by BÁRBARA SÁNCHEZ-KANE
I remember growing up in the south of Mexico: I would hide in the hottest room of the house, wrapping myself in layers of polyester and cotton. Sediments of fabric pressed against my skin like volcanic strata. In that steam, I became legible to myself.
It was a sweating sanctuary where I confessed my secrets, like a novice magician rehearsing a trick no one had taught him. My teeth trembled with a fear I could not name as I reached into the void, often appearing as a dark, bottomless hat, and somehow, even there, I always found a dove.
I didn’t know then that it was a form of prayer. A private ritual of meditation.
Years later, I still reach into that void, but the frequency has shifted. I have come to understand that we were never truly alone in our hiding.
Now, I hear a collective…