And I say, the police knew and probably participated in what happened at that pig farm. And I say, there is genocide going on in the 21st century.

And I say and I say and I say, but what can change?

Trembling with rage, I am tired of being oppressed.

I am tired of the poverty, I am tired of being The Lesbian artist, The Indian artist, The Crazy artist, waiting for the next themed group show.

A program for every ghetto, and a place for us to speak that is neatly segregated.

I am tired of my soul split into a slice for every community I belong to.

If you want to eat my heart, eat all of it.

A small photograph in a small section of a major art magazine.

“We hope that you are happy with your representation in our publication.”

I tore it to shreds, I broke a window, I screamed at phantom agents of control.

Four friends come by to take me away so I could be fixed, but I was screaming too loud.

Four white police officers came to the house with loud voices and angry eyes, screaming get down, get down, and then I was in handcuffs.

“This seems like overkill” I remember thinking as I was led down the rickety stairs to a gurney.

Straps, more straps, strapped in, locked down, crazy lesbian Indian artist. Into the ambulance, one hundred and fifty dollar taxi ride to the hospital.

I am being wheeled, I am parked, waiting in a corridor. Nobody is telling me what is going on. I’m in a room, things are going in my mouth, and my friend becomes a needle full of haldol. Everything turns to black.

And my mother cried, and she cried, and when was I allowed to cry?