Good, good man

He was the first one on Beulah or anywhere in this neighborhood I ever talked to. I came here white-fearful. But I came with a poker face, trying to be far more woke than I felt on the inside, trying to get my body to match what I considered to be my educated deconstructing mind. [...]

What is this place?

They say that you can never go back home. I used to think this was a certain cruelty, as if leaving somehow was always a betrayal, one that got you banned or held at arm's length or just not privy to the important things, the inside things that matter most. To be away with your [...]

My blood is the history of wars

I remember the moment so distinctly in which my parents break the news to me that I am not Mexican. We are standing in the kitchen, it's after school, and both of my parents are present. I'm maybe eight years old, and in school we've been talking about genealogies and heritages. Something I have written [...]

This Here Place

I am trying to be written. I am draft after draft, words and whole lines scratched out, and sometimes I am my own arguing in the margins, hasty question marks writ large, ink trailing. I am trying to be told. What is my life? What am I for? Everything I have done to this point [...]

Give us this day

It’s late morning late-June, and the house is quiet except for the rushing of traffic on I-10 which never seems to stop. Against its white noise, I hear the unfamiliar voice of the white-winged dove roosting on the back fence of our Fowler Street house. I watch her with mild curiosity through the kitchen window [...]

Beulah

It’s early October two years ago. The handwriting on the envelope is becoming more familiar now, but the return address is new. He has just moved across the country to Beulah Street. We’ve been writing letters for a few months, pretty innocently we think, just two Facebook acquaintances from a former season of life together [...]