numb after a while. I looked for ways to feel something, anything besides the numbing sensation. It felt so foreign to not feel anything but overwhelming and consuming grief and pain.

I needed to feel other ways and sensations. The most accessible sensation to me, as I am single, no potential partners or play partners (because dating while you are grieving is SO MUCH), was via spices and stings.

I reunited with coca-cola. There was a sensation that made me feel alive again because I could feel the burn of drinking the soda going down my mouth and throat. It made me feel alive. It made me feel something other than grief. IT MADE ME FEEL.

All the while I knew soda in this way was not "healthy" and I wasn't and don't think about health in that sense. I wasn't thinking "these behaviors will kill me" because I have come to a space where I was comfortable with death and do not fear it at all! This is what thinking about death for hours at a time every day may result in, for some. I thought "my momma's dead! So what if I drink this soda today to get me to feel something?!"

It was affordable, easily accessible, and was everywhere I was and needed to be. I would chug gulps of coke to get a rush of the sensation. I would hysterically be crying and tell myself "you can calm down enough to open a bottle or can of soda you can calm down then." Drinking soda at these times became a way for me to get out of the constant pain or numbing impact. Drinking soda again made me social at my lowest time.

I didn't do this all day. This was like one of my back pocket, strategies for coping. I would drink coke when I was needing to be social. I would drink coke when I was at home alone lonely and feeling myself slip. I wouldn't recommend it for everyone of course. Allowing myself one soda a day helped me come back into my body and feel something in a part of my body that nobody ever touches that I was here.  I am here. Cheers!


Read blog 6 here.

Media Justice & September 11, 2001: How Do We Prepare & Cope?

cross posted from my Media Justice column

This was going to be a short article. That’s mainly because I’d like to hear from you all and what your ideas are about this topic. Perhaps I could have written this more timely and had it posted last week. However, it was not until last Friday when a student asked me for some guidance that I considered this topic for discussion and to even write about it here. As I began to write I realized it wasn’t so short as I had thought.

As you all know I live in NYC and we recently commemorated the 10th anniversary of September 11, 2001 (it’s important to put a date as many events in history have occurred on September 11th). I don’t want to share my own personal story of surviving that day, as I was living in NYC and a grad student at NYU, or have others feel that they need to do that. I knew in preparing to teach this semester that there were events that were planned and that this topic would come up.

To prepare I had asked folks in my network who are educators in various spaces how they are preparing for such conversations to begin in their classrooms. I asked specifically for suggestions and ideas for facilitating a conversation. Here are some of the topics I asked about:

• How to approach Islamaphobia in the classroom?
• How do we negotiate some of the –isms that may come up in this discussion with conversations of social justice?
• How may we interrogate ideas of patriotism?
• How may we approach the complexity of defining patriotism as perpetuating oppressions against others? (i.e. racial profiling by police, at check points, at airport, etc.)

There were several suggestions for establishing ground rules, to reminding ourselves as educators that statements our students make are not about us, and sharing up front that our classes will bring into the conversation voices that are often ignored or isolated. These are all great suggestions and I wonder how folks reading this may have experienced conversations in class when their instructors make such statements to facilitate conversations. Has it worked? What has been your experience?

What led me specifically to this topic was a student’s request after class. As one of our first assignments due date approaches there are more students who wish to speak to me after class. One student waited after class and after several other students asked me their questions about the assignment. We were alone in our classroom when the student asked me “do you have any resources for teaching about September 11, 2001?” I asked what specific type of resources the student was looking for. The student shared that curriculums, approaches, or activities would be useful. I asked what the population was and the student shared that this was for a group of youth of various ages that the student has worked with for over a year. They were scheduled to visit the memorial site where the World Trade Center was and is being reconstructed.

We had a good discussion. I asked first if the student knew what their boundaries were in having this conversation. For example, do they know what they are un/comfortable talking about regarding this issue? The student shared that they wanted to be prepared for a discussion. I suggested one approach could be to ask the youth they are working with what their understanding is of what happened in NYC on September 11, 2001. That this may mean to be prepared to hear a range of comments from very detailed and biased ideas to very general understandings of what occurred. To be prepared to approach biased commentary and ideas in a way that is not isolating for those youth, but welcomes a discussion about those ideas, where they come from and why.

I also shared that I don’t know of any curriculum or resource that has been established or created to discuss the events of September 11, 2001. I’m not sure why this may be. Perhaps the curriculums that have been created are less than exceptional, only for an age group I do not work with, or are not widely developed. I do know I have seen some biased, stereotypical, and racist images and narratives for children about September 11th, 2001, such as coloring books and pamphlets.

At the end of our conversation the key things I shared with my student for preparing included: know your own boundaries around the conversations that may occur, be ready for very emotional responses (i.e. anger, crying), and to encourage each person to learn more about the events that occurred on their own in various ways. My student thanked me and left the classroom. I’m not sure of what the outcome was of that conversation(s) the student had with the youth, but I felt that the little bit of advice I gave was honest, centered self-care, and was what I may find useful if I were in their same position. I also think this question for guidance and resources speaks to why media literacy and media justice as so important!

What I find interesting is that my students were probably 8-10 years old when this occurred. This means that their memories and ideas about what happened are very much informed by personal testimony and various media representations. As a New Yorker, this past Sunday was one where I consciously chose not to leave my apartment or turn on the television. This is because I need to center my own self-care as well regarding these media representations and how people are treated in our society and city. Many of you may know that NYC increased police presence during the weekend, which for me does not make me feel safer. Instead it makes me sadder for the folks who are targeted and racially profiled, and to think for one moment that a woman of Color would not be targeted is not unrealistic. The people who know their rights, who may not consent to a search by police in the subways, but because they know their rights, are seen as a threat. (And for those who don’t know NYC already has armed military in certain places every day to help us all feel more “safe.”)

I don’t want to witness such abuses, especially on the weekend, my time off. I also planned ahead and made sure I had the X-Files season 4 (which is 25 episodes!) at home to keep me company and that my partner was with me as well as we prepared for the week. This would distract me from turning on the television and watching the news, seeing images, and hearing testimonies. I know some folks really need to witness those forms of media to heal and cope. For me, this is not useful. In fact it is very triggering.

I share this with you because I think it is important to know that whatever form of self-care you find useful, selecting isolation like I practiced that day, communal gathering, reflection, writing in a journal, lighting a candle, whatever else you may do is alright. There is no right or wrong way to heal and cope with such experiences. And this goes for other things we experience, especially in the reproductive justice movements.

We are fighting to end oppressions and allow folks the ability to make the best choices for themselves and stay healthy and centered regarding their sexual and reproductive health. This work can become very personal, difficult, and overwhelming. It’s important to remember that we are doing the work that we find to be right and just and that we are not alone.

I’d love to have a space here where those of you in the reproductive justice movement share ways that you cope and find support and healing. Also, what are some useful forms of approaching conversations around September 11, 2001 that have been productive and helpful for you? What additional advice would you have offered to my student?

Sexual Baggage & Values

I attended the recent Guttmacher Institute Exchange entitled "Where Do Young People Learn About Sexual Health." There was a panel of six people, four adults and two youth speakers. I'm not going to sit here and rehash the entire panel because you can listen to it online as it was recorded. However, I do want to discuss one specific area that was very much a trigger for me as a sexuality activist, woman of Color, and educator.

The second speaker was William Juzang, the Vice President of Business Development of MEE Productions, a media organization that creates "cost-effective and culturally relevant messages for hard-to-reach urban and ethnic audiences." Juzang presented information from their Black youth sexuality research from 2002 entitled "This is My Reality – The Price of Sex: An Inside Look at Black Youth Sexuality and the Role of the Media." This is a national survey of youth from several cities in the US using both qualitative and quantitative methods.

When I first heard him mention this work I thought "Ok, this research is 7 years old since publication, which means it may be almost 10 years old, but let's see what they found and if anything has changed or stayed the same." I sat and listened to his overview of MEE Productions and how their work is imperative for our community. He addressed how understanding, as educators and communicators, where we are, what our baggage and issues are. I agree with this, but when he said it during his presentation it did not resonate with me until he began to share the findings from the research in their Black youth sexuality research.

On Juzang's second slide which was part of the qualitative focus groups, MEE Productions examined environmental factors that went into how Black youth learn about and are impacted by family, education, media, streets, influence of health care. He read off the list of items youth provided and then he said this:

"Black females are valued by no one."

I can't begin to explain to you the warm feeling I had that filled my body from my head to my toes. I clinched my teeth and tried to hold tears back as I heard him move to his second slide where they examined the statement further. Youth discussed the negative name calling, images seen in videos and other aspects of media, lack of "sisterhood," and women being in limited no win situations.

Data that is almost a decade old and our youth know that Black women are not valued by anyone in their community or outside of it. I've heard so many parents and educators talk about how we want to "protect" our youth from such negative messages, but how is it that regardless of how we raise them there are even more messages they come into contact with that tell the the opposite? How can years and years of work become undone so quickly and in such an intense and stunning way.

I was hurt. I am still hurting. Some may wonder why I am writing about this on a Latino Sexuality website, and that is for several reasons. First, Latinos can be of any race especially with the racial formation that is created and held in the US. Second, do we think this idea and belief (and fact!) that "Black females are valued by no one" excludes any other women of Color? This can clearly be applied to anyone who is considered "Other." Third, this affects all of us. Fourth, I believe we can make the same statement and include men of Color too.

As I listened to the rest of the panel, Juzang being the only Black male on a panel full of White women (the two youth were young people of Color), my palms started to sweat, I found myself restless in my seat, I zoned out and could hear my heart beat through my throbbing ears every time I swallowed my orange juice. i found myself questioning more of the panel's discussions in relation to this one statement Juzang had presented.

When the panel was opened to questions from the audience (there were about 50 people in the room), I put my pen down and put my palms on the side of my legs to absorb the sweat that had been produced. I wondered how I would ask all of my questions, should I comment on what Juzang had mentioned, would someone else bring it up besides me?

Four questions in and nobody brought it up yet. Topics of reaching youth and families who speak Spanish, how to make websites more youth friendly, and ways to reach parents were discussed. I raised my hand and was selected to comment and ask my question.

I warned participants and panelist that I had several questions and one comment. I chose to begin with my comment based on Juzang's research finding. I shared all that I wrote above about not being able to describe the feeling of seeing those words on a screen. I got choked up. I had to pause. I clinched my teeth so that I would not cry or let any tears fall. A few seconds passed and I realized the room was quiet. I looked up and saw Goddesses Rising who had invited me, looking at me with an expression of support, understanding and solidarity. I began to finish my comment and thanked Juzang for reminding me of this no matter how painful it was.

I shared with the group how Juzang's mention of educators and providers needing to understand what baggage we bring to a space resonated with me in a whole new way when this finding was presented. I realized this is my baggage. The fact that in the US I am not valued. My homegirls are not valued. We do not value one another. What kind of educator and activist am I if this is my baggage? How do I try to mask the fact that I know this to my youth? What is available or currently in existence for those of us in this field to regroup, process, and heal so that we can continue to do this work? I realized I do not have such a space and that it is sorely needed (happy hour doesn't count! Plus I'm not a huge drinker).

I've resisted writing this down because it is so painful. To be in a group of people committed to this movement of sexuality and sexual health and to have that ideology at the center of the work I do and there being no discussion of it any further than what I mentioned. I'm hurting.

I don't want to place blame on any one individual, that is not what this is about. It's about how our youth are so much more intuitive and astute than we give them credit for. They know what is going on no matter how much we think they don't. They know more than we think they do. Our youth know.

So, I ask, what is next? What do we do? How does knowing this information change how we work with our youth? How do we change our messaging? Do we discuss how our bodies have been abused, raped, ignored, tested, probed, murdered and how they continue to be? How do we create spaces for us to cope with this reality when we need it to continue the work that we do? I'm open to suggestions as I know a group of activists and educators are in the same situation as I am. We need to preserve not only or spirit, but our bodies, minds, rituals, cultures, families, community. We need to preserve and take care of ourselves and each other. A todo mi gente: I got your back.

Thank you Goddesses Rising for being present when I found myself struggling. Those few seconds gave me all the strength I needed to complete my thoughts and honor our bodies.