Do not tell me, or the people like me who have grown up
hearing Arabic around them, or singing in Swahili, or dreaming in Bengali—but
reading only (or even mostly) in English (or French, or Dutch)—that this
colonial rape of our language has not infected our ability to narrate, has not
crippled our imagination. When I was in class 7, our English teacher gave us
the rare creative writing assignment, and three of my classmates wrote
adventure stories about characters named Julian and Peggy and Tom. Do not tell
me that this cultural fracture does not affect the odds required to produce
enough healthy imaginations that can chrysalis into writers.
Mary Anne Mohanraj
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