by R.R. Tavárez | Aug 28, 2022 | Poetry
Hace calor Abuelita says We find her in the kitchen of the apartment Wearing nothing but a bra and a half slip. ¡Mami! Tia gasps I laugh, and laugh, and laugh Six-years-old and sixty Adjusting to this new place. The white people keep telling us It’s not the heat It’s...
by R.R. Tavárez | Apr 13, 2022 | Poetry
On this day in Black history I put my armor on Wondering how fast I’ll need to run How will I be considered if I wear anything but a suit? A clergy collar? A tie. How will I look? The camera catching me Running toward Breonna Taylor Way Catching flames Or running...
by R.R. Tavárez | Oct 21, 2021 | Poetry
Abuela sweeps her hair back Ties it up Soy fea. I am ugly. She says. Such a common refrain. I watch her hands Weathered, but unwrinkled Her fingers chorus A more ancient verse Of waters pulled By an invisible moon Onto a sand formally known as Unknown Formally known...
by R.R. Tavárez | Apr 2, 2013 | Journal Entry
“It was early Tuesday morning and I was alone, working on my laptop at a coffee shop. Only a few days into January, the new year was still fresh. Decidedly, I had no resolutions in place, other than trying to keep up with the curve. I was moments away from...
by R.R. Tavárez | Nov 19, 2012 | Essay
They called me “100% gringo.” If I had been white enough to blush, my anger and frustration would have instantly been revealed. However, my skin wasn’t white. They didn’t see my anger, frustration and shame. Back in the United States, calling a Latino a gringo was...
