Izel Nava

Mom says she always knew she would have daughters. I was her first and I enjoyed three years of silence before she announced your arrival. According to family testimony, I was excited, but looking back this reaction was driven by my loneliness.

When I was ten, my dream was to design playgrounds. It’s not as if I didn’t have loving parents that made me believe I could be anything. Or, that I had yet realized that the world didn’t want someone that looked like me to be anything.

It’s 7:11 pm Saturday, June 17th on a flight, by myself, in another country. I pride myself in my independence, my singularity.

I screamed with excitement as I stumbled upon foam and cold water. I looked at the sky and prayed, “Wash away my sorrows,” as the wave came and went, taking our sorrows with it, while I held my mom’s hand. 

When I was young I had shallow, ankle-deep, fantasies. I dreamt of waking up in a castle with hundreds of cats, dogs, and toys I could ever want. I dreamt of being famous, with one million butlers who served only my favorite foods.

I am a product of years of suffering. A product of men and women who were cut from steel. Men and women made grotesque from their broken dreams. They are all cracked hands worn from labor and hushed whispers directed toward their faith.