A Naughty Holiday Poem by a Nasty Woman written by Juliana Aragon Fatula

Dear Reader,

It's a fool moon and I'm the biggest fool of all. Hope I don't offend, but, this is an adult poem.

I’m spending the ha ha holidays working on my murder mystery, a love story. 

Hey ya hey ya hey ya hey ya ya. 

I’m sad, mad, glad, bad. 

Hey. Happy whatever. 

The holiday blues has me by the shorthairs. 

My mom and dad both died on Christmas Eve. 

My older sister died of cancer at 42, my little sister at 58.

My grandparents lived to the ripe old age of 50. 

I’m spending the ha ha holidays working on my murder mystery, a love story. 

Hey ya hey ya hey ya hey ya ya. 

I’m sad, mad, glad, bad.

Hey. Happy whatever. 

My siblings went to prison for various crimes. 

The next generation were incarcerated feeding addictions. 

All my exes died: alcoholism, drug overdose, murdered in prison. 

I’m spending the ha ha holidays working on my murder mystery, a love story. 

Hey ya hey ya hey ya hey ya ya. 

I’m sad, mad, glad, bad.

Hey. Happy whatever. 

No one knows my troubles, but gawd.  

My adult son, an only child, feels abandoned, unloved, alone. 

I haven’t seen him since I told him to get the fuck out of my house. 

He’s homeless and almost fifty. 

I’m spending the ha ha holidays working on my murder mystery, a love story. 

Hey ya hey ya hey ya hey ya ya. 

I’m sad, mad, glad, bad.

Hey. Happy whatever. 

I’m a miserable piece of shit. 

No one except my dogs loves me. 

And my cats. 

And my best friend. 

And maybe my husband.

I’m not speaking to him, since he called me a fucking moron and told me to ssssh. 

Don’t ever ssssh me, asshole. Ever. 

I’m spending the ha ha holidays working on my murder mystery, a love story. 

Hey ya hey ya hey ya hey ya ya. 

I’m sad, mad, glad, bad.

Hey. Happy whatever. 

I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but there’s a ragin fire in me. 

My innocence robbed at five. 

I shoulda’ put a pencil in his eye.

Penetrated in the backseat through the backdoor. 

Shoulda’ accidently put the car in drive and stepped aside.

I’m spending the ha ha holidays working on my murder mystery, a love story. 

Hey ya hey ya hey ya hey ya ya. 

I’m sad, mad, glad, bad.

Hey. Happy whatever. 

Husband number one and two, dead and gone.

Husband number three, alive.

What do you want from me?

Need time to figure it out.

I’m a freak.

Hey. Happy whatever. 

Ha ha happy holiday.  

Hey ya hey ya hey ya hey ya ya. 

Dear Reader,

I probably shouldn’t tell you this but I’m struggling to finish my novel, The Colorado Sisters and the Atlanta Butcher.I’ve been writing for years and teaching writing workshops, but my story remains unfinished and there’s no one to blame but moi. 

I had an idea, after I visited a state park in Utah, and on the drive home to Colorado, it percolated in my mind, like a horror movie. I saw body parts chopped and blood everywhere. It was gruesome, but the man being butchered deserved it, so it was cathartic. Healing. 

Politics made me do insane things on paper. 

A wonderful woman in Las Cruces, New Mexico, a writer of world-renowned notoriety, read my rough draft and gave me a stern talking to about mixing politics, anger, and trying to fix the nation with a novel. 

She asked me simply, “What’s the story about?” 

It wasn’t about politics. It was a love story about the power of women when they bond together and save themselves, about the strength of women who rise above victimization and become survivors, about the tribe of women who had been marginalized, tossed aside, forgotten, imprisoned, beaten, stalked, raped, and asked to keep their mouths shut. 

The women of Emma’s House in the story of The Colorado Sisters and the Atlanta Butcher would neither remain victims, nor silent. They became sheroes. They rose from poverty and fought for their rights to an education, healthcare, love, and honor. They became role models for their children and the Northside of Denver. 

This wonderful writer from Las Cruces reminded me that I’m a feminist, a woman of color, and my responsibility, my storytelling, reflects my history of being a survivor, a mentor, an educated Chicana. You know there’s nothing scarier than an Educated Chicana, they are chingonas. And bad asses stick together. We change the world one story at a time. 

Happy Holidays and let their be peace on Earth.