Stuck between my own words, I exhale. The cursor blinks relentlessly like it’s challenging me. I am suddenly aware of my leg bouncing. I hear my door creak open behind me and turn in my chair to face it. The door is slightly ajar and opens slowly. My mom peeks her head in.
“Burning the midnight oil, honey?” she asks. I nod and let my arm rest on the back of my chair. “Gosh,” she says, “you look just like Ivan.” I haven’t thought about him for years now. It’s strange when your mind realizes it hasn’t taken a particular train of thought in a long time. It makes me feel uncomfortable. But for my Uncle Ivan himself, I have no immediate feelings one way or the other.
“You’re just saying that because I’m writing,” I say. I hate comparisons I don’t agree with. But I especially hate this one. Only my mother could compare me to a felon when I’m getting some good work done.
“No, you both make the same face when you’re concentrating,” she says, “your eyebrows angled down like you hate the world. Pablo and I think Ivan looks a little creepy like that. If I weren’t your mother, I would be a little freaked by you too.” Her face contorts into a little expression of mock horror. I can tell she’s a little conflicted about the resemblance. Regardless, my mom is on a hot streak of disappointing comments about my appearance.
“Well, thanks, I guess,” I say.
“Well, good luck with your writing. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” she says. But the words don’t quite reach my brain. It’s occupied, trying to remember his face, trying to decide how it feels about the comparison. My only uncles, Ivan and Pablo are my mother’s brothers. They are both such large personalities. The kind that can fill rooms. There is always room for both of them in that space though. They never clash or challenge each other.
In first grade, I would take the bus to their apartment after school. Those two hours before my mom showed up at their door to take me home were always so tranquil. A memory begins to form in the forefront of my mind but it’s like a Polaroid still developing. I try to shake it into focus.
Now, everything comes into view. I would sit quietly, with a clipboard and some crayons, on the couch and they would be on either side of the living room. To my left, Pablo would be working on a canvas, and to my right, Ivan would be writing his next article. When he could tell I was restless, Pablo would get up from his canvas and give me another piece of paper. I would always protest, telling him I didn’t know what to draw next.
“Your mind is full of ideas, mijo,” he would say, “just put the largest idea on the page.” I wonder if sitting and working on a canvas helped Pablo keep his mind clear. The two of them were so invested in their mediums. Ivan had a journal that he kept in his breast pocket. He constantly flipped it out to mark down some thoughts. I wonder if he can have a journal like that since getting locked up and if Pablo at least has some paper and crayons. I truly don’t know the extent of their incarceration. I’m not even entirely sure what prison they’re in.
The two of them started my family’s newspaper, the Trujillo Tribune. Ivan did most of the writing and Pablo did the pictures. At first, it was only published locally. Then Mom helped it pick up steam when she created a website and started publishing online during the Dot Com Boom. The paper mainly focused on politics and international news. My uncles were deeply invested in finding and reading the independent press outlets of “third-world” countries. Their goal in reading and writing about these countries was to create a better understanding of international struggles and easily digestible facts about real-world troubles that the American Press shied away from. My uncles didn’t care. They spoke their minds. Their paper slowly crept towards radicalism with each issue they published. Eventually, they got a little too radical in their actions as well. After publishing a manifesto on the Tribune’s website, the pair robbed several banks across the country. The manifesto claimed that the robberies were attempts at “opening the eyes of the masses” toward the empty value of the U.S. dollar. Though their trial was reported across the nation, American eyes remained shut. They got twenty years each. Mom was outraged. Her brothers had tarnished the family name and, more importantly, could no longer do the important task of speaking for those who do not have a voice. Mom quit her job as a software developer after their trial. She, ashamed of their actions, took down the manifesto and quietly took over publishing the Tribune. She hoped to continue their original mission and redeem the family name.
Now, fifteen years later, I’m sitting here working on the paper too. Why hadn’t I even been thinking about the men who started it? I wonder how often Ivan sat like this, stewing over his next words. I still can’t picture his face. I switch from my word processor to my browser and type his name into the search bar. Some reports of his sentencing pop up first, and then I see his mugshot staring back at me.
I lean back and close my eyes. On the back of my eyelids, the mugshot begins to shift. A different, less criminal Ivan appears before me. I let the memory of my gentle uncle wash over me. I think about his stubborn need to tell stories that mattered and how I am here carrying on the work he started. My irritation with the comparison dissolves into something else—understanding, maybe even pride. I open my eyes. Before I can overthink it, I walk to the kitchen to find my mom sitting at the table with her coffee.
“Mom,” I say, “when’s the last time you spoke with your brothers?”