Oh, and also..

I am not a photographer. But I've been poking my camera out every now and then, while in Brazil. Since I've discussed the effect of my environment on my writing, I thought I might share. Enjoy. Jazz Night in Paraty, Rio de JaneiroView from Downtown Sao Paulo BuildingIsland view from Paraty 

Igreja de Nossa Senhora do Rosário e São Benedito, this church was built and used originally by African slaves in Paraty, dating back to 1725. Just thought this was cute....

Scratch that, New Title: Seven Days of Separation

Hello Beautiful People,

This excerpt is a follow up to my last post on "Chromosome 21," the story of a 29 year old Mexican immigrant coming to terms with the impending birth of an ill child. The excerpt details an intimate interaction between a young wife and husband, Nena and Beto (note change of character name and story title). Writing this piece has been a new experience for me, and I am still exploring my feelings about impersonal representations of sensitive topics/marginalized identities. More than anything, I've realized how much energy and creativity is required to bring to life a foreign experience. There are some holes, floating thoughts, and moments of distracted imagination---but hey, that's unadulterated art..right? Please feel free to comment, object, and make suggestions. 

Beto’s words overwhelmed Nena’s ripe womb with an aching, nauseating gravity. She had been afraid Beto would speak of that. It was repulsive to her. Only few topics could startle such a spirited young woman. And even if she had desired to speak about that, she wouldn’t have done so with him; not with any man, not even her husband. Certain things, Nena believed, even if widely known, were better left unspoken.  She might have preferred to be backhanded into a numbing forgetfulness, something that Beto had only done once and profoundly regretted. The more she thought about what he said, the more her body felt attacked. She felt her insides tighten, and thought about vomiting. 

 “Que?    Dios Mio Beto    what are you saying? No sabes lo que dices.” Nena’s plain expression contradicted the vigor with which she spoke. She looked away from him, her eyes growing large and moist. Holding her stomach defensively she shifted her body on the gurney, her back facing Beto. She forced her emotions to a halt and prayed to Ave María Purísima that he’d leave before something regrettable escaped her mouth.

A cold tension penetrated the room. Beto replied nothing for some time; he lifted the pamphlet the doctor left for them titled “Down’s Syndrome” while she lay silent and occupied herself with the shimmering dapple of sunlight reflected in the hospital room window. If Beto had at any point regretted his unholy proposition he would never have admitted it, especially not to Nena. He pretended to read the pamphlet, attempting to conceal the anger her inaction had stirred. After a few minutes he stood up as if to end the interaction, but lingered, looking about her as if she were an important piece of equipment that had suddenly malfunctioned. Something about the interaction troubled him, too. It is true, he had not expected for the conversation to be easy or even civil; but he had much less anticipated her silence. He threw the pamphlet down and spoke to her before leaving. “Pues tu sabrás; a fin de cuenta you’ll deal with it most. Voy por los niños.”

She had answered nothing substantive because his words had put the matter before her and she was consumed with looking at it. There was something about what he said that suddenly made her feel insecure, so much that she had been afraid to trust herself to speak. After he left, she leaned back and shut her eyes; and for a long time, far into the hours of darkness and even past sunrise, she sat still in the hospital room, given up to her meditation. She thought of what Beto said and so many other things. She felt blamed—and for some time she blamed herself too.  Why was he so angry? Did he really want her to kill it or could this be some sick sort of moral evaluation? Had Beto remembered that two of Nena’s cousins were tontitos? And if so, did he blame her genes for their imperfect conception? Nena wandered among these ugly possibilities until she had completely lost her way.

But she knew that he knew. Her resolute silence had revealed it all; and this, she suspected, was what had truly perturbed Beto.  It was not Beto’s proposition that had startled Nena but rather the fear of him discovering that she had for a long time already considered the sinful disposal. That she had thought about doing it herself without telling him, writing it off as a miscarriage. From her own childhood she knew there was no good place in the world for tontitos other than the burdened protection of their mothers, and the rare generosity of strangers. Though she hadn’t yet settled into a decision, she found comfort in this morbid possibility---and he had taken this from her. She suddenly hated him for that, but decided not to be consumed by it for fear that it might show. 

Nena prepared herself for her next interaction with Beto. The next morning, she offered her visitor a smile of welcome, revealing no trace of discomposure and half surprised at her own coolness. What she felt was not a great responsibility, nor a great difficulty of choice; it appeared to her there had been no choice in the question. 

The Politics of Character Construction, Introducing Chromosome 21

Hello Beautiful People! 

I write to you all from Rio again. I apologize for the sluggish blogging. I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching, conducting research for my senior thesis, and delving into the rich history of black gay poetry of the 1970s. But enough with the excuses, I’m back and excited to share with you again. To follow up with my last entry, I did finish a piece for the For Colored Boys project. I submitted a series of poems on the subjects of gay teen suicides and the hardships of male-to-male relationships within a society still unable to cope with men uninhibitedly loving one another. Unfortunately, the publishers have decided to only print short essays for the sake of “reader accessibility.” Hoping to distribute the material otherwise, I’ve submitted my poems to Lambda Literary Journal. I really challenged myself as a writer and storyteller, sharing heavy emotion, hoping that it might relate to someone in a needed way. In any case, I will keep you updated on this project. I hope it will be well received, and I nonetheless look forward to the publication of Keith Boykin’s For Colored Boys. The children need us right now, and we need each other. Let us support one another through grief and honest narrative. Please keep your ears accessible and hearts open to those in need of sharing their stories. It often means more than we can immediately imagine. 

Today, however, I’d like to share rather random thoughts that surfaced while reading Toni Morrison’s A Mercy, and introduce a new project. I just started Morrison's A Mercy today, and I fell in love. The writing in A Mercy is so poignant and even chilling. Morrison’s ability to recreate, inhabit, and resurrect experiences that might have otherwise remained untold is simply extraordinary. And this brings me to my topic for today.  

Even if only for a few minutes at a time, literature allows us to imagine a reality outside of our familar skin. It pushes the boundaries of our carefully constructed notions of “normalcy” and communicates thoughts that might otherwise be rejected, or even worse, forgotten. Having submersed into an alternative reality, the possibility for what I call “unadulterated humanity” arises—that is, the possibility for a unique connection with the unknown, forged in the absence of political and social preconceptions. It can be raw and non-discriminatory; it often defies “groupthink” mentality. I love opening a book to become someone else. Reading yourself into another reality is one thing, but creating these types of works (I Imagine) is certainly a greater challenge. 

Writing as someone else, assuming another identity, might seem problematic and voyeuristic. On this subject, I find myself battling questions not easily answered: Will someone find this offensive? Is it unethical for me to craft a story not based on my own lived experiences? I don’t really know the answers. But I’ve decided to take a risk. I believe that ethical writing is honest writing, writing that does its best to remain true to the character.  In Playing in the Dark Toni Morrison writes, “The ability of writers to imagine what is not the self, to familiarize the strange and mystify the familiar, is the test of their power.” 

I’ve started writing a piece that is based on a family narrative; a delicate story that may have gone untold had it not been for a few beers and a desperate need for the storyteller to confess what he believed were tragedies and sins. As all humans should, I listened carefully. And I’ve recreated this experience in a short story. For now it is called "Chromosome 21." It is based on a stoic, rather lonesome 29 year-old Mexican immigrant named "Nacho" who struggles with accepting his son's medical condition. The narrative details his experience as he finds himself "illegally" crossing the border to reunite with his family after being deported. I’ll share more as the story builds upon itself, and I invite you to comment, criticize, and perhaps even add to the vignette. Tomorrow (by the end of the day) I will be posting a few paragraphs of this work. I hope you enjoy. Please come back and see!

On Writing from Abroad, Writer's Block, and Submitting to Keith Boykin's "For Colored Boys" Project

Hello Beautiful People!

I’ve had all week to write and I'm just now getting to it. It is almost 4 a.m. and I have class in a few hours. This is definitely not ideal. I’m in Rio de Janeiro taking Portuguese classes, and not quite sure what has brought me here. Honestly, it wasn’t a fascination with Brazilian culture or anything like that; perhaps I’m here attempting to avoid the challenges and disappointments of the so-called “real world.” Actually, in retrospect, I think I left home to take a break from my active participation in gay rights movements and poor people advocacy. The emotional disappointments and physical exhaustion of the past semester really stifled my creative appetite. 

For me, balancing art and activism has not been simple. Those of us that choose to challenge racism, homophobia, and other social illnesses on a regular basis risk exploitation in the hands of a society obsessed with “excess” (misfit) identities. Sometimes we get lost in our political and social movements; too often we are made believe that as social “others” we are obligated to educate and advocate. But I don’t always feel like it; sometimes I like doing other things. I’m more than just "poor," same-gender loving, Latino, or even a Harvard student. I also do other stuff, like write and think creatively, cathartically, and passionately. So I think I’m in Rio to write. And think. But I’ve had some trouble with these pursuits. 

Because my daily classes are rather simple and my budget can hardly accommodate my voyeuristic American impulses, I've had much time to brainstorm and write. But not much has actually made it onto my notebook. I’ve been experiencing a mysterious and severe episode of writer’s block. Tonight was slightly better than usual. I spent several hours at the nearby beach building creative momentum, watching the bubbly waves roll and disintegrate into themselves pointlessly. My endeavor was not entirely unsuccessful. I was able to write a few lines of a poem that I will be submitting very soon. The essay and poem will be submitted to Keith Boykin’s “For Colored Boys Who Have Contemplated Suicide When the Rainbow….” project, and is due in nine days. My greatest challenge has been writing about a community that seems very distant to me right now due to my physical location. Writing about “home” while being away from “home” is a new experience. 

Regardless of what has brought me here, Rio is home for now. Whether writing about gay marriage or the “favelas” that I can see from my privileged window view, my writing will be influenced by the “Carioca” milieu. I hope that the next few days will be conducive to creativity, and that I will soon be able to submit something I am proud of; something that can positively influence the life of some young queer of color struggling with the tragic yet beautiful burden of “double other.”

I will be posting an update soon, and hopefully adding excerpts from my writings for “For Colored Boys.” Join me if you are into social justice and like a bit of adventure! 

Love, Solidarity, and Resistance. 

Miguel.

"Any writer, I suppose, feels that the world into which he was born is nothing less than a conspiracy against the cultivation of his talent." --James Baldwin