the hungarian word for owl is an experimental work of prose, poetry, untitled fragmented pieces, and newspaper clippings. When I was nine years old, my father burned down our home and killed himself. His final act and abuse are the central events, but much more expands from it. I explore what it was like being raised between cultures, as both of my parents are from Hungary. I describe the land—in Arizona, Hungary, Missouri, and even Mississippi, and my earliest memories from both the US and Hungary. I use both of my languages, Hungarian and English, and have folded in newspaper quotes from the house explosion. There were four articles written about the fire and subsequent investigation, and I have quotes scattered throughout the collection. The reader is brought into what my mom went through when she moved to a new country, and the lush beauty of Hungary and the love felt there through my family. Some pieces touch on and directly explore the fire, the ashen remains, and the unconventional nature of my grief. It may chiefly be described as time capsule, holding and imparting the scenes and core memories which make me up, both beautiful and violent. It is through a glancing backwards that we understand, that we begin to see the patterns cast by the colors and shadows of our kaleidoscopic past.
creative nonfiction, hybrid, memory, land, immigration, trauma, Nonfiction
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