Hello,

My name is Dario. I am twenty eight years old. For the large majority of my life I have identified as a cisgendered white male.

Dario means beholder or protector of good. Hernandez meaning "Son of Hernan or Hernando". It is of Spanish and Portugese descent, which from the stories I have been told is the region in which my family is from. The Canary Islands. 

My father and mother were both born in Uruguay. A small, but proud and strong country. My father's side has more descendants in Uruguay while my mother's lineage traces back to regions of Italy. Or at least this is what I have believed up until I did a performance. "The Citrus of my Imagination".  A poetry reading a musical performance done in partnership with one of my most cherished friends. 

I love my family deeply. It is part of the reason I continue to make the same mistake of trusting them. Why I am burdened with such a tremendous weight of anguish at the thought of how much things have fallen apart. 

And despite the narrative of my incompetency, as my life erodes before my very eyes, I am forced to accept my fate. The choice to accept homelessness instead of their help may seem like the most stubborn of prideful decisions. This may heed truth. But I am of the opinion that I must stay true to the boundaries that I have attempted to establish. 

It's a rainy day here in Chattanooga. I have added milk to my coffee. One of my favorite things about Tennessee us that the trees in December look like late September ones in New York. It makes me think of those five hour road trips I would take to Syracuse. Ever since riding my motorcycle over in Ooltewah I have been day dreaming of cruising down those windy roads. As I blend fantasy and nostalgia, my understanding for that Camus quote ripens, "In the coldest of winters; I found an eternal summer.".

I have put on jazz. I love listening to jazz on rainy days. Especially on a lazy Sunday. My dog is curled up in the ball that I feel like. This is me praying. 

When I first moved to Syracuse is when I first came to understand that something was wrong. As if the distance from my family had allowed for this slow unrooting to finally collapse. And I collapsed. The image attached to this blog post is "The Landscape of the Fall of Icarus". 

If a tree falls in the forest and there is nobody there to listen, does it make a sound? If a man falls apart and there is nobody there to put the pieces together, then is the suffering even real? 

I have tall ceilings in the apartment I am about to be evicted from. It's an industrial building and so the rain tatters like a snare drum with bristled sticks. I've heard stories about the sweetness of this experience on the farms of my family's home country. I must admit the sound is sweet. 

And so I fell apart. Not because of loneliness. I am good at loneliness. I have felt alone since the second grade. Part of my problem is that isolation has become what I have come to understand as normal. It is in the moments that I feel truly embraced, that I feel vulnerable and threatened. I have a bouquet of PTSD in conjunction with being the inheritor of generational trauma, legacy, and chemical deficiencies. I have been at the receiving end of an extreme amount of psychological warfare because I ascended to success as an artist without bending the knee. 

I expose my weaknesses to educate. For that is what I am and whether I am employed or not I will continue to teach. Gentleman, you can only be masculine once you've embraced your femininity. The same way the feminine energy can only be the feminine mystique with the gentle touch of masculine energy. To those non-binary and transgender jedi masters you are quite remarkable. Not everyone is going to understand everyone. 

I was reading something in the Pedagogy of The Oppressed, about how true revolutionary change must come from a masculine presence. I think I felt the burden of this notion placed upon me via my appearance and ability. I am mainly writing this because I no longer care. I have suffered at the hands of denial's twist. I am now dealing with the attack upon my identity. I have lost intellectual property. Whatever legacy I have tried to create for myself. And ALWAYS wanting to be for profit the people who have stolen my work have advertised me as this altruistic giver. I continuously walk on egg-shells because the world has painted me out to be a Jesus like figure. For whatever reason this has resulted in the loss of my privacy. I have ALWAYS been for profit, but I also have displayed nothing short of strong moral integrity. I am not being trusted with what I have earned. I am not being trusted with what I have earned. 

I am not the beast or the monster I am being made out to be by some. I am not the best or holy that others make me out to be. I am just a guy who really likes books. Who enjoys writing. Who no matter how much good they try to do seemingly pisses someone off. 

I believe in the middle and lower class. I am a proud American. I hate hate. I am really tired of having to continuously explain where my ideas come from. Like life, writing is an unfolding. You start somewhere and end up somewhere else. You may have an intention when you set out, but if you are doing it properly there is no saying where you will end up. 

Ruben came to me at a young age. I was told that I was named after the poet, Ruben Dario, from Nicaragua. I have never read any of his work out of fear that it might reveal something I don't want to understand. 

I don't make up the rules on how psychological injuries work. The best way to explain who Ruben is that he was an imaginary friend. A stronger version of me that picked me up when nobody else would. It wasn't always so direct, but when I experienced my repressed memory it became clear to me the way Ruben's ghost was always with me. Almost like an invisible sibling. I always feared mirrors. 

In the time that followed experiencing the repressed memory I spent a lot of time looking at myself in the mirror. Trying to see if there was someone beyond my eyes. For no matter how much I had lived with the name Dario, it felt like only Ruben was there now. It really isn't that unheard of for artists to use pseudonyms. My identity isn't a secret. I am just a fucking artist like have some goddam respect towards the privacy that you've already overstepped. Only my family gets to call me Dario. Like could you imagine seeing Jay-Z and being like, "Ayo, Shawn!". Like bro let me be Hannah Montana in peace. 

Regarding any court cases or accusations that have gone against me. If such an occurrence has happened, then I will like to defend myself. But I am not being notified about such matters. Many decisions are being made about my future without my knowing and without my consent. 

I am cranking out projects in an attempt to flood the system that is suppressing and censoring me. I am cranking out projects in an attempt to flood the system that is suppressing and censoring me. The same system that is violating my privacy. The same system that is violating my privacy. 

All I continue to hear are rumors by people who are standing on the stage they didn't help me build. 

"The vibrator" line was a genuine slip. I didn't bother to defend it because I thought, nobody knows who I am. I thought whether I use a vibrator or not would not make much a difference to who I am as individual. Whether I denied it with the truth that I had never used a vibrator on myself or not the words came out of my mouth and people are going to believe what they want to believe either way. Quite frankly, I thought it was a hilarious slip. I even teased Freudian slips in my "Citrus of the Imagination" performance. An event that was live streamed without my knowing or consent. 

When I moved to Tennessee, I was made to believe that my parents were not my parents. It is unclear to me whether I was given falsified information or not. It still remains unclear to me. When I try confronting my family about this they elusively just remind me that, "I am the perfect mixture.". I have been told that I am black. That I am native American. That I am Mexican. That I am Argentinian. That I need to constantly conceal my identity as if I am some criminal, when I have a clear consciousness about the life I have lived. I have even been told that I was not born in 1996, but that I was born in 1990. That I spent the first six years of my life having STEM cell experiments done on me as I was locked in my grandfather's attic watching vegitales on a loop. I have even been told that I am a father. I keep being told these things, but nobody will confirm details. 

I don't shy away from photographs because I am trying to remain hidden though I have dealt with stalkers and tails in the past. I shy away from photos because once they are taken I never see them, again. I shy away from photos because one side of my face is more swollen the other. A result of me repeatedly punching myself in the face as a child. 

All I know with certainty is my life really got turned over when, one day I got into my car after drinking a drink and listening to an audiobook. Suddenly, I knew the location to places I had never been before. This was the night I became the "dog whisperer". When it came time for me to climb into the getaway vehicle I misread the signal and chose the wrong car. Then when I finally identified the proper getaway vehicle the doors were locked. I saw someone with a shopping cart who I would see later on in my adventure that confirmed who had compromised me. Because not only was the getaway vehicle locked, but there was a forty thousand loan on my credit report for two days. This seemed to be set in motion after I met a strange tax attorney office. I can infer he was a free mason based off the symbol on his shirt pocket and the way he shook my hand. A handshake I have been trying to avoid ever since it was instilled into me by evangelicals masquerading as Roman Catholics. 

You want to know who I am. I am an individual who is remarkably passionate about social change. A humanitarian. Someone who uses different pseudonyms for different projects to keep my thoughts organized. Someone who is being drowned out because if the truth about my story is told properly then too much of how the world actually operates will fall apart. To that I say, you corrupt mother fuckers seem to be doing a dandy job (sarcasm) and I am NOT interested in power. What I want is enough to own a farm, a bookstore, and time in peace to write fictional (fiction means made up) stories. To paint and watch films and listen to music and find someone to fall in love with. To have babies and teach them how to dance and fight. 

I am a very simple someone who for a long time believed they were no one. I have become as dangerous as I have become not from a will to power, but from a will to live. You cannot taste freedom without having known it, and submit to unjustified oppression. I am simple, but passionate man who is at odds with the streets, employers, family, community, and government while simultaneously being praised by these respective groups. I am considering applying for a masters program in Anthropology. I have a deep love for people that cannot be properly expressed because of the extreme duress of my circumstances. 

I can't go to Atlanta without being immediately recognized. Helicopters are in Nashville as I write a poem for the souls brave enough to approach a man mythologized beyond realistic standards. The streets of New York tell me it's my birthday. That there is a book about the accomplishments of those who contributed to the culture of Central Park. That there is a statue in my honor. But I have seen none of this. What I have seen is my best friends cut me off. Lovers lead me on. Family members silence me. I have seen the look in people's eyes as I leave the privacy of the home I attempted to build. A look that confirms to me that nothing I do anymore is private. 

I have been told my art work has sold for hundreds of thousands. And watched people walk by with licked lips as I try to sell new pieces for $25. 

If I come off crazy, then I think that is the point of whoever is doing this to me. I keep being told that my impact is bigger than I know. But the only thing I know is that I want to go out into this world and engage in dialogue. Write poems in the streets. This was always my intention. To use my gift of writing to unify people. That is why I decided to put together these projects. As to provide some form of residual income while I went out on the road. Now that the time has come for me to be who I have worked so incredibly hard to be I am being held hostage. Held hostage by my responsibilities, by a debt that isn't insurmountable (but every time I get ahead I get cut down), and by rumors that I can not properly rise to the occasion. The people I do allow into my life use whatever information they know about my circumstances over me. I know that the poet's role in society is to be the fool, but I can assure you that it is not to roll over to abuse. I am very much competent and able to take care of myself, but what is mine is being held from me. 

I have been told "We own you.". I long for freedom. 

I am Ruben.

 

 

Copyright 2024 D.Hernandez All Rights reserved.

This piece of writing belongs to D. Hernandez and D.Hernandez alone. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

 

 

 

Copyright 2024 D.Hernandez All Rights reserved.

This piece of writing belongs to D. Hernandez and D.Hernandez alone. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.