A Voice on NPR, A Seed of Curiosity

I first heard of Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz on NPR—just a passing segment, but it lodged itself in my imagination. A nun. A scholar. A poet. A woman centuries ahead of her time. By the time I visited Mexico City, that seed had grown into a quiet urgency. I wanted to find her—not just in books, but in the places where she once lived and wrote. What would it mean to walk her path, to touch the silence she once filled with words?

At the Chapel Door: Lost, Then Redirected

We arrived at the chapel where I thought she might have been, only to be told, “Not here.” The guard said, “Go right, then left.” Was that what Sor Juana had done? Followed the path, then took an unexpected turn? When denied a formal education, she begged to study in disguise as a boy. When rejected, she turned inward, writing herself into eternity.

I, on the other hand, used Google Translate to find my way.

Crossing Thresholds: The Hesitation of Entering

We were asked to provide our IDs and were given visitor tags. I hesitated. I’ve spent my life in educational institutions—first as a student in Pakistan’s Sacred Heart Convent, later as a professor and dean. But there’s always that moment of uncertainty: Will I be intruding? With students everywhere, I was surprised to feel so nervous. I have spent my life in schools and libraries.

We walked through hushed hallways and finally found a modest room. A plaque. A photograph. Her grave.

Yes. This is where she died.

Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz’s La Respuesta is an epistolary defense of her right to intellectual freedom, written in response to a public reprimand by the Bishop of Puebla, who used the pseudonym Sor Filotea de la Cruz. In the text, she asserts her God-given right to think and write, stating it would be her only defense, after which she remained silent; the work was published posthumously in 1700.

From the Grave to the Library: A Slow Ascent

I kept walking. We found the library. The librarian was warm and talkative. She told us the city had been sinking. She gestured toward a reading room—maybe she meant the stacks. Language bent and shifted between us.

Still, I felt a connection.

The Convent as Library, the Library as Kitchen

Octavio Paz wrote that for Sor Juana, the convent was not a renunciation but a transformation—a space where she could reinvent herself. The library became her refuge, her sanctuary for self-creation.

I, too, have spent my days among bookshelves, guiding others while searching for meaning. But unlike Sor Juana, I never gave up food in my pursuit of knowledge. I discovered that sustenance and scholarship can—and should—coexist.

As Sor Juana herself once said:

But, my lady, what can women know except philosophy of the kitchen? Lupercio Leonardo has said it well: it is possible to philosophize while preparing dinner. As I often say on observing these little things, if Aristotle had cooked, he would have written much more.

Echoes Across Time

Like Sor Juana, I grew up asking questions. I studied under the guidance of nuns in a Pakistani convent, reading Urdu poetry while the smell of cooking drifted in from the kitchen. While Sor Juana sought to transcend the body, I’ve always returned to it: in meals shared, in babies fed, in the rituals of writing while rice simmers nearby.

Why I Went to Find Her

I suppose I didn’t go to find Sor Juana’s grave—I went to find what she represents: a woman who, despite constraints, refused to be silent. A woman who turned the walls of her convent into pages, and her silence into speech. And perhaps, like her, I am doing the same—just with more garlic, more laughter, and always, a book nearby.

Create Cultural Memories through Literature and Art

Read her poetry here: