Wednesday, January 16, 2019 // The Statement 
7B
Wednesday, November 13, 2019 // The Statement
7B

T

here is a bar in Berlin, hidden 
in one of my favorite neighbor-
hoods, that I would have over-
looked if someone had not pointed it out 
to me. The lighting was dim, not because 
the owners were trying to set a mood, but 
because the bar had no lights. The chairs 
all looked like they had come from dump-
ster diving adventures. It was always 
crowded, and it reeked of tobacco. The 
only thing noteworthy, was a blue neon 
sign, that in English read “I lie that I am 
an artist.” 
I remember chuckling as I read the 
sign out loud. But for me, the phrase 
would be, “I lie that I am a writer.” I say 
that I am a writer, but this phrase does 
not roll off my tongue with ease. It feels 
like a lie because still, something deep 
within me has not come to terms with 
the title: writer. I do not feel like I have 
earned the right to call myself a writer. 
I had multiple journals as a child. I 
wrote in the margins of my school books. 
I have a box full of sticky notes with ideas 
of things I want to write. I wrote dur-
ing class and on my commute to school. I 
write long letters to my friends. But even 
so, I have never felt like a writer. 

Am I a writer because, within my 
friend group, I am known for writing 
long and weirdly candid Instagram cap-
tions? Or am I a writer only when I have 
something published? Or does that some-
thing have to be published by someone 
with a fancy New York office? 
I have always been at odds with my 
writing, often failing to find my voice in 
the words I type across the page. I am 
always afraid to write. And yet, here you 
are reading my words, maybe even enjoy-
ing them? 
When people ask why I study French 
when I already know English and Span-
ish I shrug off the question with a soft 
smile. Then when people started asking 
why I was adding German to the list, I 
began to wonder. I think the truth of it all 
is that I am still seeking to find my voice. 
I grew up with two languages: Spanish 
and English. The rules that govern these 
two are so different that I often get lost 
between them. Spanish is notorious for 
long sentences that take up more than 
one page. English, not so much. I remem-
ber the bright red letters at the top of my 
essay from an old teacher, reading: “You 
push the barriers of the English language 

too far” and “Your ideas get lost in a 
swarm of subordinate clauses.” 
With every sentence I write, I remem-
ber these words. They are permanently 
etched in my mind. They are a condem-
nation, a decree that I would never be a 
writer. 
For a long time, I worked hard to erase 
Spanish from my mind so that I could 
write well and in native-English — some-
thing I am not so sure I have learned to 
do. I have learned to push away the words 
that come naturally to me and, by doing 
so, I began erasing the memories of my 
childhood. In choosing English I began 
rewriting my history, writing over the 
Spanish. Eventually my dreams, too, are 
in English. In an attempt to grow into 
English, I began to bend myself into the 
acceptable use of the language. 
I think I found peace in the words of 
the German poet Rainer Maria Rilke. 
These are the words that echoed in my 
mind: 
“There is only one thing you should do. 
Go into yourself. Find out the reason that 
commands you to write; see whether it 
has spread its roots into the very depths 
of your heart; confess to yourself whether 

you would have to die if you were forbid-
den to write. This most of all: ask your-
self in the most silent hour of your night: 
must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep 
answer. And if this answer rings out in 
assent, if you meet this solemn question 
with a strong, simple ‘I must,’ then build 
your life in accordance with this neces-
sity.” 
But how would I be able to write about 
a past that is written in Spanish, I don’t 
think I could translate the love I had 
known in Spanish to English. I need to 
find a way to let both exist at peace with 
my voice as a writer. 
I don’t think I am any more of a writ-
er now than I was before. I just think I 
have used Rilke to justify the silent force 
inside me that wants to write. I am start-
ing to think that what makes you a writer 
is the choice. The choice that pushes you 
to keep writing even after rejections. The 
choice to keep writing through the fear. 
Maybe I haven’t found the voice that can 
balance all the parts of who I am, but that 
doesn’t make the statement “I am a writ-
er” a lie, it just means “I am a writer, and 
I am still growing.” And I think for now 
that is enough...

Pushing the barriers of language

BY MARTINA VILLALOBOS, STATEMENT COLUMNIST

ILLUSTRATION BY JONATHAN WALSH