Thursday, June 27, 2013
Book Update, VII
I'm overhauling the outline. The addition of Ronald makes everything run so much smoother now. I'm trying to finish the book by the time I have to get back to school, so here's to sleepless nights and long days of seclusion.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Book Update, VI
I've been writing! A new character, Ronald Ponce has worked his way in. Here's a little teaser!
PROLOGUE
Sincerely,
PROLOGUE
January
20, 2007
Asheville,
NC
Dear
Mr. President:
When faced at a crossroads where a decision is
to be made in which your family’s welfare is in jeopardy, and there are only
two options to take (one being “sit there and pretend nothing is happening”),
what is one to do? A man’s only moral and correct choice is to protect his
family’s welfare. At least on paper, that is. It is easy to say “yes, I would
sacrifice everything I have and uproot myself so that my children don’t have to
go through that situation,” but when
the chips are down things change drastically.
Even so, I still have not met anyone that was under the circumstances that I, your humble servant, found myself in that did not decide to make their sacrifice when he looked into the innocent eyes of his children.
You may be wondering what the purpose of this letter is, apart from completely depressing your already busy and depressing job. The purpose of this letter is simple, based on the precepts the great Union you preside over are built upon. This nation’s law provides for the right of speech, intended to shield the people from an abusive government and to assure that the people will have a voice. Without a voice, no one can make themselves heard. If they are not heard, they do not exist.
I form part of a large group of people that does not exist. I am not saying this crying the blues, but as a truth we have come to embrace. We are marginalized, exploited, overworked, underpaid, ignored, hated, persecuted, abused, stereotyped, and rejected. We do not complain, for we have no mouths.
We cannot speak. We do not have a voice in this country. You and all the politicians have made a point of it to tell us that we hold no true rights in this country, except the right to remain silent. As long as we are silent, nobody gets hurt. That is the only reason we get jobs, we go to school; we spread our roots on hostile land, bearing fruit that benefits those who are hostile towards us.
Why do we take it? Good question. Why do we stay put when they strip us of all that is naturally ours?
Maybe because they cannot take away our dignity. That is the only thing we have.
I am illegal. I am paperless. I overstayed my visa. I crossed a river. I crossed a desert. I am a man with ten reasons and one justification, a woman with a vision, and a child with no choice.
We get accused of being criminals. Tell me this: which is a bigger crime, to not provide your children with the future you wish you had or to cross an imaginary line to provide your children with the future you will never have? This is why we keep coming. As long as this land promises what it cannot deliver, and our lands provide no opportunity except the one that should not be taken, we will keep coming. You may kick us out, but we will come back. If not us, our wives; if not them, our children.
I am their voice, my mouth, their words, my breath. I write this so that you may know that we are here—not just be aware of our existence, as I am sure you most certainly are, but truly sense our presence, and that we have a voice. I write this so that this land, self branded “land of opportunity,” can see just how serious we take that claim. To show that we believe in what we know but don’t admit to be wrong; that the American Dream is not ours. We chase it not for ourselves, but for those who may follow behind us. I believe in this great false hope. Don’t deny it any longer, please don’t come across as liars. Make this hope a reality.
Even so, I still have not met anyone that was under the circumstances that I, your humble servant, found myself in that did not decide to make their sacrifice when he looked into the innocent eyes of his children.
You may be wondering what the purpose of this letter is, apart from completely depressing your already busy and depressing job. The purpose of this letter is simple, based on the precepts the great Union you preside over are built upon. This nation’s law provides for the right of speech, intended to shield the people from an abusive government and to assure that the people will have a voice. Without a voice, no one can make themselves heard. If they are not heard, they do not exist.
I form part of a large group of people that does not exist. I am not saying this crying the blues, but as a truth we have come to embrace. We are marginalized, exploited, overworked, underpaid, ignored, hated, persecuted, abused, stereotyped, and rejected. We do not complain, for we have no mouths.
We cannot speak. We do not have a voice in this country. You and all the politicians have made a point of it to tell us that we hold no true rights in this country, except the right to remain silent. As long as we are silent, nobody gets hurt. That is the only reason we get jobs, we go to school; we spread our roots on hostile land, bearing fruit that benefits those who are hostile towards us.
Why do we take it? Good question. Why do we stay put when they strip us of all that is naturally ours?
Maybe because they cannot take away our dignity. That is the only thing we have.
I am illegal. I am paperless. I overstayed my visa. I crossed a river. I crossed a desert. I am a man with ten reasons and one justification, a woman with a vision, and a child with no choice.
We get accused of being criminals. Tell me this: which is a bigger crime, to not provide your children with the future you wish you had or to cross an imaginary line to provide your children with the future you will never have? This is why we keep coming. As long as this land promises what it cannot deliver, and our lands provide no opportunity except the one that should not be taken, we will keep coming. You may kick us out, but we will come back. If not us, our wives; if not them, our children.
I am their voice, my mouth, their words, my breath. I write this so that you may know that we are here—not just be aware of our existence, as I am sure you most certainly are, but truly sense our presence, and that we have a voice. I write this so that this land, self branded “land of opportunity,” can see just how serious we take that claim. To show that we believe in what we know but don’t admit to be wrong; that the American Dream is not ours. We chase it not for ourselves, but for those who may follow behind us. I believe in this great false hope. Don’t deny it any longer, please don’t come across as liars. Make this hope a reality.
Sincerely,
X
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Mere Storytelling (or, An Introduction to Mere Hospitality)
As a budding journalist I tend to dream of that one story, that breakthrough that will make me indispensable to some news network. A Watergate, a Rwanda--something big.
I should probably keep it more realistic. I'm on a borrowed MacBook Pro I need to recharge soon, with a new story pitched at me and I realized I have not written much at all in this past year. How rusty am I going to be?
Either way, I have to admit I was a bit skeptical about this at first. If and when I write it down, I don't know where I can publish it. I don't know where any of this is going to end up, and I hope--dear Heavens please--let it not end up as another one of these posts.
I'll brush up on some Journalism lingo and jargon and I'll visit the source sometime this week in a local hospital. Already I'm feeling nervous: hospitals are very touchy and I have horrid vivid nightmares of being stuck in a pickle afterwards, but I think it is just my imagination firing on all engines.
Meanwhile, I better get past the dedication page on my Qualitative Research in Journalism book. I wish I had paid more attention in class . . .
I should probably keep it more realistic. I'm on a borrowed MacBook Pro I need to recharge soon, with a new story pitched at me and I realized I have not written much at all in this past year. How rusty am I going to be?
Either way, I have to admit I was a bit skeptical about this at first. If and when I write it down, I don't know where I can publish it. I don't know where any of this is going to end up, and I hope--dear Heavens please--let it not end up as another one of these posts.
I'll brush up on some Journalism lingo and jargon and I'll visit the source sometime this week in a local hospital. Already I'm feeling nervous: hospitals are very touchy and I have horrid vivid nightmares of being stuck in a pickle afterwards, but I think it is just my imagination firing on all engines.
Meanwhile, I better get past the dedication page on my Qualitative Research in Journalism book. I wish I had paid more attention in class . . .
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)