Fissured Tongue Series

CARVALHO
by Heath Hounds
​Fissured Tongue Series Vol VII  |  May 2026​

"Myriorama 290" by Owen Brown. Acrylic, pen and colored plastic on panel, 12 x 12 in., 2023

CARVALHO

My father: tall, adaptable and malleable. Kind, quick-witted, charming and vile.
Never mine, never his.

Carvalho.

Like the national anthem I sang in military school.
“Patria amada, idolatrada e salve salve!”

We prided ourselves on it, without all the pretension.
It was never internationally romanticised: like the great sister oaks of the north or the glorious cherry blossoms of the east. And honestly, it was never meant to be for us.
We—from the south.

Surrounded by people of too many colours, too many origins, too many dialects — so much so that most’s preconceived notions became a weak tool for international affairs. There, in between those unfinished roads, short hills and intricate beads.
I was found.

Carvalho.

A name I refused to use for too many reasons. In a nation where most added adornments are a betrayal of character, I chose to stick to one. It meant belonging, and family unity to share only my mother’s name in courtesy. French practicality overtook my means of expression for a short window of time where I still did not recognise myself as an independent being.

But COVID changed things for me. As it did for too many of us. And I finally was able to understand my own culture. Not the one of origin, as I was still oblivious to the facts of my conception. But, the one of being — and being sincerely free.
Not delicate nor stoic. Not man nor woman. I naturally came to the conclusion that none of the 4 long names on my passport made any sense to who I am as a person.

And, as easily as that fact revealed itself to me was how simply I found my replacements. Though I was terrified this would be just like my other discoveries. The box of unfinished passions, from knitting projects, to oil paintings and half done poetry filled with blinding disappointment, and staring back at me. Thankfully, this new discovery was too genuine, too logical to not withstand.

Throughout the years I’ve been analysing my lack of loyalty for a certain name. It’s honestly prettier. Sounds stronger. Just like the ancient tree that gave the original Portuguese settlers its name. 

But now, with distance: and after understanding that my blood never correlated to my name. Weirdly enough, that’s when it started to haunt me. Through my father I haven’t seen age, all the new wrinkles I never had the chance to lovingly make fun of.

“Cê tá começando a parecer com a velha coroca, pai. Vamo fazer um botox?”

His brown straight hair slowly becoming whiter on my phone became a symbol for a longing that I had yet to express. All the memories we didn’t get to create and explore together. In the long car rides where we would drink Coke like maniacs. And count parcels of land from our sides of the windows as our own. His name, now reaches for me from another continent.

​Carvalho.

For the past few weeks I’ve stared at the mirror with a new face in mind. Looking for signs of semblance to someone I have never met. Dissecting which features I could finally stop pretending had any connection with my first caregiver. Building pride in the features young me — fascinated — admired in the Xavante tribes I grew up around. The shine of their brown skin and black hair, contrasting against each other under the burning sun. The tracing beauty of their eyes…
Also mine, mainly theirs — never Carvalho.
Whilst I start to understand these incoherent statements, as I write and breathe. And look and feel. And cry, and miss all that makes a sense of connection to one’s own family. It seems the only recourse I have to true acceptance is to keep constructing my own reality.
As it seems, and despite all evidence to the contrary: I was never rejected, misunderstood or too sensitive to the Souzas Carvalhos.

I was only never theirs, as they were never mine.
None of them but one.

Struggling to digest all the words that rushingly invade me. The same way he did for years with the knowledge I lacked. Piecing together the lies that fractured my family. As in my mind, he was many things, but not a liar.
Car obsessed, pioneer agnostic and MLM grinder.
Funny and loving. Neglectful, naive, careless and passionate.

My father. 
Carvalho…

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About the Author 
Heath Hounds (they/them) writes from the edges of identity—a Brazilian-born, trans, mixed-race immigrant shaped by a fast changing life Brazil, Portugal, Paris, and soon London.Their second written piece appeared in Gasp Magazine (“Pussy”), a subtly graphic expression of objectification. Committed to stream-of-consciousness, they write like breath: uneven, vivid, and always unfiltered. Writing in English, Hounds draws from across mediums: the pacing of Mrs. Maisel, the lyricism of Flora Matos, the sharp tailoring of courregès.

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About the Work
I was in pain. I was grieving. And I felt like I had to do something with it. To honour my family, and in a way shame them, embrace them for who they are, love them. Love him. I think CARVALHO was my way of doing that.

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About the Process
​I used to talk to myself a lot. And, to laugh when I’m pissed off. I write in the ways that I think and speak. I write to feel and process. The fake interviews lacked a little whimsy when things get heavy, and I was laughing a lot.

About the Artist and Art
Owen Brown was born in Chicago. He lived for many years in San Francisco, he now lives in Minneapolis. His works are in collections in this country and abroad.  He has been the recipient of various awards and residencies; most recently he was a guest artist at the Spinnerei in Leipzig, Germany.
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"Myriorama is one of 451 identically sized abstracts which were hung to completely fill the walls of Veronique Wantz, but on velcro, so that visitors could rearrange their position and orientation, thus painting the walls."

Brown writes, "Thinking is more interesting than knowing, but less interesting than looking.  The source of my practice is the world with all its beauty and confusion–nature, so alien and alluring, the social, equally baffling but no less wonderful, and the uncomfortable friction between that, and our internal interpretations.  This world seems to carry on as if there aren’t a million reasons to be shocked–life eludes easy understanding or conclusion: what are we seeing when we really think about it and how did we miss it before?"

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