Cuadernos de un aprendiz de cuervo

I hated that school. I hated the nuns, my classmates, the  Padre Nuestro  recited before every class. Catechism felt like an unbearable purgatory—a spiral of hollow reflections that numbed my mind. Miss Pilar, young and beautiful, sat me in a strange chair and abused her position as director to mock me. Every day, I walked the halls and patios of Montini with those kids—rich, but not rich enough—while my brown skin stood out against their whiteness. Every day, I faced a cesspool of fake smiles from pretentious families. The pretty girls ignored me, and I, a boy who drew silly pictures just to make friends, was left behind. There was a teacher—one whose words scarred me—who told me I was uglier than someone wearing a hideous Halloween mask. I wanted to cry, to escape, but when I got home, I found no refuge, no solitude, only a house full of people. I wanted to be alone. Alone. Forever alone. I never fit within those glass palace walls, never understood the rules of their compet...

When someone I know asked me this question—or, more accurately, when it felt like they were questioning me—it was as though my cultural loyalty was on trial. They accused me of not respecting native symbols like traditional saint amulets or religious traditions as much as I do Japanese ones. I countered by saying I liked Mexican coffee and wine, but their retort—“those are products of globalization”—dismissed my words as superficial. I celebrate Día de Muertos. In fact, it’s the only holiday I truly care about because I can strip it of its Catholic connotations and adapt it to a personal reflection rooted in memory and association. Once, I gave this person a Japanese amulet, an  omamori , and told them not to open it. When they later admitted that they had, I silently felt upset. Later that month, they sent me a video criticizing Japan for exploiting foreign workers from impoverished countries. It felt like another attempt to impose their beliefs on me—something I dislike as much a...

  The crystal year It’s that time of year again when I sit down and write my annual reflections. Usually, I’d post them on Facebook, but I deleted my account years ago. So, bear with me, my imaginary friends. This year has been a rollercoaster of emotions. A six-year cycle is coming to an end, and with it, all the stability I had. I’ve seen doubts creeping up, challenges looming, and trees made of fear. But the sky still feels blue. One of the best things about this year is that I finally healed. It’s not about growing up, it’s about finding the root cause of my bad habits and understanding how I manipulated people. I realized how I used guilt and shame to control others, both in passive and aggressive ways. It’s tough to see how you hurt people when you’re blinded by your own scars. I walked through my years, carrying a sword of guilt, hatred, and resentment. I pushed tears into people and had explosive tantrums because I was hurt and angry. But understanding that my behav...

茶色 Lleno el lavabo de agua y meto mi brazo por completo. Mi piel se ve más blanca, más clara, más clara. Por un momento, mi piel luce como la de mis primos, como la de la mayoría de mis tías, como la de esos niños mimados de la escuela a la que mi madre me metió para aparentar. Salgo a la sala y veo una fotografía mía de cuando era bebé. Mi piel lucía más clara, y mi cabello era rubio. Por un momento pienso que ese niño no era yo. Después aprendí que mi madre aclaraba mi cabello para hacerme ver más blanco, más bonito, más claro, porque yo, siendo yo, no era aceptable. Pasan unos años. Salgo a la sala y escucho una conversación. Mi tía bromea con su amigo diciendo que yo tengo la misma enfermedad que Michael Jackson, pero al revés. La escucho reír. No entiendo la broma, pero no necesito hacerlo para sentirme mal: no soy aceptable. Un día regreso de la playa con la piel bronceada. Un tío, que ahora está en un partido de supuesta izquierda, me dice en tono de burla que ahora soy “un negr...

We are all and were children, awakened petals, gusts of sun that create freckles on our cheeks. And if you’re here, I know you’ve gone through hundreds of tragedies, that life turned its back on you, that nothing is worth it. But look closely around you, at the kittens and puppies that didn’t survive without the help of a mother, of a strange hand, of a smile that helped them get ahead. I know it’s hard, I know life has been more than difficult. But I swear that at some point there was someone who at least smiled when they saw you born: a doctor who thought you were a miracle, a nurse who joked because you cried more than usual, a person unrelated to your life who at some point passed you by only to later comment on how special you were. So cry, complain, curse all horizons, but remember that someone was happy to see you. We were all children. Some of us walk lives of tragedy, others do more or less well, and there are people with more wounds than their fine clothes tell. Still, rememb...

Todos somos y fuimos niños, pétalos despiertos, ráfagas de sol que generan pecas en nuestras mejillas. Y si estás aquí, sé que pasaste por cientos de tragedias, que la vida te dio la espalda, que nada vale la pena. Pero mira bien a tu alrededor, a los gatitos y los perritos que no sobrevivieron sin la ayuda de una madre, de una mano extraña, de una sonrisa que los hizo salir adelante. Sé que es duro, sé que la vida ha sido más que difícil. Pero te juro que en algún momento hubo alguien que al menos sonrió al verte nacer: un doctor que pensó que eras un milagro, una enfermera que bromeó porque llorabas más de lo normal, una persona ajena a tu vida que en algún momento te pasó de lado para después comentar lo especial que eras. Por eso llora, quéjate, maldice a todos los horizontes, pero recuerda que alguien fue feliz al verte. Todos fuimos niños. Unos caminamos vidas de tragedia, a otros les va más o menos bien, y hay personas con más heridas de las que sus finas ropas cuentan. Aún así,...