Language Barriers

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Here’s a story. A bilingual baby goes to her first day of preschool. Her teacher can’t pronounce the Spanish name “Marisa,” the long stretched-out I or the rolling R. So she calls her “Marissa,” and the child learns to respond to this name that is not her own. The same day, that child with the wrong name asks an adult for agua. She’s thirsty, but no one understands her. No one knows what she’s asking for, so she doesn’t drink anything all day. Actually, this isn’t a story at all. These are just the facts. I’ll resist the urge to say that assimilation was an act of survival because nothing is that simple. The act of releasing whole chunks of your identity into the wind takes years, not a single day. It just happened — a Marisa became a Marissa, and a child forgot how to say her own name. . . . . . . #writersofinstagram #writing #latinx #mexicanheritage

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Word Scramble #2

Still Here

Word Scramble #1

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Continuing from my algorithmic projects, I’ve been working on a word scrambler to just completely scramble up everything I’ve written around the building that my high school was housed in (which will be an empty building in a matter of weeks). Although I stopped short of creating a digital algorithm to do this because it’s finals crunch time and I got more interested in data analysis than pulling all-nighters to digitize this, this is the end result. I’m thinking I’ll try and create a new sentence or phrase every day and just keep generating these in my journal. . . . . . . . . . #writersofinstagram #writing #algorithms #programming

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Reduction linocut in response to short story “She Who Cannot Be Contained.”

“She Who Cannot Be Contained” (excerpt):

“A barely-born daughter, I was wrenched from my cave, slipping loose from the outer skin. Behind me is the memory of another body, never born at all. My squall splits the silence; my layers peel back and away, off my shoulders like hard wings that flicker behind me in the wind. The word that comes to mind is muscovite. It splits into sheets, thin panes to peer through, glass-like. Peel away the lacquered exoskeleton, and the light shines through.

Later, I hang skins over the cave-mouth, wish I had never left.”

Spoon-fed Poison

Acid etching in response to prose poem “Red Tides.”

“Red Tides” (excerpt):

“It was a long spiral back to the bottom from the surface of the tide, and now it is not a confession I am choking on, but karenia brevis, bitter on my tongue. I am dragged beneath, hair tangling like red seaweed in the water, and it occurs to me that this has been destined all along.”


Drypoint engraving in response to prose poem “Red Tides.”

“Red Tides” (excerpt):

“I am stuck on a memory of filth, seeing the red bloom of karenia brevis on the Gulf Coast tides, but most likely, I never saw this anywhere but my own mind. Toxins have already choked the vitality from our cells, everything slowing down inside the lines of our skulls, our brains, biochemistry betraying us.”