Sabrina Vourvoulias
I was born in Bangkok, Thailand -- the daughter of a Mexican-Guatemalan artist and an American businessman. I grew up in Guatemala, and moved to the United States when I was 15. I studied filmmaking and creative writing at Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, N.Y., which -- it has to be said -- suited me for none (and every one) of the occupations I've plied since.
I've done stints as everything from art gallery assistant to the director of a historic opera house, but eventually found my way, permanently, to newspapers. I've been staff writer, production coordinator, editor and managing editor at a string of local weekly newspapers in New York and Pennsylvania; I briefly edited a monthly magazine as well. I'm currently the managing editor at Philadelphia's largest Spanish-language newspaper, Al Día news.I'm something of a social media enthusiast, at both work and play, and habitually haunt the Latinos in Social Media twitter party (#latism) and Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Chat (#sffwrtcht).
In addition to news, I write speculative fiction and poetry. My poetry has appeared in Dappled Things, Graham House Review, We'Moon, La Bloga's Floricanto online and Scheherezade's Bequest at Cabinet des Fees. My fiction has appeared at Tor.com, Strange Horizons, Crossed Genres #24 and in the Long Hidden: Speculative Fiction from the Margins of History; The Many Tortures of Anthony Cardno; Menial: Skilled Labor in Science Fiction; Fat Girl in a Strange Land and Crossed Genres Year Two anthologies and is slated to appear in an upcoming issue of GUD magazine and in the anthology Latino/a Rising.
Though my favorite place in the world is a small log cabin in the Central New York woods, I live in a charming, dilapidated old farmhouse about an hour outside of Philadelphia, with my husband (a diehard Minnesota Twins fan) and a brilliant and cantankerous teenage daughter who refuses to speak Spanish though her pronunciation is perfect.
“I get it, you know. I'm operating on privilege too. It may be a number of notches down from yours but it's every bit as unearned. I think the trick is to never forget it.”
“Don't you ever just think of yourself as American?”
“So, with my knees pierced by needles and my shoulder sewn together by the slender thread of endorphins, I keep to my genuflection and end my story the only way that really fits. As a prayer that seals surrender. World without end. Amen.”
“I don't really know them, but I know this: they're just like your kids were. Or are. Sweet, trusting, good in ways we adults hardly even remember. We have to look out for them. Not because of the tattoos, or in spite of them, but because they're kids and we're supposed to look out for kids.”