Desgraciado by Angel Dominguez

Author:Angel Dominguez
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Nightboat Books

Dear Diego,

The world is going to end before I ever stop writing to you. Diego, the problem is that we don’t want it enough; it’s that it doesn’t matter enough anymore to make sense. The trouble is that we’re a global antibody attacking life as a disease. The trouble is that Spain still has the only surviving documents from your little campfire. The problem is that there’s no one that sees this as a problem. We’re still just acting like Spain didn’t commit cultural and literal genocide on indigenous peoples of the Americas. We’re still acting like conquest was fun and games and colonialism was the best thing to happen since shitting indoors. Idk when that took place really, it just sounded right; that sounds kind of like your reasoning/logic when devastating a people. Assess the other as other and reflex with obliteration. Devise a mediated response of self-criticism and shame, this is your fault after all. That’s what colonialism taught us. Not only were we damned from the start, we chose this life. Thankfully, the Spanish came to tell us how bad we should have been feeling for their eternity, unbeknownst to them, we’d already survived several spiraled eternities and theirs was simply one of many. But their tongues couldn’t bend that way. Instead, they’d thistle out a lisped letter that sounded less like our x and dz and other such sounds I won’t tease you with now. You were a pound of agate when I found you, Diego. You were just ancient fire. You were fossilized in my marrow, I saw to the start of you, nothing left to hide when you’re dead, and I’m not too keen on hearing you out to tell the truth. I keep wrestling with it: this tilt in my body. See, I’m not Hispanic, not Indigenous, nor Xicanx/Latinx; not part of the amerikkkan empire, but I feel something that must be similar to being alive. I lack a language to define myself because you mixed our blood and took our tongue. You developed my photograph with nothing more than accidental flame. Just a wisp of what was once two thousand years. You made me nothing but rocks. Nothing but sonic locational discovery site; vacation destination; wonder of the world. You made me nothing more but a keychain; headache; never-worn shirt; shot glass; piece of crap souvenir for others to store stories in.

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