By Josiah Beharry, Graduate Student Researcher, UC Merced Center for the Humanities

A quiet ritual at UC Merced’s Center for the Humanities turns writing from a private test of willpower into a shared practice of showing up. 

There’s a lie that floats through graduate school: writing is a solitary ordeal. You, your laptop, the blank page whispering, prove yourself. I don’t buy it, and it’s never worked for me! Scholarship is communal. It moves when we move together. That’s why every Monday, 9 a.m.–12 p.m., the Center for the Humanities opens a room and makes a simple promise: you won’t have to start alone. 

We don’t run a bootcamp with speeches and performances. Just a table, coffee, an outlet, a chair, and a culture of showing up. The room fills with scholars from every discipline—sharing a nod, parking the chaos at the door, and building an interdisciplinary calm around the one assignment we all share: writing (and grad school stress of course).  

Time Is the Real Barrier: Body Doubling, Minus the Hype
For many graduate students, the hardest part of writing isn’t craft—it’s time. And time is never neutral. If you’re teaching, caregiving, commuting, doing community work, or juggling jobs, the myth of the six-hour “ideal writing day” isn’t a strategy; it’s a mental prison—for anyone who can’t contort their life to fit it. Our room is the opposite: a low-barrier, three-hour block that respects life as it’s actually lived. You don’t need to clear your week to be a writer; you just need a door that opens  and fills with community. Call it co-working. Call it body doubling. The psychology is simple: when we work alongside others, the cost of beginning drops. The mind stops bargaining. The cue: quiet but firm, people here are writing—and your brain falls in line. No public check-in. No shame. Just the unglamorous mercy of co-presence. 

As someone with ADHD, body doubling isn’t a fad; it’s harm-reduction for attention. Clinicians and ADHD coaches note how co-presence lowers the “activation energy” to start and softens time-blindness and task-switching. I feel that in my bones. K–12 told me “good writing” meant sitting still, alone, and “just focusing”—a setup I routinely failed. Put me in a quiet room with other people working and the calculus changes. In this shared space the laundry/YouTube/TikTok spiral loses its grip; the shame soundtrack goes quiet; I borrow the room’s momentum. The accountability is gentle and external—no performance, just proof that starting is possible. For me, body doubling is the structure that makes showing up doable and staying put humane. 

The Schedule (and Why It Sticks) 

We draw, unabashedly, from Paul J. Silvia’s slim manifesto, How to Write a Lot. His premise is disarmingly simple: pages come from schedules, not inspiration. I agree and will  add this: schedules stick when they’re humane. Our room doesn’t tell you how many words to hit or which method to use. It gives you a recurring appointment and gets out of your way. Discipline, yes. Drills, no. 

How I Use the Room 

• Arrive with one concrete task. Not “work on a chapter,” but “draft methods paragraph” or “clean up footnotes 8–12.” 

• Draft messy on purpose. Brackets are my best friend: [check citation], [add quote], [figure out later]. 

• Change the task, not the room. If I stall, I outline for ten minutes, then return to drafting. 

• Leave a path back. I end by writing the first sentence I’ll tackle next time. 

None of this is required. It’s just how I make the most of a space designed to protect attention. 

Why It Works 

Humanities writing asks for depth. STEM writing asks for precision. Creative work asks for stamina. All three need uninterrupted stretches where attention can land and stay. That’s what this room provides. It lowers the temperature on productivity theater and raises the odds you’ll finish the paragraph you’ve been avoiding. 

And something else happens, harder to quantify: relief. The kind you feel in your shoulders. Relief that you didn’t postpone it again. Relief that you kept faith with your future self. Relief that the draft you feared is now a document you can actually revise. 

It works because the decision is already made. By the time Monday starts, you don’t have to negotiate with yourself: Will I write today? The answer is on the calendar. Week by week, your pipeline moves—drafts lift off the starting blocks, paragraphs find shape, and submissions leave your hard drive for someone else’s desk. 

Pages don’t pile up because we force them. They pile up because we return—to the same room, at the same time, with the same quiet intention. 

Mondays, 9 a.m.–12 p.m.: Center for the Humanities. The door is open. Bring your purpose and project. Stay for community and coffee. Leave with motivation and momentum. 

Mabel Orjuela-Bowser, Ph.D. Candidate, Interdisciplinary Humanities, UC Merced

Fredy Chikangana generously gave me his original manuscripts of nineteen poems written in Quechua, some of which were recently on display at the UC Merced Library, together with more that I share here, accompanied by their Spanish version and my own or other English translations. While some of the poems are about the 2021 social outbreak in Colombia, others are about different topics. I was glad to find among them a few of his iconic poems such as “Quechua es mi corazón” (Quechua is my Heart) and “Espíritu de pájaro” (Bird Spirit).

Figure 1: Photo of the manuscript of the poem “Chunkay chunkayta,” from the author’s personal file

This is the original manuscript of the poem “Chunkay chunkayta” (Repeating Itself), written in Quechua Runa Shimi language. However, the words “(repitiéndose),” and “presidentes” are written in Spanish. In the first line, we can read “(repitiéndose),” in parentheses, which is the Spanish translation of the title “Chunkay chunkayta.” The use of the word “presidente” is probably because it does not have an equivalent in Quechua Runa Shimi language, as there is no such a figure in their culture. Some of the most common words to refer to a Quechua chief or chief communal authority are “kuraka” and “Pushak,” but they are not exactly equivalent to a Western president.

In “Chunkay chunkayta,” Chikangana establishes a genealogy of current power in Abya Yala (today known in Spanish as Las Américas) to show us that the invading civilization and its power have been repeating and adapting to the changes of the times, but without losing its true essence of domination in order to maintain its privileges.

The poem is unpublished, so there is no printed version in Spanish. With the author’s permission, I transcribe here the version that he read in Spanish at the Poesía en Resistencia event on May 28, 2021, followed by my own translation.

Figure 2: Photo of the poem “Repitiéndose”

Figure 3: Photo of the poem “Repeating Itself”

Figure 4: Photo of the manuscript of the poem “Chhusak,” from the author’s personal file

Chikangana initially writes his poems in Quechua or Spanish, to later translate them into the other languages (Spanish or Quechua). Other times, he writes and translates at the same time, or writes in both languages simultaneously, implying that each version of the poem is an original creation, rather than a translation. This manuscript suggests that the poet translates, line by line, the poem into Quechua after it was originally laid out and written in Spanish in 1990.

This calligram expresses the feeling of emptiness experienced by the lyrical voice, the original peoples of Abya Yala, and all colonized subjects. The poem symbolizes the rupture of a world’s harmony due to the colonial experience.

Figure 5: Photo of the poem “Del Vacío”

Figure 6: Photo of the poem “About the Emptiness”

Figure 7: Photo of the manuscript of the poem “Samay Pisccok,” from the author’s personal file

In this original manuscript, the poem appears written in Quechua. However, the title “Espíritu de pájaro” and the penultimate line, “en pozos del ensueño,” are written in Spanish. This suggests not just a blend of words and grammar from two languages but a writing produced in a space where one feels, thinks, and writes in a kind of Spanchua (following the idea of Spanglish). The last line, in parentheses, seems to be the translation to Quechua Runa Shimi of the verse “en pozos del ensueño.” The author, in his own voice and that of his ancestors, sings joyous songs to the Pacha Mama (Mother Earth). He aspires with them to move the human heart for his community to preserve its Quechua roots while moving in a border space, to preserve the Andean spirit of the condor, and together weave a new era, an intercultural era.

Figure 8: Photo of the poem “Espíritu de pájaro”

Figure 9: Photo of the poem “Bird Spirit”

Figure 10: Photo of the manuscript of the poem “Shimi machupay,” from the author’s personal file

On this original manuscript, the poem appears written simultaneously in Quechua and Spanish. Each verse in Quechua is followed by its equivalent in Spanish. This technique appears in several of the poems in this collection.

“Shimi machupay” evokes the proverbial voices of the elders and ancestors, the local knowledge that is based on the wisdom of nature and of physical and spiritual living beings. The lyrical voice embraces mystery, opens hearts to listen to what Pacha Mama (Mother Earth) has to teach us, her advice, and her guidance for life.

Figure 11: Photo of the poem “Palabra de abuelo”

Figure 12: Photo of the poem “A Word from Grandfather”

Figure 13: Photo of the manuscript of the poem “Takina,” from the author’s personal file

This is the manuscript of a poem written in Quechua, without any translation. However, the Spanish version appears on the book Samay Pisccok  Pponccopi Mushcoypa / Espíritu de pájaro en pozos del ensueño (61). “Takina” is a poem built on a double staircase of images that descend from the left and from the right towards their center, to meet in “a poem.” Both staircases of images relate the woman to a poetic act. As a mother weaver of the community and as a woman in the private sphere.

Figure 14: Photo of the poem “Poema”

Figure 15: Photo of the poem “Poem”

Figure 16: Photo of the manuscript of the poem “Wiñay,” from the author’s personal file

This poem gives us images of the Yanacona, a sensory people (“nose”, “mouth”, “eyes”, “ears”), who produce thought, knowledge, and wisdom in their communication with sacred nature (“tobacco and koka”). The harmony of their world was shaken by the invasion of Abya Yala and, in particular, by the invasion of the Andean worldview due to violence (“strangers”, “blood”, “death”) and the forced migration to the Western world. However, they retain their true roots.

Figure 17: Photo of the poem “Raíces”

Figure 18: Photo of the poem “Roots”

by Mabel Orjuela-Bowser, Ph.D. Candidate in Interdisciplinary Humanities, UC Merced

This past summer, I met with Fredy Chikangana, one of the most visible indigenous poets in Colombia. In an email exchange in 2021, Chikangana had promised to send me the original manuscripts of a series of poems written in Quechua, at the peak of the 2021 protests in Colombia. Our meeting allowed me to receive some of them personally. Once I had the manuscripts in my hands, I leafed through them trying to guess, from the cross-outs and notes, the process of creating these poems, wondering about the experience of writing them during the protests, and the reason why the author initially wrote them in Quechua.

For context, I want to explain more about who the poet in question is and what the protests in Colombia during 2021 were about. Then, in my next blog, with his permission, I will share several of his original manuscripts, some of which are currently on display at the UC Merced Library, through May 31, 2023. My exhibit The Poetic Creation Process of the Oralitor Fredy Chikangana: To Feel, Think and Write in Quechuahas two main goals:

1- To introduce the viewers to one of the most important contemporary indigenous poets from Colombia and Latin America. This is an invitation to learn about his trajectory as an indigenous leader and as an intellectual from the Yanakuna Mitmak community. Viewers also have the opportunity to learn about this culture from the Colombian Andes.            

2- To show viewers original manuscripts of poems written in Quechua Runa Shimi, a native language from the Colombian Andes, as well as printed copies of these poems in Spanish. The visual appearance of the printed version tells a story in a hegemonic language, while the Quechua manuscripts show us the author’s creative process and the importance of his mother language. This shows the viewers the process of feeling, thinking, and writing in his community’s mother tongue, as well as an idea of how the author crafted the bilingual final product.

The Indigenous Poet

Fredy Chikangana is a poet and oralitor from the Quechua Yanakuna Mitmak culture. The poet defines himself as an oralitor to the extent that his writing is carried out alongside his sources: the orality of the elders. Yanakuna, from their own cosmovision (worldview), means “people who serve each other in times of darkness.” This community is located mainly in the southeast of Cauca, Colombia. His name in the Yanacuna community is Wiñay Mallki, which means “root that remains in time.” His poems have been published and translated into Italian, French, English, Romanian, and German in national and international magazines and newspapers, including Etnografist (Sweden), Kontakt (Denmark), Poetry Internacional (Holland), Casa de Poesía Silva (Colombia), and Antología de literatura indígena de América (Chile). His poems are part of the Biblioteca básica de los pueblos indígenas de Colombia (Basic Library of the Indigenous Peoples of Colombia), several anthologies of Colombian poetry, anthologies of indigenous poetry of the Americas, and are the subject of multiple literary reviews and postgraduate theses and dissertations. He has published several books, such as Kentipay llattantutamanta / El colibrí de la noche desnuda (The Hummingbird of the Naked Night) and Samay Pisccok pponccopi muschcoypa/ Espíritu de pájaro en pozos del ensueño (Bird Spirit in Dream Wells). Chikangana is also co-author of Herederos del canto circular (Heirs of the Circular Song) and Voces de Abya Yala (Voices of Abya Yala). Currently, he is working on a book about sacred medicine. Chikangana has been recognized and awarded nationally and internationally with prizes such as the “Humanidad y palabra” (Humanity and Word) poetry award from Universidad Nacional de Colombia (1993) and the Nosside Prize for Multilingual Global Poetry held in Italy (2019).

The Social Outbreak in Colombia

The protests of April 2021 against tax reform, with which the government of Iván Duque sought to raise taxes on the middle class during the COVID-19 pandemic, became an unprecedented mobilization in recent decades in Colombia. It was a true social outbreak where different demands repressed for decades, which go beyond economic demands, came together. In addition to demanding a more supportive state to deal with the economic damage caused by the pandemic and a reform of the police, the mothers of the disappeared, the indigenous, Afro-descendants, people of different sexualities, women, youth, the poor, peasants, and the unions were fighting for a different country, for an organic democracy. This would be a country built from below by the citizens, one that responds to a new political ethics, which includes, among many others, the defense of the environment and the development of peace. The indigenous communities in Colombia, including the Yanacona people, participated and protected the popular marches with their minga[1] methodology (an Inca tradition of community work) and the Guardia Indígena[2] (non-armed indigenous guard).

 As a result of this social uprising, there was an explosion of cultural expressions demonstrating social discontent about repression, as well as proposals for the construction of a country where we all could belong, where there is social justice and basic rights. Music, humor, caricatures, banners, literature, and many other manifestations flourished, capturing the facts and supporting the resistance. In this context, Chikangana accompanied the processes of resistance through the word, with which he illuminates another future for the protesters of the First Line[3] and all the racialized nations that co-exist in Colombia. As part of a border subjectivity, Chikangana writes these poems in Quechua and Spanish, two of the languages spoken in this territory of cultural diversity, to establish bridges of horizontal communication and reject the superiority of Spanish, the hegemonic language. With them, he reconstructs the origin and course of the current violence, which daily kills the hope of a country full of biological, cultural, and epistemic diversity. He expresses the hope of the peoples who resist and invites the construction of an organic, participatory democracy, built from below, which communalizes power.

The author is a poet, witness, and chronicler of the facts. Narrating from a situation of danger, he joins the marches and visits the different sites of resistance. Chikangana writes to the rebels in the heat of a historical rupture, of a social explosion that involves a new methodology (minga methodology). His poems represent an act of ownership of the protests, solidarity, fraternity, and accompaniment to the protesters. There is no waiting time for balsamic post-conflict poems.

Why Does the Author Write in Quechua?

On May 28, 2021, Chikangana presented some of these poems at the Poesía en Resistencia,[4] an event organized by Revista Prometeo. There, he explains that he begins his reading in Quechua to “remember the memory of our language present in our America, our Abya Yala.”[5] He needs to have the mother tongue of his ancestors present in order to keep the memory of their culture alive. Chikangana writes in Quechua Runa Shimi, the ancestral language of his community, because his poetry, although cosmopolitan and transnational, is rooted in his Yanakuna Mitmak culture. Keeping in mind the memory of his mother tongue is at the heart of his creative process.            

According to the National Indigenous Organization of Colombia, ONIC, in the country “70 languages are spoken: Spanish and 69 mother tongues. Among them, 65 are indigenous languages, 2 Creole languages (Palenquero of San Basilio and that of the islands of San Andrés and Providencia – Creole), the Romaní or Romaníes of the Roma people – Gypsy and the Colombian sign language.”[6] The Colombian law 1381 of 2010, in its second article, recognizes that native languages “constitute an integral part of the intangible cultural heritage of the peoples who speak them, […] The plurality and variety of languages is an outstanding expression of the cultural and ethnic diversity of Colombia…”[7] However, the reality is that in Colombia, like in most of the countries of Latin America, the official history has been written from the position of an ethnocentric power, with a Eurocentric vision that excludes other ways of being within our nation. The discourse and social practice of exclusion, as Foucault would say, leaves the original peoples out of the national project, and the official history relegates them to a category inferior to “civilized” Colombia. Therefore, speaking and writing in Quechua or any other indigenous language is a political act, an act of resistance against the disappearance of a culture. It is an attempt to preserve its memory inside and outside the local indigenous community. Keeping the ancestral language alive preserves the world it names and describes. In the creative process of the author, the language linked to the territory guides the writing and it gives the Pachamama[8] a voice. The possession of a pre-Columbian language from the Andes gives authority to the Yanakona peoples as an original culture of Abya Yala. Quechua, as their mother tongue, provides cohesion and authority by connecting them with the Inca Empire. The use of Quechua avoids epistemic privileges and brings together the diversities that inhabit Colombia to establish a horizontal dialogue between them.

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[1] Minga comes from the Quechua word minka, which means collective work. The minga is a process open to intercultural dialogue.

[2] The Indigenous Guard is conceived as its own ancestral body and as an instrument of resistance, unity, and autonomy in defense of the territory and the life plan of the indigenous communities. It is not a police structure, but a humanitarian and civil resistance mechanism. https://commonspolis.org/en/proposals/security-according-to-the-indigenous-guard-in-colombia/  

[3] The First Line is a protesters’ defense group created two years ago in the anti-government protests in Colombia, against the government of Iván Duque. The main objective of the First Line was to repel the attacks and violence by the Mobile Anti-Riot Squad (Esmad).

[4] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_4v9XmQFHc&t=48s

[5] Since 1977, the World Council of Indigenous Peoples agreed to use the pre-Columbian term “Abya Yala”, with which the Kuna culture refers to the territory that we know today as America. Abya Yala, in Kuna language, means “land in its full maturity” or “land of vital blood”. https://www.revistas.una.ac.cr/index.php/tdna/article/view/9712  

[6] https://www.onic.org.co/noticias/636-65-lenguas-nativas-de-las-69-en-colombia-son-indigenas

[7]https://www.funcionpublica.gov.co/eva/gestornormativo/norma.php?i=38741  

[8] Pachamama refers to the Mother Earth. “Pacha” in Aymara and Quechua means earth, world, universe. According to ancestral beliefs, Mother Earth takes the energy of the cosmos, the universe, time, and space. https://www.telesurtv.net/news/rituales-celebracion-dia-pachamama-20210801-0001.html