Dead Tongue
- Jul 28, 2025
- 6 min read
Speak better. Speak no more.
About forty pounds of rolled sod weighed down my arms. Unloading a cart and placing them precisely so, you wouldn't even notice the grass was laid the day before at the cocktail party. A long-sleeve shirt to hold the sweat over my arms so my pores don't profusely sweat continuously under the June sun. I worried about my jeans getting stained by the dirt, until I figured it was not worth throwing out my back to protect my clearance rack, Hollister jeans. As I laid down the grass, el patron pulled the roll out as I held it in place; aligned to the other patches of fresh grass we had already laid. A mother came down the sidewalk next to our jobsite. As close as six feet from us, her daughter walked beside the stroller. The mother signaled to her daughter where we were. I presume she explained to her daughter what we might be doing. Once they were close enough, the mother, presumably mid-30s, said, "Graseeus"
I, the award-winning poet, raise my head, smile, and nod.
Inaugural Poem
Senior year of high school.
Copies of my poem, I clipped the wings of a butterfly, sat in front of my classmates. I was curious about their silence. My stomach was in my ass, bro. Was this one of those ideas that sounded great in isolation but revealed me to be a self-aggrandizing lunatic? I was curious as to why some students wrote a lot of notes. I was curious as to why some students wrote nothing. Time was up. The feedback portion of my peer review circle had started. My first poem.
"You wrote this?" I did. "You just don't seem like someone who would write this."
"It rhymes..." Finally, someone will touch on the assonance. "like Rap," or like Edgar Allan Poe.
"I noticed you misspelled this word. You wrote f-a-z-e-d. It's actually p-h-a-s-e-d." Why did I expect this one specifically? It was fazed. I triple-checked before turning this copy in.
Award-Winning
We sat in a high school auditorium as the hosts were giving a rundown as to how names were to be announced. Serendipitously, I found myself sitting near another writer I had met at a workshop that same day. I was nervous. She assured me I’d win. In that moment, I felt a rush of everything I had ever felt being a kid growing up in the Chicagoland suburbs. No one here is like me. And that’s fine. Right?
After fiction, after creative writing, Poetry. Starting with third place, then second, then first. I was deflated. Maybe, this prescient feeling is just a manifestation of an ego I can’t recognize. Critic’s choice— there’s a step above first place? I clipped the wings of a butterfly; an adult read my poem aloud to the room.
A green ribbon. A moleskin notebook. A path. I woke my mom up as soon as I got home. "Look what I won," she stirred awake. Resting from last night's shift that ran until 6 A.M. Recharging to wake at 8 P.M. before she has to get ready to go back to work.
"Does it help pay the rent?" she turned back asleep.
3rd Grade Argument
Skip the morning portion of my third-grade class and just talk, yes please. I was amongst a small group of maybe four or five children rounded up from our classes. As we’re walking a teacher or teacher’s aides let us know we will be debating over the PA to our fellow classmates: should Pluto be considered a planet?
Here is my third-grade argument: Yes. Pluto is an underdog. It is the ninth planet in our solar system. There are people that don't consider it a planet. It is. It's the last one.
I distinctly remember hearing my voice over the PA. The real argument was my ideas against the placement of my tongue on my teeth and where my lips met. I've heard placing a pencil parallel to my lips between my teeth will help correct my speech.
Engage with the Language
E pluribus unum, my home country, the United States of America, calls. The social contract stands, if it sounds anything like an artist's contract, forever and throughout the universe in any and all media now known or hereafter devised. Pope Robert, for all quinceañeras he ordained, speaks in Latin. Does Latin then make it incomprehensible to the devil? There is the Latin school in Chicago I always pass when traveling north of downtown. Maybe they have a class for chambelanes to learn Latin, not just grooves either.
and Action!
In my first playwrighting class.
After casting the only two Spanish-speaking actors/playwrights in my class. The reading portion of my peer review circle began. Squinting and preemptively mouthing the dialogue, the two women, a Mexican and a Spaniard, did their best. My ass was in my stomach, bro. The heat on my face could light up my mom's pueblo for a hundred years. "What do we think?" my professor turned to our class.
I think I should never write again.
The Reading
Three years later.
The small, red microphone, styled after a 60's radio host, is the only indicator that my wailing isn't interrupting the reading. Incessant tears stream down to the keyboard below me. I relive my life again, through two actors and concise stage direction. Six Angry Orchards, an ill-timed celebratory dinner. Inebriated with my own words, haunting me with a sobriety that slices. As much as we writers drink, our words remain sober. Sobering.
The play that never has, La Patria. Victim to grant metrics and passed over by selecting committees. La Patria remains unproduced. Once thought to be a Chicago-centric opening, Oregon shines bright. Chandelier theatres in Chicago will be fine, I promise.
Artists vs. Artisans
Two men and I dispute wording in the bible. A Mayan with a feather in his hair, 5'0. A reflection of my father, 5'6. Me, sporting a Mexico jersey, 6'0.
(Roughly translated from Spanish)
"If you know so much, who betrayed Jesus?!"
"Judas," I respond. "Iscariot," the Mayan finishes.
"Judas, right. There's two Judas. Judas who?"
"Iscariot," I reiterate.
He takes a moment in recognition. The Mayan and I await another exam. There is none.
"You do know," the reflection of my father accepts me.
Heavy Stuff
A reading has just taken place. Loosely summarized, an Asian woman is essentially comatose after being sexually assaulted by the son of a powerful man. The Philippines, if I remember correctly. Heavy stuff. In this moment, we are open to comments or questions. The feedback portion of the peer review circle.
"I'm so glad you included this subject into your work."
"I agree."
"Yes, I just want to say that I agree."
Applause gestures, every other box on Zoom.
"While I do agree, I have actually been a victim of ___, I just think you need to make her stronger."
"I actually agree to that point. SA is super important, and I myself have dealt with(...)"
"While I do agree, as someone who, you know. It took me a long time to, you know, continue my life."
"I don't think anyone is saying that, um, I forgot her name... let me think," a few heads tilt to communicate listening. "Sorry, almost lost my thought. Oh yes! Like I don't think— she's not wrong for feeling that way."
A few heads nod in agreement, muted. Time for this play bleeds past the hour.
The story continues...
Don't Mention It
Growing up in the Midwest outside of Chicago has always been outside of frame in terms of my identity. Didn't think much of it, growing up near cornfields and almost nonexistent public transportation. There wasn't any need to learn anything but the way home if I were to bike far away from my house. Street names became familiar over blood. A settler's fun idea for a street over first tongue. Gouging my eyes to hollow my head and make way for pleasantries and an apolitical life of servitude, words were dead before I evoked them. I invoke and animate until these same words absorb so much of me, I cease while these words live on.
Chicago Noticing
I'm not alone in my wondering or my wandering. I moved to Chicago on an intrinsic pull I can't name. The deep-dish pizza, boat tours, Malort shots... yeah. They're great. If I left, I'd miss it dearly. What's beneath the earth here is what I listen to.
People and ideas have been buried in Chicago and not because the wind is blowing. Next to the skatepark in Grant Park is a trail. Read the plaque. Return voice to the remnants. The magic with us here today, still.
Be afraid of Chicago. Don't be. It's a choice; what to be scared of is subjective. Fear is that of the unknown. Exponential chance, risk multiplied by infinite choices, is the fear that drives most powerful people into more power. Take a chance. Listen.
Want to see the dead tongue in Chicago?
If a man from the north side of Chicago speaks in his fluent tongue in south side Chicago, he might hear "Getcho goofy ass on."
If a man from the south side of Chicago speaks in his fluent tongues in north side Chicago, he might hear "Security!"
Speak. Speak some more.
