 So, I just wanted to start with some memory before reading my poetry, so that's what an actual Banana Republic represents, so you all know. So I thought this would be a good platform to show that. So, not yours. You did not see me, but you saw my skin, brown, Colombian, gay flesh. Was that all you touched? Didn't you touch inside, didn't you understand my sight? Don't ever call me exotic, I'm not your Amazonian pet. Don't exhibit my Colombian-ness, I'm not yours, white man. We had sex, your window curtains were open. You wanted someone to see me naked, with you on top of the Colombian gay flesh. I'm not yours, white man. You liked it rough, but only rough on me. Not a gentle kiss, not a look into my eyes. I'm not yours, white man. You kissed this kin, you did not kiss me. Why did I let you kiss me? Why did I let you fuck me? I'm not yours, white man. Why did you fuck more brown skins? Does it make you so horny? Do you see beyond their skin? I'm not yours, white man. So you got an instant boner when you saw me. That's what you told me, remember? That was the last time I saw you. I'm not yours, white man. I could feel your distance the day I met you. The day you touched this Colombian flesh. The day you did not see me. As I tried to see beyond your skin. I'm not yours, white man. Why could I see you as a soul? Why did I even bother trying? When all you saw was meat. Did someone hurt you like you hurt me? I'm not yours, white man. I used to see beyond skin. But your country has marked firm lines. As you exoticized me, used me, and desired me, I felt like fresh raw meat. I'm not yours, white man. As you ate me, you tried to sing. As my skin touched your teeth, all I could see were your moving lips. Your eyes were always hard to read. I'm not yours, white man. If you ever see me again, at least acknowledge this curse you left inhabited by me, the poet. I'm not yours, white man. That's one. And now some Spanish. I wrote this to my great uncle who died, who was also gay, who was from Cartagena, and who could never love. So it's in Spanish. I hope there's some Spanish speakers here. Good, OK. Raul Gomez-Hattin, yerba intacta, te fumo alerte, siento tu ser en mi garganta, al molerte revivo tu memoria. Eres el porroque arde, la yerba que se deshace, frágil y lista para fumar. Al enrollarte revivo tu memoria. Piensas que no te fumaron, pero tus palabras fueron leídas. Vivieron para los soñadores. Al inhalarte revivo tu memoria. Raul, pudiste amar, fuiste alguna vez amado. Es cierto que nadie te fumó. Al tenerte en mi boca revivo tu memoria. Me cuesta sostenerte, te caes entre mis dedos. Quisiera alimentarte, cuidarte. Al saborearte revivo tu memoria. Por quien quería ser fumado, por el amor, por alguien que te deseara. Cuando tocas mi garganta revivo tu memoria. Raul deseabas a los hombres como yo. Quería sentir una barba al cervezado. Deseabas entrar o que alguien entrará. Al toserte revivo tu memoria. Me equivoco al asumir estas palabras, estaré blasfemando tu existencia. Los cientos y este poema es atrevido. Al soplarte revivo tu memoria. Soy gómez como tú, dos generaciones más joven. Todavía no me enamorado. Al ver tu humo revivo tu memoria. Raul, al estar postrado en la calle esperando tu muerte, que fue lo último que dijiste. Al cerrar mis ojos revivo tu memoria. ¿Qué te hizo sufrir tanto? ¿Cuántas llagas dejo en ti la ignorancia? Al sentirte adentro revivo tu memoria. Mi abuelo me cuenta tus historias. Él piensa que estabas loco. Muchos más piensan lo mismo. Al abrir mis ojos revivo tu memoria. Raul, como no enloquecernos al ser restringidos, como no gritar con ese vacío, como no llorar sin el amor. Al bailar revivo tu memoria. Si tú estás loco, yo también. Desde niño quise sentir mariposas, pero se las comieron los murciélagos. Al besar un hombre revivo tu memoria. Siempre te fumaré, guardaré tus cenizas, te soplaré y te recordaré. Al fumarte revivo tu memoria. Just one more. Her, why do you dance like a woman? My hips were raised by women. They moved to the rhythm of their memory. They honor their ancestors. Why do you cross your legs like a woman? My legs honor the true steps, walking towards the real stage, naturally arriving to their throne. Why do you move your hands like a woman? My hands were touched by their magic. They moved like hectic waves, falling to rise towards their truth. Why do you talk like a woman? My voice stores their language, the words that awaken my dance, consistent to a composed rhythm. Why do you move your shoulders like a woman? My shoulders don't take cumbia for granted. They are hectic yet thoughtful, carrying ritual, culture, presence. Why do you walk like a woman? My feet want their dance to be sincere. They rule my salsa and my merengue. They speak for celias, Elena and la India. Why do you speak like a woman? I will start to sing, not to whisper, singing for an original song, written by she, her, she, her. Why do you think like a woman? My teeth don't adapt to enclosed lips. My tongue moves beyond my teeth. My voice is as it is. Why do you shout like a woman? My scream carries my mother, aunt's grandmothers. Their voice is loud and meant to be heard, to be felt and respected. Why do you jump like a woman? I don't jump for the fun of it. I jump to cross my past, overcoming that non-pain. Why do you touch like a woman? My body was touched by her mother nature. The queen we inhabit, the air we breathe, and the land we walk. I dance in honor of Clarina. I cross my legs in honor of Bikki. I move my hands in honor of Carmenza. I talk in honor of America. I move my shoulders in honor of Renata. I walk in honor of Luz. I speak in honor of Claudia. I think in honor of Cristina. I smile in honor of Carly. I shout in honor of Misha. I jump in honor of Patterson. I touch in honor of Mother Nature. These are the women that inspire me. These are the women that see me. These are the women who accept me. These are the women I honor every day. Thank you.