Bruk Out

to share tales of small town childhoods
and vastly different experiences of living.
Because we pass around pictures of
relatives and ancestors, picking apart
our shared physical characteristics and
personality traits like puzzle pieces to
take home and pass down to our kids
and grandkids. Because we want to
share some feeling — a missing piece; a
sporadically-activated unnamed fuzzy
one — that pulls at their hearts and
points them to an unfamiliar home.
The art of writing for us, then, is the act
of freeing the practice from the western
colonial structures in which it has
historically been placed. Freeing
involves taking it back to our roots:
ensuring that our stories live on and our
truths stay true by writing our own
canons. We must channel storytelling —
through pen and paper; through
keyboard and Word document; through
social media channels and platforms —
in an effort to connect with each other,
revel in our beautiful existence, and
continue forging on. We will birth more
stories and more writing will ensue from
those who pause: to see the world in its
full colors; to hear the whispers of our
ancestors in the flutter of
hummingbirds and rustle of palm trees;
to notice the messages coded in the
glints of light in our abuelos’ eyes.
Las historias nos llegan a través de la
brisa del malecón; a través de la forma
en que las manos de nuestras mamás
hacen, rompen, y transformen — sus
medios artísticos el cinturón,
ingredientes de sofrito hecho con amor,
y los peinados que solían darnos; a
través de la forma en que nuestros pies
saben qué paso dar en el baile antes
que el cerebro; a través de la forma en
que somos ricos porque lo decimos,
coño — porque somos felices antes que
nada.
Our stories have always been and will
continue forevermore.
Our stories are an art form; writing, its
partner and confidant. We write
because we have to. We write because
we love to. We write because we are.
Because we continue to be.
O i l P a i n t i n g s B y
M i c h e l l e B u e n o V a s q u e z