The earliest piece pf writing that I can recollect occurred when I first moved to New York. The concept of ‘incarceration’ was one I was becoming familiar with, and from my knowledge,it wasnt pleasant.

So I took it upon 8 year old self to write a letter to my older brother. I didn’t tell my mom what it was, I told her it was a letter to my grandma (which my grandmother would have loved, sorry mama!) . She bought it, and so I spent hours trying to sum up everything occurring in my life into one page. What made it difficult was that I did not have too many memories of my brother, so it was like trying to tell a familiar stranger your inner most thoughts, which, as a child, was unfathomable. I had to think ‘like a grown up’ and write slowly ( my handwriting has always been a hodgepodge of writing styles) , and trying to picture my own face, so I can describe to someone who hadn’t seen it in years. When I finally finished it, I realized I HAD to tell my mom, because she had to mail it in!

When he wrote back, I remember the elation from seeing his immaculate handwriting, filled with all caps, perfectly crossed t’s and dotted i’s with little bubbles instead of dots. His handwriting made me smile, it contrasted my shaky words. I remember he told me nothing about him, he wrote how much he thought about me, how he remembered me, and how I should write more