Anuar's room.
Victor Rivera
From Buddha to the desert dervish, stories have long revealed the truth about men with nothing and wisdom worth everything. This is one of those stories. Or maybe, just the one I needed.
The king descended from the castle on the hill to see if the stories were true. A man so poor that he owned nothing but a walking stick, and so wise that people gathered beneath the ancient tree to hear his advice.
Like him, they didn’t have much. But they brought what they could in exchange for his wisdom: a piece of bread, warm milk, a basket of overripe fruit.
Anuar was his name.
Upon hearing him speak, the king recognized the truth of the stories. He brought Anuar back to the palace and appointed him as his advisor.
There, Anuar became the king’s most trusted voice. Over time, thanks to his insight, the kingdom prospered.
But others in the court grew jealous. They whispered lies into the king’s ear, questioning Anuar’s loyalty, motives, and origins.
One morning, the king followed him down a long corridor, past the throne, to a quiet, locked chamber at the far end of the palace. Inside, the king found only a shredded tunic, a walking stick, and a cracked wooden bowl.
“Anuar,” the king asked, “what is this place? Why do you come here?”
Anuar replied: “When I sleep in your soft sheets, eat your fresh fruit, and wear this silk robe, I get scared—scared that my wisdom might be taken from me. So I come here to see the things I brought with me—to remember what the world tried to make me forget.”
I was born in Santo Domingo, La Primada de América¹—the first city in the New World. Home to the first university, the first hospital, the first city hall, and many other firsts. It was there I first fell in love, tasted my first Kiss, and first learned to be a friend.
Not a palace.
But the place that nurtured me with scraped knees, open doors, and air thick with stories, folklore, music, baseball, dominoes, and laughter spilling into the street.
The main attraction? The freedom to walk. And walk I did.
I could go anywhere, and everyone felt like family—not in the sense of knowing each other’s names, but in knowing the roots we shared.
They knew why you climbed the Javilla tree.
Why you played games so loudly.
Why you said “Ay, chichi!” instead of “No, thank you.”
Why you bounced the rubber ball off every wall.
Why you hung old sneakers on the power lines.
Why you danced in the rain.
Why you attended funerals for people unknown to you.
Why you hugged strangers on New Year’s Eve.
That kind of knowing.
It taught me that struggle sharpens joy, and that beauty is what time sees when it looks in the mirror.
So when I waver, when doubt touches my writing, my coaching or my presence, I remember.
Because I, too, have a room at the back of my palace. With a wooden bowl, a mirror, and a memory. A room for old silence and new reflections.
There, I look at the things I brought with me. And when things grow dark, I gently turn the mirror toward the future—and let it catch the light.
And you, what does your room remember?
¹ “La Primada de América” was a title granted by the Spanish crown, one that overlooks the great cities built long before by the Mayan, Aztec, and Inca civilizations. This letter holds both truths.
