Thunder showed up
like an uninvited uncle.
The sky got dramatic,
put on its charcoal coat,
and started muttering
about respect.
Then came lightning,
that flashy little show-off,
taking selfies
across the whole horizon.
Rain barged in after,
crying over everything,
while thunder kept shouting
Some storms
do not come
to ruin you.
Some come
to make sure
you’re awake.
I crossed too much weather for that.
Too many bad years.
Too many rooms where I swallowed myself
to keep the peace.
Too many mornings
spent stitching a person together
out of scraps, nerve, and sheer refusal.
My old name still exists somewhere.
It hangs in certain mouths
like a coat I outgrew
but other people kept wearing.
It lives in the version of me
that bent too easily,
answered too quickly,
mistook survival for devotion.
But I have been elsewhere since then.
I have walked through losses
that burned the softness off me.
I have stood in the wreckage
and learned the strange dignity
of not turning back.
I have buried whole selves
without a funeral.
I have made a home
inside my own bones.
So no—
don’t greet me with the language
of who I had to be.
Don’t drag that ghost into the light
and ask me to smile politely
as if resurrection is a minor inconvenience.
As if becoming
cost me nothing.
I didn’t come this far
through grief,
through truth,
through the long brutal miles
of my own becoming,
just to be mistaken
for someone I already survived.
Call me by the name
I earned in the fire.
Call me by the sound
of doors opening.
Call me by the woman
who stayed.
Who chose herself.
Who arrived.
I didn’t travel all this way
to answer
to the dead.
I’m not especially interested in current events, at least not in the way that phrase is usually meant. Most of what comes under that heading is not depth but churn (and chum): a steady stream of baiting, noise, outrage, triviality, and theatrical importance. I do not find this enlightening. I find it invasive. It asks for attention, reaction, and moral posture, but rarely for thought.
It is not that I don’t care what happens in the world. It is that I have very little interest in submitting my mind to an endless sequence of manufactured urgencies. Being saturated with headlines does not strike me as the same thing as being informed, much less being wise. A great deal of it feels like mental junk food presented as civic virtue.
I sometimes think modern culture is basically one giant surfactant. Its job is to reduce the surface tension of the mind so that noise, outrage, cliché, and theatrical importance can spread quickly and evenly across it. Current events help with this. Social media improves distribution. Cable news whips it into a foamy lather. Before long the entire surface of consciousness is coated in a thin, efficient film of borrowed urgency. Meanwhile some of us are still standing there with a pickaxe, trying to break through the ice.
What interests me more is what lies underneath things: motives, structures, language, character, self-deception, the quiet machinery of private and public life. The daily update cycle tends to flatten all of that. It keeps one skimming. It rewards speed, simplification, and ready-made opinion. I have had enough of surface.
That same dissatisfaction has spread inward. I am tired of my own stock vocabulary, my usual phrases, the stale language by which I have been naming both myself and the world. The words feel worn smooth from overuse. They no longer seem equal to experience. I want language with greater range, greater exactness, greater force. I want words that do more than gesture. I want them to penetrate.
So no, I do not apologize for being uninterested in current events. I am trying, however clumsily, to get beneath the froth. That may look like disengagement to people who confuse constant reaction with seriousness. I have no ambition to be well-adjusted to a civilization of surfaces.
Kindness
is not naïve.
It’s a sly genius
slipping a cup of water
into the hands of a burning world.
No applause,
no press release.
It just keeps moving quietly,
outsmarting despair.
Mean likes to look expensive.
Kindness shows up disheveled
and somehow saves the day.
It’s soft, yes
the way rain is soft,
and capable
of reshaping stone.
Language is funny. Not funny ha-ha all the time, though sometimes that too. Funny in the way that something can be technically correct and still completely miss the point.
Translation does this to us all the time.
We love to act as though language is a simple little swap meet. This word for that word. That phrase for this phrase. Wrap it up, send it out, everyone go home. As if human speech were just IKEA instructions with more emotion and fewer diagrams.
But people do not live inside direct translations.
They live inside the language that raised them.
Inside the way their mother said their name when they were in trouble. Inside the phrases their grandmother repeated like scripture. Inside the exact tone of voice that meant come here, be careful, eat something, I love you, don’t be ridiculous, and absolutely not. A native language is not just a communication system. It is a filing cabinet of feeling.
Which is why I have become suspicious of the phrase, “Well, it means the same thing.”
Does it though?
I mean, yes, in the bland administrative sense. In the same way soup and a vitamin both count as nourishment. In the same way a motel towel and your favorite blanket both technically provide coverage. Accuracy is not nothing. But it is also not everything.
You can say to a Spanish speaker, “That changes everything,” and they will understand you just fine. Many Spanish speakers speak English beautifully. Better, in fact, than some native English speakers who have somehow spent their whole lives near the language without ever fully making eye contact with it.
But say, lo cambia todo, and now we may have a slightly different event on our hands.
Not because the meaning changed.
Because the feeling did.
That is the part people miss when they think speaking someone’s native language is just about convenience. It is often not convenience at all. It is courtesy. It is tenderness. It is a way of saying, I know these words live differently in you than they do in me.
You are not just trying to get your point across.
You are trying to cross over to where the point actually lives.
And that, to me, is the charm of it.
When you speak to someone in their native language, even imperfectly, you are doing more than passing along information. You are acknowledging that language has history. That words come with fingerprints. That they have been handled by childhood, family, memory, culture, heartbreak, humor, and all the little dramas of being alive.
Words have provenance.
They have mileage.
They have receipts.
And no, I do not believe “that changes everything” and lo cambia todo are always emotionally interchangeable just because a translation app says close enough and gives itself five stars for effort.
Translation apps are useful. I am glad they exist. But they are, in many cases, the golden retrievers of language: enthusiastic, helpful, occasionally brilliant, and now and then absolutely convinced they have nailed it when in fact they have brought you a shoe and a dead leaf.
The point is this: language carries atmosphere.
One phrase may be clear. Another may be clear and intimate.
One may communicate. Another may arrive wearing the scent of home.
And that difference matters more than we admit.
Not always dramatically. Not like someone faints into a velvet chair because you conjugated a verb correctly. Let us stay grounded. But sometimes the room softens. Sometimes a face changes. Sometimes a person hears not just your message, but your respect.
That is no small thing.
Especially in a world where people are so often spoken at, around, over, or through.
To speak to someone in the language that formed them is a subtle act of recognition. Not, let me simplify this for you. More like, let me meet you where life first started making sense.
That is lovely.
That is human.
That is, dare I say, rather elegant for a species that also invented leaf blowers and online comment sections.
And maybe this is why translation fascinates me. Because it reminds me that understanding is only part of communication. The larger miracle is being recognized. Being reached in a way that feels native to your own interior life.
To be understood is nice.
To be understood in your own language is warmer.
It has better lighting.
It sits down a little closer.
So yes, I think it matters when you say something to a person in their native tongue, even when they already understand yours. It is not always about helping them with the words. Sometimes it is about honoring the world those words came from.
Which is another way of saying: language is not just about what gets said.
It is also about what gets felt.
And that, as they say, lo cambia todo.
