Dearest reader,

Happy, happy Tuesday to each and every one of you.

Happy Spanish World Cup victory to those of you who celebrate La Rioja, and to the astrology devotees—happy Cancer New Moon.

This energy is one of legacy. Of capacity.

To see that which we wish to manifest in the material, we must first prepare our vessels to accommodate such blessings.

In non-woo-woo words: if you want it, you gotta do the work to get it. Remember that the mundane is magickal and just as sacred as the prayers you send up.

This is the wisdom of Cancer.
She is the healer. The home maker, the shaman you turn to when logic has abandoned you and you simply need to be seen.

Cancer is the first water sign of the zodiac.
Represented by the crab and ruled by the moon, they guard their sensitivity like the treasure it is.

It is Cancer that holds dominion over the house of home and hearth. What we consider as extensions of ourselves, and also those who came before us.
The call of the ancestors is loud these days.
Will you heed them?

Announcement break!

We want your writing! Rolling submissions — email us your piece at newamericana2025@gmail.com, and we’ll give you feedback and direction.

Join the Discord for daily updates and an inside look.

Explore everything — Substack, archives, interviews, photos, essays in the Drive.

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Remember who the real enemy is

Don’t you think it’s a bit strange how there’s always a new face to hate?
A shade that’s gone out of style—we’re seeing this pattern repeat, rhyme across the Western world.

The French national team is French when they win, and they are African when they lose. Football, too, is a reflection of life itself.

But immigration patterns will continue to change. Marginalized populations find their way to the land of their former colonizer or to the land that once extracted wealth from their land, all in the name of profit. For the greater good.

The thing that I find amusing, though it doesn’t lessen the damage, nor does it take away the very real repercussions, is that the same rhetoric, the same lies, are peddled each time.

They’re rapists. Criminals.

They’re bringing drugs, not their best people.

They point the finger at an out-group, and while half the population is enraged, they go behind all our backs and rob us blind.

They keep us angry enough at one another so we don’t realize who the real enemy is.

It is not left and right, it is up and down.

I see the people are waking up, though.

I see the collective coming to the consensus that the enemy is not one another, but those who seek to see us asleep, ignorant to the pillaging and extraction of Mother Earth, of our attention, our very vitality.

There’s a new Hunger Games prequel coming out in the fall. If you were like me when you were younger, which is to say an intellectually overactive child, I ate that series up.

You would be wise to reread the original series as well as the newest addition, Sunrise on the Reaping.
Remember what we’re fighting for.
Remember who the real enemy is.

N.I.N.A, the Italians, and the undesirables

One of the greatest sins of the American empire is the separation of an individual from their culture of origin in exchange for some semblance of proximity to power. There were a multitude of groups in U.S. history that faced significant discrimination as they first arrived on U.S. soil, but were later offered a proposition to come into the fold of whiteness.

No Irish Need Apply—N.I.N.A.

This is what the survivors of another genocide across the pond were confronted with as they sought out foreign lands with the hopes of beginning anew. Back in the 1840s, when the second wave of majority Catholic Irish migrants to the States, the reception was hostile to say the least.

Akin to their BIPOC brothers and sisters, they were treated with racism, discrimination, and in the eyes of “white” America were relegated to second-class citizens.

Whiteness as a concept is inherently transient. Because the same people who turned their back on the Irish, on the Italians, who were unfairly stereotyped by their association with organized crime, would later be extended an olive branch, if they decided to join the fold, with all the terms and conditions that came with it.

Who was considered white changed as fluidly and as quickly as the political winds demanded.
It was and remains a political means of accessing power.
This is why we see people of color in the States still, renouncing their ethnicity, identifying with being plain old American.

While there is nothing wrong with being patriotic, to deny one’s ancestry is to deny one’s inheritance in this life.

This is the deal the white devil strikes.
Give up your Gods. Your culture. Your mother tongue.
Assimilate.
Become pallatable.
Mold yourself in the image of what is “good” and “proper,” and perhaps one day, if you work hard enough, you too may earn a seat at the table.

The Irish weren’t the only one’s faced with this proposition. The Italians, as mentioned previously, hail mostly from Sicily, and to this day are still stereotyped as having Mafia connections. But there were also the Polish, the Serbians, amongst many others, who faced the dilemma of dignity and social survival.

The Great Law of Peace

This dilemma was the plight of our grandparents’ generation.

I find the ramifications of this clash of cultures still lingering in my day-to-day conversations with my fellow Americans.
As a Vietnamese woman who is not coded as a Spanish speaker, I often have people asking me what my ethnicity is. My favorite infamous way of divining is the question “What kind of Asian are you?”

I find it simultaneously amusing and annoying, though I answer truthfully.

When I return the inquiry, I get variations of “oh, you know, European mutt.”

But see, that’s the thing, I don’t know.

My own parents, second generation themselves, can’t track their own ancestry past their grandparents. It never even crossed their minds to be interested in it. They view it as some vestigial organ that is better off taken out of the picture instead of the puzzle piece to understanding a key part of who they are and where they come from.

The Iriquois Nation, one of the great Indigenous tribes of this land, has something called the Great Law of Peace, which is a principal which is intended to guide leaders to make sound decisions as it implores leaders to take into consideration the impact such decisions will have on the 7 generations that come after them.

At its core, the Seven Generations Principle teaches that the decisions we make today should create a sustainable world for the seven generations that follow. As Oren Lyons, a Faithkeeper of the Onondaga Nation, explains, Haudenosaunee leaders are guided by the idea that when they sit in council, they must not think only of themselves, their families, or even their immediate communities. Instead, they must consider the well-being of those who will come after them.

And I know seven generations feels like a long time -but consider this. If you were able to meet your great-grandparents, which I remember doing as a child, & you are able to meet your great-grandchildren one day, that’s seven generations right there. Your great-grandparents, your grandparents, your parents, you, your children, your grandchildren, & your great-grandchildren. It doesn’t feel so distant when you realize that you could see seven generations in your lifetime. The actions you take today will impact seven generations to come. The healing, the changemaking, the growth, & the protection of our land & resources will all shape their world.

—Seven Generations Principle: Healing the Past & Shaping the Future

Assuming we can trace our ancestry as far back as our great-grandparents, this means that we are four generations into the cycle.
What of those that came before?

What were their stories? Their plight?

What did they hold dear to their hearts?

What wisdom did they wish to impart to us?

The tragedy of whiteness is not one of skin tone—it is that it is the thief of inheritance. A taint on the legacy of one’s lineage.

The folk traditions and songs have been lost.

Food and dance, along with it.
The disappearance of that which grounds us in our humanity—all homogenized for the sake of conformity.

This is not our way.

But it’s not too late to find our way back.

I want to reiterate—you are not responsible for the sins of your forefathers. What you are responsible for is understanding how history informs the way you move through the world today, because I guarantee you, the historically oppressed, will not forget.

Trace your lineage as far back as you can go. Explore the cultures and the traditions held within. There is sacred knowledge nestled within you and every one of us.
It is our charge in this lifetime to remember it.

Take care of you and yours,

Annika

Recommended Media

• Seven Generations Principle: Healing the Past & Shaping the Future by Breanne Smith

• SUPER Delayed Thoughts on Sinners | RANT (17 mins, Youtube) by Native Media Theory

• NINA by Hozier

• White People Need Ancestral Excavation by Christabel Mintah-Galloway

Hello again, dear reader,

Thank you for tuning in for this week’s newsletter.
I hope that you and yours are well.

I also hope that this Mercury retrograde isn’t kicking you in the butt too hard.

Astrology, as of late, is anything but welcoming, but what it is good for is heralding change.

One of the universal tenets of this life is that the only constant in this life is change. As a Scorpio myself, intellectually, this comes as second nature to me. On an emotional level, however, that’s a whole different game.

Seasons change, people change, even your lovers will go through evolutions and revolutions of the soul. To love someone properly is to encourage them into all of their different incarnations. I pray you experience the rhythm of relation, regardless of what form that love takes.

Announcement break!

We want your writing! Rolling submissions — email us your piece at newamericana2025@gmail.com, and we’ll give you feedback and direction.

Join the Discord for daily updates and an inside look.

Explore everything — Substack, archives, interviews, photos, essays in the Drive.

Share the New Americana with your people

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If you’re looking for a personalized tarot or birthchart reading, consider checking out my shop

Blessed be to you and yours—let’s get back into it :)

Circles

I’ve found myself, as of late, feeling the call of the earth—Pacha Mama, Gaia. All her many names for the eternal force to which we all owe our allegiance to.

I’ve felt a need to be grounded. To be where my feet are. To remain moored while it feels as though the world around me drifts on and on. From trends and tradgeties.
One of the lessons of Earth is devotion.

To tend to the garden, though, change isn’t instant.

To walk the same path day after day and to be reverent of the changes you encounter in the land. In yourself.

They say that a thought is love’s currency after all.

And so today I find myself sitting in South Minneapolis, in the humid height of summer.
There’s a poster of a stylized rebel lazer loon incinerating an ice cube to the right, the phrase ICE OUT NOW " is inscribed.

On the lamp post to my left, someone scrawled ICE JUST KILLED SOME 1 in black acrylic.

How strange it is to be in the aftermath of an occupation, to see how the rhythms and collective undercurrents have shifted.

MN Rebel loon neon sign at a brewery

After the storm (?)

I have a particular affinity for people watching, and what I can tell you from what I’ve observed these past few months is that I’ve seen more rebel loons—vinyl stickers and neon signs, tattoos and t-shirts than I see jerseys for our sports teams.

It’s an odd feeling.

What comes after?

Are we even at the point that we’re allowed, that we’re capable of asking those questions? There’s a new head of ICE these days, and I hear they’re going for a more “discrete” M.O.

I feel as though I’m hearing echoes, dysfunctional deja vú.

My friend in Mexico is telling me about the protest they just went to—an attempt to hold the government accountable for the 100,000+ disappeared in the country.

My own senior thesis about ambiguous loss—how these kidnappings permeate through the collective consciousness.

Football.

Consumerism.

The cancer of corrupted politicians—all distractions from the putrid underbelly holding it all together.

Ambiguous loss and the disappeared

I feel called to spend some time talking about forced disappearances because I believe that this is an uncomfortable reality many of us have intellectually quarrelled with, but I sense that many have not emotionally digested.
The thing about kidnapping, about forced disappearances, is that there is no end to the grieving cycle. You are stuck, suspended. The families and loved ones are denied the finality of death or of closure.

Because when someone is kidnapped, with no means of tracing or contacting them, the human spirit will do all that it can; it will do everything in its power to hold out hope. And that is the most diabolical thing about this terror tactic.

The families are suspended in a state of limbo, stretched between helplessness and the whims of the state.
Held hostage by the courage of their own hearts, which compels them ot hope.
To believe with every fiber in their being that their desaparecido will come marching home.

Psychologist, Pauline Boss, coined this phenomenon—Ambiguous loss. She worked with families and victims following 9/11 to cope and process through the trials that followed the rescue searches.

The courage to bear witness

In more ways than one, this phenomenon and my academic upbringing in the subject of collective memory and ambiguous loss is why the New Americana exists. I spent the better part of 2025 bearing witness.
The personal testimonies of torture victims from the Brazilian dictatorship (1964-1985).

The account of being held prisoner, blindfolded and restrained, vulnerable and exposed in La Escuelita by Alicia Partnoy in Argentina (1976-1983).

Now in Minneapolis, as my neighbors were dragged away en masse, and masked vigilantes blew kisses at me, flaunting their impunity on the snow laden streets.

Poster for Ainda Estou Aqui, a Brazilian film about forced disappearances during the dictatorship

Medicine

They say the study of the past is the study of the future, and the study of the future is that of the past.

What I offer you, then, dear reader, is the knowledge that what came out of Argentina’s dictatorship was one of the most robust frameworks for human rights violations in international justice spheres.

Brazil birthed Cinema Nova, and fought back with the camera as a weapon—documenting injustices, but more importantly documenting dignity, and passing on the knowledge to the youth to fight back in the future.

Everything moves in cycles.

Nature. Ourselves. Society.

Let us move through this cycle together.
Let us allow the currents to bend us, not break us.
Let us leave the grounds fertile for those who take up the torch once we’re gone.

Take care of you and yours,

Annika

Media recommendations

• Ainda Estou Aqui (I’m still here) dir. Walter Salles

  • TW: kidnapping, distress, violence against women and children

• Que Bom te Ver Viva (How nice it is to see you alive) dir. Lúcia Murat

  • TW: Kidnapping, torture, sexual violence

  • If you’re interested in learning more about this one, I’d love to chat—I did a whole film analysis about it :)

• La Escuelita by Alicia Partnoy

Today is the eve of the 250th anniversary of this nation.

They say nations rise and fall over that span of time.
Allow me to tell you a bit about my friend, Pluto.

Pluto takes about 248 years to orbit, which is an insane thing to process, Mother Earth herself, taking but 365 days to transit around the sun.

What can be accomplished in 248 years?

What can be built? Destroyed?

The rise and fall of the Roman Empire, should we choose to descend into our ascent?

Pluto is the planet of evolution.

The history of humans is one of change.
There are two types of humans—those who choose growth and change consciously.

And then some change against their will.
It is thrust upon them.
And they thrash against the chains of their bondage.

But Pluto cares not for your feelings.

He rules the DNA.

The ancestral. The generational.
The unseen building blocks that constitute you, as well as your fellow man.

Pluto is also the power to destroy.

It is the process of eliminating.
All that was once built must come from prima materia.
That to which all our energy owes its allegiance.

So what does it mean?
Are we at our Pluto return as a nation?

I implore you, dear reader—look around you. What do you see? What is falling? What is yet to be built?

For many of you reading this, look to your birth chart, and you will see that your Pluto placement is in Sagittarius.
This is evolution through the energy of expansion. Through faith in a better tomorrow. We are the modern myth makers, the trailblazers. We are the ones who hold the torch to a better tomorrow.

I’ve found myself emotional as of late. This past full moon in Capricorn was transiting my 12th house, which is to say I’ve been thinking a lot about my purpose, how I wish to serve the world, and how I have found peace with the fact that my mystic oracle nature is integral to how I must contribute to the collective. I am a channel for the unconscious currents that flow throughout society. I am how those unspoken feelings get alchemized into words and concepts that we can touch. That we can change.

And so, I’ve found myself reflecting on how we as a society are compelled to move. As a nation, we are on the cusp of maturity. I used to joke to my international friends that the United States is like a child going through adolescence. Insolent, with a big mouth, and believing that nothing and no one in the world can stop them.
What we are facing now is a reckoning. For we are realizing, it’s time to grow up. It’s time to realize that our actions have consequences, and consequently that we have obligations to our fellow man as well as to humanity at large. We can no longer move through the world with impunity, pretending we are independent of the interconnected system.

To mature is to realize that choice is the real obligation.

In this life, we are blessed with time, but there is a finite amount of it, and each of us is endowed with our own allocation. Some of us have more than others, some less. It is blunt to put it this way, but it’s the truth, and once we reckon with that fact, we can then use it to choose the direction in which we’d like to chart our path.

To move aimlessly is to waste the gift the universe has given you.

You must choose.

We must choose.

If you are a writer, pick up your pen.

If you are an artist, sit with your craft.

If you are an activist, talk with your people.

If you are a policymaker, craft your proposal.

We sit on the cusp of a future of progress. One where we are able to see that the distant past is also the distant future. Where we reconnect to the immortal truths we are slowly remembering.

Come home to your true nature.

We all have a purpose.
Choose to take up your mantel and serve.

Take care of you and yours,
Annika

Medicine

• Listen to this Cacao Ceremony, Heart Opening & Sacred Prayer Mix by VaniBorn.

  • sit with yourself while writing, creating art, or communing with nature. Allow the music to move through you. Open yourself to the medicine contained within the music.

  • Write about what you notice moving through you. Where do you feel it in your body? How does it make you feel emotionally and physically? Energetically?

Gentle reader,

Allow me to begin this week’s newsletter with a quote from the great James Baldwin:

the longer I love, the more deeply I learn that love—whether we call it friendship or family or romance—is the work of mirroring and magnifying each other’s light

I find myself emotional this morning as I write this.

Partially because Co-star told me to do morning pages, and despite having no intention to fulfill that commandment, here I am.

And partially because of this article I read, “I Was Wrong About the World Cup” by Lady Libertie on Substack.

You can consider this a part two to last week’s newsletter.

Dear reader, Mercury is also in retrograde. And while I know that’s above some of your heads, all it means, as we sit here in the watery sign of cancer, is that we’re going to be retracing our emotional scars for the next few weeks.

In Spanish, a phrase that I love for this phenomenon is recorriendo el corazón. It literally translates to walking through the heart, but the way we use it in Spanish means more to travel around”

To recorrer a country is to see the north, the south, the countryside, and the city alike.

To recorrer el corazón is thus, to take a tour through the contents of one’s heart
So during this Mercury Retrograde season, we’re going to be revisiting some old wounds and seeing if how we feel about them now is how we felt in the moment, and most importantly, learning how to transmute that pain into love.

Announcement break!

• We’re accepting submissions on a rolling basis! Writing something and need some help? Shoot us an email with your piece, and we’ll provide some feedback and direction--whatever you need in the moment. I’m super stoked to see what ya’ll have been cooking up!

• Check out the New Americana Substack!

• Discord - wohoo! Digital community! Join for daily updates and a more informal look inside the New Americana world

• Looking to get more involved? Want to show off your graphic design, editing prowess, or outreach and coordinating skills?

  • Sign up here to become part of the team

• Share the New Americana with someone you know!

  • LinkTree Link: https://linktr.ee/newamericana25?utm_source=linktree_profile_share&ltsid=ecd9ab60-1890-4b37-bf3d-018e05faa172

• Explore the New Americana Drive

  • Newsletter Archives, Interviews, photos, essays, and more!

  • https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1kAget69vzxsKhAmSYmv5rTcYEQ-4MiBm?usp=drive_link

Let’s bring this back to the World Cup, shall we?

That Lady Libertie article really struck a chord with me because the main thesis is precisely what I’ve been trying to hammer home through these newsletters and through our work with the New Americana.

I was scared of the World Cup coming here.
I didn’t think we deserved it (as much as any nation can, given the state of FIFA….more on that here).

Like the article states,

I thought the whole spectacle would be a five-week humiliation reel: foreigners gawking at us, mocking us, getting fleeced by our prices, bruised by our policing, stranded by our transit, and then flying home with fresh evidence that America had finally lost her marbles.

But the experience has been quite the contrary.
I’m not going to lie and say it’s all been sunshine and roses—see the Aussie chant about dear leader, for example, but it also hasn’t been the Armageddon I was anticipating.

And the most important lesson I’ve been learning is that in order to believe that we are worth saving as a nation, we must allow ourselves to have our own light mirrored back to us through the eyes of our guests.
Nations are dancing in the streets, unified by sport.
Songs exchanged, pubs drank dry—we must not forget that the yin and yang are symbols of balance, of equilibrium and rhythm.
We must acknowledge the problems because they are real and they are pressing, but we must also allow ourselves to be illuminated by the light.

Scottish fans abound in Boston

I told you last week that I have deeply conflicting emotions about this year’s World Cup.

I think part of it is coming from the fact that, as a people, we’ve been “force-fed contempt” for ourselves, well, since forever.
The other side is this.

The other side is that.

They’re the downfall of society.
The scourge of the very earth.

But discernment is a lesson worth studying.

And to have pride for one’s country doesn’t necessarily mean having pride for all of its actions.
To love is to bear witness to all aspects of an entity.

It is to see the flaws and understand that yes, I still want to be here.
I still want to be present, I still want to help.

Love is an action, and what it means is to be in a continuous dialogue of learning how to better treat one another.

Citizen to citizen, government to constituents, corporations to employees.

This country has good bones—now we’ve got to flex the amourous muscle and see if we can live up to our ideals.

Take care of you and yours,

Annika

Astrological PS:

We’re still feeling the emotions from yesterday’s full moon in Capricorn.
Be gentle with yourself, but see your circumstances for what they are.
This full moon turned on the ugly overhead light—the one you only use to clean or to move, and it’s asking you to get rid of all the gunk that has been lingering and is only holding you back.

Buckle up, folks—we’re in for a ride through July and August.

Media recommendations & easter eggs

• peep the New Americana Pinterest

• Terrified of becoming who you are? This is how to face your Dragon by Betwixt: The Story of You

• I Was Wrong About the World Cup by Lady Liberty

• OBSESSION

Gentle reader,

I need to confess.

Every four years, the World Cup rolls around, and consequently, every four years, I am reminded of my roots.
Late-night practices, long-haul trips.
Reflecting, playing, crying, desiring.

There is much emotion that sport evokes.

I like to joke that sports are a microcosm of war in a way.

In a society that is so clearly civilized, in which war is frowned upon, the masses must have sme outlet to release all that pent-up energy somehow.
But here’s the thing.
Though I love the women’s team dearly—and rightfully so, they’ve got four World Cup titles to their name—I must admit that every Men’s World Cup, I become a bit Ameriphobic.

I can’t help it; it’s almost an involuntary response.

I hate-watch them, and every time thus far they’ve scored in this tournament, I have a peculiar feeling in my chest. Somewhere between exasperation and pride.

The former because, though historically the U.S. has — sucked — at football, I would be remiss to neglect the fact that they’re doing well this year, and people see it.

Perhaps this is a test of my own feeling of unity with the American identity.
Perhaps it is a way to examine the intricate layers of nationalism and sport as they come into confluence.

I guess we’ll see once the knockout round starts.

Hydration (announcement) break

• We’re accepting submissions on a rolling basis! Writing something and need some help? Shoot us an email with your piece, and we’ll provide some feedback and direction--whatever you need in the moment. I’m super stoked to see what ya’ll have been cooking up!

• Check out the New Americana Substack!

• Discord - wohoo! Digital community! Join for daily updates and a more informal look inside the New Americana world

• Looking to get more involved? Want to show off your graphic design, editing prowess, or outreach and coordinating skills?

  • Sign up here to become part of the team

• Share the New Americana with someone you know!

  • LinkTree Link: https://linktr.ee/newamericana25?utm_source=linktree_profile_share&ltsid=ecd9ab60-1890-4b37-bf3d-018e05faa172

• Explore the New Americana Drive

  • Newsletter Archives, Interviews, photos, essays, and more!

  • https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1kAget69vzxsKhAmSYmv5rTcYEQ-4MiBm?usp=drive_link

Football has always been political

Football has always been a political game, but more than that, it’s the people’s game. The beautiful game. It is the world’s sport because all you need is a ball, and that ball is whatever you say it is.

It is a sport that is highly accessible, and therefore breeds talent across continents and cultures. From Morocco to France, Argentina to España—football transcends boundaries and often brings the colonized and colonizer into contact with one another.
It’s more than just a game for many of these people, and the tensions run deep.

FC Barçelona and Real Madrid

Those of you who know me know I adore Spain. And though I am a devotee of their excellent public transit system and Flamenco music, Spain, like everywhere and everyone else, have their shadow side.

For the uninitiated, there has been a deep-seated rivalry between FC Barcelona and Real (royal) Madrid since the clubs' inception in 1899 and 1902, respectively.

Their rivalry game, known as El Clásico, began to take shape into the bitter standoff we know today during the Spanish Civil War, which took place from 1936-1939, and then continued under Francoist rule from 1939 until Franco died in 1975.

Francisco Franco, dictator of Spain after the war, sought to see Spain become a homogenized state, which is to say, the dearth of diversity and languages, traditions, and cultures scattered throughout Spain were to be reduced to the “proper” Castellano archetype.

“Antifascist youth, future generations depend on you. Be healthy and strong. Take care of your life and live with dignity”

Anti fascist poster from the Asturias region.

This meant Franco’s desires were carried out through forced disappearances, public executions, and violent repression.

FC Barcelona was seen as a symbol of Catalan independence and pride.
Franco banned the Catalan language, the Catalan football league, and ordered them to strip their crest of the Catalan flag.

And to add insult to injury, the club’s president, Josep Sunyol, was executed by Franco’s troops.

Travelling south to Madrid, Franco utilized his connections to management with the club Real Madrid, as they were transformed into a symbol of Franco’s idyllic version of Spain. Speaking Castellano (what Spaniards call the Spanish language, coming from the region of Castilla), successful and formidable opponents on the pitch.

You can see how the seeds of division were sown from the beginning.

Football was and still is used as a proxy for politics, and El Clásico is just one of the most famous examples.

So if you see me wearing a Barcelona Jersey in Madrid—this is why.

Qatar 2022: Migrant workers and human rights violations

Here’s the thing.

I love football.
FIFA, despite (allegedly) being a non-profit, is one of the most corrupt and profitable organizations on the planet. One need not look far to be able to see that FIFA is no stranger to controversy.
Allow me to turn back time to the 2022 World Cup and bring us to Qatar.
What kind of football culture does Qatar have? You may find yourself wondering—the football culture is one of shirt sponsors (Qatar Airways) and petrol dollars.

French side Paris Saint-Germain boasts their Qatari sponsor

So when I heard that the 2022 World Cup was to be held in Qatar, where average temperatures during the time of the tournament can exceed 107 degrees fareinheight—I knew the world was in for a show, in more ways than one.
First, they moved the tournament to the winter, which, all things considered, was a cool experience to walk through my University and see the games projected in lecture halls.

But what of the manpower required to host such a tournament?
Qatar’s government reports that 30,000 foreign laborers were hired just to build the stadiums, with approximately 6,500 Indian, Pakistani, Nepalese, and Bangladeshi workers dying as a result of inhumane conditions.

In addition to the needless loss of life, there were a host of reasons why the 2022 tournament was seen as controversial from a human rights perspective, including but not limited to the criminalization of “homosexual” acts, which could land you in prison for 7+ years or stoning to death!

It’s stats like these that make the average football fan wonder what goes on in the room where it all happens.
Backroom deals and the trading of dignity for dollars—and the show we get every four years is the result.

Mexico, Canada, and the U.S: To the present

As I mentioned earlier, I have complicated feelings about this World Cup and the political ramifications that accompany. On a personal note as well, I had to switch to Canadian TV because, for the life of me, I couldn’t stand listening to Alexi Lalas drone on about precisely nothing.

In the U.S. front, tensions around immigration and prejudice are flaring up again as Omar Artan, a Somali Referee, and 2025 African Referee of the Year, was denied entry to the United States based on his country of origin.

Omar Artan, first Somali official selected to ref at the World Cup

Teams are being denied visas or having difficulty travelling between host nations.

In Mexico and Canada, cries about the missing and murdered women and Indigenous peoples have resurfaced as football dominates news coverage.

In addition, this is the first time the World Cup has been hosted by 3 nations. The environmental impact from travel alone is going to be the greatest toll we’ve ever seen from the tournament.

They say that life imitates art.
I suppose it imitates football as well.
For though there is much controversy, there are also great triumphs ot celebrate.

Cape Verde, Uzbekistan, Jordan, Curaçao— all making their debuts on the world stage. I can’t deny that to arrive at the World Cup is a source of great pride, for players and the people they represent.
To quote a wonderful writer who has contributed to the New Americana—

And football is a beautiful and complicated thing.
The World Cup has a unique talent to bring people together, while simultaneously shining a light on that which we’d prefer not to see.
I suppose the question is the strength of your resolve to investigate more once the final whistle has blown.

Take care of you and yours,

Annika

References

How the Barcelona and Real Madrid Rivalry Began

World Cup 2022: How has Qatar treated foreign workers?

World Cup finals: Why is Qatar 2022 controversial?

The History and Meaning Behind the FC Barcelona Crest

Media recommendations

Chiron in Taurus Is Here to Show You the One Thing You Truly Own

If You Want An Erotic Life You Have To Die

What happens to culture when nothing can stay underground?

Hello, gentle reader,

There are some days when the words refuse to flow. Today is one of those days for me.

While I often do not believe in brute forcing one’s way through the world, there is something to be said about devotion to one’s craft. Devotion is discipline mixed with love. Sometimes that means showing up, even if the thoughts try to remain lodged in one’s brain.

Brief Announcement Intermission:

• We’re accepting submissions on a rolling basis! Writing something and need some help? Shoot us an email with your piece, and we’ll provide some feedback and direction--whatever you need in the moment. I’m super stoked to see what ya’ll have been cooking up!

• Check out the New Americana Substack!

• Looking to get more involved? Want to show off your graphic design, editing prowess, or outreach and coordinating skills?

  • Sign up here to become part of the team

• Share the New Americana with someone you know!

  • LinkTree Link: https://linktr.ee/newamericana25?utm_source=linktree_profile_share&ltsid=ecd9ab60-1890-4b37-bf3d-018e05faa172

• Explore the New Americana Drive

  • Newsletter Archives, Interviews, photos, essays and more!

  • https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1kAget69vzxsKhAmSYmv5rTcYEQ-4MiBm?usp=drive_link

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Today is another day of strife for the Minnesotan people.

15 “anti-ICE” protesters were arrested in their homes on charges of “conspiracy to harm federal agents”

I was in the middle of an astrological reading when I found out about it, and once more, I found myself holding the pain of the collective. The grief, and loss, the insult to injury we’ve experienced from the national media.

I suppose to an outside perspective, our city is one of chaos.
From George Floyd in 2020, the Hortman political assassinations, Anunciation school shooting, Renee Good, Alex Pretti. There’s a lot of commotion one could point to.

I think it is less that we are a city that invites trouble than that we are a city that refuses to bend under the weight of oppression.

I think we are a city that is filled with highly educated, highly qualified individuals who wield their civic duty as an oath to justice.

There are reports that a deal was proposed that the individuals arrested would be able to be released should they agree to not speak with the press nor one another.

You don’t force people to sign NDAs unless there’s something to hide.

Cards for the collective

I apologize, dear reader; my mind is foggy, and I fear that, though I have thoughts, they are hazy and need to be processed before I can put them into words.
Instead of a more organized newsletter for this week, I offer a tarot reading for the New Americana collective.

The first thing I see off the bat is a ton of swords coming out.

Swords are one of the more difficult suits of the minor arcana in tarot, as this speaks to the journey of the mind. To master the mind is to master oneself, and the mind is a fickle being. Constantly flitting from one place to another, never quite as useful as it can be should it not be channeled with the proper direction.

I asked spirit for four cards, and the two that you see on the top are the bottom deck energy, which is to say the energy overall of the reading, and the significator of the reading.

Swords are the element of air.

Air is the element of communication. Mentalism. Intellectual pursuits.

When one pulls the suit of swords, it is a pulse check to the throat chakra and to conduct an audit as to whether what you are speaking into reality is in accordance with your action, your will.

King of Swords

What I see in the King of Swords is a petition to name truth to the events we are seeing unfold in the world today.

Name injustice for what it is and call it out.
This is a card ruled by Aquarius, the waterbearer, and with it the lessons of Saturn as well.
We are being asked to continue to practice what we preach, to the collective, and within our own individual accounts.

I feel called to mention the famous quote from Ned Stark in Game of Thrones that,

Treat your word as if it were sacred. Ultimately, it is that which binds us to our honor.

Knight of Swords

In the tarot, knights often signify action, an offering of sorts.
The knight of swords is an offering of one’s intellect, of perspective.

You can see in the imagery that the person is depicted riding a raven, making haste, and with pace at that.

I see this in the collective as making tangible action steps towards the future we would like to see.
Continue to organize with your people.

Continue to participate in rapid response teams.
Being a legal observer, a protester, bearing witness to the repression we are experiencing is not a crime.

Act with the knowledge that you are on the right side of history.

I’ve come to believe that history is not written by the victors, but it is written by those who write.

I know those of you who are reading this buy into this message. I don’t need to preach to you the importance of literature and storytelling. But what I do need you to do is put that knowledge into action.

Knowledge in and of itself is lovely, but it is ineffective.

When it is put into action, either through empathy for others or through applied directives—that is when it becomes understanding and wisdom.

Do not sit in your ivory tower.
Share your knowledge with the masses.

Six of Swords

Oh Uranus, the great trickster.

This is a card of upheaval. The weary calm after the battle. The clearing of the sky after the storm.

This is a card that asks us not to forsake our past.
Do not linger on the sadness, the trauma, the pain that you have endured.
Alchemize that anger into a divine force for justice.

The current versions of ourselves wouldn’t exist today if we hadn’t endured what our past selves had to. Now, this is not to diminish your pain, but to remind you that the lessons that you’ve endured can never be taken away from you.

Eight of Swords

Where are you directing your mental energy right now?

How are the narratives you’re telling about yourself, or perhaps your country, serving you?

Do they help or do they hinder?

Eight of Swords is showing us that where we direct our thoughts is what we see manifest in our reality. Where you place your energy is what will expand.

Be curious in exploring your inner world.
Within the privacy of your own mind, dare to challenge the beliefs that have shaped the person that you’ve become. Have the courage to challenge the stories that make up the country we are now.

Choose what you wish to expand, for wherever you lend your attention, it certainly shall.

Bottom of the deck: three of swords

The overarching energy of the collective is that of divine justice.

The three of swords (in my deck at least) is ruled by Saturn in Libra.

Saturn is the planet of restrictions. It teaches us rules and structure. It teaches us how to build safeguards into our lives to keep us safe—sometimes even if we don’t like it, it is ultimately for our greatest good.
Saturn loves to be in Libra. It is a placement which we call exaltation in Astrology.

The challenge for this placement is to find inner balance—to be able to serve the collective in a way that does not come at the expense of self.

Dear reader of the New Americana, I know you are a healer of sorts. If not in the traditional way, then through attempting to heal the collective through words, activism, policy change.

Please bear in mind that the only way we can heal the collective is through the healing of self.
One cannot pour from an empty cup, and one cannot defeat tyranny if they are running around putting out every fire that decides to pop up.

Use your discernment—pick one area to focus on. Integrate yourself. Allow the work to flow through you. Allow yourself to flow through the work.

Significator: The Hierophant

I’m finding myself at a loss for words as I ponder the meaning of the Hierophant in this reading.

I feel called to ask you where you feel called to teach?
What wisdom do you hold within your soul that the collective needs?
Your gift. Your sacred talents.
The world needs them.

I also feel called to mention the aspect of the Hierophant that relates to hierarchy. In the Kaballah (Jewish mystic system) this card represents the path from chesed to chokma, which in other words means the path from mercy to wisdom.

In this lifetime, one finds that there are many paradoxes, many mysteries which give life both its beauty and elusive nature.

One of these is the idea that in order to have a just world, we must be intolerant of intolerance.

Call out bigotry and hypocrisy for what it is.

Remember that the truth has a way of persisting. It is our duty to preserve it.

Thank you for humoring me with an unorthodox version of this week’s newsletter.
If you find yourself finding out more or perhaps booking a reading, click the button below.
Otherwise, stay strong through these times.
Change is on the horizon.

It is always difficult in the beginning. The birthing process of becoming new once more. Hold strong. Trust your instincts. Trust your people.

Take care of you and yours,

Annika

Media Recommendations

• How Stories Shape the Way We Think About Love by Anna Howard

9 junio, 2026

Gentle reader,

Happy happy Tuesday unto thee!

Today is a very auspicious day indeed—

The cosmic kiss,

When you look out into the night sky today, set your gaze upon two of the great wandering stars.
Jupiter and Venus will be conjoining in a beautiful celestial dance.

Good for:

• manifesting your dreams

• chance encounters

• speaking from the heart

Look out for:

excess

hubris

big leads

I sincerely hope you enjoyed my Costar cosplay.

Brief Announcement Intermission:

• We’re accepting submissions on a rolling basis! Writing something and need some help? Shoot us an email with your piece, and we’ll provide some feedback and direction--whatever you need in the moment. I’m super stoked to see what ya’ll have been cooking up!

• Check out the New Americana Substack!

• Looking to get more involved? Want to show off your graphic design, editing prowess, or outreach and coordinating skills?

  • Sign up here to become part of the team

• Share the New Americana with someone you know!

  • LinkTree Link: https://linktr.ee/newamericana25?utm_source=linktree_profile_share&ltsid=ecd9ab60-1890-4b37-bf3d-018e05faa172

• Explore the New Americana Drive

  • Newsletter Archives, Interviews, photos, essays and more!

  • https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1kAget69vzxsKhAmSYmv5rTcYEQ-4MiBm?usp=drive_link

UMN Petition!

A special shout-out to the Minnesotan folk: there’s a UMN petition that needs our help! Please share if you feel called.



Here’s a bit of info:

“There’s a petition making the rounds, condemning U of M president Cunningham’s tuition hikes, budget cuts, and their impact on teaching. Please consider signing and circulating.”

Link: https://cryptpad.fr/form/#

First and foremost, the New Americana is a writing collective. We want your stories, your lived experiences—whether on the front lines of a protest or your contemplations on a mild May afternoon.

A gentle reminder that though there is a place for everyone’s writing, I invite you to consider writing from one of the following categories:

Notes from

This category is for those of who who have travelled the world or perhaps simply have intimate knowledge of another culture.
Write about what it feels like to be an American abroad.

Write about other countries that have faced similar despotism as we’re seeing today.
Write about the fragility of American psychology when stress-tested outside our borders

The study of the future is the study of the past.

And the study of the past is the study of the future.

There are lessons to be learned. Go forth.

Literary (non)fiction

The broadest category, and one I anticipate most of you will write from.

Your poetry

Your prose

Your short stories—we want them all!

There is truth nestled into the stories we tell ourselves to make sense of the world. If the New Americana aims to capture the essence of what it feels like to live on these streets, and walk through our communities—a great place to begin sharing is through the stories we tell each other to cope with the noise.

Here are some great examples from past submissions:

• Flossers by Avi Taylor

• Mutually assured devotion by Annika Prickett

Policy/praxis

Poli-sci kids gone wild!

If you’re a policy geek, this one’s for you.

They say it takes 10 years to become an overnight success and that progress starts with the minds that are bold enough to envision it!

• Imagine an ecobrutalist infrastructure that is affordable to construct and sustainable for the environment

• Universal (WELL RUN—WELL CONNECTED) public transit

• Tax policies that get reinvested into the populations that provide them, in practice, not just in theory (Crazy concept, I know)

• Community public commons

• Third spaces

The list of possibilities goes on and on—and the wonderful thing about the democratic process is that there is a direct through line to implement the policies we create.

One must simply have the audacity and connections to put words to what we know in our hearts is possible.

Lucky for us, talk is cheap, and the New Americana has friends in many places.

I encourage you to write.

If not an elaborate policy or short story, then simply your lived testimonial.

Back in the 70s in Chile, they endured a military dictatorship, not dissimilar to the tactics and rhetoric that we see today.
Forced disappearances—which is to say kidnappings.

Political repression and suppression of the masses.

Their path to justice was hard fought, and I would encourage you to investigate on your own accord, but I bring it up because they now stand as a bastion of democracy in Latin America, with one of the strongest judiciaries in the region. And they arrived at that point by DOCUMENTING EVERYTHING.

Every injustice, every affront to dignity and human rights committed by the Pinochet Regime.

The Chilean people knew that defiance has many faces. For some, like the students—it was loud and a confrontation in the face of their abusers.

For the mothers and families of the disappeared, it was showing out in force, in the hundreds of thousands, refusing to let their loved ones’ names be reduced to a statistic. To see their daughters, fathers, brothers, and mothers be slandered in the name of state violence.

And some knew that the day would come when justice would have its day.

The ones who meticulously kept the score were ultimately those who ended up being the arbitors of justice.

Collective memory is a political tool.

Write to affirm your place in history.

Write to show that which lies in your heart.

Further reading & resources

• Pinochet - How the West Backed a Ruthless Dictatorship in Chile | Free Documentary History

• Resistance, rights and refuge: the importance of memory 50 years after the Chilean coup

• Pinochet’s Chile: Stories of Resistance & Remembrance

Anthony Bourdain

Switching gears a bit, I wanted to write a brief tribute to the late, great Anthony Bourdain.
For those of you who haven’t read Kitchen Confidential or aren’t a devotee of one of his TV series like “Parts Unknown,” Anthony Bourdain was a titan of the restaurant industry, a writer, globe trotter, and big personality.

He got his start as a line cook in the restaurant industry and worked his way up to Executive Chef at Les Halles in New York.

His debut novel, Kitchen Confidential, was what shot him into the national eye.

He was a traveller. A thrill seeker.
And an individual who had the unique capacity to sit with the weight of a country—in all its messy politics, cultural conundrums, and language barriers—and come away with a sincere account of what he had experienced.

I wanted to spend some time in this week’s newsletter to honor him, as the anniversary of his passing was yesterday, on June 8th, 2018.

They say that the stomach is the way to the heart, and I think that’s why Tony did what he did. Not just because he was a lover of all cuisines, but I think he wanted to be in communion with as many different kinds of people as possible.

I believe he was a complicated individual, with a tormented psyche who was in search of warmth, of belonging—querencía.

Obviously, I didn’t know him personally, and all my character assessments are but armchair analysis, but what I do have the ethos to share with you all is how Bourdain played a crucial role in my own personal healing.

It is well documented that Vietnam was a favored locale of Bourdain.
Somewhere between the plastic table and stools, the sticky atmosphere, and mouthwatering food—he found a second home.
There is something intimate about watching someone fall in love with your homeland. Especially when your own contact has been so sparse—saturated with war commentary or the hypersexualization of our women.

To see someone fall, like a teenager in love for the very first time, was a tremendously healing experience.
To connect this back to the New Americana, Anthony Bourdain’s meditations on his own place, as an American, an affluent individual, TV crew in tow, is exactly the kind of reflection and introspection I think the U.S. as a whole would benefit from spending time with.

There is courage in traversing into the unknown. There is humility in the way one must comport oneself while being a guest in another person’s lands.

We as Americans, despite the many of us who are drawn to the foreign, are typically characterized by the fact that many of us don’t leave the city we were born in. This notion of American Exceptionalism, that we have all that we need here at home, is but a shadow defense when encountering the “other.”

How are you to know what you need, unless you know what else is out there?

How do you know what you don’t need, until you see how the rest of the world lives?

To travel is to be changed.

To quote a friend of mine—it is a kind of spiritual suicide in a way.

You lighten your load, giving away possessions.
Prepare to say goodbye to loved ones.

And when you come back, you are scarred, marked by your experiences.

You are rebirthed, and a new version of yourself rises from the ashes.

Bourdain was not perfect.
He was fallible, and he was human.

Tony took his life on June 8th, 2018.

And the world has been missing him ever since.

May his soul be at peace, wherever that be.

And may his legacy grant us the courage to transform into the versions of ourselves we hope to see.

If you or a loved one is struggling, please know there’s always someone to reach out to.

National Suicide and Crisis Hotline: 988

Take care of you and yours,

Annika

Media recommendations

• Roadrunner (HBO)

• Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain

• A Cook’s Tour by Anthony Bourdain

• Parts Unknown (HBO)

Hello dear reader,

I hope you’re doing well and that this week’s newsletter finds you in a place of peace. And if you’re not quite there yet, I hope that peace finds you soon.

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Brief announcements intermission

Announcements

• We’re accepting submissions on a rolling basis! Writing something and need some help? Shoot us an email with your piece, and we’ll provide some feedback and direction--whatever you need in the moment. I’m super stoked to see what ya’ll have been cooking up!

• Check out the New Americana Substack!

• Looking to get more involved? Want to show off your graphic design, editing prowess, or outreach and coordinating skills?

  • Sign up here to become part of the team

• Share the New Americana with someone you know!

  • LinkTree Link: https://linktr.ee/newamericana25?utm_source=linktree_profile_share&ltsid=ecd9ab60-1890-4b37-bf3d-018e05faa172

• Explore the New Americana Drive

  • Newsletter Archives, Interviews, photos, essays and more!

  • https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1kAget69vzxsKhAmSYmv5rTcYEQ-4MiBm?usp=drive_link

UMN Petition!

A special shout-out to the Minnesotan folk: there’s a UMN petition that needs our help! Please share if you feel called.

Here’s a bit of info:

“There's a petition making the rounds, condemning U of M president Cunningham's tuition hikes, budget cuts, and their impact on teaching. Please consider signing and circulating.”

Link: https://cryptpad.fr/form/#

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. Reflecting and pondering on the big picture. If you weren’t aware, this past Sunday the 31st was a blue moon. In Sagittarius, to be specific, and the energy has had me taking a lot of time to interrogate some of the lessons I’ve learned over the past few years.

What it means to allow your heart to be born to the world.
It’s vulnerable as hell.

And very raw.

If there’s anything that I’ve learned from it, it is that we must honor our truths. That which your soul feels called toward.
Sagittarius is represented by Chiron.
The wounded healer.

The horse, and the archer.
It is the year of the fire horse after all.
I finally feel as though my year is beginning.
On a personal note, this past season of my life has been an extremely chaotic period.

Radical acceptance has become a virtue of whom I became a devout disciple.

But in that uncertainty, I also found great empowerment.

The knowledge of what I am truly capable of, when gifted the proper time and devotion.

The thing about Sagittarius energy is that it demands honesty. And this past full mooon asks us to be honest with ourselves about why we deny ourselves our own desires. Our dreams.
Why do we stand in our own way?

And so I find myself thinking about the New Americana.
And the shamanistic path I’ve felt myself called toward.
And I sit with how both have come from an incessant voice, nestled deep within my psyche

And I think about how both have refused to be silenced.
And so the words must come flowing out.

I used to think that the path of spirituality and my writing were cut from different cloths. But the more I grow and learn, the more I go within, the more I see how it is all connected.
If I write for myself, in order to find my own spirit, then channeling that energy toward the collective

To the New Americana is me writing to find the spirit of the nation. All of us writing to find her.

Our writing, together, we search within our hearts and pull from that space that knows we deserve better, and that for us to arrive at that better place, that dream, it must be together, healing, ready to break bread and receive the medicine needed to purge the demons of the past.

I urge you to be open.

To whatever wishes to flow through you these coming days.
I urge you to be curious.
Follow where it leads you.

Take care of you and yours,

Annika

Media recommendations

• A tale of two spirits by Annika Prickett

• Añoranza // A tale of two spirits by Annika Prickett (YouTube)

• Your Pluto Is the Goldmine You’ve Been Sitting On by Farstellar

• Your Mars Sign is What You Must Sever by ARGYRIOS DIKAIOS

• The Artists Guide To marketing (Without Feeling Like An Influencer) by Jared Thomas Tapy (YouTube)

Hello dearest reader,

It’s been almost a year since the New Americana was born. Almost a year together, navigating all the unprecedented tomfoolery that comes with living through the downfall of Empire and colonialism. Throughout this past year, I’ve learned a lot about what it takes to organize a movement, and by no means am I done, but the most important lesson I’ve learned thus far is to try.

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Which is an excellent segue into the topic of today’s thoughts:

HOW I WOULD GO ABOUT WRITING AN ESSAY FOR THE NEW AMERICANA IF I KNEW ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ABOUT WHAT I WANTED TO WRITE ABOUT.

This essay is inspired by a great video by Odysseys entitled “I’m begging you to write more essays.”

For many of us, the word essay conjures images of late-night stress, blank first drafts that are meant to be our final, and banging our heads against the wall because, for the life of you, the perfect adjective doesn’t exist.
I’d like to challenge that belief, so bear with me for a moment.

As Odysseus points out in his video—the word “essay” comes from the French Essayer, which means to try or to attempt.
Specifically in the Enlightenment period, the essay was used to push the bounds of what we thought was possible within the realm of human thought.

Thoreau fucked off into the forest and discovered the non-dual self as well as empathy (amongst other things, of course), and George Orwell used the medium to shed light on the atrocity and hypocrisy committed in the 20th century.

Two of my favorite contemporary examples of the essay being employed come from bell hooks and James Baldwin. Check out their respective works if you’d like to deepen your understanding of the Black American experience as well as the Black female experience.

Seriously, I can’t recommend these two enough.

Back to essays, though:

To provide an operational definition of what an essay is, it is a

A short work of art designed with the intention to describe or argue something.

The essay serves as an invaluable tool in the arsenal of humanitarians and intellectuals in order to put the inner knowing into a format that can be translated across minds and souls.

But first, some announcements before we get into it:

• We’re accepting submissions on a rolling basis! Writing something and need some help? Shoot us an email with your piece, and we’ll provide some feedback and direction--whatever you need in the moment. I’m super stoked to see what ya’ll have been cooking up!

• Check out the New Americana Substack!

• New Americana Workshop days—Location change! Minneapolis Institute of Art—Thursdays from 4-6!

  • Bring a friend, work on your pieces, or just chat and explore a new corner of the cities!

• Discord - wohoo! Digital community! Join for daily updates and a more informal look inside the New Americana world

• Looking to get more involved? Want to show off your graphic design, editing prowess, or outreach and coordinating skills?

  • Sign up here to become part of the team

• Share the New Americana with someone you know!

  • LinkTree Link: https://linktr.ee/newamericana25?utm_source=linktree_profile_share&ltsid=ecd9ab60-1890-4b37-bf3d-018e05faa172

• Explore the New Americana Drive

  • Newsletter Archives, Interviews, photos, essays, and more!

  • https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1kAget69vzxsKhAmSYmv5rTcYEQ-4MiBm?usp=drive_link

STYLES OF ESSAYS

Bueno, there are many different kinds of essays, and part of the beauty of writing is that you can quite literally do whatever you’d like to with the word. That being said, I can appreciate the need and desire for one to have some rules to begin with before they can be broken—crawl before we ball, right?

1. EXPOSITORY ESSAY—This is your Wiki-style explainer. Essentially, in this style of essay, you’re taking a topic, take for instance the Civil Rights movement, and in this format, you’d be seeking to explain the different aspects of the Civil Rights movement in an explainer fashion. This specific newsletter is an expository essay in a way.

2. ANALYTICAL ESSAY—An analytical style essay is when you take a topic, piece of media, or subject and break it down into its respective components. I love a good analytical piece; there’s nothing that brings me more joy than breaking down every nook and cranny of long-form media.

3. REFLECTIVE ESSAY—Reflective essays can consist of many different things. The long form version of this would be what we call a memoir. In the context of the New Americana, I find it particularly important that we document in this style because it allows us to put our thoughts and feelings, our inner experience, into words. Given the past few months in my city as well as across the US, I don’t feel I need to belabor the reasoning why.

AN EXAMPLE, AN EXPLANATION

Let’s see, then, here’s a mini example of a reflective essay and some more context as to why I began the New Americana.

The New Americana, as a project, is a cancer, which is to say it carries the energy of the crab.

Fun fact, the United States is also astrologically a cancer, but that’s another essay for another time.

It was June of the years past, when I was working out, and I saw on the TV

I remember dropping my weights, incredulous.

I remember that stupid news ticker at the bottom of the screen—that was the only red I needed to see, but of course, there was more.

There’s always more in this God-forsaken country.

The national guard was beating back civilians with no regard for humanity. I suppose dignity is a luxury when you get paid based on obedience.

I remember the anger and disillusionment I felt after election night.

I remember the feeling of helplessness and how I refused to dwell on it.

Later that night, I came home a little tipsy, a little high, and put on Hamilton immediately—it was the 10-year anniversary after all.

It was right around Non-Stop when it hit me—history has always been written by the victors, but the truth has a way of persisting. Despite rhetoric, despite despicable lies—the truth has a way of preserving itself. Of endearing herself to stewards that will allow her to shine and speak. It was about this time that I opened up my computer and began to write the preamble for what would become the New Americana.

I had no idea what direction I wanted to go with the project, nor logistically what it would look like, but I knew that it was part of my sacred duty to document, and thus, the entity, spirit, being—whatever you want to call it—that we know as the New Americana was born.

Your part in this

Now—what does this have to do with me? You may be asking yourself. Well, dear reader, I ask you to ask yourself—what has the past two years, hell, the past decade of being an American felt like to you?

How has your relationship to your country shifted and changed over time?

Has it been positive? Negative?

What were the factors that caused those shifts?

Have you travelled abroad? How does it feel to see people’s reactions when you tell them you’re American?
How do you feel? How do they react?

We do not write because we have an intrinsic belief that our words alone will make the difference.

It may be what changes one’s life, and that’s a beautiful thing, but first and foremost as a radical act of hope.
Creation is the most powerful thing we can do in a world that tells us that everything is replaceable, that none of this matters.

But we know that it does, and we know because we can feel it in our bones.

If I were to start from scratch

If I were to start from scratch and had no idea what to write about, I would go to the source of my emotional well.

I would look back at my camera roll and connect the dots of my life, my lived experience, and the events of the world.

For me, when I go to that place, I imagine the winter air piercing through my feeble attempt at layering. I see the drones surveilling my neighborhood as I try to discern if I heard a cry for help or relief in the distance. The memory of choruses of whistle’s serenade searing itself into my mind. My emotional well-being is still making sense of the recent traumas, as I’m sure you understand, dear reader.

Notes on the analytical

Another approach I think you would do well to consider is the analytical essay. I remember doing literary analysis of stories back in high school. Now is no different, and there’s a whole wealth of things to pick from:

• The prevalence of work-themed TV shows in the current media

  • The Bear, The Pitt, Grey’s Anatomy, Suits, etc

  • What does that say about the audience?

• WHERE DID ALL THE COLOR GO?

  • An analysis of the desaturation of society

• An analysis of ICE protest art

  • Themes of resilience, community care, and the right to exist

Amongst many other things!

This is intended to be a springboard for you to consider, dear reader. I want you to see that an essay need not be so formulated and formalized, and can be scaled up or cut to be concise as your little writer self so desires.
For me personally, some interests for reviews/analyses have centered mostly on the role of the feminine in spirituality and what it means to cultivate inner peace.
I also have a soft spot for the Lost Generation of writers. For once they returned from WWI, they too saw that the world their parents, their government, their God sold them was nothing but a lie—and thus many of them set off onto hedonistic pilgrimages into the anals of Paris with the meager hope of finding some meaning.

On narrative essays

Finally, I’d like to present our third potential for your essay writing extravaganzas—the reflective narrative.

If you’d like, you can imagine me as your (unlicensed) therapist, gently reminding you to do your journaling. Otherwise, what I’ll tell you is that the act of putting your thoughts into words allows you to pick them apart and analyze them in a way that’s simply impossible should your inner experience stay—well, inner.

I feel it is important to mention too that your feelings, your thoughts, are not always who you are. Your thoughts oftentimes act like guests in a vacation house. Some stay longer than others. Some you wish would extend their stay, and others you wish would just leave already. But these thoughts are not always an accurate representation of your soul—you get to determine that.

To quote the late great Mac Miller:

We write to share stories.
We write to connect.
We write to preserve the present.

We write to protect our lived truths.
It doesn’t need to be perfect or polished; it just needs to be authentic to you.

Write to connect with our shared human lineage.

I’ll leave you with a quote from R.O. Kuon on Substack:

Take care of you and yours,

Annika

Media Recommendations

• Clarice Lispector: High Priestess of Modernism

• Become the creative director of your career

• be bold enough to imagine it with the sun in Gemini

• I’m begging you to write essays by Odysseas

Hello dearest reader,

I hope this Tuesday finds you well. To tell you the truth, I’m writing this on Monday evening. It’s been dark, and gloomy, and terribly stormy as of late, but I can’t lie—I quite enjoy it. I’m a moody Scorpio who enjoys it when the environment reflects my emotions, what can I say?

If you’re in the Cities these days, you know that this past weekend was Art-a-Whirl. I was woefully uninitiated before this year, but for those of you not around these parts, in the words of a kind stranger who offered me an impromptu poem,

”It’s the best festival this city has to offer right and right after one of the hardest winters we’ve had…ever.”

One of the many installations I enjoyed

As the name suggests, the entire Northeast neighborhood is flooded with artists and artisans. Ceramics, vintage collections, DJs, and prophets, all sharing a studio space, just waiting for you to poke your head in.

It was inspiring to see, and I agree with my new friend—it truly is one of the best things the Twin Cities has to offer. Much of the reason that’s so is that art is the closest thing we have to seeing the inner workings of someone’s soul. To appreciate someone’s art is to glimpse that which is sacred to them and to experience what moved them, be it profound or deeply silly—we’re complex beings, us humans, we’re allowed to be both, no?

So to see an entire city show out in full force was a beautiful experience to say the least.

I did my first boots-on-the-ground interview since the thick of the occupation (if you want to listen to what some of those earlier interviews were like, click here), not quite knowing what to expect. I spoke with Kim, the Owner of Sebesta Apothecary, and I think what stood out to me, at the risk of sounding trite, was the resounding resiliency of the human spirit, especially through the arts.

Something Kim mentioned that stuck with me was her response to the question of how she was coping with the uncertainty of the situation: “by creating.”

Dear reader, I do wish to impress upon you the importance of such a declaration.

Kim sent me off with a bar of Uf-da soap as a gesture of goodwill for being part of the rebellion and with food for thought as I pondered what the next steps are.

To remember and to document is sacred work, and we are in the process of creating the tapestry that the next generation will inherit. I suppose the story of today is to determine which acts of courage—no matter how generous or how hidden—get told tomorrow.

From my personal correspondences and pondering/plotting on New Americana business

I’ve been thinking a lot about hope lately as my seedlings continue to grow (or perish in untimely deaths, though I still water them regardless).

It seems the bureaucratic machines remain as deaf as ever.

There is a sanctity in continuing to show up. I read an article about different hobbies that train an individual in discipline. Martial arts, instruments, and learning a foreign language. These skills are desirable for a multitude of reasons, and yet, if this is the case, why do more people not pursue them? Why are we all not black belts in Karate, or maestros at the cello? Why don’t we all speak Mandarin with fluency, or even show up to do a plank every day?

Discipline is difficult, but discipline is also devotion.

No one ever learned to speak a language overnight, and those who claim to have are missing half of the joy that comes with learning one. For he who learns grammar without culture is the one who risks becoming a fluent fool.

But some languages are universal in nature, though not all will seek to learn their tongue. It is called hope.

Hope, too, is a discipline. Hope is also a daily devotion. To believe that better times are coming, regardless of how bleak the present may seem.

I had this revelation while dancing at a techno/house set I stumbled upon with my friends. It had been an emotionally charged night; it was the dark moon, and we were all tired, but after a fated encounter with a good friend and some good music, the energy was flowing.

Kendrick Lamar’s Alright came on, and it made me think of all the other music, primarily by Black artists, that echoed the same message.

We’re gon be alright. N**** we’re gon be alright. Do you hear me? Do you feel me? We’re gon be alright.*

There’s another song by Whitney Houston, It’s Not Right, but It’s Okay that was playing at a coffee shop I was at the week prior that conjured similar emotions.

It’s not right, but it’s okay. I’m gonna make it anyway.

There is much pain that is native to this world. Humans like to play pretend at being God, acting like we’ve mastered Mother Earth and all her impulses when we’ve yet to be able to curb our own worst natures.

But all that pain and hurt and worry—let it not be yours to bear alone.

A burden that is shared is a burden that is halved. Lean on your people, and let them share the weight with you. And then get up and dance, because we’re gonna be alright.

Take care of you and yours,

Annika

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Announcements

• We’re accepting submissions on a rolling basis! Writing something and need some help? Shoot us an email with your piece, and we’ll provide some feedback and direction--whatever you need in the moment. I’m super stoked to see what ya’ll have been cooking up!

• Check out the New Americana Substack!

• New Americana Workshop days—Location change! Minneapolis Institute of Art—Thursdays from 4-6!

  • Bring a friend, work on your pieces, or just chat and explore a new corner of the cities!

• Discord - wohoo! Digital community! Join for daily updates and more informal look inside the New Americana world

• Looking to get more involved? Want to show off your graphic design, editing prowess, or outreach and coordinating skills?

  • Sign up here to become part of the team

• Share the New Americana with someone you know!

  • LinkTree Link: https://linktr.ee/newamericana25?utm_source=linktree_profile_share&ltsid=ecd9ab60-1890-4b37-bf3d-018e05faa172

• Explore the New Americana Drive

  • Newsletter Archives, Interviews, photos, essays and more!

  • https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1kAget69vzxsKhAmSYmv5rTcYEQ-4MiBm?usp=drive_link

Media Recommendations

• The Intelligence of Desire by Maja

• if you’ve forgotten how to live, start here. by Amber

• The Girls Are Opting Out and Everyone Is Losing Their Minds by Adesola Oni-Doings

• Foolish Grace | Wake Up Dead Man and Reciprocity in Anthropology by Incidental Mythology (YouTube)

Good afternoon, ladies and gents, theys and thems,

As always, I hope this week’s newsletter finds you well.
It’s a time of celebration across the land. University commencement ceremonies, the rebirth of the land, and the sweet scent of flowers permeating the air. If you or one of your loved ones is celebrating one of those major life milestones, I am wishing you a very heartfelt congratulations (even if it was just you taking the time to enjoy yourself outside for a bit.

We must remember that while the horrors persist, there is still light and goodness in the world that must be celebrated and given equal weight.

Recently, a swath of local leaders in the Twin Cities accepted the JFK Profile in Courage Award on behalf of all Twin Cities residents for their courageous response during the occupation this winter.

Here’s what some of them have to say:

*The following quotes were pulled from a joint post between @mplsgov and @jfklibraryfdn on Instagram

Zena Stenvik

Superintendent, Columbia Heights Public Schools

Educators, parents and community members came together and stood up to a federal government entity that influcted injustices, violence and harm to our communities. As families were being ripped apart, the people of the Twin Cities organized and operationalized to provide resources and wrap their collective arms around vulnerable neighbors

Carolina Ortiz

Associate Executive Director

Communities Organizing Latine Power and Action

What’s powerful about this recognition is that it honors collective courage through a sustained, community wide response rooted in dignity, solidarity, adn care for one another. As a DACA recipient, I know what it means to live with uncertainty and to rely on community for safety and dignity.

Natalie Ehret

Founder, Haven Watch

To me, representing the Twin Cities means honoring what I saw happen through Haven Watch and across the community: people choosing courage in the face of fear and compassion in the face of cruelty. I am proud to represent everyone who stepped forward to make sure people are met with dignity, humanity, and care when it was needed most.

Imam Yusuf Abdulle

Co-Founder, Somali American Leadership Table

Executive Director, Islamic Association of North America

Representing the people of the Twin Cities is both an honor and a trust. It means serving with sincerity, standing firmly for justice, confronting injustice wherever it exists, and bringing people together for the common good.

At the risk of sounding trite, allow me to go into etymology speak for a second.
The word courage is derived from the Latin coeur, which, for any of my polyglots out there, will know means heart.

To be courageous in the face of darkness and despair, to “choose courage in the face of fear and compassion in the face of cruelty,” as Natalie Ehret beautifully put is to show tremendous heart and humanity for one another, and I am proud to call myself a Minnesotan because of that.

In times of celebration like this, I know sometimes setting aside your grief may feel like abandoning it, but please know, dear reader, to enjoy and take part in life is not a betrayal of what you went through, but it is proof you were able to transcend the traumas and take part in this beautiful experience we call life despite it. You need not be defined by the forces that wish to keep you down or impose their version of the story on you; only you have the power to assert who you are to the world.

May that person be kind and compassionate.

May they be as generous to themselves as they are to others with their energy and time.

May they be endlessly curious about the mysteries of life and how they unfold.

May they be courageous regardless of what lies in their path.

There’s a James Baldwin quote I’ve been turning over recently, and I feel like it speaks to the art we saw come out during the occupation and continuing now as well:

All artists, if they are to survive, are forced, at last, to tell the whole story, to vomit the anguish up.

I’m in the process of purging my poisons. I look forward to reading yours as well.

Take care of you and yours,

Annika

Announcements

• We’re accepting submissions on a rolling basis! Writing something and need some help? Shoot us an email with your piece, and we’ll provide some feedback and direction--whatever you need in the moment. I’m super stoked to see what ya’ll have been cooking up!

• Check out the New Americana Substack!

• New Americana Workshop days—Location change! Minneapolis Institute of Art—Thursdays from 4-6!

  • Bring a friend, work on your pieces, or just chat and explore a new corner of the cities!

• Discord - wohoo! Digital community! Join for daily updates and a more informal look inside the New Americana world

• Looking to get more involved? Want to show off your graphic design, editing prowess, or outreach and coordinating skills?

  • Sign up here to become part of the team

• Share the New Americana with someone you know!

  • LinkTree Link: https://linktr.ee/newamericana25?utm_source=linktree_profile_share&ltsid=ecd9ab60-1890-4b37-bf3d-018e05faa172

• Explore the New Americana Drive

  • Newsletter Archives, Interviews, photos, essays, and more!

  • https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1kAget69vzxsKhAmSYmv5rTcYEQ-4MiBm?usp=drive_link

Media Recommendations

• CAFÉ DA MANHÃ Ep. 2 – Mulheres da MPB | Luedji Luna, Duda Beat, Josyara & Mais | Morning session

• Global conscious music, independent artists radio, community mix volume 1

• Notes of a Native Son PDF, James Baldwin

• What’s the Deal with Wasia? by Anika Wilsnack

Share The New Americana

By Annika Prickett

ACT I: THE RIVER AND THE STONE

M—Dad, why are you looking at the TV like that?

The screen showed bar graphs and photos from last night’s vigil. The last candle hadn’t even gone out yet, and the talking heads on the television were already stating speculation like fact.

T—It’s nothing…I’m just trying to make sense of some things.

M—It doesn’t seem like anything.

Marco said from the corner

M—Besides, you only pick at your eyebrow like that when it’s something serious.

Thomas took a deep breath, steadying himself.

T— You’re right. I’m just trying to find the right words to explain it to you, Marcos’ father explained. Each word was carefully measured, like the way mom used to meticulously level ingredients to the desserts she’d make for her boys.

M—Just tell me, I can take it.

Marcos pried eagerly

M—I’m almost 13, so I’m basically a man already if you think about it.

Thomas eyed his son with equal parts pride and apprehension

T—You’ve still got a lot to learn before you can call yourself one and truly mean it.

Marcos moved from his spot, wedged in between the cushions of the loveseat.

M—How are you supposed to know which stations are telling the truth and which ones tell lies?

T—I’ve been trying to figure out the answer to that same question for the past 42 years, son. I don’t know.

M—Well, what do you think of everything that’s going on?

T—Which part exactly are you referring to, kiddo? There’s a whole bunch of stuff we could be talking about here.

Marcos pondered for a second.

M—All of it?

Thomas paused for a moment to think. He could say what he really thought, or he could protect his son from the whole truth. But something in him suspected that if Marcos didn’t get an answer from him, he’d find one somewhere else.

T—Marcos, do you use social media at all?

M—You didn’t answer the question.

T—Answer this one first

M—Ugh, you’re so annoying

Thomas laughed

T—The feeling is mutual. So do you?

M—A few. The stuff on there is wild, though. It’s like the wild west.

T—The badlands indeed. No rules, no regulations—nothing.

M—There are terms and conditions.

T—That’s different from the actual structure. It’s a de facto institution

M—What does “de facto” mean?

T—It means that things are the way they are, and people accept the reality as it is.

M—Even if it’s not actually doing its job?

T—Especially then.

Thomas left his son to make a cup of tea.

T—Would you like any?

The kettle whistled softly, flames licking its underbelly.

M—I’m okay, but you have fun.

The TV began to show close ups of the scene. Stuffed animals on the dash, and a scarlet-stained airbag.

T—Marcos, turn off the TV, please.

M—What…was that?

T—That’s what happens when people accept things the way they are and don’t do anything to try and make it better.

Marcos slowly crept into the kitchen. Like a ghost, careful not to disturb his surroundings.

M—I don’t understand why people hurt each other. It doesn’t make sense. Why don’t people want to help and love each other?

T—You know, you remind me more of your mother every day.

Thomas reached a hand out to pet the feline friend brushing past.

T—I don’t know either, but I know there’s a lot of hurt and pain in this world, and for some people, it’s easier to pass that on to other people than it is to deal with it.

M—even if that means causing other people pain?

T—Marcos, do you remember learning about World War II and the Holocaust?

He nodded, hanging onto each word from his father as if it were gospel from the prophet himself.

T—What did you learn in those units, son?

M—We learned that 6 million Jews were murdered because Hitler didn’t get accepted into art school.

Thomas suppressed a smirk.

T—Tell me what else you learned. Or maybe what confused you, something you still have questions about.

Marcos had always been a curious one. Perhaps he was bound to have that inclination, both his parents being professors and all. But curiosity for all its virtues has a tendency to dim the idealism of youth, especially in times of turmoil.

M—I didn’t understand how all the good Germans could let someone like that take power. Could they still be considered “good Germans” if they didn’t do anything to stop it?

T—Ah, see that’s where we get into trouble. “Good” is subjective in the eyes of history. If Germany had won the war, would the Allies still have been considered good guys?

M—So, power is what determines morality?

T—Sometimes. But it’s complicated.

Marcos sighed, exasperated.

M—Everything is always so complicated.

T—That’s also what makes life beautiful.

Thomas countered, preparing his loose-leaf tea.

The pair sat for a moment in silence. The air was electric, buzzing with all the questions Marcos had yet to ask. Eventually, he wandered over to the vinyl player and put on a Brazilian Jazz record.

M—You know, most of my friends’ parents just have a speaker system they connect to their computer or phone.

Thomas blew on the tea, watching the tiny ripples cascade and bound into the rim of the cup.

T—There is beauty in art that can’t be taken away.

M—Dad, you always speak in riddles.

T—I’m a history professor. What do you expect?

M—Fair point.

The voices of João Gilberto, Caetano Veloso, and Gilberto Gil filled the room, guitar strings gently accompanying their melodies. Marcos fiddled with the place mat in front of him, trying to piece together his thoughts.

M—Dad, you still didn’t answer my question.

T—Remind me again?

There was a tension in the air. As if Marcos knew he was about to open Pandora’s box. Unsure what was to become of it, and unable to restrain himself from finding out.

M—Why did you react that way when you were watching the news earlier?

Thomas collected himself for a moment. To Marcos, it seemed as though his father was reliving something. He could tell by the way Thomas’ eyes closed in concentration, the grip on that fragile teacup tightening ever so slightly.

T—Marcos, did you ever learn about Emmet Till in school?

M—He was the little black boy who was lynched because the town folk thought he did something bad to a white lady, right?

T—Yes, and do you think those townfolk were justified in doing that to him?

M—No, of course not! He was innocent!

Marcos exclaimed, incredulous at the insinuation that he could condone something of the sort.

Thomas’ gaze was fixed on the plants on the balcony. The cats liked to go people watching out there, and thankfully, have always returned.

T—Much of the reason we even know about what happened to Emmet was that his mother chose to have an open casket funeral. His body was on full display to showcase what those monsters did to his body. The lacerations, the cuts, and wounds they gave him. All the way down to how bloated and disfigured he was because they had thrown him in the river for the alligators to get him.

Marcos listened intently and uncomfortably. His mind was conjuring the images he remembered from his social studies class.

T— There was national outrage at what they had done to that poor boy, who, by the way, was about your age when he was lynched.

Marcos spoke slowly, intentionally.

M—Is that what happened to the woman on TV?

Thomas looked at his son with eyes filled with as much softness as he could channel as he told his son what happened earlier that day on the Streets of Minneapolis.

T—Not exactly, but yes. They killed her in cold blood. I reacted the way that I did because that same sense of injustice you felt when you learned about Emmet Till, that’s how I feel right now.

One of the cats jumped onto Marcos’ lap, purring softly. The boy stroked him gently as he absorbed his father’s words.

M—So why are the people on TV saying that it was her fault?

T—Did you see any of the videos of what happened?

Marcos looked sheepish.

M—On Instagram, yeah. A few different angles are floating around.

Images of the scene replayed in Thomas’ head. The shrill hiss of whistles blowing. A small army of civilians lined the streets. The desperate cry of the woman, as three shots went off

—What did you just do?!

T—Tell me what you saw from the videos you’ve seen.

Marcos felt a weight in the center of his chest. It was uncomfortable and heavy. Like there was something deep inside his ribs trying to claw its way out.

M—I saw a woman talking to those officers. She just told them that she wasn’t mad at them. It looked like she was trying to leave, and then the officer just started shooting at her.

Thomas sat for a moment with what his son had just witnessed, what the whole world had seen. He felt anger boiling over in his hands had had to get his breath under control.

It wasn’t fair that these were the kinds of conversations he had to have with his son. He should be talking about sports or trying to quell adolescent angst as Marcos got closer to going to high school. But people don’t get to choose when the world decides to go insane.

T—I’m sorry that you had to see that video, Marcos. It’s horrible, and I’m sorry that this is happening.

Marcos eyed his father with a mix of curiosity. Chewing at the words as they stumbled out of his lips.

M—I just don’t understand.

Thomas walked to the record player and switched the vinyl to the B-side.

T—Neither do I. The world has lost its mind.

Marcos gazed down at the cat, which had nestled itself in his lap and was dozing off.

M—So what do we do then?

Thomas’ eyebrow shot up in surprise, or perhaps confusion.

T—What do you mean?

M—Well, this is wrong, right? How do we make it better? Isn’t there something in your history books that shows us how to fight back?

Thomas fingered the lukewarm teacup in front of him. He thought about what was happening in the world when he was his son’s age.

In 1996, Operation Desert Strike was underway in Iraq. And since then, thousands of Americans have returned back state-side in body bags. It was like what he had been teaching his students all year—fascism is the imperial eye turned inward. But Thomas and Marcos weren’t Iraqi soldiers fighting another American-made forever war, they were U.S citizens. That had to mean something still, right?

T—Are you in the mood for a history lecture?

Marcos looked up at his dad.

M—I’m in the mood for what will make things normal again.

There was a determination in his eyes. He was not poisoned by the same sense of powerlessness so many are accustomed to when dealing with state violence. Marcos believed he could make a difference.

Thomas believed he could, too.

T—Can you tell me what you know about what’s going on with all the federal agents in Minneapolis and around the country right now?

Marcos looked as if he was waiting for his dad to ask him about this all night. Perhaps he had been. He was just a boy trying to prove he was mature, ready to take on the weight of the world. Thomas prayed that he would allow himself to be a kid, if only for just a bit longer.

M—I know that ICE is trying to round up “criminals.”

Marcos said in air quotes.

M—And that it’s really just an excuse to go after Latinos the same way that Hitler went after the Jews in World War II.

Thomas sat nodding, encouraging his son to keep going.

M—And…

Marcos hesitated. His voice cracked.

M—And I know that some of my friends have stopped coming to school. And I know that they’re afraid of what might happen if they leave their houses.

Marcos’ eyes began to well with tears.

Thomas pulled his son into a hug.

T—Hey, it’s okay, I’m here.

Marcos grabbed his father tighter.

M—It’s not okay, though! My friends are scared that they’re going to get kidnapped, and now they’ve gone and killed someone in broad daylight!

Thomas was at a loss for words. What are you supposed to say to your kid in this situation? It’s not exactly like they have a “How to explain extra-judicial killings” section in any of the teen parenting books he read.

T—Okay, you’re right, it’s not okay, but we will be. I’m going to protect you.

Tears stained Thomas’ t-shirt as he tried to console his son. He wished desperately that his wife was here. To not have to guide his son alone. But in a way, he was happy that she never had to live through this hellscape of a winter. The world she knew was untouched by all this madness.

M—What happens if they come after us?

Marcos looked up, his eyes bloodshot and puffy. The cats circled him in protection.

T—We can’t think like that. We can’t afford to.

M—Why not? Aren’t I allowed to be worried about my family, about my friends? I don’t want them to take the people I love.

The tears kept coming, like a summer storm with no end in sight.

M—We’re not criminals. I don’t understand why they keep calling us that online and on the news. It’s not fair! None of this is fair!

Thomas felt his heart drop. His son was right. None of this was fair. None of this should be happening, and yet, there was nothing he could do to shield his son from what had already been done. He felt helpless. He was supposed to be Marcos’ protector, but what do you do when the people who are supposed to be protecting you begin hunting you instead?

T—You’re right, Marco, none of this is fair. The best thing we can do right now is look after each other and the people we care about. Your auntie, your cousins, and your friends. We’ve got to look after one another.

Marcos sniffled and tried to wipe his nose with his sleeves.

T—Here, take a tissue, kiddo.

Thomas grabbed an orange from the fridge and explained while he peeled.

T—In the world, there are always going to be good people and bad people who want to do bad things.

He handed a few sections to his son as one of the cats reclaimed his place on Marcos’ lap. The air smelled sweetly of citrus.

T—Have you learned about Newton’s laws in your science class yet?

Marcos chewed his pieces and was promptly handed more. He nodded.

T—So you know that an object in motion will stay in motion, and an object at rest will stay at rest, right?

His little head bobbed in agreement as the fruit disappeared. He looked so much smaller in this moment than normal. Just about in the middle of a growth spurt, hormones raging and all, and at the impossible age where boys teeter between adolescence and the cusp of adulthood.

T—Those bad people are the objects at rest. They’re set in their ways and likely won’t be moved, no matter how much we’d like them to. We’re the objects in motion, but it’s like a river. A river of love, and kindness, and justice. Those bad people are the ones getting in the way of how the world is supposed to flow, but we’re meant to be in conflict.

M—Isn’t being in conflict a bad thing, though?

T—Sometimes, but not always. Sometimes you have to fight for peace, and that means doing uncomfortable things because you know in there —Thomas poked Marcos in the chest—what’s right

M—But what about what you said earlier, about what’s right and wrong is determined by those who have power?

Thomas signed and looked to the sky as if in prayer. He felt his wife speaking through him as he said

T—Sometimes all we can do is lead with our hearts and hope all is well in the end. And never forget that you’re the one who decides if you have power.

He picked up his son as he used to when he was little and began carrying him to bed.

T—Come on, bedtime for Bonzo.

He tucked his son in and wished him a good night.

T—Sleep well, kiddo. We’ll talk more tomorrow.

Marcos watched as the snow that was fresh this morning thawed. As he drifted off to sleep, he remembered the song his mom used to sing to him.

Mira, mira corazón, olvida el miedo que hay en ti

Pues que deja de sufrir todo aquello ya pasó

Grita y ponte ya a vivir, que todo va a salir mejor

—

Look, my love, let go of the fear inside of you

Stop suffering from that which has already passed

Scream and go live, it’ll all work out in the end

END OF ACT I

The air feels electric and alive again

It’s April

And yet there are still days I feel the winter chill seep deep into my bones again

like a tea sachet, alchemizing each drop of water it touches

Reminding me

that to grow is to change

and to change is to be loved

Today I was running errands

Mundane tasks, nothing extraordinary

I leave my house and pass by a memorial

rosaries adorning a cross and scrubs hung in sanctity

I often wonder about grief

and how it has a way of lingering at the edges of the mind

The ways it presents itself without a moment’s notice

I think about all the votive candles lit around the world in remembrance

I continue on my journey

Off to collect pots for my ever-growing herb garden

And along the road, I see another one

Another memorial

Another sign---“ONE OF OUR NEIGHBORS WAS KIDNAPPED BY ICE HERE.”

You see, we are a lucid generation

All the knowledge of the world at our fingertips,

Yet, where do you go when no one’s given you a map?

I remember marching past this memorial in early January

I remember the rage and how my heart ached helplessly that day

It was a rare sunny winter’s day

And though the snow relented, the terrors did not,

It was my best friend’s birthday when it happened

How am I to celebrate one life

making its way around the sun once more

When the one taken in this spot will never see it rise again?

And yet it floats by

not as in passing

But how these things often do

matter of fact

haunting you

Regardless of how much perceived distance is put between reality and rhetoric

I continued north

off to retrieve a book from the library

America Day by Day by Simone de Beauvoir

She talks about an America that seems to me as foreign as it must have been to her back in 1947

79 years later, I found myself time traveling once more

This time back to 2020,

The spark that set the city and world aflame--George Floyd Square

With its fists protruding from the asphalt like sprouts from the earth

I felt as though I was part of a mandala

As I passed through the roundabout

Turning a sacred wheel

paying respects and sharing hope for a better future...

TO BE CONTINUED

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Annika Prickett

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The truth has a way of persisting

regardless of the rhetoric and lies

The truth has a way of persisting

while the weak-minded egos

depend on you not believing what’s in front of your eyes

The truth has a way of persisting

despite all the smoke and mirrors

The truth has a way of persisting

And I know we have all shed many tears

The truth has a way of persisting

whether through unshakable faith or inner knowing

The truth has a way of persisting

for matters of the soul

the oppressor’s sullied conscience is the one showing

The truth has a way of persisting

I know that you know that now is the time to fight for what is right

The truth has a way of persisting

I need you to know that a better future,

The light is nearly in sight

The truth has a way of persisting

So to all those who try to erase our plight, know

That the truth has a way of persisting

And we the people

Who carries the power of the pen

our children’s ears

And our beloved communities shall never forget that

The truth has a way of persisting

And we won’t stop until all our needs are met.

Buy me a coffee!

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Love is a tricky thing

All my life,

I feel as though I’ve chased after her

yearned for her

tried to prove myself worthy of her

And it took until recently to realize

All I had to do was stop running

For to love is to experience

to be present

to understand the impermenance of the moment

and that even when those bad moments arise

Like the sun, light shall shine again

There’s this thing called the Eros Effect

It sugguests that many times throughout our global history

Millions of ordinary people suddenly entered into history with each other. Their activation was based more upon feeling connected with others and for freedom that upon specific national, economic, or political conditions

Eros commands:

War shall fall to peace

As solidarity triumphs over racism

Domination shall submit

to self determination

And the patriot

shall convert his heart to humanism

Eros is one of the many faces of love

It is exaltation

exuberence

The total immersion of the sensual experience

Embodied

Empowered

And it is also lust

when taken into the contect of the collective

this sugguests that we as a people

as a society

suffer from an unimaginable thirst

for justice

for peace

for the future that was promised in bad faith

The Elysian fields,

a paradise the ruling class always knew we’d never be able to make it to

But that lust

that desire is holy

because it teaches us where our hearts are tethered

It shows us where our souls yearn

illuminating that which we hold sacred

Our joy

Our soverignty

Our pleasure

Our freedoms

An ethic of care

An ethic of honesty

For I think in this generation

In this new age

our people believe

that a bitter truth

tastes better than a sweet lie

Darling, love has many faces

and it can be a cruel mistress at times

But don’t let the fear of never knowing her

prevent you from experiencing all that she is

For it is always better to love and have lost

than to never have loved at all.

I don’t want to eat the world. I want to live with the world. To observe the world. To take care of the world. To love the world. To dialogue with the world. To relieve the world a bit.

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Goooooood day, ladies and gents, they’s and thems,

I hope this email finds you well. As tensions rise over in Iran and across the pond, as much as you can, I urge you to read widely and seek out information and testimonies from places other than social media and traditional US news media. Here’s a great Substack article by lilsmichelle called About Iran, from an Iranian Woman. I feel called to say that it’s alright if you come from a place of ignorance when discussing something as complex as the geopolitics of Iran. There are scholars and human rights defenders who dedicate entire careers to hone their knowledge of the region. Think twice before reposting anything, and question who the narrative you’re being marketed benefits. Identify the key issue being discussed and identify the context of what’s being presented to you--it’s time to whip out those AP U.S. History skills again!

In an age where AI is rapidly making us less literate, quicker to delegate critical thinking, and less likely to engage in, well, anything that doesn’t provide a quick dopamine hit--taking the time to digest what you’re consuming is a radical act.

I also feel called to say that you don’t need to be an expert on everything. There’s Epstein, the concept of the Constitution, dangling by a thread, the series of forever wars around the world, or if you’re like me from the Twin Cities, the ongoing onslaught of our friends and neighbors--pick one thing that you feel called to dive deep on and learn everything that you can about it. Inevitably, topics will bleed into one another, and when that happens, you can identify the patterns and how the two connect.

Full disclosure, I haven’t started reading this yet, but one of my friends recommended a book called “Read this when things fall apart: letters from activists in crisis,” edited by Kelley Hayes. It’s understandable to feel like the world is coming down around you. In many ways, it is. The key to seeing change in your individual life is by embodying what you would like to see reflected in greater society. As within, so without, our immediate surroundings are the reflection of our internal world. Do not place all the ills of society upon your shoulders; that’s not your burden to bear.

I’ve found myself at a place of reflection and recollection these days. Mercury is in retrograde (yes again, this happens 4 times a year, people), and I’ve been trying to use the energy to take stock of what’s going well, and where my passions lie. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the New Americana as a project as well, and I think that I’m realizing sometimes you need to integrate before you can create. Much of the internal work I’ve been doing these days has to do with my own ancestry, and it’s heavy emotional labor.

I’m going to add in the full passage from bell hooks as she talks about how naming pain is a herculean task, especially when it comes to crafting theory in a liberatory way.

It is not easy to name our pain, to theorize from that location. I am grateful to the many women and men who dare to create theory from the location of pain and struggle, who courageously expose wounds to give us their experience to teach and guide, as a means to chart new theoretical journeys. Their work is liberatory. It not only enables us to remember and recover ourselves, it charges and challenges us to renew our commitment to an active, inclusive feminist struggle. --p74, Teaching to Transgress, Theory as Liberatory Practice, bell hooks

As I’ve gone through my personal journey of interrogating my roots, it’s had me thinking about my experience. bell hooks talks about theory from her perspective as a black woman growing up in the apartheid south. I myself write from the perspective of a Vietnamese transnational queer adoptee who grew up in majority-white communities. Our writing and our art are inextricably linked to our community of origin. Understanding the implicit social codes that were embedded at a young age is thus necessary to begin the process of deconstruction and healing.

I think about this from the perspective of the New Americana, your roots are different than mine. If you come from a “white” lineage, and by that I mean German, Scandanavian, etc, your ancestors were faced with the choice of choosing their culture or a new claim to “whiteness.” This gets more complicated if you’re Irish, Italian, or ethnic Romani. What I mean to say here is that I truly in my heart of hearts believe that the path to our national healing lies in our ability to sit with ourselves and parse apart our own lineages. From a place of gratitude and reverence for our ancestors and the struggles and sacrifices they made for us to end up on this land.

We’ve already taken so much from this land, the least we can do is honor our own roots, and hope that in the process it brings us closer to each other in the process.

Annika

Media Recommendations

• **The Role of Storytelling in Systemic Change by** Elena Vasileva

• Theory as Liberatory Practice by bell hooks

• Read This When Things Fall Apart Letters to Activists in Crisis by Kelly Hayes

• About Iran, from an Iranian Woman by lilsmichelle

• The Quiet Captivity: How Comfort and Fear Cripple Revolutionary Will by Resistance Archives and A. Tahrir

• Chuwi: Tiny Desk Concert

• The Cast of Buena Vista Social Club: Tiny Desk Concert

The Usual

• Check out the New Americana Substack!

• Discord - wohoo! Digital community! Join for daily updates and more informal look inside the New Americana world

• Share the New Americana with someone you know!

  • LinkTree Link: https://linktr.ee/newamericana25?utm_source=linktree_profile_share&ltsid=ecd9ab60-1890-4b37-bf3d-018e05faa172

• Explore the New Americana Drive

  • Newsletter Archives, Interviews, photos, essays and more!

  • https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1kAget69vzxsKhAmSYmv5rTcYEQ-4MiBm?usp=drive_link

By Annika Prickett

February 6th, 2026

Minneapolis, Minnesota

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I know I don’t need to belabor the events of January 2026 for you, dear reader.

I have wept and marched alongside many of you, and I share the pain that we’re all harboring in our hearts right now. To put it lightly, these are troubling times. To put it bluntly—we’re fighting for the very soul of our nation—but you knew that already.

I’m not here to lecture you about the importance of this moment. The tides have shifted, and right now is a time of action and digestion. Over the past few months, I’ve been working as a part-time concierge at a hotel, part-time (unpaid, unlicensed) therapist counseling guests on their concerns and cancellations regarding their trip into the Twin Cities. The resounding message I found myself returning to over and over again is that, despite how terrifying it feels to walk outside, despite the almost 4,000-strong occupation in our streets, dare I say I’m excited to be alive right now?

Minneapolis and Minnesota are at the center of the global eye right now, and we’re showing the world that we are a strong and resilient people—unbound, unbent, and unbroken in the face of unprecedented state violence against its own citizens, and yet despite it all, we still lean on love.

Neighbors helping neighbors.

Supporting small businesses.

Patrolling the streets to provide some semblance of safety for one another.

We are protecting ourselves and each other, and if that isn’t the very heart of resistance, I don’t know what is.

What deeply excites me is the art culture I’m seeing flourish across the Cities. There is a uniquely Minnesotan spin on the “ICE OUT” resistance art—from snow emergency signs to the ice sculptures that sit on our capitol lawn in St. Paul, it shows that people in Minnesota have taken ownership over defending our communities, and that they are processing the pain of occupation enough to transmute into a culture that we are in turn sharing with the world.

Art is deeply intertwined with resistance movements; in fact, it is the life force that propels them forward. It is my personal belief that if you have even an inkling of creativity in your bones, it is your duty to act as a channel for that energy. Allow unprocessed trauma and emotions to be released from your system, no matter how raw, no matter how messy, because it is our duty to bear witness, and someone needs to see what you’ve created.

The art we produce is what allows the rest of the country and the world to empathize with our plight, to show them that we are not savages, terrorists, or violent by nature, but rather that we are compelled by a deep ethic of care for one another, and that is what drives us to fight. Observing and creating art helps to break down the rhetoric surrounding this occupation.

This is what our snow emergency street signs look like—as you can see, we’ve put our spin on it during the occupation.

Art is what humanizes us. Furthermore, documenting this moment preserves it. It is to protect the truth of what we are enduring for future generations to understand the warning signs and how to resist should authoritarianism rear its ugly head again.

There have been exactly zero instances in which fascism has prevailed. Mussolini fell on the sword of his own hubris. The Norwegians, not unlike what we’re seeing now on our home turf, beat back the Nazis, and we all know how Hitler would ultimately go on to face the barrel of his own gun. We are destined to win this fight; it just might take a while to get there.

As the current regime attempts to bury us in fear and division, they neglected to realize that we are seeds. I implore you, dear reader, to tend to that garden. Take photos. Write a journal documenting what you’re seeing outside, the atmosphere of campus, what it feels like to be in community—to be a city under siege. Interview your friends and professors about how this moment is landing for them. Doing something is better than nothing, and right now, we need your art and your voice more than ever.

To play on Lin-Manuel Miranda and Hamilton:

“History is happening in Minneapolis, and we just happen to be in the greatest city in the world.”

Stay strong.

Stay Minnesota Nice.

And for the love of God, FUCK ICE.

There are no crises; there are changes. One who does not change enters crisis.

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By Annika Prickett

2025-08-05

The Outsider

It was a crisp March Evening. My best friend and I were enjoying gelato on a corner of San Francisco’s Little Italy when a kind stranger joined us. We traded life stories and music when suddenly his tone shifted. His expression mirrored that of someone who was grieving. I suppose in a way, he was. Our friend told us that he had spent 35 years in San Francisco, working at the restaurant we sat in front of.

35 years of life, he poured into this city, and the fact that he was undocumented, he knew that he would soon be forced to leave, either by his own hand or by the icy one of the government. His eyes began to well up as he spoke, “When I leave here, you guys must carry on the legacy,” he said. I asked him what kind of impact he’d like to leave in the Grey City of Love.

He responded, “Leave a legacy of love.”

That night marked me, as I reflect on the everchanging landscape of the United States. Immigration was the foundation of this nation. Whether you’d like to credit Lief Erickson, Cristobal Colón, or the first protestants from the Mayflower, the simple truth is that unless you are of native descent, you are an immigrant on indigenous soil.

And so, that begs the question: what does it mean to be “American?” Surely there’s more than a title, for this continent’s namesake comes from the Italian explorer Amerigo. And what of South America? Central too?

I am a transnational adoptee, which is a roundabout way to say that I come from foreign lands and that my mother tongue does not belong to my blood. Throughout the course of my life, I’ve grappled with my identity. I feel as though I’ve been truncated from my heritage, and in its place, whether by my own volition, or perhaps encouraged by the squinty eyes kids in my elementary class would make at me–I assimilated.

To assimilate is to absorb. To incorporate, to imitate.

For much of my life, I felt as though I was performing this idea of what it meant to be American. I was taught by society to be ashamed of my roots, that while boys would always prefer the bombshell blondes with bright blue eyes over my quietly observant brown ones. I saw how people looked down upon brownness, though they desired to be tan. An intricate dance of condescension and fetishization. An eternal battle with no end other than subjugation to the order of things, lest we find solace within our own communities.

The Patriot

There is a brand of arrogance that the United States specializes in. She is blessed with a blissful ignorance so potent that she ignores cries for justice, pleas for help from her oppressed. What many non-white citizens of this nation find infuriating is that this country has always been built on the backs of others.

Only deemed American enough should the sweat shine bright enough off their backs. But what does it mean to truly be a patriot? Is it not patriotic, is it not love, to desire a better country? A more perfect union?

I remember once I went to write and I saw the Washington Bridge lit up in red, white, and blue. I remember how a knot slowly took root in my stomach and how a flood of nausea crept its way through my body.

I also remember thinking how I hated that I felt that way.

The Stars and Stripes have taken on a multitude of different meanings over the years, and unfortunately, at present, it represents a misguided ideal. It represents how we’ve strayed from our path, of being a beacon of hope, a land welcome to everyone, so long as you’re willing to put in the work to love her.

The land of the free, home of the brave–or have we forgotten that this applies too, to the immigrants that washed upon Ellis Island’s shores? Does this land belong too, to those seeking refuge behind Lady Liberty?

The core tenets of this nation itself are adaptations of the French Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité. Liberty, equality, and brotherhood transformed into life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The basis of our great democratic experiment, which is to say the foundation of the States, is rooted in a constant, continual conversation. Congressional Conventions that sprawled across weeks. A constant ebb and flow of balancing power with prudence. A negotiation of what the Founding Fathers wished to see become of our new nation.

All of this to say–there must be conflict to purge the original sins of our country, but in the same way, there must be a desire for resolution and reconciliation, should we move forward. The inevitable confrontation with uncomfortable truths is the pouring of iodine on our wounds–a painful, but necessary step on the way to our country’s spiritual healing.

Albert Einstein, an immigrant and brilliant physicist who sought refuge in the U.S. amongst the chaos of Nazi Germany and the Second World War, once said that “the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” How we choose to move forward from this stain on our history will define how the U.S. stands in the eyes of the world and the eyes of its own people.

The Heirloom

As an American, I don’t want to watch this country die a slow and agonizing death, with fascism waiting by the bedside. I don’t want to be ashamed of my government when I talk to my international friends. America was never meant to be a finished product, but rather an ongoing dialogue. Forged through the flames of democracy, the voices of the dreamers, the survivors, shaping this nation into one of their likeness. She is a labor of love in which the struggle for justice is synonymous with striving for self improvement. To see the beauty in our differences is to see the beauty hidden within every one of us. That discipline means listening intently to the tensions that arise from the multiplicity of our voices.

Our strength, our charm comes from hearing the harmonies in our own discordance. We must become a mosaic, not a mythical melting pot. A nation that, rather than erasing the uglier tiles of old times past, rearranges them in such a way that reveals wonders yet to be discovered.

A new world, a new destiny for us to manifest.

I choose to believe that there is hope for this country, not because she is perfect, but because she is unfinished.

And because, as my friend outside of Little Italy said—we must leave a legacy of love.

That, I think, is the most American thing we can do.

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I’ve been thinking about the world.

A lofty statement, I know, but something I can’t quite shake is the notion that so much of the hatred

So much of the division being sown throughout the world is rooted in a profound sense of ignorance.

Of simply being unaware, and I want to make that distinction—ignorance—because oftentimes what we name malice, as evil, is really just ignorance.

One comes into this world endowed with the knowledge of one's surroundings

Some souls will seek out what else the world has to offer

Others will stay put in their querida jaulas, comfortable, complacent.

In an effort to help wash away some of that ignorance, I’d like to tell you all about one of my favorite musical genres—bolero.

I won’t be doing a deep dive on bolero history, though I’ll include an essay I wrote about Bolero Cubano, transculturación Mexicana, y el blanqueamiento (Mexican transculturation and the phenomena of whitening the race known as “blanqueamiento”) at the end if you’re interested in learning more.

Bolero is a genre of music whose roots can largely be traced back to Cuba and other regions throughout the Caribbean. It’s a genre characterized by nostalgia, yearning, and most importantly—heartbreak. I remember when I was first learning Spanish, music was one of the most effective avenues to getting the language embedded into my psyche. I remember learning ritmos and choruses of songs I had no knowledge of the meaning before I ever learned syntax and grammar.

What one must understand about Latin culture is that they are a deeply passionate people. Love is loud, and more importantly, it speaks without shame. This trait is best exemplified by their music. Bolero is an older style of music, but the way the trumpets and singers serenade you is transcendental across generations.

Sabor a Mí is one of my all-time favorite boleros, specifically the version sung by Eydie Gormé. I imagine myself singing it outside of my partner’s balcony in a fictional world in which we’re still courting each other. Trying my best to earn their affections, bearing my whole heart out for them to see:

Tanto tiempo disfrutamos de este amor;

We’ve enjoyed this love for quite some time

nuestras almas se acercaron tanto así que yo guardo tu sabor,

Our souls grow closer as I keep your taste

pero tú llevas también sabor a mí…

and you too carry mine

No pretendo ser tu dueña; no soy nada;

I don’t pretend to be your owner, I am nothing

yo no tengo vanidad.

I am not vain

De mi vida doy lo bueno.

of my life, I give you the good

Soy tan pobre que otra cosa puedo dar?

For I am poor, what else do I have to offer?

I think one of the things that endears me so much to bolero music in general is the rawness of it all. The artists who write and perform these songs do not hesitate in bearing their souls for the world, for to them, it is better to speak than to die.

That is a philosophy that has informed my life ever since I discovered bolero music, and that nostalgia, that romanticism, it’s steeped itself in my bones as if tenderness were a tea sachet and the color of my soul the byproduct.

Sometimes I struggle to write about love because there are so many angles from which to approach it. There is the picture-esque love that we see in our fairytales, and that’s as real as the toxic situationships too many of us have found ourselves in. I think it’s difficult to quantify because of how unpredictable and uncontrollable it is. A kiss, a glance, a touch just whispering across your skin. In the song “Que Bello” performed by La Sonora Santenera and Carla Morrison, Carla sings about her back-and-forth dynamic with su amor and how they know they’re bad for each other but can’t help but adore how sticky sweet their love tastes.

Por qué me miras asi?

Why do you look at me like that?

Mientras me visto sin ti

While I get dressed without you

recuerda bien ese cuerpo que fue tuya placer

Remember well this body was once yours to please

para amar y engañar

to love and to cheat

ya no te mojes los labios

don’t wet your lips anymore

y me insinues tus ganas

and insinuate your desires

ay, eres tan bello y sensual

Ay, you’re so beautiful and sensual

que no sé si me iré ahora o mejor después

I don’t know if I should go now, or perhaps later

y yo que te deseo morrir

oh, I desire for you to die

que importa esta es la ultima vez

Who cares, this is the last time

el orgullo puede esperar

pride can wait

ven o me arrepiento en el piso o donde sea y tomáme

Come or I’ll regret it on the floor or wherever, and take me.

que bello cuando me amas así

How beautiful when you love me like this

y muerdes cada parte de mi

and you bite each part of me

que bello son los celos de hombres

how beautiful, the jealousy of men

que sientes cada vez que me voy?

how do you feel each time that I leave?

I remember being younger, always the kind of kid who had big feelings about most things, especially when it came to love. Every connection felt like a lifeline, and each lover a lesson. Bolero music helped to give me a language to express those feelings, one where I didn’t need to feel ashamed for feeling intensely.

Throughout Cuban history, bolero has been an outlet for all kinds of people as well. In the essay I linked above, I talked about how bolero was an escape for queer people to be able to express their love publicly, for to sing a bolero written by someone of the opposite gender, directed at the gender of your affection, was to free yourself of societal constraints and explore desire through a new lens.

Music is a powerful tool that helps us to connect to the common threads that bind us together on the human tapestry. The love songs sung in Cuba express the yearning and desire that Wong Kar-Wai depicts in In the Mood for Love.

I oftentimes find myself disillusioned and disembodied. Stuck under the weight of the world and in emotional paralysis due to the sheer amount of news I receive daily. Bolero music helps me to come home to myself and remember who I am, and more importantly, what keeps me motivated.

In a world where it feels (emphasis on feels) like there’s nothing we can do to make the world just a bit better, Bolero reminds me that making art is how we’ve endured throughout human history. From cave paintings to films, to bolero to Bad Bunny—art is how we show our future ancestors where we cast our gaze. Because attention is love’s currency and to be loved is to be known. I wish to know as many forms of love as possible in this lifetime. I hope you’ve enjoyed learning about one of mine.

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Dispatch from the Cities

Minneapolis, Minnesota

24 January, 2026

Los violentos son quienes provocan la injusticia social, no quienes luchan contra ella.

The violent ones are those who provoke social injustice, not those who fight against it.

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To those watching from afar,

The Twin Cities are occupied, and my people are under siege. We are the current subject of President Trump and ICE’s ire with his “Operation Metro Surge.” There are 3,000 ICE agents stationed in my city. Each one outfitted with an out-of-state vehicle with tinted windows, a face mask to help hide from accountability, and marching orders to “keep Minnesota safe from illegal aliens.” They fail to understand that those “illegal aliens” are our neighbors and friends. They are part of the diverse tapestry that makes Minnesota my home. Since early January, the Twin Cities and Minnesota at large have become a flashpoint in a rapidly escalating federal crackdown on immigrant communities and political dissent. Detainment tactics have become increasingly more militarized. Surveillance is heightened; hell, there’s a drone hovering above me as I write this very dispatch.

I try not to seek out the news, not out of ignorance, but exhaustion. It’s all about us. Another neighbor kidnapped, another gross human rights violation and humiliation down the street. The main roads to my neighborhood are lined with protesters 7 days a week. There are people keeping watch on every corner, bright whistles adorning their necks, badges that carry more honor than anything DHS could muster. They stand ready to sound the alarm should another kidnapping or extrajudicial killing occur. We stand shoulder to shoulder, shivering from the sub-zero temperatures. We gather in coffee shops that were converted into community hubs, shelves lined with food, respirators, and gas masks, and pocket copies of the Constitution.

As I write this from Downtown Minneapolis, another person has been shot and killed by ICE. Alexander Pretti. 15 minutes away from where I am now. I used to wonder how things like this were allowed to happen. I remember sitting in my human rights classes in disbelief about the level of state-sanctioned terrorism those regimes would inflict upon their people, the ones they claimed to protect. I read testimony from political prisoners. I listened to accounts of those who were kidnapped and tortured.

I think that part of me knew what was to come with a second Trump administration. I think a part of me knew that the time would come when we would need to bear witness. So here I am today. Writing as if I’m running out of time before the next execution—because truthfully, it could be any of us.

I am tired.

I am enraged.

I am bruised and battered.

I have devoted much of my education to the study of human rights, focusing especially on how Latin American societies have processed the crimes of past dictatorships. I know what a coup and a dirty war look like. I didn’t expect to find myself caught in the crosshairs of one. It hurts to have to use the skills I was taught in classes and to put them into practice, but we don’t get to choose when fascism decides to tighten its grip. However, we can choose to act.

I am a writer, a poet, a warrior. What I can do with a pen cannot resurrect what has been stolen from us. It cannot assuage the trauma that Latinos (and other immigrant groups) in our community have been suffering through. I cannot take away the fear response to the scream of a whistle that my community and I will have once this is all over, nor the double-take that I instinctively do when I see a masked mercenary or a car with tinted windows and out-of-state plates.

I am a writer, and that is what I shall do. For as long as I hold dominion over my senses and my pen, I will bear witness to the suffering around me. I am an artist, and I will serenade you with sonnets as the C2 smoke slowly makes its home in my lungs.

To the world, please know this—I love my country, but I am made a mockery of by my government. They call us terrorists as we fling ourselves in front of gas canisters, hurling towards our neighbors. They say we’re impeding investigations, as they bastardize the Constitution they swore to uphold, breaking into houses with no judicial warrant and detaining people with zero regard for due process.

This regime is not representative of who we are as people—as Americans, as Minnesotans. I am someone who harbors a tremendous sense of pride living in Minneapolis. I have been here through political assassinations, through a mass shooting at a church during mass, and despite it all, there is no place I would rather be in the U.S than this city. Minneapolis is special. The people here move differently. It is a kind of stoic solidarity undercut with a killer sarcasm that reminds you just how grounded these people are.

Late last fall, I was doing some traveling outside the US, and my B&B host asked me a question I’d been getting time and time again:

“What’s it like to be American?”

“What do you think of the situation over there right now?”

This was in November 2025. At the time, I made a metaphor, likening the United States to an adolescent going through puberty: thrashing and screaming, and making our own inability to self-regulate as a nation into everyone else’s problem. After all—every country goes through its troubles, right?

But what happens when that adolescent nation turns the eye of its imperial ire upon its own citizens? We’re seeing now that the response from the Federal government is lethal, and the response from the people is that of stalwart resistance.

I ask my fellow Americans and our allies abroad to stand with Minnesota, help us liberate the United States from the tyranny that the worst of us have called to the surface. If the people of Minneapolis fall, it is all coming down. Chaos begets chaos, and we are sick of being its keepers.

More than anything, I need those outside the Twin Cities to understand that despite it all, we Minnesotans will continue to stand together. We are bound, not just by collective trauma (see George Floyd 2020, Renee Good, literally 2 weeks ago), but by the knowledge that this is bigger than us. In 2020, we sparked the international Black Lives Matter movement in our indignation over the killing of George Floyd. We are not a people who stay quiet in the face of injustice. We are a people who know that our strength comes from loving our neighbors, and we are steadfast in our resolve because we know our neighbors would do the same for us. This moment is a test of the United States’ integrity. It is a clear end to an era, but at the same time, it is a chance for a new beginning if we get this right. Amongst the tragedy and grief we’re feeling here right now, there is solidarity as I’ve never seen before. Strangers helping each other, businesses sheltering terrified tear gas victims, and overall, a will that is unbent and unbroken. We will not be moved.

A government doesn’t lash out like this against its own people if it thinks it is in the right.

A government doesn’t send a paramilitary group that systemically assassinates legal observers under the guise of fearing for their agent’s life unless the thing they really fear—a united public—is staring down the barrel of the pistol as we are.

It’s a publicity stunt to cover up the growing cracks in our democracy, and the ground underneath us is beginning to swell.

Three shots to Renee Good’s head were not self-defense. Ten shots fired into Alexander Pretti’s body, a humiliation ritual meant to demoralize and dehumanize the American public. We, the real patriots, are watching. We know what we saw, and we don’t buy the one-liner that’s been poisoning our state-sponsored media.

Stand for the North Star State, and we will stand for you. Stand for democracy because it is a fragile, beautiful thing, and because these are the things worth fighting for. Perhaps there will be a day when fascism prevails, and where the only truth we accept is that of Dear Leader.

But that day is not today. Today is the day that we fight.

Today is the day we let justice shine.

Protect what’s sacred to you. Protect those you’re sacred to.