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...