Page 17 - 2019 EMERGING WRITERS FELLOWSHIP ANTHOLOGY1

When as last I reach the large wood sign signifying “Esalen Institute” I’m relieved to get

off of the winding and terrifying highway. My hands are calm at last, settling into this
new place, this new space.

2.

The vast landscape of green and blue and wet is a shock to my desert-dwelling-system.
Wooden buildings scatter themselves among the green, and even before setting foot off

the car, the ocean beckons in a language I do not understand.

The gate attendant gives me instructions and a map. The staff at the front desk give more

of the same and a key to the room. A room I’ll be sharing with three others. Strangers.

I’m among those few selected as fellowship recipients this year, and yet the words keep
repeating themselves, “I shouldn’t be here…I shouldn’t be here…”. Because Chicana’s like

me don’t come to things like this. Chicana’s, at least from where I come from - rural
Nuevo Mexico - don’t get these kinds of opportunities. I wonder if I’ll be mistaken for

part of the cleaning staff rather than a participant? I don’t have the light skin and ocean-

blue eyes like most of the other women here. I am brown and worn and wear faded boots
instead of jeweled-sandals. I wonder if I’ll be mistaken as a phony?

During the opening orientation, I ease into the large tent where everyone is gathering. I

take off my shoes, hesitant but willing. Recognizing no one, I am a stranger among
women and men, some of which are friendly and chatty, as though they know one another

from past workshops held here. I find a chair up-front, eager to take it all in, eager to
meet the nationally known authors who will be serving as instructors.

I sit silent, not speaking, not making small talk, just listening and observing, an occasional

smile. The man seated next to me tries to make conversation, asks me where I’m from.

I shouldn’t be here…I shouldn’t be here…Chicanas like me don’t come to things like this…

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