Three men standing side-by-side near trees with a bridge in the foggy distance

Memoir

i am a temple forged from sun
an army of iron shimmers from its
golden rays off a white cross
lodged into the beating heart of an empire

displacement.

Jessica Kahn is a musician and educator of Jewish, Scottish, and Andean descent, and contributor to the Alternative Worlds Andean collection.

On "Different Folks" and Andean musical fusion

Here follows an interview with Alejandro Fernandez, an Aymara descendant and creator of improvised and progressive psychedelic folk music.

Heritage, music, and creative freedom

Rima(y) Raíz is a community collective created by and for the Andean/Andinx diaspora community of the United States.

Choclo y Chicha: a zine for (and from) the Andean Diaspora

Calling all Andean and Asian American folks! AltSalt is creating two multidisciplinary collections of work — and we want you to be a part of it.

Alternative Worlds: The Andes and Asian America

This is the first in a series of posts to highlight members of the AltSalt community. First up we have Shirley Man-Kin Leung, organizer behind the Asian American collection for Alternative Worlds.

"To Dream and Be Intentional" — Interview with Shirley Man-Kin Leung

This is because life itself is dynamic, a spiral — and you can see this play out even in history. Everything is always changing yet circling back on itself, evolving with similarities but transformed.

Andean Sacred Geometry

Offering resonance is an intentional practice used to cultivate deep listening and connection; we've adapted it for AltSalt.

What is Resonance?

Every year since my friend Bill committed suicide, his mother and I had exchanged Christmas cards. And I am one of those people who do holiday letters. As I have drifted apart from college friends, those annual missives are the only updates I get or give to them and some others in my life, including Bill’s mother. In the holiday letter of 1997, I had announced to the world that after years of hiding the truth even from myself, I had finally come to terms with being gay.&nbsp;I had just moved to the Normal Heights section San Diego from where I had been living in northern San Diego County, in Carlsbad. The house that I was now renting was on the hill above the Qualcomm Stadium where the 1998 Super Bowl would be held, close enough to hear the blimp engines and we’d be able to walk out to my front porch to see the Blue Angels flyover and watch the fireworks show. I decided to throw a Super Bowl/house warming/coming out party.&nbsp;When I packed for the move from Carlsbad to San Diego, I had vowed I would really weed things out. If I was never going to read that book or wear that shirt again, I’d donate it. Bags of clothes went to Goodwill and boxes of books went to the Carlsbad Library.&nbsp;The Friday before Super Bowl Sunday I still had lots of unpacking to do to and I had promised myself that every single box would be emptied so I’d have Saturday free for party prep. I had about 15 boxes to go and was slicing into them, quickly dispatching whatever I found to the appropriate shelf, closet, or cabinet. Then it happened. I slit open a box that I moved to Carlsbad and from Carlsbad without having ever opened. It had stayed for years out of sight up above my car on the joists of the garage. I knew I was never going to wear the clothes that were in it or read the books or look at the photos hidden in it. In it were all of the things that reminded me of Bill. Photos of the trips we had taken together, music cassettes, books, clothes, and gifts he had given me over the years of our friendship. Shortly after Bill’s death, unable to deal with my guilt and sadness, I had sealed all remembrances of him away and I had no intention of opening that box either before or after the move.&nbsp;Suicide is different. I have lost close friends to cancer and felt terrible, but I never felt guilty. I can’t cure cancer. I couldn’t have done anything to prevent the car accidents that claimed other friends’ lives. But suicide, rightly or wrongly, feels preventable. If I had listened better, if I had been a better friend, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. Bill’s suicide haunted me so badly that I couldn’t bear to think about him without it causing days of depression.&nbsp;I opened that box and on top was a bicycling jersey Bill had given me. It made my heart sink. I hadn’t planned to deal with this box now or ever, but in my haste to finish unpacking, I had attacked the box without reading the magic marker warning on the top. Shit. I didn’t have time to deal with this. But the jersey wouldn’t release my stare. I had way too much to do and couldn’t spend time fixating on a stupid shirt. I should just re-seal the box and get back to work. Then I remembered my self-imposed dictum to get rid of anything I would never wear again. But I couldn’t throw it out. It was one of my last tangible reminders of Bill. A reminder I couldn’t bring myself to even look at, let alone wear, so I should just donate it to Goodwill. But I couldn’t give it away. I should just seal the box and deal with another time. But I had to deal with it sometime. I should just throw it out. And so it went, my wheels spinning in the same circle as I faced what I had avoided for years. I also thought of the absurdity of keeping a cycling jersey—my knees were too shot to ride more than a mile or two anyway. My days of riding centuries were over; that was something else Bill and I had in common, our knees had curtailed our serious cycling.I got tired of standing over the box, but still couldn’t let go of the dilemma. I carried the shirt to the living room and held it as I sat and stared at it and replayed the options in my head. Donate it. I can’t. Wear it. I can’t. Only to dismiss them all and start over again. After at least an hour, maybe two, I grew tired of my stupid indecision. I needed to go pick up my mail from my P.O. box before they closed and I hadn’t put a shirt on yet that day, so I just decided, screw it. It’s just a shirt. Put it on and go get the mail.<img src="https://altsalt.s3.amazonaws.com/catalog/article/7/image-7/Ring Crop-152315.jpg" alt="A golden ring on a finger" style="height: auto;width: auto"/>Bill's ringIn that day’s mail was a package slip. I stood in line and gave it to the clerk who retrieved a padded envelope just slightly too large to fit in the box. On it was Bill’s mother’s return address. A month earlier, I had already received my once-a-year communication from her—a card with the usual short note, something to the effect of, “I hope you’re doing well” so I hadn’t expected anything.&nbsp;With great curiosity, I opened the envelope. In it was a gold ring. I recognized it immediately as Bill’s. He treasured that ring and had worn it for years. It had been made for him by his great-uncle, a dentist in England who used scraps of dental gold in wax molds to make jewelry of his own designs. After Bill’s great-uncle’s death, the ring meant even more to him as a daily reminder of the man who had been his surrogate grandfather. Bill and I had that in common, also—we each had a special great-uncle who took the place of the grandfathers we both lacked.&nbsp;After one trip to England to visit his mother’s family, Bill came back heartbroken. He said he had been helping his mother’s brother work in the garden and in the course of the digging and planting apparently the ring had slipped off his wet and slimy finger. He didn’t notice it was gone until they were done and he was washing his hands. They went back the garden and raked and dug and searched. They even borrowed a metal detector, but to no avail. Bill had lost the last piece of his great-uncle and there was no way to replace it.&nbsp;In the package with Bill’s ring was a handwritten note from his mother. She said her brother had been working in his garden and found the ring. He thought she should have it. She received the ring the same day she got my coming out letter and she knew I had to have the ring. She said she was giving it to me by proxy for Bill and that she was happy that I had finally found the self-acceptance that Bill never had. Suddenly everything fell into place. The real reason Bill had killed himself.&nbsp;I sat in the car and cried until I calmed down enough to drive home. It also seemed beyond coincidence that for the first time since Bill had died, I was wearing a shirt he had given me while I was holding his ring.&nbsp;Bill’s death had always been a scab for me. Not an open wound, but a barely-healed scab over a wound I was afraid to go anywhere near for fear of causing damage too deep to handle. I had a hard time ever remembering the good times with Bill since the ending was so horrible and my guilt so overwhelming that I shut out thinking about him at all. With the ring, I felt like he had forgiven me (if there was ever anything to forgive) and I knew I could finally start to think of him without immediately going to the bad places.&nbsp;When I got home, I called a friend of Bill’s in L.A. and asked how soon I could see him. Monday, the day after the Super Bowl, I drove to L.A. to have dinner with him. He and Bill had gone to high school together and lived together in Belgium for almost a year when they were trying to break into the ranks of professional track cyclists. I figured if anyone knew if Bill was secretly gay, he would. He said that even in high school, Bill’s friends had assured him that it was okay to come out. He’d still be their friend, and it would be okay. But Bill always vehemently denied being gay.<img src="https://altsalt.s3.amazonaws.com/catalog/article/7/image-7/IYWH cover small-091429.jpg" alt="A book cover containing the title " style="height: auto;width: auto"/>The memoir containing this and other storiesI asked why he thought Bill was gay and he ran through a list of stereotypical gay interests including liking Morrissey, Lucy, and Marilyn Monroe. The way he dressed and held his cigarette. I had noticed some of those things, but attributed the mannerism to being half English and spending so much time in Europe. (There is the old joke: Is he gay? No, just European.) The friend also said he wondered about my friendship with Bill and how quickly Bill and I became friends when we started working together and Bill at times saying things about me that crossed the line from friendship to crush.&nbsp;The talk helped me understand so much. In my mind I replayed many of the moments I’d had with Bill and they made so much more sense now.&nbsp;Once I sorted out the flood of emotions, I wrote to his mother and told her that far more than his ring, she given me back Bill. I know Bill is still with me. He is a part of me and I can enjoy the good memories without having to dwell on the bad. I cried for days when he died, but had been afraid to since; afraid to start again for fear I’d never stop. I finally let out what I had kept inside. It put one more piece of my old unhappy life behind me, to be even happier out of the closet.&nbsp;I was able to unpack the rest of the box of Bill’s stuff. Wear those shirts again. Look at photos of him, have on display some of the other gifts he had given me.&nbsp;I sent Bill’s mother her annual Christmas card about three years ago and a few days later got an email from a real estate agent in Pasadena. He said he was sorry to inform me that Bill’s mother had died. He said in addition to selling the house for the family in England, he had been asked to check mail and follow up on things that required it. His mother never got over the death of her only son so at least now she was at peace.&nbsp;My eyes are moist and I am wearing his ring as I type this, and although still weirded out by the coincidence of the timing, but there has to be a message here: if I ever needed a final endorsement that I was doing the right thing by choosing to be happy for the first time in my life, Bill’s ring was certainly it.I have had so many people ask about the ring over the years. Sometimes just holding out my credit card to pay in a store, the clerk has grabbed my hand and wanted to look at the ring. Some seemed to sense there is some magic to it and asked if it had a story. Once at a drug store, I started telling the story to the clerk and then I realized a line was forming at the register and I apologized and stepped aside and everyone in the line said, “No, this is good. Go on. Finish the story. Please continue.”&nbsp;◇ ◇ ◇The story of The Coming Out Ring is abridged and adapted from <a href="http://www.waltergmeyer.com/product/werent-not-happening/" target="_blank">If You Weren’t Here, This Would Not Be Happening: plogs from my life</a>.&nbsp;Walter G. Meyer is the co- or ghost-writer of six nonfiction books and his the author of critically-acclaimed, award-winning, and Amazon-bestselling gay-themed novel Rounding Third. He has been on radio and television programs including NPR and he has spoken at colleges, libraries and community centers across the country.&nbsp;Mr. Meyer told his own coming out story in The Los Angeles Times, he has written for all of the major gay publications including Out and Advocate and he has written on LGBT topics for the mainstream press including The San Diego Union-Tribune and The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. His articles have appeared in Kiplinger’s Personal Finance, Orange County Register, Westways, Baja Explorer, and dozens of other magazines and newspapers. He is the co-author of a widely-produced stage play GAM3RS.&nbsp;Originally from Pittsburgh, Mr. Meyer has a degree from the School of Communications at Penn State and currently resides in San Diego.

Every year since my friend Bill committed suicide, his mother and I had exchanged Christmas cards. And I am one of those people who do holiday letters...

The Coming Out Ring

A short story about legacy, revolution, and obliquely, terraforming Mars. Also contains a dumpling recipe.

Within the Fold

In his first letter to Art, Charles writes on human nature, technology, and the 90s Disney film "Honey I Blew Up the Baby"

First Letter to Art - Human Nature, Technology, and Blown Up Babies

Called forth from the dreamers, healers, witches, womxn of our bloodline, we are the beginning of a new story,..

Becoming Our Own Prayer

I was right there with you in your mission statement, about feeling the dual exclusion from both Latinx and U.S. heritages. I've felt that so much growing up as a Peruvian in the United States, and I'm so glad that this organization exists 🙏I resonated so much with Marisol's poem, with the mixture of Spanish and English, and with the connection to your grandfather and thinking about future generations' connection to their heritage.I resonated with Elena's piece, when you spoke about going to Peru and the eagerness to fill a hole made of solitude.I was right there with Analisa in so many parts of her story, riding on the swerving bus with the sheer drop to the ocean, when you met your brother for the first time, and forgetting how to speak in any language.Super appreciate all that the contributors shared during both of your events. Congrats on this publication, looking forward to the next one 🙂

Thanks Walter! Lovely story of healing and love.

<a href="/artemiosans" target="_self">@Artemio Morales</a> thank you so much for your poetry of a mesaage! it's an honor to have pieces of myself living on this online community.

Walter, this is so beautiful and moving. I resonate a lot with having jewelry that serves as a portal to another person's memories and life and stories.&nbsp;

<a href="/shirley" target="_self">@Shirley Man-Kin Leung</a> Hi Shirley - Thanks for writing. As I wrote in the story, the ring does seem to have a magic power that draws people. They want to talk about it I get to talk about Bill. At times I find myself twisting the ring on my finger and memories come flooding back.&nbsp;

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The background is the Colombian Flag with the Words "Colo-Mitolo-Gital" spanning each stripe. In the foreground is a floating back and a pair of red heels. In the top right, there is two buttons

Screenshot of webzine: two side-by-side portrait-orientation images of cityscapes, overlapped by a rectangle containing a recreated text message conversation, all against a white background.

Blue text on white background: "These are the things they took from us, They left us bare These are the things they couldn’t"

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The cover uses a retrofuturistic artist's rendering of a space colony from NASA's Ames Research Center.

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Preface page with title "Institutional Change and the Fight for Justice"

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A Modern Ghost

Choclo y Chicha Vol. 1

Taiwan

China

Asian American

Second Generation Immigrant

Your thoughts wander at sunset, taking you to different conclusions like waves to different shores...

This is a text-based game where you view the sights and sounds of the sunset and provide a space to inhabit your personal thoughts and feelings.

It was inspired by my experiences with meditation and the process of how innocuous thoughts could lead to more personal ones in a nonconfrontational way.

As such there are multiple conclusions you may reach with yourself.

Will you experience joy? Sorrow? Love? Loss?

Remember, your thoughts are yours alone to share.

- Mudita Heart

SoftwareApplication

Reflections at Sunset

See Sandy

African American

Surviving and Diving is a short book of poetry based on Brian Walker's experiences as an African American professional and creative. The book includes commentary about the 2020 Election, BLM, 2020 Pandemic and Racism. Walker started to write the book on his 32nd Birthday in October and wrote a poem each day for 32 days. Surviving and Diving is a reflective piece that describes hope, struggle, and sociopolitical unrest in America.&nbsp;

Surviving and Diving

The Life is a Freestyle Quaranzine

Quechualish: An Indigenous Language Zine

Making AI Art Responsibly: A Field Guide

Colo-Mítolo-Gítal

shortly, briefly

Letter to Miguel, from “These Are the Things”

Cat Scratch Fever vol. 1

Different Nourishment: Exordium

South Korea

First Generation

You are passengers aboard the interstellar ark Nabi. With 90 years remaining until your destination, New Earth, you must maintain the ship and its onboard sustainable farms by drawing inspiration from the agricultural customs of communal labor—PUMASI.PUMASI is a hack of John Harper’s Lasers & Feelings.

Pumasi: A Lasers & Feelings Hack

Mosqhoq (Dreamer/Soñadora)

This guide is meant for folks working to shift the institutions they are already part of toward greater inclusivity, anti-racism, and racial equity. As racial injustice and anti-Blackness are systemic, that means all institutions, big and small, are affected. At every institution I have been a part of, it has been the discomfort, sorrow, disappointment, frustration, and mutual solidarity of Black folx and other marginalized people that have pushed it toward progress.  Yet this critical work is extremely emotionally taxing. Not only is it painful to discuss deeply personal issues, those who speak up are also worried about being seen as unprofessional, as not team players. This means that those in places of relative privilege and safety need to speak up and do more. But I know organizing for change within institutions is not easy because I've personally caused a lot of trouble for institutions unwilling to confront racial inequity. In the process, I've learned some lessons and want to pass them on.  To that end, I've written a DIY Guide, first to help explain why everyone can and should be trying to address racial equity at the institutions they are already a part of, and then to provide six concrete steps to advance racial equity at your institutions.​This guide is license under a <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/" target="_blank">Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License</a>.&nbsp;

With a Lever: The DIY Guide to Institutional Change for Racial Equity

El Código de Wira Cocha: Simbolismo Milenario Andino

Alt Worlds Collab

Cultural Correspondence

In the Andes, geometric images known as tocapus carry within them a coded language whose meaning has been lost and that no Western science can read. However, the ancestors of the Andes did not themselves believe in death — and the meaning of these geometries may yet continue to live on within Andean descendants.

The Manifesto calls on those of Andean heritage to awaken these meanings by looking into their past, then project the meaning of these symbols into the future through a process of transrationality, whereby one may acquire the vision that will birth new Andean technologies and the reshaping of our reality.

Andean Futurist Manifesto

Andean Sky

Latinx

This is an experimental multimedia essay, written to my friend Charles, reflecting on the act of making art. It includes writing, illustrations (doodles), and music.It's also a test of my internal studio tools for creating new media literature experiences for web in Cocos Creator.This is the third in a series of letters we've been exchanging: <a href="https://www.altsalt.com/playlist/dear-art-dear-charles/2" target="_blank">Dear Art, Dear Charles</a>.

(Dear Charles #3) Thinking, Feeling, Creating

Inspired by Lovecraft and stories of abandoned ships like the St. Mary Celeste,  you play as GWR 3000, an autonomous Rooombra vacuum cleaner.One night aboard a transatlantic vessel, you and your creator are having a relaxing night when an interdimensional portal opens on the ship, killing the whole crew. Now it's up to you to save the world.<ul><li>Fend off intergalactic creatures with your flashlight.</li><li>Engage in an epic RPG final showdown.</li><li>Ponder humanity's coexistence with robots.</li><li>Do it in less than 10 minutes</li></ul>Made with love during the Isolation Game Jam of 2020 hosted on itch.io

Rooombra to the Rescue

Huancavilca

Kichwa

Indigenous

Andinx

Ancashina

SGI Buddhist

The theme of Choclo y Chicha Vol. 2 is ​family portraits​. Our goal was to inspire our communities to re-explore and revisit their family histories, as demonstrated through pictures, while we sheltered-in-place due to the COVID-19 pandemic. We asked that all submissions include two pictures (one from the past and one from the present) and an accompanying text to draw connections between the two. Folks were invited to submit their pictures and text however they wished, whether as separate pieces or as collages or other works of art. In this section we feature pieces such as excerpts from the incredible oral history of Analisa Freitas and a beautiful poem by Marisol Silva, “when I make chicha morada and play your huaynos full blast, and I carry a backpack on the 7 train from Queens to Brooklyn brimming with jars of aji panca, aji amarillos, rocotos, I hold onto Ayni when I can’t remember words in any language, I hold onto Ayni, when I remember that who we are as a people is much too strong to ever be forgotten,” she writes. Additionally, inspired by our colectivo member Jamie San Andres’ call to action, we are excited to introduce a new section to our zine entitled ​Andean Political Reflections.​ When we first started dreaming up our zine series, we had no idea the state of the world we would be in. Since November 2019, we have seen unbearable violence and injustice across our diaspora, from the protests, uprisings, and government repression in Ecuador, Chile, Bolivia, the U.S., and most recently, Peru, we know that it is important now more than ever to continue building spaces for solidarity, dialogue and discussion. Those of us Andeans living in the belly of the beast must find it our moral duty to take a stand in solidarity. This position is a principle that has guided our work since the beginning, and it is impossible to do cultural work without addressing the political. Hence, this section will be a space for community dialogue with our friends, compañerxs, partner organizations, and others to share their perspectives and reflections on important political and historical moments in the Andean diaspora. &nbsp;

Envisioning an alternative world

Andean Futurist Manifesto

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