 She is a Guatemalan Bay Area based writer, video artist, educator, and the author of the Cha Cha Files, a Chapina poetica. Her work is sassy, witty, performative and self-aware, and draws on a tradition of truth-telling and poking fun at the ones we carry. Please welcome Maya Chinchia. Hello. I just wanted to share two images while I'm reading because I'm very much inspired by when I used to live in San Francisco in the Mission, and the artists I work with a lot, Río Yáñez is also born and raised in the Mission, and his family, his mom, Yolanda Lopez is a really well-known Chicana artist, and they give me a lot of life, and they're currently sort of fighting their own eviction after living here for more than 30 years. So I just sort of carry their work with me. They did the cover of my book, so that was really important to me to work with artists. And so this first piece is a new piece, and she said something about tenderness, so I think this one represents the tender. The way I love is the same as when I started first crushing in the 80s, except the jeans are tighter and lower, and the tape decks are now in sound clouds, and my hair is no longer permed and scrunchy, crispy. I still drive by your house with my bestie, slinking down in the seat, thinking no one will see me, hoping to get a glimpse of you, mowing the lawn, or you between the blinds, rocking out to maybe stone temple pilots, or maybe you'll wave at me, or you'll think, is it that creepy girl again? Except now my car is a search engine, and my assumptions about your life are greater. Who is that girl in the picture? Is that a friendly arm around the shoulder, or is that a, we've been doing it on and off, and the reason why I look so electric in this picture is because of our sexual tension kind of photo. What does that smile even mean? Are you hiding your sadness? Did your parents kick you out at age 18? Did you ever march to Black Flag, Guy Fannas, or was the 90s R&B more your theme? My jealousies are still volcanic. I'll still rip your posters of plastic novella stars hidden in your pocket that you will hand me in an offering to prove your love is real. Except now I will take a breath and use I statements, check in with my body, before responding, and will not chase after you, begging you to stay if you try to leave. Thank you. So I'm from Guatemala, or my family's from Guatemala, was born in the U.S. And, you know, this is sort of a summary of that history in case you're unfamiliar with it. You know, Central Americans, we've been through some shit, but I also consider myself a unicorn. You know, I mean, a lot of us sort of identify with this magical, mystical creature. And sometimes we see other unicorns and you sort of run in slow motion towards them because, you know, you're like, we exist. So here's my version of what it's like to be a Central American unicorn for those who aren't. First of all, I am a mythical creature that is only mentioned, if at all, in relation to war, trauma, maras, revolutions, earthquakes, canals, volcanoes, Indians kidnapped by aliens, and the Guatemalan made as your punchline, caring for your children so you don't have to, who has their own story to tell. What happens if I never mention these things? Am I contributing to the loss, the silence, the erased lines, the gaps in historical memory, the opportunity for reconciliation to make amends? What if I never mention pupusas? Or my grandmother's pepiam, black beans, and rice? Or a quesadilla that's a cheesy bread, not two tortillas with melted cheese? Or the million ways to fry a plátano? Or Honduran baleadas, which I have yet to try? What if I tell you that I am usually the only one of my kind, that if I make up what it means to be Guatemalan-American, no one in the room will be able to call me a liar? What if I swear to all that is unholy that if one more person shares with me that they went to study Spanish and Guatemala, and backpacked through the highlands without ever mentioning massacred Mayans, the quiche, the mom, the isheel, the cachiquel in their Mayan-woven pajama pants? Yes, modern-day Mayans not kidnapped by aliens, or the absence of that is ladino or mestizo, plus the garifuna, mesquito, pipi, lenka, not mysterious civilizations disappeared. Yes, thank you for knowing that the Maya invented the zero. The world didn't end up stopping in 2012, but I don't want to hear about your trip unless you're fundraising to get me and the diaspora back on a regular basis. What if I tell you I don't speak any indigenous languages except for the remnants of words that have crept into my Spanish I relearned in high school when I went to Guate that summer, that my family denies any indigenous ancestry, though DNA and memory say different, that we are an urban people who value engineering degrees above all else, and that I haven't been back in ten years, and that there are silent wars among cousins, aunts and uncles, Catholics versus Protestants versus Atheists versus Cremas versus Rojos, those are soccer teams in Guatemala. Disjointed conversations of over here from over there and over there from over here, and I can't go back over there in the same way anymore. I can't go back there. Over there doesn't exist anymore. And so I pack my Central American paranoia that says, everyone is shady until proven otherwise. Don't sit with you back to the door, don't count money in public, leave your shoes next to your bed in case you have to run at night, remember the walls have ears, mixing grains of sands from an imaginary homeland, file them in a plastic file box, and ride off to the next adventure leaving a trail of glitter, copal, banana leaves and wood-burning snow, stoves and moist green earth so that other magical creatures may find me. Thank you. This piece is called Femme en Purpose, and I just want to say it's got some strong language, and also that I have permission to tell part of the story. I'm not telling somebody else's story, I'm telling my story interaction with people, and I think as writers, you know, we walk that line and in order to tell the truth we have to kind of go there, but I also feel that when talking about people from marginalized communities who don't always get to tell their story, I'm thinking a lot about that, about, you know, how to encourage other people, those people to write their own stories, but this is, I have permission to tell this particular story. Words tattooed like nightmares, puta, perra, traidor, mojada, wetback, fucking weirdo, cunt, whore, you're not a woman, binshit, drag queen, tranny, fucking freak, jota, maricón, fucking bitch, get out of my way, you fucking bitch. She yells these words crouching down in my classroom, looking each student in the eye, hissing and taunting, not letting them settle in their seats for their introduction to trans 101. Looks of shock, confusion, disgust, recognition, discomfort, sadness, blink back at her, dart over to where I'm seated, my back turned to them so they can't search my face for approval or discomfort or comfort. This is a taste of what I experience every day, walking these streets on the bus, going to school, on my way to work, in daytime and at night, every day I step outside to the judgments, projections and fears, reminding me of my place, I tire, but I never let it break me, my spirit has weathered too much for me to ever let down, and every lesson I have concocted about migration, gender violence, homophobia, the patriarchy, economic inequality, to produce discussion comes screeching from squiggles in their notebooks, right into their face, speaking a language that calls both mind and heart to discussion. They can't look away, hide in textbook descriptions or pair it back to me in essays of what they think their profa wants to hear. Before them, this tall, hazel-eyed mujer, with shades of walnut, hair, frame indigenous features, full lips form every loathe of word, some careful and determined, some soft and hopeful, some matter of fact and biting, her laugh cuts through any sorrow, students eyes wide and careful, stumbling, polite words to get it right. What else do you want to know? Do you want to know how I do it? Where I put it? Who I let hold me? What my status is? Are you thinking about it? Do you want to know? Because I do. I want to hear it all. Don't be afraid. Now is not the time to hold your tongue. Here I have the time to speak back for every time they tried to break me, still my humanity. I won't judge you. I won't hurt you like they hurt me. She weaved stories of being tied to a chair until she washed secret stash of makeup from her face, or rejected dreams of dresses and tight jeans, played with socks stuffed under her blouse to imitate curves her mama told her when not for her. Her mother, her father, snuck her dolls, know she likes pink, whispered, mi hija, tu eres mi hija, when her mother was out of earshot. Her brothers stopped walking with her to school, ran up ahead so no one would think she belonged to them. She didn't sell her body over there. She worked in a secondhand clothing store adopted by a fairy godmother who showed her how to contour her edges of her face, friendly con las chicas de la calle, but didn't want that life. Wanted to go to school, wanted a career, had a boyfriend who took her shopping into the movies. After class over Chinese food in the Castro, proud of every English word she can use to order her spring rolls and chow mein. She says, ask me anything. Do you want to know what I've done? I have earned every cut, mi hija. I think of how my own body has been under attack on these streets, the way men have whistled and sneered and even hissed. Nice tits, want to fuck? While walking two blocks from my cart on Cap Street to Queercumbia, where I think it's safe to be a sexually actualized muet. Cat calls regulate who belongs where and how and when. No matter how many degrees or dollar signs I add to my name. Safety is something I always have to think about. Old wounds leave scars on my psyche. But I will never know what it is to have been beaten unrecognizable for the body of muet that is still being sculpted, that is emerging from these stories like a song in rehearsals, ready to sing, practiced, polished, almost effortless. She says, ask me anything. And I tell her, I want to hear more about your boyfriends. Do you believe in love? How are your English classes going? Do you like your new job as a health promoter? The things I've done for love, the things I have to do to survive in este país. She scrunches her nose. Tu no eres lesbiana si te gustan las butchas. You're not a lesbian if you like butches or masculine women. Trans men, she says to me. She works so hard to be a woman, the woman she is today. She can't imagine falling outside the lines of gender on purpose, a proposito. She says, though I always wanted to know what it was like to kiss a woman. And we laugh. I am patient with my own stories. What is under the dressing I present? That my queer is on purpose. That my femme is on purpose. That it was earned with discovery, self-doubt, love like she did. I never found a boy that could make love like a woman. Although I tried, I tell her. Loving women is like loving myself times two. Queer is a funny word, hard to say the vowels get caught between lips and teeth. The are false silent when she speaks it. We don't have a word to translate what queer means, she says. And you know, femme was never about the clothes, the presentation of the box, or who holds my hand. My femme has wild teeth, has tomboy roots, ragged nails, has scars from sliding into first base. Dresses ripped by clumsy boys, fights nightmares of war stories. The hard shell of my femme holds sweetness, caresses bruises, rings, knuckles, in case I have to fight my way out of danger. And thinks, can I run in these heels if I have to? My femme flags queer with nail polish and glitter, the books I read makes friends into family, raises my own eyebrows at gender, the way Oakland queers express themselves with their asymmetrical haircuts and fashioning radical politics out of ironic t-shirts, community gardens, fanny packs, and neon leggings from my youth, wear slacks and bright lipstick to work. My femme has put my tomboy to bed, knows how to take pain that is wanted, negotiates the terms, consenting, sexy, whispers, yes, yes, yes. My femme has been beat down from the self-hate, the shoulda couldas in my rear view, the wound is my trophy, the fierce in my soft armor, digs bare feet into earth, calls moon to chest, ocean-washed request, dresses up sadness with sequins, fake flowers to the hilt when I want to, shakes off the cobwebs, and cleavage that begs, come on, please, I dare you to, even these chichis are political. Exactly as I should be. She didn't come to this country to sell her body so that she could get the body that she wants. This is not the story she came here to tell me. It was a job, some give it away for free. I got paid for it, she said. Don't ever feel sorry for me. That's the worst offense you could offer. The rest doesn't bother me. My spirit is stronger than it ever has been before. And this is how I learned femme solidarity, reflected femme fierceness from women who have earned it, who are different, who are femme on purpose, like me. Thank you. Okay, one last short piece called Homegirl. This is after Sandra Cisneros. You bring out the Mexican in me. So, today is Cinco de Mayo. Oh, wait, I mean Cinco de Mayo. I used to do a show in high school and you had to write the posters with your hand, block letters, and I would constantly write my name, Maya, and instead, and whatever. I had to use wide out. It was really tragic. It has nothing to do with anything. You bring out the homegirl in me, the one that has your back, my inner cha-cha-chola with burgundy lips and sticky-glass kisses, the chingona intellectual who'd write the Gucci Feminist Manifesto, and who'd cut a bitch just to see you again. La si pues vos sos mía la gran púchica, that broke-ass love, that novella chick that just keeps coming back. The, if I can't have you, then no one else can. That gender-deviant fem drama and butch trauma, the Diego and the Frida, the ones your mama's warned you about. The steam from the Jungle Key, the Jaguar Queen and Jade Obsidian, the social butterfly-turned-homebody that gets all birds necessary freedom. I'd give it to you, because homegirl, you bring out that puta madre mascavrona punk-ass bitch that don't need nobody. But just has to have you. Thank you. Thank you so much, Maya. That was awesome. Maya has copies of the cha-cha files over there for your purchasing after this. We have one more artiste up here, and it's Reena Ayuyang, and she's a cartoonist and a publisher based in Oakland, California. Stories from her mini-