Foreigner In My Own Country
I can hear my Zapotec Ancestors asking me to remember them. To not forget the dialect of our people, to keep burning sage, to keep the spirits away, and to keep honoring the dead.
An artist, I chose to be an artist. What shall I do with this gift?
I used to ask myself that day in and day out. However, my ancestors kept talking to me every time I picked up a pencil to draw or create a picture. “Remember us!” they said.
My art is a time travel machine that allows my great grandparents, whom I never knew, to visit me. Through my art, my ancestors can be remembered and their stories be told.
My art is my identity, and my identity is indigenous.