These Truths: DREAMing Out Loud with Álvaro Enrigue

ERIKA APUPALO: My name is Erika Apupalo. The title of my piece is “A Little Story.”

There was once a girl full of dreams. With brown curls and hazel eyes. Miranda grew to discover a world beyond the one in her field of vision. She was tall for a girl of her age. At ten, she passed the shoulders of her mother, Silvina, who had a petite frame at five feet. Her mother had straight hair and brown eyes, and often, when Miranda wondered about her features, she remembered that her mother had met someone who left his blood behind.

Miranda painted her dreams in a small notebook, and she carried them everywhere she went. They were her shield, her dreams. She often dreamt at night. And right onto the page, these dreams went. The girl wrote and wrote. And then painted and painted. One page after another. She lived in a small brown house owned by her mother. Silvina had inherited the house from her mother. A three-storey house where she learned that Silvina had grown with three siblings. The house had green pastel walls on the inside and bricklike colors on the outside. At night, the color of the inside beamed against the moon. She had her own room, and she felt quite free roaming across all of the space that both of them inhabited.

The house was their sanctuary, and yet sometimes, Miranda felt the emptiness hit her stomach. Neither had family nearby. The siblings had dispersed abroad, and Silvina had been the only one to stay behind. Three people had once inhabited the house. And then, her grandmother passed away. Now, there were only two of them. Silvina never spoke to Miranda of her father. He was gone. He came to her in dreams. He was a tall figure, and his voice told a story.

Miranda thought she understood her mother. Her mother worked as a gardener, and her body always came with a strong scent of flowers. Or dirt. She took in the smells, which twirled in her mind at night. The swiff of a red rose and the mix of brown dirt in the roots. Then jasmine. Lavender filled her nose.

On this night, a dream bloomed in her mind. A ghost. Then music. A song swelled from its chest. The chest that had held onto so much love. And that is what Miranda dreamt of—a ghost that lived with unrequited love. Miranda listened to the sorrows of the ghost. The song began to get louder. The pain became more excruciating. The song continued. First, the love had gone unannounced. The ghost had hidden it from the significant other. The love grew inside a womb. The ghost learned about this and death arrived soon after. The love was never returned. These were the ghost’s lament. Miranda held the ghost’s laments and stored them in her memory. There were purple swirls in the sky as words and musical notes rose into the night. One by one the notes went away. And as the song came to an end, the ghost disappeared. It had released itself. Far. It went home. And then with a choking sound, Miranda awoke. That night, she walked across the hallway to her mother’s room.

“Mija, estas bien?” Silvina asked.

“Si mami, solo un sueño,” said Miranda.

Both turned in the bed and went back to sleep. Except Miranda stayed awake. Softly, she walked towards the kitchen and quietly turned the light on. There, for an hour, she sat and drew and wrote. She was prepared with materials. Her colored pencils were stored inside a pouch. Her notebook lived underneath her pillow. She had dreamt of her father. He was the ghost, and he had sung a new song to her.

“A Ghost’s Laments”

Mija, i grew in a town so far away
mountains i walked
music from my grandfather’s voice
books from my mother’s shelves

Mija, i loved your mother
i fell for her so quickly and suddenly
i gave her a rose because she loved flowers
i took her to the river because she loved swimming
i never got to say goodbye
she never said i loved you back

Mija, i left your mother
i went far away because i needed to find a job
i learned that she was carrying you
she never told me
i learned from her sister

Mija, i left your mother
i died in the arms of my father
who held me when a car rushed into my lungs
i fell for your mother
she never held my hand
i loved your mother
but she loved another

NICOLE GERVASIO: That was amazing, Erika. Thank you so much. Would you mind telling us how long you’ve been involved with DREAMing Out Loud, and what it’s like to have been part of the first generation of the program?
APUPALO: Sure. The first workshop began in 2015. I learned about the workshop through my college, where I had done storytelling training and had submitted a story, and I came to PEN to meet with Álvaro and a group of 10 other students. I think I was a completely different individual back then. It was in my sophomore year of college, and I was very shy. I, like, had my hair where I hid beneath it. I was very uncomfortable and hadn’t yet really shared any stories about being a DREAMer or just known many communities of DREAMer students from the CUNY system coming together.

So, this was just, like, the first time that I had participated in something like it. Being part of that first group was incredible, because we all followed the guidance of Álvaro, who just said—just bring any story you want to share, however you want to craft it, but just, just tell your story.

And that’s how we all got around the table and just read the story and then everyone else shared their thoughts. And it felt very natural. And it was hard but it was kind of eye-opening to connect with so many of those stories, because even though they might have been completely different, we all related it to something of everyone’s experience. So, it felt like, for the first time, I had a community to come to.

GERVASIO: Thanks so much for sharing that. What advice would you give to other young immigrants who are looking to become writers someday? Since you just mentioned gaining access to this community of writers who think and experience life in a similar way has been so powerful for you.
APUPALO: Something that I can share is that I often, like, wonder about my immigration status, and that’s kind of where I’ve created characters that have embodied those fears that I hold in myself. So I often wonder how each of those experiences within the group have felt. We all need a vessel to pour our stories into, and that’s what this has been. The DREAMing Out Loud program has been this vessel for me. It’s important that we share our stories so that we preserve our history, that we’re able to be seen and heard. It’s just knowing that you have the power to share your story. And when we raise our voice, we’re kind of proclaiming our existence and sharing who we are. It’s putting a foot forward despite the fear, and sharing that story because you can only tell the story the way you wanted it to be told.

GERVASIO: That’s really great, Erika. I think maybe you should go run your own section of DREAMing Out Loud somewhere.

SEBASTIAN GAMEZ: My name is Sebastian Gamez and the title of my piece is “La Virgen, Mi Abuelita, El Paso, y Yo.”

El 12 de diciembre: Día de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe. From my early childhood, this special day marked our family calendar. I did not know my favorite aunt’s birthdate growing up, but her Saint Day I always remembered. Her name is Guadalupe, but I call her Tía Lupe. Other than Christmas Eve, the 11th of December was the only other night we children were allowed to stay up late—actually, the one day we had no choice but to stay up late. Every December 11th, my mom or one of my seven sisters bundled me up in preparation for the alleged “freezing” 60-degree overnight temperature in Los Angeles. My parents managed to squeeze all ten of us into our car and drove us to church for the annual Mañanitas for Our Lady of Guadalupe. It was an incredibly festive affair. Mariachi music blared from the church as my father parked the car. Crowds of people milled about the entrance. Colorful papel picado banners crisscrossed from above. Once inside the sanctuary, a sea of roses in every shade imaginable covered all available space. The dizzying aromatic scent of hundreds of roses made my head spin and my eyes flutter.

Doña Fernanda Delgado, my grandmother, Mi Abuelita, Mi Nanda, was a passionate devotee of La Virgen de Guadalupe. She often professed herself as a Mexicana, Guadalupana, y Católica. A proud and solemn woman, she was a feminista in her own right and wore long dark dresses or skirts, the length grazing her ankles. She pulled her long jet black hair in a meticulous chignon bun high on the back of her regal head. I did not readily grow up around Mi Abuelita since she lived in México and my family was in LA. Growing up, I saw her once or twice a year, either when she traveled to LA or we, to México. I was almost scared of her, not because she was mean in any way, but because everyone seemed to hold her in reverence and therefore act accordingly in her presence. No one took the liberty to speak to her unless she addressed them first.

During Christmas break in my freshman year of college, my life changed dramatically. I was to meet my parents in México, but at the last minute, they were delayed for a couple of days, which meant I would need to arrive at Mi Nanda’s house all alone. I panicked. I seriously considered canceling my trip. She was a virtual stranger to me. Her air of stern nobleness and absolute honorableness petrified me. Somehow I was convinced I was brave enough to handle what awaited me. Prior, I’d never exchanged more than a few formal pleasantries with her. But by the time my parents arrived, Mi Nanda and I were inseparable. She quickly became and continues to be the pillar of my existence. Self-aware and comfortable in her own skin, she was skilled at measuring her words yet never flinched from speaking her mind, no matter the recipient. The wisest person I’ve known, Mi Nanda exemplified dignity and trust, always treated me as her equal, and spoke without a trace of condescension. We were fortunate that she lived out her golden years in LA.

Mi Nanda died in 2001, but our special bond has continued through a truly long-distance relationship. I have regular conversations with her. When in the presence of an image of La Virgen de Guadalupe, I speak to her directly. I speak to them both as friends. I know they relay my messages to each other. I feel comforted and protected. As a Mexicano, a Chicano, a Mexican-American, a person of color in the United States, these days, that’s quite rare. On August 3rd of 2019, in El Paso, Texas, there was a bloody matanza, a massacre. The shooter, a white man, drove over nine hours from Allen, Texas, a Dallas suburb, to a Walmart in the border city of El Paso. Court documents reveal that shortly before the shooting, he published a screed online that said it was “in response to the Hispanic invasion of Texas.” According to an arrest warrant affidavit, he confessed that he targeted “Mexicans” during the vicious attack. That day, he shot and killed twenty-two Latinos, leaving twenty-four more injured.

In response to this heinous crime, on October 13, 2019, Bishop Mark J. Seitz of the Diocese of El Paso released a pastoral letter, Night Will Be No More, at a liturgy at the conclusion of “Teach-In 2019: Journey for Justice,” co-hosted by the Hope Border Institute and the Latinx Catholic Leadership Coalition. It reads:

“Words like racism and white supremacy make us uncomfortable and anxious, and I don’t use these labels lightly. Challenging racism and white supremacy, whether in our hearts or in society, is a Christian imperative, and the cost of not facing these issues head on weighs much more heavily on those who live the reality of discrimination.

This mystery of evil also includes the base belief that some of us are more important, deserving, and worthy than others. It includes the ugly conviction that this country and its history and opportunities and resources, as well as our economic and political life, belong more properly to ’white’ people than to people of color. This is a perverse way of thinking that divides people based on heritage and tone of skin, into ’us’ and ’them,’ ’worthy’ and ’unworthy,’ paving the way to dehumanization. In other words, racism.

If we are honest, racism is really about advancing, shoring up, and failing to oppose a system of white privilege and advantage based on skin color. Action to build this system of hate and inaction to oppose its dismantling are what we rightly call white supremacy.

The matanza in El Paso focused our attention on the grave racism directed at Latinos today, which has reached a dangerous fever pitch. Latinos now tell me that for the first time in their lives, they feel unsafe, even in El Paso. They feel that they have targets on their backs because of their skin color and language.”

Bishop Seitz’s letter encapsulates what I, a Mexicano en Los Estados Unidos, have been feeling for sometime now, especially after the election of 2016, culminating in this horrific matanza. For the first time I fear not just my own safety, but more so my parents’, who do not readily communicate in English. The Bishop goes on to say:

“The wall is a symbol of exclusion, especially when allied to an overt politics of xenophobia. The wall deepens racially charged perceptions of how we understand the border, as well as Mexicans and migrants. It extends racist talk of an ’invasion.’ The wall kills families and children. There will be a day when, after this wall has come crumbling down, we will look back and remember the wall as a monument to hate.

Against that dehumanization, as once she said to San Juan Diego, who represented a people dehumanized and disenfranchised, Guadalupe says to our people today, ’You count; tú vales.’

To the refugee turned away at the border, she says, ‘Tú vales.’ To the family with mixed immigration status, she says, ’Ustedes valen.’ Guadalupe teaches us how we might go about repairing the sin of racism. She shows us that our deepest identity is not given to us by empire, or politics, or the economy, or the colonist, but is a gift of God.”

I do not, not even for a minute, wish to envision what it must have been like for all those people in El Paso on that frightful day. But I do imagine that many invoked La Morenita, the brown-skinned Virgen de Guadalupe. While surfing the internet in search of an additional statue, I came across a perfect description by the National Museum of Mexican Art: “Her name and image have become synonymous with Mexicanidad as she embodies the central theme to which any study of Mexican identity must inevitably return.” To a Mexicano, it is virtually impossible to separate the two, as both have coalesced irregardless of religion. In México, and throughout the world, her disciples, myself included, celebrate the anniversary of Her first appearance to an indigenous shepherd on December 12th, 1931 in Tepeyac, México.

Eighty-eight years later, I stand at the altar of the Church of Saint Francis Xavier in New York City and offer this reflection. We dedicate today’s mass and pay homage to the memory of the twenty-two who were brutally killed and the twenty-four injured on August 3rd, 2019 in El Paso, Texas.

I am proud to be Mexican, American, Mexican-American. I have as much of a right to be in our country as anyone else, no matter our diverse skin colors. When I hear the hateful and vitriolic words our highest elected officials are saying—time and time again, referring to me and my kind as “murderers, rapists, unworthy invaders”—it’s hard to feel comforted, protected, or safe. But Mi Nanda taught me better than to allow those who hate me to define who I am. I am proud to be bilingual and bicultural. I love, embrace, and treasure both parts of me. I am not afraid to proudly represent my identity and humanity. I know that in the eyes of God, Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, and Mi Nanda, we are all seres humanos who deserve equal respect and dignity. I am grateful to mi familia, mis papás, siete hermanas, especialmente Fernanda (aptly named after Mi Abuelita), my Lucio, Mi Nanda, and to La Virgen de Guadalupe, who all give me strength and courage to continue fighting those individuals, systems, and unjust laws and policies that marginalize and validate xenophobia and hate. I hope and pray that Mi Nanda is looking down upon me and smiling as only she knows how. For I know who I am. . . Yo soy Mexicano, Americano, Guadalupano, y Católico. Gracias Mi Nanda, por su amor, apoyo, cariño, enseñansas, sabiduría, y fortaleza.

GAMEZ: Thank you. I love literature. I actually did undergrad in English literature, so I love reading literature, just period. But oftentimes, I’ve always been challenged to find books—novels that were written from a perspective that I could readily relate to. And so, it was really impactful to see other writers with similar experiences, talk about their work, and their writings, and to do it in an environment that celebrates and encourages us. Because we don’t get to hear our voices heard. And so for myself, it’s about taking the initiative to write my own story and have my own narrative out there, as opposed to just being told what others may be interested in reading. 

NICOLE GERVASIO: That is great, and I totally hear you. I too was an English major in college and tried to avoid the canon as much as humanly possible. It’s really tough! So what advice would you give to other young immigrants who are looking to become writers some day?
GAMEZ: I think we all have a story to tell, and it’s important to just stay with it and not be discouraged, no matter what’s happening around, because our voices are powerful, and our experiences truly add to the fabric that has made America what it is today—and what separates America from the rest of the world.

GERVASIO: Thank you so much. Is there anything that we didn’t cover that you would like to add here?
GAMEZ: Essentially just, I’m really grateful for the opportunity to be part of, and participate in, this program. I truly think that it’s essential to feel the encouragement and the celebration of all of our diverse voices, and especially in today’s climate. So I applaud PEN America, DREAMing Out Loud, and also the artistic instructors and the whole team that have made it truly a unique experience. It really has taught me—or at least, I think it radically has altered my view of who and what can be a writer. So, thank you. I’m very grateful for that opportunity.

GERVASIO: No. Thank you. Everything you’re saying reminds me of all of the greatest aspects of this program, and we don’t get to reflect on our accomplishments very often. So it’s really nice to hear that all of the things we’re aiming to do are actually coming across. Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with us today, Sebastian.
GAMEZ: Of course. Thank you, and stay safe and healthy, and let me know if I can do anything further.

MARIA PYATERNEVA: Hello, my name is Maria Pyaterneva. I’m from Russia. I’m a journalist, and I’m also a yoga teacher. My story is called “The Last Flight.”

Danny is sitting in a blue puffy seat near the window of a Boeing 777. He has about seven hours to think about his future vacation in New York. A flight attendant with red lipstick and curly blonde hair is serving drinks. Danny asks himself, Should I begin my day with a glass of a cold white wine?  It could help me to feel better during the flight. Hmm. That actually is a great idea. I am starting my vacation today, so it is definitely the time to relax. Danny’s beautiful wife is sitting right behind him. Why didn’t that nice lady at the airport give us seats closer together? Danny thinks.  Rrrrright. She said we should have paid for them online before the flight, and now there are no more available double seats on the plane. But it’s okay. At least I have enough time to plan my perfect vacation in the United States. Maybe I will watch a film in English to refresh my memory of the language. But the wine is first. They should have good Italian wine on board since this is an Alitalia flight. They have to be prepared for the picky clients, Danny thinks. He feels his feet have become bigger because of the altitude. He takes off his brown shoes made from soft Italian leather. Now it is much better. He wishes he had his pajamas with him. Luckily, his lovely wife, Leslie, has brought a couple of cushions for the trip. Suddenly he feels some discomfort in his chest area and around the neck. Has the air become different? He lean his head back on the airplane seat and looks out the window. Big white lush clouds were flying outside. It looks really cold there, thinks Danny. I wish I could jump over these puffy clouds. Everybody does. Actually, maybe I will. The music starts to play louder. It’s Muse, a famous rock band from England. He used to know the bass guitar guy from this group. What was his name? Robert? Chris? John? It doesn’t matter anymore. Many things don’t matter now. Danny just wants to have a perfect vacation in New York with his lovely wife. He wants to get lost in time and explore the whole city without any particular plan. Just walk around, making spontaneous stops to eat tasty local food, maybe the famous bagels with salmon and greens? That seems super important. He is Italian, and food is a big thing for him. Danny wants to hold his wife’s soft hand, with her bright red nails. She has always loved red. He wants to see her joyful smile and sparkling blue eyes looking at the endless Manhattan skyline. He wants to laugh together as much as they can about this strange American way of life. Who drinks black water from big cups and calls it a coffee? And they would definitely go to visit all the famous museums and Central Park. Maybe they could even go for a horseback ride in the park. Of course, he knows it is a bad idea to use animals for fun. Of course, he does. But Leslie, the love of his life, has been dreaming about it for a  long time. She even started to talk about it when they reached the airport in Rome. They would definitely do this. And later, after that ride, they would go to the best restaurant and order the most expensive bottle of champagne, with some good desserts. Do they have good desserts in the United States? I hope they do, Danny thinks to himself. I heard something good about Magnolia Bakery from Leslie’s friend Joanne, who visited New York a couple of times last year with her young handsome boyfriend from Sweden. Maybe we should check out that place.The next Muse song starts playing. It’s his favorite, “Starlight.” It reminds him of when his wife’s younger brother, Jason, started living with them after moving to Italy. Jason was in his twenties, and he loved two things: good music, and good marijuana. Jason reminded Danny of himself when he was in college, with his tie-dyed T-shirt and funny bright pink pants, with big pockets that were always filled with rolled-up cigarettes, tobacco filters, and lighters. Those were good times. He had studied philosophy in Bologna, a famous student city in the heart of Italy. Small narrow streets, yellow sandstone buildings, small smoky bars with lots of talks, cold drinks, and lots of roll-up cigarettes in between.

He had always loved to smoke. He sees it as a beautiful ritual that you can share with another person, and it is always a sacred process. You can meet a complete stranger, and after a couple of cigarette puffs, easily tell him your biggest secret. Danny can hardly remember now how many conversations like these he had, during warm Italian summer evenings that felt like  magic. Sadly you can’t smoke on flights these days.

The blonde flight attendant starts to serve the food. What shall I  order today? thinks Danny. It should be the perfect meal, to start off his perfect vacation with his wife. He will definitely choose something new. He always likes to try new food and wine. He has inherited this passion for food and wine from his dear father. Danny had wanted to be close with him, but unfortunately, his dad left the family too early, right after the death of his young daughter, Amalia. Danny’s sister had been nineteen when he talked with her for the last time. It had been a hard year for the whole family. They had all tried to save her life. Danny even memorized his first prayer in his life, and he did not go to sleep until he repeated it three times on his knees near her bed. He wanted to do everything he could to help his young sister. But it was useless. In 1994, it was a hot Italian summer. For the first time, the whole family traveled so far together, on their long-desired trip to America. Danny had been dreaming about it for a long time. And his dreams had come true, but unfortunately, the trip was not one of tourist curiosity for his parents. The reason was something that every family in their best upscale outfits whispers on Sundays directly to God in the church to save them from. Danny’s sister Amalia was young, beautiful and heavily sick. Their whole family had gone on the trip to New York, which they had hoped would heal Amalia. Mom had wanted everything to look like home in the United States. She had even brought her Moka pot, a famous Italian coffeemaker, so that they could start the family mornings as usual with a cup of strong espresso and a cigarette on their tiny New York balcony. Danny never talked with his mom about that American chapter of their family story. Even now, when they were alone. Danny and mom.

And now, after almost twenty-five years, Danny is sitting in the same blue airplane seat, looking at the same clouds outside the window, enduring exactly the same incurable disease as his sister Amalia. His flight is #3478, the same number as the flight he had taken with his family. It is starting to go higher into the sky, towards God. Danny has never believed in God. He believes in good people, good talks, and maybe in good food served with the perfect wine. He believes in love, and he has met her, his wonderful blonde angel from the other side of the planet. She danced like a goddess the first time they met. He believes in happiness, and he has gotten it. His two amazing kids. A boy and a girl. They are almost teenagers now. He wishes to send them to a good college and to teach them to be kind and easy-going people,  to be happy and to love life. But now his kids are spending time with their granny in Italy. Joseph is probably playing with his PlayStation as usual, and Mikaela is probably talking on the phone with her best friend, Francesca. And Danny and his beautiful wife will finally be able to relax and spend the best vacation together.

Danny knows that after a couple of hours, they will meet wife’s brother Jason at JFK. And they will pretend that everything is great as it was before, in Italy. And now in New York, they will  spend a week full of love and fun together as an ordinary happy family. They will say important words to each other, and they will smoke rolled-up cigarettes together (he has bought some good tobacco for Jason), as they did in Italy, but this time in complete silence. They will be silent to remember, to hear, and to seize these moments. Maybe the last perfect magic cigarette talk. It will be the perfect goodbye, wordless, before Danny meets his dad and  Amalia at the top of the sky. But first, he needs to breathe through the flight that may be his last. Danny reaches behind him to squeeze the soft hand of the love of his life and look into her eyes. He is smiling through his tears. Pure love is everything he has in this moment, and he is absolutely happy. He is going to have the perfect family vacation that he always dreamed about in New York.

PYATERNEVA: I was a participant of the DREAMing Out Loud workshop. I joined this workshop in 2020, and I believe that this is a great opportunity to build a community of writers and to have a chance to share your writing with other people and receive feedback. It felt [like a] really warm community for me and I’m very excited that we are still doing this kind of workshop online, even during this health crisis situation.

NICOLE GERVASIO: I’m so glad to hear that you’re especially excited about the virtual edition of our workshop, because we were thrilled when Álvaro volunteered to continue running them for the next, you know, foreseeable future. So you’ve hinted a little bit about what the impact of the program has been on your identity as a writer, but could you tell us more?
PYATERNEVA: Yes, sure. It feels very important to keep connected with my community, and it supports me to develop my writing skills. And especially during these times, it’s really hard to write something. And as we’re doing our meetings now, through [the] Zoom experience, we can share our writings, and we can express our feelings. Being A DREAMing Out Loud participant helped me to find new friends.

GERVASIO: Yeah. One of the reasons I really love this program is the sense of fellowship and camaraderie that it seems like so many students come out with it. And in that vein, I was wondering what advice you might give to other immigrants who are looking to become writers someday themselves.
PYATERNEVA: Keep writing no matter what. Use any language that works for you today. For me as a writer, I was struggling to write in English, because I wasn’t sure about the grammar side of my language. But when I had this opportunity to join the DREAMing Out Loud workshop, I have met other people, same as I am, other immigrants, and I felt so much supported by them. And, you know, this situation encouraged me.

GERVASIO: Thanks for taking the time to speak with us today.
PYATERNEVA: Thank you for having me.

DONAUTA WATSON: My name is Donauta Watson. I am a graduate of the CUNY John Jay College of Criminal Justice. I was born in Jamaica and grew up in a neighborhood called the Nineties in Brooklyn, New York. What keeps me busy is my six-year-old daughter.

The title of my piece is “Nuh Nobody.” This piece is very, I guess, performative. It was my first time trying out a new method of first recording it and then transcribing it. It plays with the Jamaican dialect. And it’s about identity, home and just belonging.

Who me? Me ah nuh nobody

Me a nuh nobody. Me is not nuh nobody

Who me? Me ah nuh nobody. Mi nuh have no paper. Mi nuh have the numba, you know di numba, whey de pon di paypa
Me nuh have no numba.

Me a nuh nobody. The lickle card. The numba way de pon the card, yuh know a no really card but its a piece of paper, one lickle piece of paper way look like one card.
Me ah nuh nobody. Me nuh have the numba pon di paypa.
So me a nuh nobody.

Fool! Me nah gwan fool, me just a tell yuh say I am not no body, technically I am here but I am not really here, I’m there I’m back there but Im really here but Im not really here Im back there Im back home
If you can call it home
Me ah nuh nobody
Me ah nuh nobody
Me not even have me picture pon one lickle card whey say mi address and and say who me is caw me have the card whey you can see mi face—me know you can see me face right yah so but you cant see me face whey show me address whey tell you whey me live becaw me ah nuhbody.

I am not here
See you don’t see me
I am not here
I am not no body
Me a try tell seh Im not nobody and ya keep on a kmt

Me a nuh nobody,
Me ah nuh nobody
Me ah nuh nobody
Me ah nuh nobody
Me ah nuh nobody
I am not no body, oh.
Mi here but mi nuh really deh here.
You know? Probably, you see me and you know me name

Donauta, Donauta, Don – Aww- Ta
Yea? A who a call mi name, a who a call mi, Don – Aww – TA
A only certain people call me Donauta
The people dem whey know seh I am not nobody dem call me Donauta

Donna
Donna
A who that a call me
Me like when mi here Donna e see
Caw the people dem whey call me Donna know
Seh yea, a me a Donna
Me a nuh nobody, me a nuh body
Me nuh have the number whey deh pon the card, so me a nuhbody
Me nuh really deh yah. Me deh yah, but me nuh deh yah, you know?

My girl a wah mek you gwan suh?
How am I gwanning? How am I acting? I am not nobody. Me keep on a tell the people dem I am not no body and dem keep on think seh that I am somebody. I am not nobody. I am Donauta. DonAwwta.
Me affi say it, me affi say it, me affi say it, me have to say it. Over and over. I am Donauta. I am not she, meaning oh, she did send the email. Oh, yes she yea she—your looking at me and you keep on calling me she it’s Donauta
My name is Donauta.

It’s alright dem nuh know mi name
Caw me nuh have the card with the number whey dey pon the card
Becaw me name no paper, paper, me have paper but the paper deh back inna the father, me father’s me father’s land

The paper work them deh dere me deh there me deh inna Jamaica but no really deh here.

You see me?
Aiy, ya see me
No you don’t see me, you don’t see me, right.
Whey yah see?
She black, so she angry she kinda rough she think she a man and she can walk and roll with the man them
But yah nuh a man

Stay inna yah place and know seh you a woman ehn?
What do you see when you see me? No man, you see and oh you walk and how you posture stay
No man yuh no, you nuh meant fi serve, you nuh meant fi serve, because you nuh see how yuh walk Yuh no see how you see how you posture stay
No man you did, back inna Africa you mussa, you must have been royalty

Must a
Them can’t understand so can you talk, proper
You is a writer, writer
What is a Writer? Lord
You nuh gah school?
Oh you still a make them fool you with school
You need fi come out of school and start live life
You think it i did, i, it is a game
School is not going save you.
Everything way a go go round
It’s not a game
Them a pretend see it’s a game but it’s not a game
This shit is real
School is just fake
School nuh real
A whey you still deh inna school
A whey dem teach inna school donna, Oh you deh inna school so long Donna.
Might as well you be a teacher enuh caw you just school you just school school
A whey dem teach you inna school eeh?

You know more than me—eehhn?
Me caw show you some things, you know more than me?

I am nobody
Nobody I am nobody
Nobody
Me not even deh ya.
You cant even seem me
You cant even see me caw me not even deh ya
Me deh ya but me nuh deh ya
Me they deh so
back deh so

Back there
I am back home
Home, what is home
Me can’t stand the house e see
It just too small
I am nobody
Me cant even fit inna the house
I am nobody
Nobody
I am nobody

Donna
Who that a call me?
Donna
A who that a call me?
Yes Lord
Its me your servant yes

You nuh see Donna fool
Donna a nuh nobody she dont know what she a do

If I talk, if I assert myself, if I advocate, I am too much, lower it down, I get aggression and a push back
If I am silent, I take it easy and step back and I let you lead, you need to speak up, you need to, you need to do more
So if me do or me don’t do me inna the wrong, No man unuh bom, dem people yah want drive me mad
If me do me wrong, you know there are those that agree, I agree. But then there are those that stare pon Me like, like me kill them puppy
Like who give her, who tell her she can talk
Who tell she is somebody
Look pon the way she walk and ah hold her head
Who is she?

Me a nuhbody
You don’t see how me back a bend
You nuh see oh me back a bend, it a bend
Cause I am nobody

Thats whey unuh tell me unuh tell me seh I am nobody
Donauta is nobody

And me fool, me fool nuh, me fool me fool me fool so till
Ah the Donauta and the Donna whey a mess me up
Me just Fool fool fool fool fool oh me suh fool?
Mi nuh have nobody
It’s not that I am nobody
Its that mi nuh have nuhbody
Weh the people dem they?
Why is it always strangers that tell you the real
A whey the people dem they way me need
I am there for everybody but nobody is there for me

I am nobody
I am nobody caw me nuh have the numba the numba whey deh pon the paypa the lickle paypa
You know the card?
The social security number?
Social
Mi nuh have no social, security
So social, security, security, social, social security
Mi nuh social
Mi nuh have the social number
Caw when you have the number and them type in the number inna the computer that mek you somebody caw you pop up pon the screen with like a lickle picture maybe me nuh know but me assume seh you popup pon the screen so that mean the computer seh you a somebody so then you ah somebody
And if you nuh have nuh paper you not, in a this land you not nobody
So I am not no body
I’m here but I am not really here you cant see me
Don’t look pon me
And don’t ask me fi look inna ya eye cause I’m not no body
Me can’t really speak up caw me nuh really deh ya
I am not here
I am not there
I am not speaking it right

I have to speak proper so you can understand
I have to take it slow and I have to be reserve so you can not see that I am somebody
Just really, just, take it easy cause I am not really nobody
I’m not here
Mi deh ya but me nuh deh ya
So you a talk to me but me cant really hear ya caw I am not here
But me a hear the people dem whey deh over deh so
And them a call me and them a seh
Donna
Come home Donna
Come
Come
a time for you to come home now
Donna
Donna a time
Come back home
Donna
A when you ah come to Jamaica?
Donna
You a go stay deh and dead? Eww?
You ago stay deh you a stay deh and dead and the whole unuh ago dead like how keisha dead ehh?
The whole a unuh?
Donna a time fi come home now
Donna
You nuh see the people dem nuh want you and the people dem nuh see you
Eeh?

You nuh have the number whey deh pon the paper! The lickle paper with your name!
You’re nobody!

Donna why you a gwaan so in front of the people dem de people dem whey know—You, you haffi act Betta than that
Donauta
My name is Donauta
She. She. Hey you
Donauta
I’m trying to tell you and oounu not hearing
Its Donauta

But I am not nobody
So mi understand
Onnou nuh really see me caw me nuh deh ya
I am not nobody

NICOLE GERVASIO: That was amazing, Donauta. Thank you for sharing that extraordinary reading with us. And we just have a couple of questions. The first question we have is: how long have you been involved with DREAMing Out Loud?
WATSON: This would be my third year in DREAMing Out Loud. I remember when we started out, we were just a really small group. It was remarkable to see how many people were in this session. The size of the room and this—the dynamics—have shifted a lot.

GERVASIO: Can you tell us more about that shift?
WATSON: Uh, sure. In terms of just the writing—the scope of the writing—in the very beginning, a lot of what we were reading was solely about the undocumented experience. I think it was a little bit more intense. And I think now the writing has changed, and it’s very different, where it’s cloaked a little bit more—intense in different ways. So, there’s a plethora of things that are talked about that we have to spend much more time on than we did in the beginning.

GERVASIO: What impact would you say that the program has had on your identity as a writer?
WATSON: I always wrote. I always wrote in journals. I always had writing, but I never shared my writing anywhere. When I first, you know, saw information about the program, I wanted a space just to get some things out. I had recently lost my sister who had passed away. She was also undocumented. And she passed away unexpectedly—her name was Keisha Watson—and I wanted a space just to write about this. And when I came into the program, I was surprised to find a community of people who not only understood what I was experiencing, but went through it, or some version of this and even worse. And that not only was I heard, but I was seen. And it was a space that wasn’t about pity, but it was a space about just taking whatever you have and just putting it on the paper and showing up every week. What I’ve found in my writing was that the need for community was so important, and that’s something I didn’t realize all these years: the importance of community and the importance of just being heard and being visible.

GERVASIO: That’s really powerful. Do you have any advice for other young immigrants who are looking to become writers themselves someday?
WATSON: Yeah. Write! Write. I think the act of writing at times can feel daunting, especially when you’re, like, going through real life struggles. And for me, it came from a place of wanting to be healed, wanting to just like, understand, and just deal with whatever it is that I was going through.

And I think just being undocumented, it’s easy to feel like you can’t be heard or you are in the shadows. And writing is a sacred space. So, whatever it is that you want to do—and I believe this all across the arts—no matter your circumstances, you just have to do that thing that you were born to do, that you were created to do, you know?