Guilt

Guilt 

The hypocrisy of being woke,

to be an ally,

thinking I’m doing enough— although I know there’s no metric to the way I hold power.

My guilt freezes me, 

even when I don’t carry my entitlement all that bad…

I don’t fuck up that often. 

Not all the time.

I’m not always mean and cocky.

I’m often aware of my words.

Tone it down. 

Attuned to the vibe.

Knowledgeable of the environment.

My scale,

of when I feel better than,

more privileged,

more judgy…

because I have reasons to.

More critical, 

it’s like… logical.

When I have more evidence to feel superior—

To think from a higher consciousness;

because I am more aware.

With better tools to dissect—

Because my family did talk about certain topics,

there was a legacy that waterfalled, 

like—when they’re so not traditional.

Or—when they uphold values that certain people neglect.

They actually are old-school righteous with their presentation.

The behaviors that they policed,

the metrics of worth.

What matters and why.

How to assess riches.

My Guilt.

Carries me and moves me,

it makes me feel like I must wrestle with myself.

How much am I allowed to take?

The balance is what gets me,

it strangles me at times.

Hyper aware of the ways in which I was conditioned,

the things I was told give people aura points.

Manners,

politeness,

education,

taste,

well-roundedness.

Perspective,

even better,

panoramic perspective.

Intersections between socioeconomic classes,

cultural divides, 

epistemic foundations.

The things that get passed down without a clear physicality.

Circles that run across generations,

before one even realizes they shape our capacities.

Before one even knows the family ties are a broader science.

Code-switching.

Humbling down.

Priding up.

Arrogant performance.

Fake outrage.

Guilt.

I’m not a good woman,

a perfect anti-racist,

an amazing feminist who always lifts her SISters up.

I’m not even a great brown, woman of color. 

Sometimes I act as if I get a pass,

to push my sexism onto other women.

To call out other Mexicans,

other immigrant families,

other actually-born-in patriots.

Other queer people.

Guilty.

Look at me! 

Such a noble girl and still so conditioned,

imagine if I’m this way…

how are the rest of us? 

Guilty.

Helping white supremacy hold because I punish harshly,

when I’m not pure enough.

When I fail to be completely decolonized,

when I cannot help but be complicit in genocide.

“It shouldn’t fall on the people”

Oh well!

IT DOES.

So now, ¿what?

All this guilt must be for something,

perhaps a sentence,

maybe I lose social prestige,

cancelled.

Guilty and Ashamed. 

I can’t be perfect. 

¿Does this make me evil?

Begging the question perhaps does make me annoying,

like obviously nobody is asking me to be perfect.

But maybe honest… 

About my guilt, 

about my own conceptions,

and I behave from those at times.

And how—

My location privileges, 

my opportunities,

sometimes create a reaction of solidarity…

out of guilt¿? 

¿How wrong is that?

To donate out of guilt, to speak out of guilt,

to be anti-systemic oppression out of guilt…

To police myself from being wrong,

keeping myself from mistakes,

from judging others.