Brown rough calloused handswrinkled like raisins dippingin and out of the masa.Pounding and kneading la masapara las tortillas,“Para aprender mija” she tells memassaging and kneading the masalike a sculpture pliable by herhands.I answer in English, “No, I don’twant to learn.”denying the half-Mexican part of me and my languagethe only language I knew until I began... Continue Reading →