In my writing I truly reveal myself, sometimes despite my best efforts, and sometimes in ways I don’t realize until someone else describes my work (“I did that? Yes, I did that!”) Somehow in the thick of the scene tumbling out of me I find myself incapable of the vigilant shell that goes up when it comes to artistic statements (dare I play the astrology card and say it’s my cancer crab shell at play?) When it comes to the part where I step forward as artist, and not as my script, I simultaneously hide AND beg to be brought to the table. This internal tug of war, between craving the exposed vulnerability of being seen and avoiding it at all costs, between the intense desire for connection and the fear of it, is baked into most of my work. I have always written about connection and disconnection; as my writing matures, I thrive to decenter the individual and center the generational.

Like many who find their way to the arts and decide to stay for the long haul, I am made up of identities that intersect within me in ways that cannot be parsed (like sancocho with no recipe, passed down in aromas and pinches of sazón). My work energetically lives at the intersection of these identities, specifically within the LGBTQIA+ and latiné canons of resilience. I tell stories that find wit, magic, and hope in our darkest moments, that celebrate connection and life even in the face of erasure. Stories must be told, and we are the storytellers. I celebrate laughter because I believe joy is a revolutionary act.