"Poem About My Rights" by Morgan Hamill

by Dariana Guerrero

After June Jordan

Alone tonight and I am always alone/ I
hear the whistle of the wind and mistake
it for the shadow of a man/ I can’t walk
without thinking about how noticeable
my body is/ my floppy arms/ stomach gutting
out like a well-worn tire/ the men look
for a Gomero and they find me and my tire
of a body and they want to repair me/ patch
me up because men/ always like fixing women
with their hands/ and as I walk down South Union
double bubble and condom wrappers line the street
the occasional syringe/ and at the light the men’s eyes
follow the bump of my ass and the jiggle of my breasts
and I’m the mestiza hottentot with a book of poetry
and my dignity as my balancing act/ and I’m fucked
because when the men finally beep/ I turn the corner
and without them looking I crack a smile/ because
in some fucked up way my body gives/ me power.
The jiggle of my ass brings men to their knees/ because
my cheeks can suffocate a man/ and I take
pleasure in knowing/ that the weight I carry is an extension
of the legacy of women who fought back
so that I could crack a smile on Dalton Street and Osgood
and Crawford and attend my pretty hideaway college
where black and brown and queer women preach/
the fucking revolution/ and who gets to say this city
isn’t my home/ because I have been where Venus
was and I have returned unphased by white men
and fuck— who told me women belong in the kitchen
and fuck— for pronouncing my name incorrectly
and fuck— for exploiting me/ and being an adult means
that your mentors become people/ knocked off
the pedestal of innocence/ and they fucked me
over because I was everything/ wrong wrong wrong.
In London they thought I was from Spain
and in Curaçao they thought me to be Mexican
and here I am nothing/ and everything
especially when I open my mouth and speak
up the institution calls me nothing
because to them/ I tick a check in a box
and the box holds my hopes and dreams/ and
now when I want to dream they tell me/ to stop
cause it’s too dangerous for a brown girl
to dream cause that’s how riots start
and the first girl I loved/ asked me
what my freedom dream was/ and I didn’t know
what to tell her/ but now I know
freedom will cost me my life.

This poem was selected by former managing editor, Christina Berke

Dariana Guerrero began her journey as an artist, activist, and educator in her hometown of Lawrence, Massachusetts. After graduating from Smith College in 2017, she transitioned to teaching high school English and committed herself to creating equitable and safe spaces for underrepresented students in predominantly white institutions. In 2018 the Institute of Caribbean Studies recognized Dariana as a 30 Under 30 Caribbean American leader and change-maker for her community leadership and social activism. As a queer mestiza Latina, Dariana views her identity as a resource and catalyst for expanding, deepening, and challenging the traditional canon of English literature. Her work has been featured in a wide variety of publications and media including, Caustic Frolic Literary Journal, Exposed Brick Literary Magazine, Glass Poetry Journal, Voices and Visions, and Women: A Cultural Review, and Bailey Sarian’s Heroin & Cigarettes & Tapeworms: The Dark History of Diet Culture, to name a few. You can connect with Dariana on her website, www.darianaguerrero.com