On Silence, Resistance, and the Writer’s Role

Dear Reader,

Happy New Year, Happy Lunar New Year, and Happy Black History Month.

Yes, it has been a very long time since I wrote. And you must know, dear Reader, that I began this post at least five different ways with five different subjects in mind. But something told me it wasn’t time to come out of my rest. This writer needed it.

But today is the most important month. It’s my birthday month and selfishly it will always be important to me. That is not why this month is important.

It’s the first day of Black History Month and all around me I see anti-blackness. From conversations and theories about DEI or the non-celebration of this month to conversations since and about January 20 — as a black woman I feel like a deep rooted tree in the middle of a hurricane.

It use to be that I hated things like Black History Month and Hispanic Heritage Month. While I understood why we had them, I always felt like every day was Black History Month; everyday was Hispanic Heritage Day. I’m Afro-Latina every day, what do you mean I have a MONTH to celebrate it. A month? Sir. Madam. This is a normal Tuesday for me!

But now, with simple, basic liberties eroding, I want to double down on the celebrations. I understand now the purpose of these months. These months are remembrance. These months are a respite from the “normal Tuesday” I discussed earlier. These months are for saying to ourselves and showing the upcoming generations that we, indeed, matter and continue to do so. Will continue to do so. As long as we draw breath.

For writers, our legacy is cemented by what we leave behind — the stories, the poems, how we made people feel with our art, how we stood up (or sat down) when it was our time to say the things. So I am saying the things. And I will continue to say the things. I am standing up knowing that it will impact me. Staying silent isn’t an option.

Writers have always been on the frontlines of change, not necessarily with megaphones but with words, stories, and the quiet insistence of truth. It is one of the most radical things we can do—commit our truths to paper, knowing full well that someone, somewhere, will be uncomfortable.

The backlash is almost a guarantee. History tells us this. James Baldwin wrote about America in a way that made people uncomfortable. Audre Lorde told us that silence would not protect us. Octavia Butler crafted futures shaped by oppression and resilience, and some readers still refused to see the reflection of our present in her dystopias. But they kept writing. Not because it was easy, not because they didn’t feel the weight of speaking, but because it was necessary.

To be a writer is to be an observer, but it is also to be a witness. And to be a witness is a responsibility. We document, we illuminate, we challenge, and in doing so, we leave something behind—not just books and essays, but proof that we were here, that we saw, that we spoke.

I know that saying certain things will cost me. It might cost me followers, sales, opportunities. But silence is an even greater cost. As a writer, my work will live beyond me, and I refuse to let it be void of the truth I know to be real.

So I will continue to write the things. And if it shakes the room, so be it.

Does this mean that the content of this newsletter will change? Absolutely not. I’m writing about the writing life, and publishing and all of that. However, the writing life means just that — writing about life. And right now, this is my life and the life of so many others. The art and the life are intertwined.

As it should be.

In unity,

Icess