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  Sep 2018 Sean M O'Kane
Tyrus
I have new pronouns!
But first this poem doesnt rhyme.
I'm not sure if this is even a poem.
More of my...coming out.
A clarification of sorts.

At birth, the doctor said,
"It's a girl!"
Well, whoever stared into my mother's ******, looked at mine, and determined my ***/gender for me...
****.
Wrong.
Errrrrnn.
(Those were buzzer sounds.)

My name is not Madison.
And though I am the proud owner of a ******™.
I am not a female.
My pronouns are not she/her.

My name is Ty. Short for Tyrus.
I am the proud owner of a ******™.
And I have not one, not 3
but 2 pronouns.
He/him.
And/or
They/them.

Either one of those is fine.
To be honest really don't mind.

I just ask that you stay away from she/her. :)

Thank you for following this "thing" to this point.
And thank you for using correct pronouns!


Please read the bottom thing:
I'm working on turning this into an actual poem that rhymes and has nice grammar and ****. But for right now here you go, and BE PROUD OF WHO YOU ARE!
Sean M O'Kane Sep 2018
We are the kids – beautiful blank canvasses ready to receive the joy of life.
We are the kids – hope & love consuming our souls, grasping at the shiny & new.
We are the kids who played in the fields and danced in the sun.
We are the kids with innocence in our hearts and a cheekiness in our soul.
We are the kids who believed in a benevolent God and the generous teachings of Jesus.
We are the kids whose imagination was an infinite resource - bounteous, diverse and effervescent.
We are the kids who reveled in the fancy, the nonsensical, the romantic and the wild.
We are the kids that couldn’t wait to grow up,
We are the kids who believed in our future.
We are the kids who never saw it coming.

We are the kids who lost our innocence as soon we walked through the big school gates for the 1st time.
We are the kids who were told to “think of your future” and to suppress creativity.
We are the kids who were forced to grow up very quickly.
We are the kids who didn’t know we were “different” but there were plenty out there who did.
We are the kids who had to pretend to be what “they” wanted us to be just to survive.
We are the kids who came home with scars every day – both physical and emotional
We are the kids who endured the obscene words of Neanderthal hate every single day.
We are the kids who were screamed at by our parents to fight back even when we really didn’t have the capability to do so.
We are the kids who were told crying was a sign of weakness.
We are the kids whose so-called classmates stayed silent when they did their worst.
We are the kids where the school gates were no barrier to their lynching.
We are the kids who turned quickly from being wide-eyed & hopeful to being terrified & desolate.
We are the kids who dreaded every single weekday from first term to last.  
We are the kids who fruitlessly prayed to a God who had deserted them.
We are the kids taught by teachers who were found wanting.
We are the kids who suffocated in sheer hate.
We are the kids who took our own lives or at least tried to.
We are the kids who self-harmed.
We are the kids who sometimes never came home.
We are the kids who survived but never really left the school yard behind
We are the kids.
Your kids.

June 11, 2018.
Sean M O'Kane Sep 2018
“Oh you’re Irish?” he said.
“Did you learn the language much?” he said.
Honestly, what can I tell him? I was raised in the North - a ****** wasteland for such a naïve question.
Vague memories of fumbled classes where our secret history was ditched just to get straight into the basics (Cad é mar atá tú?)
No – seriously - I was not tied to it – it was anonymous to me at that age.
Forgotten like some distant echo of once visiting Coole House as a child.
Sure, we knew it was “important”, “our national language”, “heritage” etc. and we were warned it was quickly slipping into the drain of Western hegemony.
But it was baffling, unsexy and only the blunt-faced humorless IRA thugs amongst us were in any way keen.
Then it was gone, just like the faded memories of “The Children of Lir” from my primary school.

Looking back I wonder, what was the point?
A half-full measure paying lip service to our identity.
Teachers and headmasters terrified of the grand colonial reveal that the lessons might have hinted at (were they trying to stop us being Provos-in-waiting?).
And all of this against the awful shame of a common tongue that had no foe yet was slowly vanquishing from our shores.
It could have all been so different.
Rather than rushing to get something in our empty skulls, they could have given us a sense of joy, pride & belief in our own culture.
Calling on Yeats, Behan, Heaney and others to drown us in the language of our ancestors.
Telling the stories of old that only the academics & hippies were keeping from us then.
You know, it might kept us all on the same beautifully illuminated page.
We might have been comfortable in our skins and open to others,
not looking deep into our worthlessness and lashing out at them.
Language is being and language is connecting, I’ve learnt.
But that’s not something I got from my secondary school.

June-July 2018
Obviously, Teanga is the Irish word for language. "Cad é mar atá tú" is a basic phrase every Irish child would remember from the limited experience of the language that we had then - "how are you?".  I did visit Coole House around 1980 (when I was 10)  but had no idea at the time of its significance as the 'petri dish' of modern Irish culture - the home of Lady Gregory whose influence on many of our great writers was fundamental to their survival & their continuing importance today. "The Children of Lir" is an old fantastical Irish myth that was often read to very  young children during their  "story time".
Sean M O'Kane Sep 2018
Glenshane Pass separated you both.
23 miles away in the same time, same place as my father’s childhood.
So when you talked of your da digging Toner’s bog and waxed lyrical about sheughs, I knew in our English class what exactly you were saying (when others didn’t).
Your words float over time & space to me now.
A celebration of the intimacy of our homelands.
A holy adoration of long gone voices that still resonate.

You never strayed, never.
It was always in your heart, always:
the land, the forgotten lanes, the broad fields, the lost language of it all.
I keep a certain comfort now with your lines as I Iay in my southerly home,
knowing that I am forever tithed to the townlands of our shared ancestry.
I thank you.
May your words stay alive as song as Ireland still has its beauty
and may their illumination still shine on us all.
Heaney was indeed in the same time & geographical places that my father grew up in. Glenshane Pass is a stretch of road between Dungiven and Maghera in Co. Derry that traverses some of the Sperrins mountain range.  Heaney grew up in Banagher, my dad in Park both villages on either side of the range. A sheugh is a ditch on the side of the field which acts as a boundary in farming land.
Sean M O'Kane Sep 2018
Robert Frost once talked of taking the ‘road less travelled’.
Well, I didn’t.
When the time came, I blindly went and took the safest road.
A very long path where the pitfalls were plenty.
I stumbled in the bracken. Stymied by the darkness that fell quickly as I ambled along.
The soul bruised, battered and exhausted at every infrequent stop.
It was not apparent then that in this venture there was a bleak dead end ahead.
I plowed on even though something inside was telling me again and again to turn back.
But, slowly, a gleaming light of hope crossed my vista beckoning me home.
I crawled. My strength regained as the light intensified.
Then the end was in sight - the portal was within grasp.
And so, yes, I now take that road less travelled.
Standing tall and proud as I gleefully stride down its glowing thoroughfare.  
Smiling at the diverse and playful changes that cross my pathway.
All told, it’s never too late to trust your instincts and make a difference.
Just ask me.
And Robert Frost.
Sean M O'Kane Sep 2018
Crumbling Victorian concrete falls to the ground.
The crunch of rubble, levelling histories to dust.
All this is “progress”, “a bright opportunity” and “good for the economy”.
Yeah, but for who?
Those who live there? The communities forged from years of migration?
Those who take pride in the shape and feel of their own unique milieu?
It seems, no.

Look closer and you’ll find a hidden clue - the quietly mouthed magic word: “apartments”.
It won’t be long before a weekly shop will need a pay-day loan.
Or the late night fish supply shop turns into a swishy niche café.
WINZ offices relocating to where its denizens have been priced off to.
Meanwhile the newly whiter-than-whitewash feel of our once beloved suburbs,
present themselves as bastions of modernity and “progress”.
What lies in the rubble is not just dust, it’s the debris of pākehā civility.
Written in response to the (near) demolition of the original Stewart Dawson shop on the corner of Lambton Quay & Willis Street in Wellington. Now reduced to nothing more than a façade waiting on whatever ugly modern lump is placed against.

Glossary:

Fish Supply Shop - Cross between a fishmonger and a fish & chip shop.
WINZ - Welfare  benefits office.
Pākehā - Māori word for European settlers & their culture.
Sean M O'Kane Sep 2018
"You had to be there, I guess".
What will they think of us in a century’s time?
The sheer knuckle-draggedness of it all
Neo-fascism as neo-fashion.
Guns, guns, guns.
The celebration of vacuousness as virtue.
It’s hard not to think of us all staring into the void right now.
But if we stay silent, we die.
Fight hate with hope.
Celebrate diversity with inclusivity.
Otherwise history will judge us, harshly.
It’s not that difficult, people.
#resistance #antifa #diversity #hopenothate
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