Cuando estoy solo: Mark Oshiro’s Each of Us a Desert, Community, and Self-Preservation
“Each of us a desert, alone and vast,” 16-year-old protagonist Xochitl says. “We were alone together, at least.”
The last two years–or maybe even two decades–have shown me that community has the power to heal and protect, but also to damage. Being a queer and trans Xicanx person living in Texas, there is very little that consoles me these days. Haunted by pesadillas lurking in las sombras, Xochitl and her aldea of Empalme in Each of Us a Desert understand this, the need to protect ourselves as well as the ones we love. From the time she was a child, Xochitl has the gift, or perhaps curse, of being una cuentista, taking on the stories of those in her community. Her role calls to mind a Catholic priest performing the sacrament of confession, but with way less agency. This is where Xochitl’s story becomes complicated; when her aldea is conquered, she begins to question Solís–the Sun deity–and their motives. She realizes that when systems fail us, we don’t have to fail each other, thus setting off her journey.
Oshiro’s prose is very lyrical y encantadora, perfect for accompanying Xochitl on her journey and many discoveries through the desert. This journey brings to mind protagonists such as Octavia Butler’s Lauren in Parable of the Sower or Tehlor Kay Mejia’s Dani in We Set the Dark on Fire, young women who are destined to make a change, but recognize that the change begins with (prioritizing) them(selves). Xochitl’s interiority drives the book forward and anyone who has had to come to terms with an aspect of self or reality that defies what the dominant culture ascribes can find themselves in this novel. She also has to grapple with allowing herself vulnerability around others, but knowing when to keep things to herself for her own safety. Each of Us a Desert isn’t merely a coming of age, it’s an important read for any stage of life where a change is needed.
A couple of aspects of this novel that kept me hooked were the understated presence of queerness and Latinidad. Queer characters, nonbinary characters simply exist in this fantasy realm–I can’t stress enough how this impacted me after another holiday season of deadnaming and misgendering. While of course queerness is important to the identities of characters as any aspect is, even the existence of queer side characters and pronouns outside the binary is refreshing and mirrors a reality I hope we are striving for: to just Exist. (Here is my extremely personal bias coming through: Solís having a name two letters off from mine and they/them pronouns definitely brought me small queer joy while reading).
Having had to resist the (often direct) demands to italicize Spanish en mi propia escritura, I loved Oshiro’s intentional blending of Spanish and English, which really helped bring Xochitl’s world to life. I’m resisting calling this code-switching because the two languages coexist in the novel, the way they do in the reality of many multilingual Latinx folks, words carrying a different weight or connotation in cada language. And language is integral in Xochitl’s ultimate search for the truth about her magic and Solís.
Recuerdo la primera vez que I felt truly seen by a poem. Oshiro’s words make it a gift to experience this with Xochitl as the discovery of various poemas in the desert keep her going when all hope feels lost.
The power of la poesía and knowing when to prioritize the self, hold others accountable, and set boundaries makes a world of difference for Xochitl and the outcome of su aldea. I am glad to have ended 2021 with Each of Us a Desert, and I know that closeted, self-conscious teenage me is glad, too. These two lines of a poema Xochitl finds have stuck with me since I finished the novel: cuando estoy solo / existo para mí.
