Rigoberto González NEW YORK, NY On my first U.S. trick-or-treating venture, my grandparents usher me off next door. I knock. The neighbor peeks and says, “You’re wearing your mask upside down.” And I still insist on looking at the world through a different angle. Friday: 11.10.06 | Permalink | Comments (9)

On Being a Chicano Poet

I am Chicano. Such a simple sentence, such a complex statement. The phrase is an act of empowerment, a recognition of cultural lineage, an affirmation of identity. I can make Chicano relevant to this blog and the Poetry Foundation’s invitation to speak to issues of poetry and poetics by declaring that I am a Chicano poet. That I write Chicano poetry. I can already feel people cringe at the language I’m using. But the truth is that I’m not interested in speaking to those who scoff at poetry that dares to call itself political or that dares to engage ethnicity, history, and the personal narrative. A much healthier and more constructive exercise is to address those who don’t know what Chicano poetry is (and who want to learn) and those who are uncertain about committing to a word that is more than a word—it is a declaration of activism.

Chicano is a collective of people who recognize that their antepasados come from Mexico, maybe one generation ago or maybe three. But we are not Mexican, not exactly. And many of us have never been to Mexico and many of us do not speak Spanish. What we do have in common is a sense of responsibility to remember and respect our specific immigrant history and that notable movement of the 1960s that placed Chicano on the intellectual, cultural, historical, and political map. Our lineage is specifically activist—antiwar, anti-oppression, pro-human rights—and our methods of communicating discontent, cultural pride, and the need for visibility and change are varied: protests, sit-ins, walk-outs, marches, education, story, art, theater, and yes, poetry, but always through alliances and coalitions with other socially-conscious groups. Chicanos are not moving across the timeline as separatists.

For a taste of our significant literary roots, seek out the poetry of Corky Gonzales, José Montoya, raúlrsalinas, Lalo Delgado, and other poets who cultivated their art in response to the politicized times. None of these poets attended writing programs or took poetry workshops though many of them went on to become educators. It disheartens me when young writers read these poets and dismiss them as “raw” or “didactic.” Such quick evaluations demonstrate an ignorance of the Chicano community’s history: in a time of urgency, indeed, in a time of war, our poets spoke to the Chicano people at rallies and community centers by employing the people’s language. It also shows an ignorance of these poets’ range—they also wrote love poems, elegies, pastorals, etc. And the work has endured without being canonized by the Norton Anthology. The poetry still speaks in accessible terms to the Chicano people, the audience it was initially intended for.

The next generation of poets did attend writing programs and/or did take poetry workshops. And they shaped their distinct voices inside and outside the mostly-white academy and claimed a space in the mostly-white Norton Anthology—Lorna Dee Cervantes, Gary Soto, and Alberto Ríos. They called themselves Chicano, recognizing the complexity of their literary lineage, not only the previous generation of Chicano poets, but also the other American writers—white, Asian, Native American, African American—plus the European and the Latin American. The poetry of Chicano writers continued to be political and the territory of their subject matter continued to expand across the larger landscapes in response to a growing audience. A Chicano poet writes about concerns specific to the Chicano community or does not, a Chicano poet writes specifically to the Chicano community or does not, yet in the end it is all Chicano poetry because it is written by a Chicano poet. It is all Chicano poetry. Anyone who can be selective and say this poem is Chicano or that poem isn’t is demonstrating an ignorance of the Chicano poet’s dynamic and inclusive imagination.

Chicano Studies exists as a field because of the number of intellectuals, artists, and writers who identify as Chicano, who understand the sophistications of the culture and its many languages. Students can earn degrees in the discipline that recognizes that two-thirds of the entire Latino population in the United States is of Mexican descent. The other one-third includes Puerto Ricans, Dominicans, Cubans, and Central Americans. Chicano art and literature is not obscure. But attempts at erasure abound as Chicano poets and writers are continually ignored and overlooked by presses, programming organizers, and anthologists. Hence why we must champion our own publications, literary events, and anthologies.

Which leads me to my next point: the need to keep that word, Chicano, viable and relevant. When a poet identifies as Latino it is a choice, but it is a choice of convenience, of not turning the label into a lesson in history or politics or specific ethnic identity. It is a safe choice. I make it all the time in order to establish an alliance with other Latino poets and writers. But usually I’m addressing a white audience. It saves me time from explaining to the college educated what they should know about their own country’s history: What is a Chicano? What is Chicano literature? But when I do want to demonstrate my commitment to activism, I announce that I am a Chicano because I don’t want others to forget that I have not forgotten my legacy and my pledge to a movement: to be an activist with ink. Those who claim that I am limiting myself are demonstrating their ignorance of Chicano literature.

I will not apologize for sounding dogmatic in this blog entry. I do not sound like this in my poetry. But sometimes a Chicano poet has to pause and give a speech instead of a poem. I am simply responding to the times. These times, I notice young poets express uncertainty at calling themselves Chicano. They prefer Latino, a nationless designation. Or they fool themselves into thinking they can move through the literary landscape as simply a poet. I pose this challenge: Walk into the streets and pretend you’re only a human being. Walk through the world with a name like Rigoberto González and pretend you’re only American.

Chicano is a choice and also a commitment to social consciousness. And a person can choose not to make that choice or accept that commitment. But those who scoff and protest those decisions a bit too loudly need to address those impulses first. Chicano continues to be a movement and continues to gain ground and momentum. Mine is an invitation to join the movement as an activist with ink, or as an ally, no matter what you call yourself. And to those who will walk the earth, wearing the safeword “Latino,” I ask that when you meet me you let me know, simply because I wish to understand the complexity of your history and where exactly your people come from, where on the map can I look to understand the geography and immigrant trajectory of your antepasados?

On Poetry as Family Bond

A few weeks ago I was sitting in front of my alma mater’s library, where I was tickled to discover that a coffee shop had been set up at the entrance. What a handy idea for Arizona State University students who need that caffeine to keep the late-night research going and the midnight oil burning. Anyway, in 10 minutes I was about to participate in a panel for distinguished alumni, four of us invited back to give an informational, practical chat to students about how to help themselves and their careers while still in college. My cell phone rang. I knew by the area code that it was one of my relatives from Bakersfield, the California town where I was born.

“Hello?”
“Mijo?”
“Tía, how are you? Is everything all right?”
“Yes, of course. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Well, I have a few minutes before I have to make a presentation. I’m in Arizona.”
“Oh, well, a few minutes are all I need. Listen: I wrote a poem.”

My aunt Marta, the woman who married my father’s brother, who worked most of her life sorting carrots at a packinghouse alongside my mother and grandmother, wrote a poem. My aunt Marta, who took lessons in cooking desserts, who had me read and translate recipes on the side panels of cereal boxes, wrote a poem. My aunt Marta, barely literate and always laughing, whom I’ve seen cry only once, when I came to visit her after she separated from my uncle and was run out of town by my disgruntled relatives who were furious at her for bringing the González family its first divorce, wrote a poem.

This was a special moment indeed. And it was not the first. After I gave my brother Texaco Alex a copy of my first poetry book, which I had dedicated to him, he was inspired to write a few verses of his own. He wrote two short poems. One was in honor of his recently deceased pet dog, Coqui (a phonetic pronunciation of Cookie—the dog was little). The other was titled “I Wish I Could Cut My Own Hair.” He shared with me these two pieces and then, like a true intellectual dummy, I proceeded to analyze them.

“The first poem is about how you are trying to understand death and mortality,” I told him. And then I made the terrifying connection between the death of his beloved pet to the death of our beloved mother, and how he was still grappling, like I was, with that loss. How writing this poem was like grieving.

”The other poem is about how you want to be in control,” I told him. He stared at me with disbelief, affronted by this act of turning the intimate moment into a lesson, and worse, into an analysis of his state of mind.

“It’s just about my dog,” he said, flatly. “And about my hair.”

“Right,” I said, and then I shrank into my seat.

“But you should read this poem, though,” he said, pulling out another sheet of paper from a folder. “Our father wrote it.”

“Father wrote a poem?” I said, flabbergasted. My father, with a third-grade education and a unique penmanship that made his letters parade across the page like stick figures, wrote a poem.

“What is it about?” I asked.

“It’s about you and me and our mom,” my brother said. “I think he wants to tell the story.”

The story. I had been writing my own version, which I called Butterfly Boy—a nonfiction account of a young man who’s coming out and coming to America. Though I had been born in Bakersfield, I was raised in Michoacán, Mexico. My father’s poem was about meeting a beautiful Mexican lady, marrying her and raising two sons together. We were not named, exactly. We all appeared in the poem as symbols. My mother was “la estrella”—the star that shone brightly, and then faded, leaving behind two smaller stars to carry her memory into eternity. There was no mention of the fact that “el corazón”—the devastated heart that loved that star—abandoned the two smaller stars to fend for themselves in the fierce open skies. The poem ends on a more hopeful note. Butterfly Boy doesn’t.

“What do you think he’s trying to tell us?” my brother asked.

I didn’t want to say.

So when my aunt Marta called to read me her poem over the telephone, I have already learned this—that family members who write poetry are trying to communicate something important. So different from all that college-educated poetry I have been hearing and reading over the years that says nothing. I also know that they simply want another poet, their kindred spirit who understands the role and purpose and impulse of poetry, to listen, to hear what they have to say in the special language of personal expression.

“What is the poem called?” I ask my aunt Marta.

The poem is called “Luz”—“Light”—and it is about how life is full of storms and thunder and tempests, how we must each travel through the seas like a lost sailor, looking into the darkness of the clouds, despairingly. But in spite of all that grief, we should be reassured that there is a ray of light worming its way through, biding its time before it strikes its hopeful light upon the soul. She wrote it, she tells me, to give me comfort. Two weeks before, my father had passed away.

“What do you think?” she asks.
“It’s beautiful,” I reply. “It’s the most beautiful poem I’ve heard in a long time.”

We said our quick goodbyes. I promised to call her later in the week and I asked her to send me a copy of her poem. She sent it. It is now part of my treasury, tucked inside the special folder reserved for my family’s art.

On Writing Programs and the Profession

I attended two writing programs: the poetry program at the University of California at Davis, where I worked with Sandra McPherson, Francisco X. Alarcón, and Clarence Major; and the fiction program at Arizona State University, where I worked with Jewell Parker Rhodes, Alberto Ríos, and Melissa Pritchard. I have always championed the idea that a serious writer should attend a writing program for the following reasons: it provides a writer with a diverse audience (i.e. the professors and the other students with other histories and in other disciplines), it provides a writer with a community of other writers, and it provides a writer with time (and an incentive) to write. I also know that a person can write and grow as a writer without a writing program. But I also know that to enter the profession nowadays, a writer needs those credentials—the MFA degree, the teaching experience, and those connections made within the networking walls of academia. That will not change no matter how much we all hem and haw. So I encourage young people to think seriously about enrolling in a writing program, either as students or as professionals in training. And yet I offer a warning: take your time. And that’s what a writer has in a writing program: time. In the post-graduate world there is no such thing as the luxury of time because there are so many other responsibilities that are not writing poetry. I can say all this from experience.

And I can also say this from experience: being an academic poet is not for everyone. This statement is rather obvious for people who live in communities like New York City, where academic positions are so few that artists have to thrive while holding jobs in banks, offices, museums, department stores, etc. or while advancing their careers in other professions. But for those in other territories (or willing to relocate to them), academic jobs are ideal because of the access to resources or flexible working schedules, and the possibility of becoming mentors and shaping the next generation of writers. But it also has its other expectations, like administrative responsibilities and committee work, which are not as sexy but are necessary. And for many, a first job, tenure track if they’re lucky, is an overwhelming step into a heavy teaching load. No matter what, it’s time-consuming work, but with the pleasant reality of school holidays and summer breaks. Some can do it, others can’t. I didn’t think I could.

After graduating from ASU I was at a loss about my future. But I did know one thing: I didn’t want to leap right back into academia as a professional. Yet that was the world I knew and liked, so I enrolled in a PhD program at the University of New Mexico. I loved Albuquerque, but I wasn’t feeling the scholar’s calling, so I dropped out after a year—the same year my first book was selected for the National Poetry Series. I was encouraged by peers and mentors to compete for a job now that I had a book, but I wasn’t feeling that either. So instead I worked at a dance studio and at a daycare center for a summer. I fell in love with another writer and moved to New York City (where I have lived off-and-on since 1998). I worked as a document translator for St. Vincent’s Hospital, as a teacher of Spanish in an adult education center, and as a literacy specialist for an after school program. Three years later, I broke up with this other writer and moved out of New York City, traveling the world under the dime of the Guggenheim—Spain, Brazil, Italy, Mexico, Costa Rica, Scotland. I invested every last dollar in travel and in time to write. And when the funds ran out, I admitted to myself that academia was a better fit for my itinerant nature via visiting professorships: The New School University, two years; the University of Toledo, one year; and currently, Queens College.

Interestingly enough, I’ve had nice offers for more permanent positions but I either turned them down or determined, after a brief stay, that we were not a good match. Such was the case with the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. I had three wonderful colleagues there: Tayari Jones, LeAnne Howe, and Tyehimba Jess. And the program was promising enough, with its generous resources, but, well . . . let’s just say I moved on.

Can I stay away from academia? It’s difficult. I do like being around extremely literate people and I do enjoy guiding thought and discussion in a classroom setting. And every once in a while I come across a piece of writing that knocks me off my chair. I believe that’s why writers teach. Or rather, what makes teaching writers worth it.

And much concern has been expressed about the proliferation of writing programs. Too many programs. Too many writers. My response is that the world cannot have too many artists and thinkers. In fact we need more, especially during war time, when the language of governments aims to deceive and conceal. Poetry seeks truths. But developing more programs should be done with the understanding that students of writing be informed about the realities of an MFA: that the degree offers no guarantees except the guarantee of space and time and guidance. I believe faculty in writing programs have a responsibility to speak honestly about the post-MFA life before students leave the university and to show them other avenues for employing those writing skills since not every writing student aims to become a writing teacher. And not everyone will become a published writer. What I’m advocating is for students of writing to be clear about what they want and for writing programs to be clear about what they can provide. Only then will proper matches be made.

The good news is that students can gauge these issues by asking the following questions (among many others): Who teaches there? How often do they actually teach classes? Are these professors writing or did they used to write? Why would you want to work with those professors? Who graduated from this program? What was their experience like? Do they recommend the program? What resources are available? What types of funding do they provide? What are the advantages of the location, tuition fees, and curriculum? Will these professors be good mentors for budding writers and/or budding professionals? (Good mentors also have good reputations.)

So potential students, start your inquiries. Invest in your art, invest in yourself. Different places will be different fits, so conduct your research widely and wisely. And I must add that there are two new writing programs on the horizon you might take a look at. One is at Queens College and the other is at Rutgers University in Newark, where my former colleague and fabulous novelist, Tayari Jones, now teaches.

On Music, Rhythm, Image, and the Other Essentials I Want to Find in Poetry

I was chatting with fellow queer Chicano poet Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano at a coffee shop at St. Edward’s University in Austin (there’s something about these college campus spaces that encourages deep thought and conversation), where we were bemoaning the fact that contemporary song lyrics, in either Spanish or English, are rarely as complex or textured as songs used to be. Not that either of us are old enough to remember music introduced to the public in another era, but through our respective families (his from Chihuahua and mine from Michoacán) we were exposed to the gorgeous songs belted out by Libertad Lamarque, Chelo Silva, Lola Beltrán, Las Hermanas Huerta, Las Jilguirillas, Lucha Villa, María de Lourdes, and Amalia Mendoza—among many others—whose beautiful voices gave life, intensity, and strength to the poetry of the songwriting.

The thread of this conversation took us to talk about film, to lionizing el Cine de Oro, the classic era of Mexican cinema and the films of María Felix. I brought up the classic American black and white cinema and the films of Bette Davis, Elizabeth Taylor, Katharine Hepburn, and Joan Crawford. We snickered at what gay Chicanos we were, able to list off Diva after Diva on both sides of the border. We concluded “they don’t write songs like they used to” and “they don’t write dialogue like they used to,” with a strange sense of nostalgia for a period of art we remembered from childhood—a nostalgia we absorbed from our families.

The shift then to declare that “they don’t write poetry like they used to” was inevitable. I made it. But that wasn’t exactly what I meant. I was making an evaluative comparison, rather. I identified good songwriting and scriptwriting because the language engaged me, entertained me, and transported me to a place both sensory and sophisticated. When I teach poetry to beginning students, I ask the question, “What makes a poem a poem?” What allows us to look at a piece of paper with print and declare, “That’s a poem?”

With a bit of coaxing, we come to some general conclusions: poems have line breaks, poems use figurative language, poems have rhythm and music, poems work with imagery. We spend the rest of the course building on these key statements and reading work that challenges that checklist. In other words, we seek complexity, and poems that spiral in and out of these strategies and devices. This keeps the discussions dynamic and interesting. I also encourage students to attend poetry readings, to listen to how poets bring their language to life. I myself attend at least a few a month, given my busy schedule, because I’m always curious about how a poet performs and interprets the musicality of his or her work. But herein also one of my biggest disappointments—when I hear no music in the work, either on the page or on the lips.

Beginning students sometimes simply chop their prose. They’ll make the writing look like a poem, and they’ll call it a poem. And eventually, once they’re introduced to alliteration, anaphora, simile, etc., they’ll begin to experiment and play with the language so that the writing takes shape and becomes art—skilled, tooled, structured, and intelligent without losing its sentiment, its purpose for being introduced to the world. But these are beginning students. They’ll learn and they’ll place into practice that knowledge. What then is the explanation behind the flat, choppy, uninspired poetry I often hear delivered by poets with one or two or more published books? It seriously boggles the mind. I’m sitting there, attentive as best I can be, wondering if these poets don’t need a refresher, or a reminder even, of prosody and its many handy devices that are the privilege of poetry. Sometimes I want to scream toward the stage, “Can you toss me a simile?” “Can I please have another hard C word?”

And I’m reminded about why I love those old songs and those old movies. They don’t simply create a lyric or a scene—they craft it, coming across as thought-out and conscious of an equally intelligent audience. There’s a great responsibility in art. And I’m also a believer that anyone can create it. Art is a matter of talent, but it is also a matter of knowledge and experience. Students can learn. Which is why I have them read and attend readings—they also begin to distinguish and discriminate between good writing and weak art.

Of course everyone has a right to write poetry. And I’m pleased many are doing it. It’s lazy writing I can’t stand, especially from our more mature and experienced poets. That’s who I’m directing this critique to, not the beginning writers who I trust will only improve with practice, revision, and raising the standard higher with each poem. The key is in becoming aware of one’s own writing—in not being satisfied that with the designation “poet” everything that pours out of the pen is poetry. Not every poem merits publication. And not every poem is pretty to enough to take to the pageant, i.e. the stage. Never be afraid to be your toughest critic, but do be afraid of becoming complacent. The truth is, you can fool yourself, but not the rest of the world. Certainly not my students. Read, write, and re-write until you’ve stripped the paper of mediocrity. When you get to good, aim for better. Young poets, save yourselves from having someone declare, “They don’t write poetry like they used to.”

On Book Reviewing and A Few of My Favorite (Recent) Poetry Books

I have been reviewing books for the El Paso Times of Texas since June of 2002. This opportunity has shaped the only newspaper column in the country dedicated to U.S. Latino literature. (Fellow Chicano writers Sergio Troncoso and Daniel A. Olivas are also frequent contributors to the column.) Though the circulation is at about 110,000, the reviews move swiftly through the Internet because, the reality is, that books by U.S. Latinos are ignored by most other newspapers or reviewing venues, and readers of Latino literature want to know what’s out there, who’s writing, and is it worth a look. Since June of 2002 I have submitted over 100 book reviews of poetry, prose, and the occasional anthology and children’s book.

From the get-go I decided that I would pay closer attention to poetry books, because of all the genres being reviewed today this one is the most neglected. But I had other self-imposed rules, an approach if you will, to the art of reviewing. I chose, for example, not to review a poetry book if I didn’t like it. A better use of space would be to point out a poetry book that had merit and that was worth reading. The truth is that the market for poetry books is so specialized that telling a readership not to bother buying a book they most likely wouldn’t buy seemed oddly superfluous. I wanted to send people to the bookstores or to the Internet since the other sad truth is that most bookstores don’t carry many poetry titles and especially small press titles by Chicano/Latino authors. And let us not forget the library, where many good books collect dust, the spines stiffening because no one comes by to flex the covers.

Perhaps it’s appropriate that this is my final entry to the Poetry Foundation blog. I’m wrapping up here with a discussion of two of my favorite activist practices—book reviewing and book recommending. The column and my visibility as a person who knows Chicano/ Latino literature well, has given me a place of authority, and I speak confidently about who is writing, who does it well, and who is just another empty promise being promoted by a publishing house. But, as per my philosophy, I’ll spare the negative energy and bad karma by listing here instead some of my favorite titles of poetry published this year.

Before I do that, however, I’d like to make an appeal to poets out there to write about and review other poets. Everyone wants their books reviewed, and we all know that poetry reviews are rare, so why not participate in providing the poetry community a valuable service: review poetry books. A reviewer brings critical attention to a poetry title since poetry books most often fly under the radar. A reviewer also contributes to the education of the readership, showing people how to read or approach the reading of poetry. A reviewer also has the power and, frankly, the responsibility to introduce readers to new talent, good books, and a language for talking about art.

Besides newspapers, literary journals are a perfect venue for submitting poetry reviews. My friend Scott Hightower is such a champion of reviewing poetry, that I must single him out as the ideal activist—he is constantly talking about the necessity for poetry reviews, writes and places many, and encourages others to do the same. Indeed, he has convinced me that once poetry reviews become more visible and available (because more people are writing them), it will no longer be a surprise to come across one—it will be an expectation. What a benefit to all of us.

In terms of how to write one, well, there really isn’t a big secret or special formula to this art. It just takes commitment and, for the reviewer who is also a poet or writer, a bit of generosity with the time and patience spent on someone else’s work as you read, contemplate, and formulate. A reviewer, like any writer, cultivates an angle and a voice. Thankfully, there are various models out there. I learned through practice, but it wasn’t difficult because I also love poetry and enjoy discussing it. So all of those conversations I would have with other poets gave me a solid sense of how to evaluate and articulate. It’s important to be fair, honest, resourceful, clear, and respectful. It’s important to talk about context as well as content, and to be descriptive and illustrative. It’s more important to highlight the work than the poet (unless it’s a profile), and the review should be a forum for thought, not for showboating the reviewer’s intellect, cleverness, or wit. But above all, be true to the discipline; reviewing should be more than free publicity, more than an opportunity to suck-up, or, worse, a chance to exercise some passive aggression.

All that said, I’d like to end by mentioning the poetry books that I have recently reviewed. I reviewed them because they taught me something new about language and because they kept my faith alive in the art of writing:

Lorna Dee Cervantes, Drive
Ray Gonzalez, Consideration of the Guitar
Ada Limón, Lucky Wreck
Pat Mora, Adobe Odes
María Meléndez, How Long She’ll Last in This World
Orlando Ricardo Menes, Furia
Urayoán Noel, Kool Logic /La lógica kool
Benjamin Alire Sáenz, Dreaming the End of War
raúlrsalinas, Indio Trails

I’ll conclude with many thanks to the Poetry Foundation for this invitation to be part of this distinguished company of poets/journal writers. It has indeed been enjoyable and helpful for me to commit to writing these thoughts that have been bouncing around in my head or bouncing off my tongue for the last few years. I hope it has been as useful to readers out there in Cyberspace. And to borrow from my colleague Daniel A. Olivas’s signature closing on my favorite Chicano blog, labloga.blogspot.com, ¡Lea un libro!