I can’t say what truly draws me to poetry, as it’s something I’ve been interested in for as long as I can remember. Or, if not poetry, then writing in general. That’s basically who I’ve always been: a poet, someone so intrigued by the world around her that she can’t help but try to capture it, how she interacts with it and its people, and her life as it were. Born, raised, and living in Seattle, specifically the South End (which is not Tacoma, by the way, lol), Black and trans, a wife, a friend, a lover of red wine—these are just the tip-of-the-barrel identity markers that define me. Beneath that, I’m still learning.

Poetry is my preferred method out of habit and study. Since it’s the thing I’ve invested most in my life, it’s the thing I first turn to out of instinct or necessity when working through a thought or an image or an experience. I’m not sure I have a hardcore reason for why else poetry is my go-to medium being that I’ve studied other art forms like dance, singing, and acting, and dabble in essays and fiction here and there. I do, however, like what reading and writing poetry does physically to my body. My body feels all tingly when a poem finally clicks into place and, like a bad habit, I ache for that feeling time and time again. So, I must write poetry to scratch that magic itch.

As far as writing about the myriads of relationships I explore in my poetry, I think I’m able to do so because I put myself at the center. This means, I approach every poem from my own lived experiences and branch outward. I do this because I never want to misinterpret or misremember or misrepresent someone or something else’s life. I can only speak for me. This makes it a lot easier to write about my mother and her death, while holding on to the integrity of her life. I think it’s the power of integrity that helps me connect poems together while keeping them as individual pieces.

My first book, A Shiver in the Leaves, homed in on the tension between my exterior life (e.g., sexual violence, police brutality, self-harm, Seattle as a landscape, crows, fir trees, my parents, art) and my interior life (e.g., desire, suicidal ideation, self-worth, restlessness, comfort, anxiety). My work leading up my mother’s death—including the very few poems between the release of A Shiver in the Leaves and her death—were muscular. Those poems moved with a sort of bodily presence. Since my mother’s death, my poems have become more invested in my relationship with my exterior life through the lens of grief, sure, but more so change. I want to explore what happens when core elements of my life shift how I move through the world. The manuscript in progress is focused on my mother and our relationship, but that’s just the vehicle to get to where I think my poetry is trying to get me.

I don’t think I necessarily have a choice in the matter. It sounds weird, but there were times I thought I’d never write again and was completely okay with it. But, it turns out, creating is more than what I studied in school and through community workshops and classes, it’s something I must do. If not through poetry, then through other methods. I used to be so caught up in one way of creating (e.g., writing), that I forgot that “creation” can live through other forms of living, even outside the arts. I create daily, whether I know it or not. And maybe, the “or not” is a strong part of it.

This is the first Washington-based monetary award I received as a born Seattlite. That’s huge for someone who’s eager to continue living and creating here. And this is the first award I have ever received as a trans woman. For it to be specifically for trans* artists is extremely affirming. Besides it being a blessing, it’s a sure way to say to myself, “Lue, if you don’t believe in yourself, others do.” Getting support as a Black trans artist isn’t just about being accepted, but about being genuinely seen. I’ve always known Artist Trust has seen me; this way of being “seen” is a full-circle moment. I’m completely honored to be awarded this fellowship. I hope someone who needs to be seen sees me and says to themselves, “If she can, I can, too.”

Support isn’t a theory, it’s an action. Artist Trust must continue to put tangible resources into communities, specifically the communities that are barely and under resourced. Of course, funds are great. Who’s going to argue that hands-on workshops are a waste of time? Artist Trust needs to always re-invent themselves because the world is ever-changing, and sometimes in ways to disregard artists. To do this, Artist Trust has to continue talking with people about why investing in artists means investing in the longevity of the cultures they hold dear to them, the state, and even the world.