Black lines on white background with words 'Rimay Raiz'

Black and white AltSalt logo on a black background

Un collage de una mujer en ropa de verano; tres mujeres autoritarias; una niña contra el cielo en la noche; una mujer con sus ojos cerrados; un patrón de geometría sagrada; una pintura de pájaros de pintura al agua chino; una mujer dormiendo; una mujer vestida de poncho; una mujer con una pistola

Campfire beside a boulder at night in front of a starry sky

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

About a dozen uncooked dumplings sitting upon a white plate dusted with flower

A photo of a woman wearing Philippine cultural attire with illustrations and typography overlaid.

Sheet music for a piece called "Different Folks"

Flags of Ukraine and Trans Rights above an image of Spongebob and Patrick Starr smashing a computer with the title "Letter to Art, Ukraine, Trans Rights, and Doom(scrolling)"

Memoir

Welcome to the AltSalt sneak peek!

Envisioning the Future

Jessica Kahn is a musician and educator of Jewish, Scottish, and Andean descent, and contributor to the Alternative Worlds Andean collection. Here follows an interview wherein we asked her some questions about her composition, "Different Folks,"  as well as her musical influences.

Different Folks Links
Download Composition (PDF) 
Download Audio (MP3) 

Can you tell us more about Theodoro Valcárcel and his impact on your work, as well as the Andean musical field?

Actually, when I created Different Folks I wasn’t fully aware of Theodoro Valcárcel, but I was aware of Yma Sumaq who made me see how it was possible to blend classical, opera and Andean folk idioms. She sang Suray Surita also which I have sung with the help of Professor Elvia Andia’s help with the Quechua. Later a collection of Latin American art songs brought attention to the 31 Cantos del Alma Vernacular by Dr Caicedo with her presentation of the Tawa Inkap Takiynin (Four Inca Songs). I now see in Valcárcel’s rendering of both classical training and the indigenous side of his mestizo reality as a foundation for the Andean fusion musical field. Very important to note, he was a pioneer in his work and the first at least fairly well known in this style of writing. His genius, along with Ima Sumaq, inspires me as I seek to make arrangements of Quechua folk songs. He and Ima Sumaq influence a heavyweight in the Andean music field today, Sylvia Falcón. Specifically, he alone influences the conservatories of Puno, Peru that prize such fusions between classical and Andean music folk idioms such as the descending minor thirds found in huaynos. One such composer/arranger besides myself is Jhonathan Jesus Chasquilla.

Page 1 of Jessica Kahn's composition, "Different Folks."

Why did you choose to title your piece “Different Folks?” We love the title and have some ideas, but would love to hear your thoughts.

I chose the Different Folks title to represent different musical folk idioms (Andean, Jewish and Scottish) coexisting together as is evidenced in my experience, yet with an Andean underpinning (guitar and quena theme-guitar/Andean harp theme persists). Different Folks is about different folk idioms surrounding an Andean-spirited folk idiom which starts out the first bar with the guitar/arpa Andina/Andean harp in the thirds and then the quena theme in the next couple of measures with descending minor thirds of a huayno flavor. The Andean harp pervades throughout as accompaniment to other Idioms like the Jewish folk melody middle system flavor of the Jewish dance of the Horah and then lastly the Scottish jig, which ends the piece. Growing up in Ohio I was surrounded by Jewish and Scottish communities in addition to my Andean soul and it has been a journey for sure. My dad is of part indigenous Quechua blood raised in a Jewish household in Peru and my mother has some Scottish. My phenotype and spirit are very much of my Andean Native American Quechua heritage and it does survive in kay pacha (the everyday) through inspiration from Hanan Pacha (my ancestors) and Urin Pacha (spirits of the upper world/higher power).

Can you speak more about why musical fusion is important for Andean folks in the diaspora?

Musical fusion is important for Andean folks in the diaspora because it is a bridge between our worlds and where we are currently. It’s also a way to help us uncover our roots and present them to a larger audience which I believe is a part of our survival. We are still here, let’s be present. In addition it leads to things such as study of native American indigenous languages like Quechua and Aymara, traditional songs like Huaynos and dances like Huaylas all parts of important to initiatives in indigeneity.

Can you tell us more about why you chose to do a rendition of “Suray Surita” and what significance that song has to you?

“Suray, surita” is the ultimate Valcárcel song. Not only is it an art song, but it’s a symphonic work as well. It's sung and performed by anyone important in this type of fusion between classical and Andean who is a soprano and of Andean descent, and that fits me. The song is about the agonies of unreturned love from a fickle lover, which I believe is universal and many have experienced, and the soprano vocal part represents the slighted lover with its beautiful lyric melody all befitting of masterful art song writing on par with greats such as Mozart, Schubert and Mahler.

Jessica Kahn will feature more of Valcárcel’s work along with Different Folks on her recital planned February 25 at 6PM EST; you can watch it live on her Facebook Jessica Urpi Kahn and YouTube channel Half Halva. 

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

I’ve started and stopped this letter about 10 times now. It’s like, how do you capture a crystallized moment of what you’re thinking and feeling? Then you look back and recognize that the person you were before is just an echo, and you’re slightly changed despite being the same.

Moreso than before, I’m coming to appreciate how everything and everyone is in a constant state of renewal and transformation.

We might take someone’s outward appearance for granted, just beneath the surface though everything is always flowing. It takes listening to one another’s stories to feel just how malleable life is; and there’s so much beauty in that.

In terms of where I am lately, I’ve been trying to do a better job of expressing gratitude. Before meals, for example — and I don’t always remember to do this — I’ll touch my necklace of an Andean cross under my shirt to be thankful for the meal, and to recognize all of the processes required for that food to arrive in front of me. In this way, I’m trying to make more aspects of my life sacred, in a world where so many things are made to feel cheap and disposable.

In your last letter, you wrote about how technology has accelerated the rate of change between generations, and how some Gen Zers look to millennials rather than elders for guidance on navigating life’s challenges. I feel that. We’re all improvising, learning from one another, taking things a step at a time.

This also leads me to think about our institutions and cultural practices. My gut feeling is that many of our institutions are inadequate, on an existential level, to address the challenges of our times, including these generational gaps that you mention. For sure this challenge isn’t unique to our moment — still, it’s wild to think how we’re facing a climate crisis, mental health crisis, pandemic, and more all at once.

In face of all this, I feel like social media and technology is a way of putting a bandaid on something that’s broken and needs tending to. It’s easier to caught up doomscrolling, to get a dopamine rush, than to address how we can create a fundamentally healthier culture overall. Maybe though that does begin on a person to person level, like this, you and me, talking about stuff as we see it, maybe thinking about what could be.

You spoke briefly about how our approach to creating technology contributes to the divide between generations and is fundamental in the issues we face. Of course, someone — in this case, millennials, Gen X, and Boomers — were the ones who created and financed all of these systems. So a big question for me is, what are the cultural values in place that allow such institutions to flourish? If we had a different system of values, would we as a culture gravitate towards different kinds of experiences?

It’s a tall question. Myself, I’m thinking of what it takes to make a shift in culture, even in my own life. I’ve been trying, as mentioned, to think more deeply about my connection to the earth and the processes around me. The small acts of gratitude I’ve been doing are, I think, contributing to a sense of consciousness and connection that has started to make me feel, rather than fragmented and anxious, whole.

It’s still an ongoing process, and I’m not sure where this ends up for me. I do know that, rather than taking a plane to see my family in Florida for a wedding this October, I instead booked a train despite it being more expensive and taking more time. It’s a sacrifice for sure, and it was painful to do it. At the same time, I feel at least that I’m living a truth that goes beyond the individualistic, frenetic emphasis on everything being fast, and cheap, instead thinking more holistically about how my actions impact the planet, trying to cultivate different ways of being within myself.

I’ll leave you with this last thought: I recently got myself a plant. It’s a bromeliad, an offset from one owned by my mom. It’s such a seemingly insignificant thing; for someone so mired in technology and disconnected from nature here in NYC though — always thinking about being more productive, more of this, more of that — it felt like a step towards something. Who knows how these little changes will add up. It’s a journey for sure, and honestly I’m just being led by faith and intuition, a sincere belief that everything will lead to a better future and, in a traditional Andean view of reality, that the mind and body are one.

Anyway, I’ve been so glad to be able to write this to you. Apologies for the delay, and I’m looking forward to reading your next letter (which has already been published for a while now!)

We might take someone’s outward appearance for granted, just beneath the surface though everything is always flowing. It takes listening to one another’s stories to feel just how malleable life is...

(Dear Charles #2) Cultivating Cultural Change

Untitled

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JMSXQDE8cS0 

Slides: https://docs.google.com/presentation/d/1dtTkGTXLPskuK2T6i_vARm-c4xEosEUjFbsBcimmRlk/edit?usp=sharing 

Letter to Art #4 - Ukraine, Trans Rights, and Doomscrolling (March 2022)

Rima(y) Raíz is a community collective created by and for the Andean/Andinx1 diaspora community of the United States. Launched in 2018 in New York City and New Jersey, our collective now has members in California and Illinois. We are: <a href="https://frontend.altsalt.com/jamie_sa">Jamie San Andres</a>, <a href="https://frontend.altsalt.com/claudia.urd">Claudia Urdanivia</a>, <a href="https://frontend.altsalt.com/sandycha">Sandy Enriquez</a>, Ben Kruse-Calla, <a href="https://frontend.altsalt.com/layqakuna">Layqa Nuna Yawar</a>, and <a href="https://frontend.altsalt.com/sbarretolastra">Stephanie Barreto-Lastra</a>, among others that come and go.

Rimay Raiz was created given the erasure and racist portrayals of Andean and Andean-descendant communities among both Latinx and white communities in the United States. Thus, our collective seeks to confront this discrimination and sense of dual exclusion by uplifting and sharing the stories and experiencies of our communities on our own terms, as a way of exposing and resisting the insidious ways that colonialism and imperialism continue to impose their binary and Western epistemologies on our bodies, minds, spirits, and communities, across time and across borders. This resistance is also represented in our name, which connects two sides of our cultural heritage by using the Quechua/Kichwa word ‘rimay’ (to speak) and the Spanish word ‘raíz’ (roots). We are speaking from our roots. Quechua/Kichwa is an ancestral Indigenous language of the Andes and remains one of the most widely spoken Native American languages in the Americas today.

Our goal is to (1) interview three generations across the US-Andean diaspora, from youth, adults, and elders, and include community leaders that have been carving spaces for our community for decades, be that cultural or political (2) archive the oral histories in a public website, (3) share and discuss our stories through multimedia, via a podcast, zine, public space installations, and Raymikuna or virtual parties in this pandemic era, and (4) organize gatherings to celebrate and unite Andean cultural advocacy efforts. Through these initiatives, we aim to reclaim a sense of identity, alter dominant narratives about our communities, preserve experiences and knowledge of our elders, and create a sense of solidarity across borders within the Andean diaspora.

Porque las historias nos llaman, las historias nos limpian y sanan, como el agua y neblina bendita de la montaña.

The last three years we have recorded 14 oral histories and published two zines, some of which are featured here.

 

Issue #1: Choclo y Chicha, self titled

<img src="https://altsalt.s3.amazonaws.com/catalog/listing/10/cover-10/Screen_Shot_2021-01-07_at_5.25.08_PM-original-489444.png"/>

In March 2020, Rimay Raiz launched <a href="https://frontend.altsalt.com/listing/choclo-y-chicha-vol-1/10">Choclo y Chicha</a>, a zine that shares the contributions of the Andinx diaspora through poetry, art, and storytelling. Both choclo and chicha are Quechua words for our ancestral foods of fresh corn and maize drinks, we chose them to reflect our cultural connections and create a space for a uniquely Andean zine. Chicha is also a type of music, Peruvian cumbia, that musicologists and sociologists claim emerged in the Amazon of Peru out of a sentiment of exclusion and otherness by dominant white, criollo elites.

We chose to include zines as part of our core mission because they would allow us to showcase creative, multimedia works from our communities on our own terms, without the need to compromise our vision through mainstream publishing. We also want to acknowledge the diverse ways that our communities express their thoughts, feelings, and experiences, some orally, while others visually or through text. We hope to distribute the zines widely and inspire others in our community to value and share their own stories and experiences through this, and other mediums.

Our first zine featured profound stories such as “Camino hacia la Boca del Lobo-Simiatug” by Jimena Vega, powerful poems such as “Mama Negra, Mama Tierra” by Mónica Carrillo Zegarra, and art by colectivo member Layqa Nuna Yawar, Lenny Correa.

Initially, our zine launch was scheduled to be an intimate event with members of the collective and fellow contributors for the zine, with music, food, and dance. Once the pandemic swept the globe, we made the decision to transition to a virtual event that could replicate this celebration while holding space for our community during this immensely difficult time. You can watch our first two Raymikuna, virtual parties on the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/RimayRaiz" target="_blank">RR page</a> on Facebook.

 

Issue #2: Family Portraits

<img src="https://altsalt.s3.amazonaws.com/catalog/listing/9/cover-9/Screen_Shot_2021-01-07_at_4.33.36_PM-original-483649.png"/>

Our <a href="https://frontend.altsalt.com/listing/choclo-y-chicha-vol-2/9">second zine</a> focuses on the intersection of stories and memory through family photos. In this section we feature excerpts from the incredible oral history of Analisa Freitas and the 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 also introduce a new section to our zine entitled Andean Political Reflections, that speaks to the issues and uprisings the Andean region has experienced in the last two years. It is impossible to do cultural work without addressing the political.

We invite you to join our Choclo y Chicha Zine Vol. 2 Raymikuna, virtual zine parties, this Sunday, January 10th from 4-6pm, to hear from contributors of the Family Portraits section, and Sunday February, 28th from 4-6pm, to hear from contributors of the Andean Political Reflection section.

 

Conclusion

To learn more about our work and stay in touch, please follow us @RimayRaiz on <a href="https://instagram.com/rimayraiz/" target="_blank">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://facebook.com/rimayraiz">Facebook</a>. We will also be launching our website in Summer 2021 which will feature our oral history archive, zines, and other projects. If you would like to get in touch about potential collaborations or have questions, reach out to us at <a href="mailto:rimayraiz@gmail.com">rimayraiz@gmail.com</a>. We would love to hear from you.

Until then, tupananchiskama!

 

<hr/>

 

1&nbsp;The Andean diasporic community includes people with South American heritage from Andean countries such as Bolivia, Ecuador, and Peru. Hence, Rimay Raiz utilizes the term Andean to refer to this region of South America, as opposed to folks that are strictly from the highlands. 
We remain inclusive of the many nationalities in the Andean region, and recognize that people that may identify with diverse backgrounds, such as that of the coast and the Amazon, Black Indigenous, and mestizo. We welcome all people who identify with our mission and background, whether they are recent immigrants, second generation, or have not connected to their ancestral countries for generations.

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

Turn out the lights and explore a dream world in Ana Somnia

I’m happy to announce that Resonating is freshly complete! This is a special kind of comment section that allows everyone to share appreciation with the creators of a publication. You can find it at the bottom of every listing!Resonating is a real-life practice used to cultivate deep listening and connection. On AltSalt, the idea is to use this practice to cultivate a welcoming environment encouraging everyone to connect in a way that centers positive exchange.We offer a few example prompts to use when resonating on publications, for example… - I resonated with you when... - I was right there with you when... - I really felt when... - I really appreciated...Every story we receive is a gift. To reciprocate with the receiving of that gift, we can offer storytellers resonance to let them know that we connected with them, that they were hard. Storytellers can then express their gratitude in return!In keeping with the spirit of Resonating, only original commenters and creators can reply to threads to center the act of listeners hearing a story, then offering resonance back, as this is how the practice is done in real life.This is all a large experiment, and I welcome your feedback!You can read more about the practice of resonating by clicking the “What is Resonating?” link at the bottom of every publication.My deepest gratitude to <a href="https://relationaluprising.org" target="_blank">Relational Uprising</a> for devising this framework, and to the <a href="https://ayni.institute" target="_blank">Ayni Institute</a> for sharing it with me, which I’ve have adapted for this platform.Looking forward to reading your resonance!

This is a special kind of comment section that allows everyone to share appreciation with the creators of a publication.

New feature now available: Resonating

Alternative Worlds: The Andes and Asian America

Los ecos de nuestros ancestros que se escuchan
a través del tiempo y el espacio,
nosotros encontraremos la llave para el futuro,
al mirar en nuestro pasado.

¡Se hace un llamado a toda nuestra gente andina y asiatico americana! AltSalt está creando dos colecciones multidisciplinarias de trabajo creativo, y queremos que seas parte del proyecto.

¿Para quien?: Creadores de zines, escritores, diseñadores, creadores de juegos, creadores de videos, músicos, y creadores de cualquier medio artístico que se identifican como andinos o como asioamericanos.

¿Tópico?: Trabajo en equipos o trabajo independiente para someter una publicación basada en la siguiente idea: “Imaginar o visualizar un futuro en que tu cultura, historia y valores han guiado al mundo a una realidad alternativa, y empleando esa energía, crear una pieza artística que se haga sentir a la par con nuestros tiempos.”

¿Cuándo?: El desarrollo del trabajo se puede empezar tan pronto como leas este mensaje. Ofreceremos un taller el 17-18 de julio, para compartir progreso y conocernos como participantes. Los trabajos finales serán sometidos el domingo 15 de agosto. Los días se van volando- empezemos pronto!

Únete a nuestro Discord (opcional, altamente recomendado)

Aviso: También le damos la bienvenida a personas que quieren colaborar entres ambas culturas. Si quieres trabajar en equipo y combinar la cultura andina y la cultura asiática… HAZLO! Destacaremos proyectos que combinan ambas culturas dentro de una parte especial en las colecciones.

Pensar y recopilación de ideas, formación de equipos, empezar a trabajar



Sábado 17 de julio — Domingo 18 de julio

Talleres de fin de semana para socializar y compartir progreso



Domingo 18 de julio — Domingo 15 de agosto

Continuar trabajando en los proyectos y entrega de proyectos finalizados



Presentación colaborativa y lanzamiento de las colecciones

Nuestra Visión en General — Nuestro propósito es visualizar y crear un mundo alternativo a través de nuestra creatividad colectiva. Para crecer en comunidad, debemos ser curiosos en crecer no solamente personalmente sino también con las multitudes con las que nos cruzamos. Esperamos que esta será la primera de muchas iniciativas para crear solidaridad a través de comunidades y compartir conocimiento. Transcendamos los bordes sociales y conectémonos.

¿Por qué estas dos comunidades? Son las que nosotros, los organizadores, somos más familiarizados, y de las cuales somos parte. ¡Esperamos ofrecer un espacio similar para otras comunidades en AltSalt en el futuro!

Abierto Para Toda Gente Creativa — No importa cuál es tu etapa dentro del proceso creativo, o si tus obras son gratuitas or comerciales, puedes inscribirte.

¿Ya has creado trabajo y quieres incluirlo en las colecciones?



¿Has empezado a trabajar en proyectos creativos pero no has tenido la oportunidad de terminarlos?



¿Eres nuevo en el proceso de crear zines o publicaciones creativas?

¡Serás bienvenido a participar! Solo llenar nuestro formulario, inscribirse a nuestra comunidad de creativos en Discord para encontrar inspiración, colaboradores, o guía, e involucrarte con nuestros próximos eventos.

La colección andina busca destacar trabajos creativos y artísticos en medios y estilos de publicación diversos por creadores que se autoidentifican como andinos/andinas/andinxes. Utilicemos el término ‘andino’ para honrar nuestra historia compartida antes de la colonización, aunque sabemos que hoy estamos muchos acostumbrados a identificarnos por nacionalidad (como peruano o peruano-americano). Apreciamos la complejidad rica de identidades representada en nuestra comunidad y damos la bienvenida a cualquiera para participar que tenga vínculos ancestrales o sociales a los Andes (sea Ecuador, Chile, Argentina, Perú, Bolivia, etc.) y sus diásporas. La identidad andina también es interseccional y se extiende más allá de una dicotomía indígena, español, mestizo, o latinx/latiné. Por esa razón, somos inclusivos de diásporas diversas como las comunidades nikkei del Perú y de las comunidades descendientes de africanos.

Esta colección es por y para nosotros, nuestros ancestros, y futuras generaciones. Nuestra meta es que se sienta familiar y al mismo tiempo enteramente nueva porque incluye perspectivas diversas dentro de nuestro repertorio de culturas, que tan poco se ve representado en la narrativa dominante.

Este es un espacio experimental para explorar tu identidad individual, tu creatividad, y ser parte de nuestra comunidad. Te invitamos a visitarnos, contribuir y colaborar de la manera que sea más interesante para ti.

C O L E C C I O N    A S I A T I C O A M E R I C A N A

La colección asiaticoamericana busca explorar las diversas facetas de las experiencias y herencias culturales variadas de los asioamericanos a través de medios y publicaciones creativas. Esta colección es para y por asioamericanos, incluyendo aquellos quienes sus herencias incluyen Asia del Este, Sureste, y Sur, las islas del Pacífico, y las identidades multiétnicas y diaspóricas.

En definir una colección, las distinciones entre quien está incluido dentro del ‘nosotros’ es incierto. Dentro de nuestras comunidades, hay desigualdades de poder entre los grupos. Diferencias entre ‘asioamericano’ a través de clase socioeconómico, color, género, sexo, religión, estatus migratorio, historia, y origen nacional produce historias desproporcionadas y desbalanciadas, además de encuentros con violencia estatal. Adicionalmente, llamados para comunidad pueden ofrecer unidad estratégica pero borrar los efectos diferentes de racialización y colonización bajo un término general. En vez de exigir inclusión, nuestra colección ofrece un espacio para compartir narratives que se tratan de diferentes interacciones entre historias y experiencias, con aquellos que se identifican como asioamericanos.

Esta colección busca proveer un espacio para explorar la identidad, fortalecer comunidades y crear una fuente creativa para nutrirnos, llenar nuestras almas, y explorar sin restricciones y extender los límites de nuestras imaginaciones, usando nuestra práctica creativa para reflexionar sobre nuestros tiempos compartidos hacia un futuro de liberación colectiva.

¿Interesado? ¡Llena nuestro formulario!

Para visualizar un mundo alternativo, y
porque nuestra representación es importante,
compartiendo conocimiento y consciencia,
crearemos el futuro.

De izquierda a derecha: Arte por Jessica Tin, Jamie San Andres de Rimay Raiz, Layqa Nuna Yawar, Lia Coleman, Felix Kar-wah Fok cortesía de Shirley Man-Kin Leung, Sandy Enriquez, Adina Farinango y Angela DelosReyes. Patrón de fondo por Artemio Morales con agradecedimiento por las enseñanzas de Zadir Milla Euribe, Música por Jonathan Morales. 

¡Se hace un llamado a toda nuestra gente andina y asioamericana! AltSalt está creando dos colecciones multidisciplinarias de trabajo. Queremos que seas parte de este proyecto.

Mundos Alternatives: Los Andes y América Asiatica

The Birth of Andean Futurism

Bibliography of Andean Myths

Alternative Worlds Workshop Weekend Schedule

Andean Sacred Geometry

Offering resonance is an intentional practice used to cultivate deep listening and connection.

Typically done in person, participants take turns sharing and listening to one another's stories, practicing both telling stories earnestly and listening deeply (or in our case, reading).

After the speaker has finished, listeners share the specific moments in which they felt emotionally connected to the story, for example saying, "I resonated with you when you said [insert moment]." Storytellers can then in turn express their gratitude by saying, "Thank you for listening."

Every story we receive is a gift. Offering resonance is a way to reciprocate with the receiving of that gift, to let each other know that we've been heard.

We believe that receiving and offering resonance is a human right. Our aim is to cultivate more sharing, more resonance, more connection, both here and beyond.

Example prompts when resonating:
- I resonated with you when...
- I was right there with you when...
- I really felt when...
- I really appreciated...

Resonating is not:
- Telling your own story
- Offering advice
- Reviewing a piece's quality

If you'd like, we'd love for you to try cultivating this reciprocity muscle and offer resonance to storytellers as a way of practicing deep listening. And in turn, we hope you'll consider sharing your story as well!

You can find more information about resonance in this PDF. 

Our deepest gratitude to the Marshall Ganz of Harvard University; Mark Fairfield, Cedar Landsman, and Lucien Demaris via the Relational Center; and Relational Uprising for devising this framework, and to the Ayni Institute  for sharing it with us, which we have adapted.

in this PDF.

Relational Center

Relational Uprising

Ayni Institute

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

Reverberating with the past

(Dear Charles) The Shape of Our Future

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

The morning of the ritual, my fathers assured me there was no need to be nervous. One reminded me I would have all the time I needed. The other said nothing, only tugged gently on my earlobe, to remind me of where I bit my grandmother the first time I met her and that we still laughed about it at family gatherings.

In truth, my nai nai, my grandmother, was a jovial woman who alleviated her rare bad moods with marathon cooking sessions that earned her a legendary status within the neighborhood. She promised me a simple conversation, but I knew it was more, this beginning of my journey into adulthood, the first time I would be listening to a story as its caretaker rather than its recipient.

The whole way to her home, I imagined what it would be like: solemn, I thought, precise, for certain. By the time I arrived on the third floor of a building set into the wall of the lava tube, I thought anyone might be able tell that I was not fit to begin. I hovered outside the curtain in the open doorway until a voice called out from within.

“Suying, no need to loiter. Come in, haizi.” I smiled, both charmed and worried that she would see me as a child no matter how old I grew.

I took a deep breath to brace myself, straightened out of the slouch the aunties in my building always hollered about and ducked through the curtain. I thought there might be incense, perhaps offerings to the ancestors and worried about the appropriateness of my simple smock. I even brought a notebook, real paper and a pen to help the words lodge within my mind. So I was startled to see my grandmother in the kitchen with an array of ingredients on the stone top island counter.

I paused in the doorframe, but my grandma smiled at me, corners of her eyes wrinkling up. She gestured for me to come to the counter and took the notebook from my hand. “Take notes another time. This time, you need only to listen.”

“I thought I was learning a story,” I said, hesitant, surveying the ingredients. A bowl of flour, already shifted, small dishes of spices, apportioned out, and a bundle of green onions, picked fresh from the hydroponic garden shared by the building. The large head of napa cabbage and a package of ground bean-based meat substitute made it clear that my grandmother was preparing to make our traditional family dumplings.

“I am going to tell you a story and I will teach you a skill,” my grandmother said as she directed me to the sink. She said nothing else until I cleaned my hands, dried them upon a dish towel she embroidered with a dancing fish, and rolled my sleeves above my elbows. When we stood over the ingredients, my fear of having to learn multiple things obvious by the way my eyebrows pulled together, she said, “This story will be yours to keep and preserve. One day, you will choose how to pass it on. Today, we do things this way.”

First, we mixed the dough, one part water to four parts flour. I put my hands into a heavy stone bowl and pressed the clumps of flour into each other, rolling and kneading to pick up the dusting of powder that remained. As I worked, beads of sweat building on my temple and an honest ache building up in strange parts of my arm, unused muscles stretching and pulling from the strain, my grandmother began to tell her story.

You already know that your three times great grandparent Zhou Daitan participated in the revolutionary struggles. I will not speak about that today. Instead, I will tell you of their life before the revolution, what made them the sort of person willing to stand arm in arm with their neighbors, the world that shaped them and that they shaped in turn. And though I did not know your three times great grandparent, this story comes to me from their daughter, to her daughter, and down to me. Through them, I bestow it upon you.

Once I punched the dough into a smooth ball, my grandmother declared the task done and we set it aside to rest. Then, I added soy sauce, salt, white pepper, as well as an egg to the meat substitute. With rhythmic, circular motions, I folded these ingredients together.

Daitan grew up on earth, on a patch of sparse and harsh land set aside for refugees. They were a rambunctious child, creative in inventing games and new ways to attract trouble. Though they received the mandatory years of education, provided by the international government for all refugee children, they were not an attentive student. Still, they read widely and thought freely, a difficult thing to do. And someone must have seen potential in that for they received a scholarship to university, sponsored by companies eager to showcase their generosity. They studied as widely as they read and meandered out of university two years too late with a degree in food science. Without sufficient social capital to obtain a posting in a lab, they returned to and worked in the packaging factory next to the camp where they grew tall and strong.

Under my grandmother’s watchful eye, I minced a handful of wood ear mushrooms, the slivers sticking to my hands, as well as a few shitake mushrooms, their unami infused scent filling my nostrils. These I deposited into the marinating meat substitute along with a dollop of sesame oil. Again, I accepted the wooden chopsticks my grandmother passed to me and mixed to integrate the dark pieces of seasoning.

Daitan’s time in university turned them quiet and contemplative. But working in the factory alongside childhood friends and strangers turned into family by proximity and shared struggle, they found their voice again. That voice spoke against exploitation and it wasn’t long before they drew the ire of those who hoped a heavy hand could crush dissent before it bloomed in full.

Then I went back to the bamboo chopping board, passed down through the generations, lovingly cared for by each. I recalled running my hands across the surface as a toddler, feeling the marks left it in by use, some sanded down or covered by newer marks over the years, and wondering when I’d get a chance to use it. Now that I was older, I didn’t have quite the same fascination with chopping vegetables. Still, I found the crunch and thunk of the knife through the green onions and the napa cabbage satisfying. I thought I’d have trouble listening and avoiding injury, but the rhythmic motion proved no distraction.

And so it was that Daitan found themselves cast out, blacklisted, unable to obtain even the meanest of jobs. Their fellow refugees knew what it was to be forced to the margins of society and offered them sustenance. For a time, Daitan was able to do good work within the camp, using what they learned in the factory to rebuild the hastily raised residences, repair the solar still that produced water. These odd jobs also allowed them to distribute the revolutionary literature published by friends within the factory. And when the operation was discovered, Daitan volunteered to take the fall.

The green onions went on top of the mixture and the cabbage went in a separate dish with salt to pull out water. While both rested, my grandmother upended the ball of dough onto a dusting of flour and put me to work pushing it across the counter until it tightened. With one smooth motion, she twisted the dough in half and began to roll her half out, until it resembled a snake.

As there were few places to exile someone who was already a refugee, Daitan found themselves on a one-way trip to the stars. They were still terraforming the planet then and Daitan, like many who grew up in the camps, found it difficult to breathe on the red planet. Even so, they tended to the legume fields for though they did not choose to come to Mars, they were forced to work off the cost of the fuel.

Slowly, so I could copy each step, my grandmother lifted the length of dough and pinched the top of it between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. With her left, she twisted off pieces of dough. Mine were nowhere near as uniform, some small, some large, most torn off with great force rather than the deft and precise motions I failed to copy. When I grimaced at my collection of however, my grandmother only reached out to wipe a bit of flour from my chin and continued.

Daitan was hardly the only one who came to the planet unwillingly. Except for the youngest, taken in by a flashy recruitment poster and the promises of an unscrupulous earth-side recruitment center whose manager sated himself on kickbacks, all of their bunkmates fell afoul of one planetary power or another. And all of them dreamed of something different.

In synchronized motions, we crushed each knob of dough flat and tossed them in the flour so they would not stick together. Then I tipped the cabbage into the rest of the filling and mixed one last time, trying to ignore the ache in my arm and flinging a bit of filling onto the table in the process. Without

skipping a beat, my grandmother swiped the filling into a pan and set it atop the induction stove. Almost immediately, it began to sizzle and pop. She snatched it up with a pair of chopsticks, blew on it, and offered it to me. I closed my eyes as I considered the flavor and layered textures, to see if it needed anything else. When I decided it needed a bit more salt, I picked up the shaker, an old porcelain vinegar bottle repurposed and passed down.

During the day cycles, they rode lifts to the surface, where the vast legume fields blanketed the red dirt of the blossoming planet and fantasized about escaping over the horizon. At the end of their shifts, they urged the bovine herds that consumed the legumes into the shelter of the lava tubes and contemplated letting the animals loose. During their night cycle, they lay in their rickety three-layer bunks, six workers to a room, and traded stories or comfort.

My grandmother handed me a rolling pin, not much wider than my finger. She took one of the knobs of dough and brought the edge of it underneath the pin. In practiced motions, the pressed the dough from the outside in, turning the disc after each stroke. I ended up with an oblong shape of uneven thickness that made me wince when I compared it with her thin circle of dough. She took the wrapper from me without comment and began to fix it, gesturing for me to start another.

Life went on thus and though it seemed as if nothing changed as they repeated the same work against their ever-mounting debt, Daitan came to understood that they were building community. People who might have been enemies on earth taught each other their languages. No mode of living seemed all that strange from two meters away. Games and song and dance from different cultures passed back and forth, used to speed the trickle of time. And in these ways, large and small, sedition spread.

We continued rolling and pressing until we piled the wrappers high, dusted flour between each layer. I used chopsticks to position a dollop of filling in the middle of a wrapper. I set the chopsticks down and gathered the wrapper into my palm, watching my grandmother draw the edges together in folds that held the weight of her experience. Perhaps that’s what kept her dumplings closed because mine invariably peeked open at the edges, bits of filling threatening to burst out or the wrapper simply gaping wide.

At the factory, Daitan learned to play a game of make believe and magic. It was fantastical and fanciful and so no one took notice when they began to teach it to their friends. For diversion and escape, yes, but also to pass messages best left unsaid in rooms owned and operated by people who held debt over them like blades. And some things were better conveyed through simulation and practice than through explanation anyway.

My grandmother said that skill would come with time and practice. And I thought that this too, was a lesson she meant to impart. So I kept at it, crimping and folding and often failing, yet in the end, producing a precious few dumplings I would be proud to present to my fathers. Finally, we dropped them into the boiling water atop the stove, easing them into the roiling water one by one so that the hot water did not splash.

So it was that when the revolution began, Daitan knew what to do. They were part of a community once more, indebted to it, embedded within it, reliant upon it. Because what makes a person is not just who they are but what they do, the people who raise them, the society that shapes them, the atmosphere they breathe, the horizons they see. So it was with your three times great grandparent. So it will be with you. That is why we tell these stories, why we ask you to remember them, why we hope that you hold them to your hearts as we did, so you will make different mistakes, and so you will know what was freely given and what was taken to make a better world.

Within the Fold

Initially, I wanted to start this project under the idea of being a “perpetual foreigner,” or the concept that regardless of me being an American citizen and having the tokens of what makes up an American (whatever that means… since the U.S. is a mix of cultures after all), I will always be perceived as “the other''.

As I was working on the project, I was led to a different and more general idea of the modernization of culture; sometimes it feels like culture is conflated with history (in that it is old and static) and we view it as a separate entity all together. I feel like knowledge of culture is often treated as a novelty or a parlor trick, like knowing how to dance tinikling or speak Tagalog, or even something as simple as eating a Filipino dish.

For some Filipino Americans, and for many other second generation immigrants, they aren’t given a choice of being able to celebrate their culture or not. And for many first generation immigrants, they leave behind a culture that continues to change even while they are away: there’s new slang, new pop culture trends, and maybe even a different political climate.

The debate between mainlanders versus the diaspora has been prevalent on social media but has been the worst on TikTok, I’ve found. The word “toxic” is commonly thrown around nowadays but that’s the best way to describe the lack of critical thinking, the apathy, and the refusal to take responsibility for and acknowledge mistakes. It’s difficult for me who sits on the fence of these two identities to be invalidated and for discussions to be halted because the desire to be correct outweighs the desire to learn… well that and the fact that I’ve seen arguments turn into ad hominem attacks. Thankfully I haven’t personally experienced any of this yet, but this is something I keep in the back of my mind that sometimes keeps me from putting my work out there (I’m slowly getting over it though).

To the main point of this work: culture is now. Thanks to the internet (as corny as it sounds), I can be 8,757 miles away from my hometown in the Philippines and still be caught up on the news, pop culture, and memes. But that can’t replace me physically being there and experiencing everything myself. Of course, I acknowledge that this comes from a place of privilege because I have the financial means to live comfortably. However, in a way, I feel lost. After taking a year off of my art and taking a step back, it would seem as though I was looking through my culture through that historical lens I mentioned earlier.

This work is a baby step for me. I think I’m moving in the direction I want my work to go in, both in terms of media and focus. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to create work. Is it because I lack guidance? Or creativity? Materials? I know that I am an impulsive artist that creates work when the spark happens, but I wonder if there is a way for me to nurture that better…

Anyway, let’s talk about the process and ideas that come into this work. This is a continuation of my photo collaboration project that I did for my senior thesis. I decided to get rid of the square dimensions and go for an 8x10 inches size.

I knew I wanted to wear the barong, so that was an easy choice.

I decided to tuck my hair to mimic choking or the feeling of being overwhelmed or drowning (I think I’ll make another project for this).

I love my hair. It used to be down to butt. But I would use it as a femininity marker to compare myself to other women. I knew I did this and I knew it was wrong. I cut it to my chin when I was a sophomore in college. I can’t tell you enough how disgusted I am with myself that I was like that. And doing that did help.

The typography stickers are slang that’s commonly used today (and some even I use). I had to ask my boyfriend any other terms he knew since I felt like the ones I knew were pretty outdated.

If you’re familiar with Japan’s purikura, or photo sticker booth, I’m sure you can see the inspiration. Culture was formed hundreds of years ago, but we insert ourselves into it and shape it today.

I honestly didn’t know how to tastefully illustrate on top of this, not that it needed to be aesthetically pleasing, I just didn’t know how to combine the background and the foreground to make it look like a complete piece. I didn’t want to edit the original photo too much but I also didn’t want it to look like it was just a photo.

I’m satisfied with how this piece turned out. I will keep this written piece as raw as possible for genuity purposes (and it would be nice to see where my head was when I look back later). 

AVDLR is an artist that creates works based on her exploration through her Filipino American identity. Acceptance is the first piece she created post graduation where she continues that exploration.

Acceptance

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 🙂

I absolutely love this! This checks so many of my boxes; Social justice, Science fiction, Humanity and food.

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;

Envisioning an alternative world

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The Coming Out Ring