No mud, no lotus

Dear beautiful reader,

November was an incredibly difficult month for me, both on a personal and political level. America elected our 47th president and no matter what side you voted on, or even as a non-American, I am positive the collective anguish of our country could be felt, reverberating off walls for days… I felt a lot of pain for a number of reasons, but mainly about how clearly divided we are as a country.

On a personal level, last month’s story Elliot Smith on my last relationship knocked the wind out of me. Even though the premise of that story is that “yellow flags turn into red flags,” it was interesting to receive the feedback that I did. It was profound to see that everyone collectively had so much anger towards Thom* by the end.

When beginning this newsletter, I didn’t factor in how strange it would be to have people comment on my life and the real people in it as characters in a story book. But nonetheless, as usual, your constructive thoughtful feedback transformed me and healed me. It opened my eyes to a whole other level. I sat with that for the entire month. I am grateful.

As a result of all of this, I spent most of the month in hermit mode, in deep reflection, shut out from the world, in tears at times, about the state of the country and about my past, in mourning. It was deeply painful and there were times I felt hopeless (which is very rare, and the actual aim of politics), and frankly, I didn’t have it in me to write another story about my life, or write anything much at all, except for this poem.

I love you.
Please take care of yourselves and see you next month,
Amy Lee

Word count: 626
Pages: 3

No Mud, No Lotus by Amy Lee

My name is America
I am grieving
My children are quarreling
You stripped them of their sacred lands and called it your own
Not knowing the wrath of their ancestors’ past that comes back to haunt you
Not knowing Toypurina was the most powerful medicine woman
The City of Angels offers no haven 
when it belongs to the Tongva people
My children now know no peace

He who enforces borders only imprisons himself 
She who strips you of bodily choice 
performs a subconscious hysterectomy on herself
When we see the collective abundance 
that is our birthright as a slice of a pie,
limited and an eye-for-an-eye,
we are served bread crumbs until the day we die
The only type of freedom that can be bought
is a rapist known as free-doom, 
Gill Scott-Heron told us first

If you have more, I have less, they scream in a tantrum
We colloquially call them “tech billionaires”
But instead, my children, I see the oligarchy is here!
Shall it only get worse?

Not all those who are paper-skinned are to blame, 
but we are all respons-ible, able to respond, for the venom we spit
Yet, self-righteousness is a dis-ease too
“Transphobe!” “Racist!” “Homophobe!”
This rhetoric, a projection of the pain 
when our identities have become politicized

But what about the American dream?
To have a mortgage, buy some groceries,
an earnest man from the barrio working three jobs
rightfully schemes

My children were promised a vibrant pasture and 
then were given a moor turned barren and bleak
Starve or feast together
I hear them cry,
“We were promised joy 
and given destruction
Mama— why did we come here?”
I said to look in the mirror and reflect compassion 
for your collective liberation

Darling, your rest is needed for the revolution

For the pollution we smoke into our lungs
is the reason we cannot breathe
I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe…
when we’re too focused on 
if you bleed red, 
and if I bleed blue,
I am more polka-dotted than you!
My spots bigger, better, bolder than you!
Those who hold pitchforks in the shape of a textbook god 
in order to weaponize disdain and distrust onto others 
have the largest god-shaped hole

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