home on the margins

queridas herman@s, luces maravillosas,

i write to you from my oft-neglected desk in my bedroom on the second floor of an old lavender house.  past the roofs of the houses across the street from mine, i can see the very tip of the space needle.  the most remarkable view, though, is just inches away from my windowpane: beautiful pink blossoms in full bloom.  i wish y’all were here so i could share this view with you, lead you to my kitchen and offer you your drug of choice (homemade sweets? coffee? tequila?), and then we could sit down and get cozy and share stories.

i write this letter as an invitation into this intimate space, and with it i offer my outstretched arms and open heart.  even now, i have trouble writing this letter; the feelings of self-doubt sink in: “who am i to think i have something to contribute?” “am i so egocentric to think someone will read this and give a shit?” “i’ll just end up tossing this in the bin when i’m done.”   herman@s, do you have those thoughts, too?  sometimes, i feel like an exasperated  mother with children pulling at my skirt, and the more i try to ignore them or shush them, the harder they pull and the louder they whine.

i write this letter with the hope that in this space, we can share our stories; encourage, validate, and love one another; dialog, question, and challenge ourselves; find strength and triumph in a world set up for us to spend our lives crawling and clawing at each other.  i hope that in this space we, together, can make home on the margins.

though i may never see you, i hope you know how eager i am to share this home with you.  herman@s, let us lift our pens, our paintbrushes, our cameras, our microphones, the tools we use to imprint our stories no matter how many times others try to erase us.  by claiming this space, we also claim our birthright society tries to deny us: a life of passion and purpose, of self-love and healing.  i give this space to you, not because it is mine to give in the first place, but because without someone else to share it with, i am another person yelling in the dark, hoping someone will find me.

contigo,

am espérez

*written as a tribute and ofrenda to my spiritual madrinas, Gloria Anzaldúa and bell hooks.