You are a wayfinder

My dearest bluest sky. daughter if you want. son if it suits you,

You might come from a long line of not having “generational wealth” — by that I mean, we did not have money that talked like CEOs, buwaya politicians, both who shot rockets into the sky not for wonder but for planetary mining. This kinda money did not bring water back, or gave a damn that salmon fish multiplied and took over the roads. This money that is not free is not the wealth we want anyways. You do not come from a line of people who have last names or first names on the streets. Unless you count my old name, Angel. In that case you are wealthy in feathers, halos and wings. But even that name is more a claim, a property of the Catholic Church.

Your name isn’t a land grab. I apologize for all the despair that chums up when you look into your Titi’s eyes, they barely made it out alive but atleast they had their gender and fell in love often. Or your Tito’s charm, when it fades out after all that karaoke, when he goes home after getting everyone to grin or break their own numb into ballad. Or your Lola who got burned down by other queens, dolls, jealous women and got built up by other queens, dolls, and glorious women. Or me, your Mamay, if you see me motionless after a day of dancing. Know, that the joy is something we are all trying to hold onto and most it days it makes me inflamed, engulfed but rarely ever a goner. The joy, a silver vulture, feasts on our fast transformations.

Your generational wealth is none of these things. Your trust is the garden in the yard. Please do not forget to cut down the roses every winter. So they can bloom bigger for you every year. Do not be afraid to prune. Your wealth is in your breath, so breathe like a waterfall more. You will have a wealth of rage.

Listen closely,

to the hot springs, study the vents of volcanoes, find days of being perceived only by the shade of a Birch tree. Mold with the stump. If you must possess yourself, let the fungi take you over. Rage, untouched, will fetter onto your beloveds. Stare with a steel gaze, against a mountain. Find a branch and hit it against a stump. Do not swallow the fire. Your tummy problems give you a proclivity to being gaseous. Again do not swallow fire.

The peso money sign looks more like a tiny calamansi. Also in the garden. Lil citrus chi chis. Your money is behind your chi chis, whatever you decide to do with your flesh, your wealth is worn on your heart. If you need to have top surgery, feminize yourself so you can feel your heart, do it.

Our wealth is in our skin. It’s the sparkles in the night, stars seeing stars. Bendable for better I hope. All that bend do break. You cannot survive just by being you alone.

You must burst and shudder in warm arms. In places where your aloneness is not from exile, it is choice. There will be eyes ready to lay onto your outskirts, ears ready to listen your bubbling brooks. Our family we choose to sometimes be absolutely be insufferable, with their mouth sounds and run on sentences, their reservedness and hyper critique. I hope by now you know how to tell one of us to shut the fuck up in a heart-filled manner.

You will have some old language, but know you can make your new language too. Something will be too far gone and you will need to grieve that. Your grief is your inheritance. It is the river you can drink from when the land gets so sandy. You are a child from lineages of drop, dip spin. Glamoured devils. The goats who teach sheep how to strip down their wool and buck. You will cuss people out but be careful because curses are the most generous spells. Your nails will look like natural acrylics. Your hair will be of feathered coral. Do not be afraid of your skin hungers or body shapes — follow them to the deviant club kids. Be careful of staying in those BPMs, give yourself whale melodies, pink chancaony frequencies. Baby, the wealth is in your dreams. Sleep hard. Sleep on purpose. Sleep is for the strong.

When you divest from the makers game, you will get burned. It is our lineage. You will drown, flail, fumble. So many of us are phoenix children, unafraid of ash. But you, you might be more mud than fire. Lil swamp flower.

You are pre-destined for type 1 diabetes. Even if you don’t eat sugar. It is not sugars fault. It is the stress. Have yourself a Lollipop, one made of bitter melons, salt and coconut sugar.

You will carry secrets. Not ones that are full of shame. Those ones are mine and you do not have permission to take them.

You can have the secret blueprints to our sanctuaries. The places you take the sick so we can call their soul back into their bodies. So they can wrath in the belly of a cenote. So they can remember their way. Sacred coves and feet that know the jungle in its unforgiveness. You are a wayfinder.

Now where do you want us to go?