My creative playground refers to my hard-won art studio space as well as my desk nook under the stairs. When I say hard won, I mean the battle was with myself. Since I have been on my own, I have always lived in small spaces. Mostly one-bedroom apartments. Now, I live in a two-bedroom townhouse with a housemate.
You see, I am a tail-end baby boomer who got her Bachelors in art history. Like most humanities majors from the 1980’s, I never officially worked in a position within my trained field. My left leaning sympathies landed me in entry level non-profit jobs. My silly, brainwashed younger self became embarrassed by my bougie field of study and I hid it away for decades while I pursued more important matters like helping rape survivors or homeless youth on the streets of San Francisco.
All very worthwhile work and work I am proud to have been part of. For sure. And I cannot say I would do it so differently if I were to go back in time. The pull towards social justice work was just so strong that I had to incorporate activism into my new adult life post-college. I just wish I could have also cultivated my writing and fine arts skills by making a space for it in my busy youth.
But who I am joking? It took decades of finding and healing myself before I would be able to live a truly authentic life; fully owning all of my humanity, mistakes, gifts and confidence. And there would be no body of written words on blogs or manuscripts or painted canvases until I did.
So, this is why, at 63 years old, I am thrilled to have my art studio space and office nook to practice my crafts. I battled within myself for so many years about claiming myself an artist and writer out loud. And if I could not even believe in myself enough to claim those titles, I surely could not upset my domicile by chucking a dining room in lieu of a six foot utility table with shelves of art supplies and a bulky easel. I punished myself by solely writing in private journals and blogs. Like the thousands of imagined art pieces I made in my head, my words were not seen by any audience.
Until now. I am finally at a point in my life which in which I feel the most self assured. I intimately know and love myself. Now, I have things to share with the world. So, I donated my dining room set and let my housemate know that I have two sacred zones that he is not to ever visit without invitation: my office nook and my art studio space. I may not have the luxury of separate rooms for my office and art studio, but I do have designated places to create and write.
And that brings me to these words. I have been writing this blog for the past two years. (Actually, I have had other blogs in which I wrote for years; but this is the one I choose to make public now.) Many people in my life have commented how they enjoy my writings and suggested I write a book. Pshaw, I said. Me, a 'real' writer?
It would not be until a good friend of mine who is a poet and filmmaker told me the same but in a matter-of-fact way. She is a writer and teacher, and she just told me how it is. “You write creative non-fiction. That is a real genre in creative writing. You really should put these stories out there for people to read. You have a book(s) in you.”
Thank you, my dear friend S. I was finally able to hear it. I know that I am a story teller. I love telling stories and have always been told I am good at it. And I am now in a place in which I have a vast treasury of stories from my life and observations hard gleaned from my school of life. I want to pass on wisdoms I have learned and share realities that may be foreign to others. And hopefully bring a smile to my readers faces every now and then.
So, I guess I am writing a book. I will still keep this blog and use what I can for both.
I must admit that I feel a sense of urgency to get this book out. At this time (June 2025), our nation is on the precipice of a decline into fascism. Tears have nowhere to go as I watch the Los Angeles riots over the barbaric and xenophobic immigration policies of this 47th president. I cannot cry or spend too much time watching news. I am in a sort of shock. Under my outrage is numbness. And fear.
As a queer, brown skinned, immigrant’s daughter, I have a target on my back. The anti-LGBTQ and racist far right would like people like me to disappear. They are systematically erasing and re-writing the history of people of color in this country. And they are literally rounding up anyone who looks like an “illegal” (i.e. any brown skinned individual). ICE, police and now highway patrol have been deputized so that they can apprehend suspected illegals without proof of illegal status. And Florida (where I live) has now passed legislation that suspected illegals can be detained indefinitely without even having their apprehension documented in any public database. The detained individuals will literally be lost and unheard from. Families will not even know where they are.
In this climate, I want to get my truths and stories out there. I do not want my life experiences erased and unheard. With the right censoring many fine works of literature, I am absolutely certain my memoir would end up on the pyre of book to be set flame. I am a Latina, queer, sex positive, feminist and antiracist activist who now lives in a female body over the age of forty and disabled. They want me invisible. They want me silenced.
So c’mon. Keep reading. Let’s be subversive together.
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