“But you’re not a dirty Mexican.” Although those words were spoken to me in the Fall of 1979 in a late night freshman dorm setting, I still hear them, and their not-so-subtle message that I’m unlike most Mexicans, who presumably are dirty. Sometimes I hear them in a whisper, and other times they shout, vibrating in a rage. Words. Words are powerful. They can heal, make your spirit soar, wound deeply, send you into self-destruction. I chose not to destroy, but to create. I am led to use words. Too numb that night in 1979 to say anything at all, I eventually found my voice. To say what? I use words to write about injustice, to speak for justice, to inspire action, and to encourage reflection. I desire to use words in ways that are both thoughtful and thought-provoking. To help people resist the oppression of accepting negative stereotypes about who they are. To liberate people from others’ definitions, and to soar with the freedom of defining for themselves who they are. Words help me navigate rivers I have not yet seen, and smell flowers I have only imagined. Words of fire have sparked action, and words of compassion have saved me. Language has embraced me, and words of love have set me free.