Seeing Ourselves in the World
Poetry enables students to explore their identities and identifications.
BY Mark Statman
![Reflection of people in the Cloudgate sculpture in Chicago](https://cdn-test.poetryfoundation.org/cdn-cgi/image/w=10,h=10,q=50,blur=3/content/images/5643213eb31ceb41a5bdeb6d6d5df5d09eb25c19.jpeg)
I. Identity: What Do You Want Me to Know about You?
Life Harbor
what you get
is a beginning
middle and
time on earth
a kind of story
but the simplicity
of that description
won’t wash
because the box
the life gets put in
has a top and bottom
but no sides
and so all the things
that happen to you
keep spilling out
so much of
who I am
connecting to who you are
that my story
has you in it
and I’m in yours
watching out for so many
rhythms
the drums that keep
insisting
I know their language
when all I really know
is their sound
—Mark Statman
I read my own poetry to try to understand myself. I look at what I’ve said, thought, and done, and try to figure out how and why I did those things. I try to figure out what effect—with all the “spilling” and “connecting”—my language and actions have had on others.
When I work with students, I often ask them to do the same kind of thing. I ask them to talk and write about who they are, about how they understand themselves and how connected or disconnected they feel with or from the world. Their ability to do this takes some time to develop because often the complications of their identities aren’t clear to them. Finding that clarity requires time for reflection, which their lives usually don't provide. Allowing writing time in their lives creates space for that kind of thinking.
When I begin working with a group of students, I try to learn as much about them as possible. I want them to learn about me, too. I introduce myself as Mark, and I write that one word on the chalkboard. Then I walk around the room asking each student to tell me his or her first name. As each does, I repeat the name, then repeat the names of some of those who have already introduced themselves. This goes on until everyone has spoken, a lot of fun because it gets a little crazy as I swing through the classroom, sometimes making mistakes as the number of names increases, sometimes needing someone to say his or her name several times. Occasionally the students have name tags that they bring out for visitors. But fortunately I have the ability to learn a lot of names quickly, so I say to them, “No, no, no, I don’t want to read your names, I want to meet you.”
Having done this, I point out that although I’ve learned their names, I don’t really know them as people. And they know my name, but they don't know anything about me. They don’t know where I live, what I like, what I don't, my favorite sports, my favorite teams. They don’t know about my family or friends. In fact, I ask them, does a name tell us anything at all?
Of course not, they reply, although occasionally a student might point out that a name can indicate gender, but even that’s something we realize we can’t be certain of.
I then point out to them that many names do have specific meanings, that there are name dictionaries. I talk about how before my son’s birth, I got interested in those meanings. I tell them how we found out that my son Jesse’s name means one who is blessed. I note that my wife Katherine’s name means pure. Then I tell them of a friend named Alex who told me his name means brave. Another friend’s name, Michael, means gift of God. Finally, I tell them about Raymond, whose name, from the Spanish rey and mundo, means king of the world. As I talk, I write these names and their meanings on the board.
The students are often excited about all this. And what, they ask, since my name is also on the board but with no meaning next to it, does Mark mean?
With this question, I sigh. I ask them what they know about the Romans. Sometimes they can tell me quite a bit. If they know nothing, I talk about the powerful empire that existed centuries ago. I mention how even to this day we feel the influence of the Romans in our lives. For example, I point out, they affected how astronomers named the planets in our solar system. Many of the students are familiar with the Roman gods and goddesses.
“And what's the biggest planet in the solar system?” I ask.
“Jupiter.”
“And who was the chief god?”
“Jupiter.”
“That's right,” I respond, “because, after all, where else would the chief god live, but on the biggest planet?”
We go through some more planets: the oceanic-looking planet would be the perfect place for the god of the oceans, Neptune. The fastest planet around the sun would be named for the fast messenger god, Mercury. The planet that shines so beautifully in the sky that it is often confused for a star would be named for Venus, the goddess of love. Distant Pluto gets its name for the god of the underworld.
“And then,” I say, “there’s the red planet in the sky. Red, which is like blood, which comes from killing, from war.”
“Mars!” they shout out.
I write the words blood, killing, war under my name. I circle the Mar of Mark. The chalkboard now looks like this:
Mark Jesse—blessed
blood Katherine—pure
killing Alex—brave
war Michael—beloved of God
Raymond—king of the world
There's some giggling now, some talking. What, I ask, do you think my problem is? I get many answers.
“You don't like your name.”
“Those names are good, your name isn’t.”
“Your name isn’t you.”
“So what,” I ask, “should I do?”
“Change your name,” is the inevitable reply.
“Oh, come on,” I say, “I can’t change my name. I’ve had this name for too long. It’s how people know me. It’s what my parents named me. But if I don’t like the meaning of my name and I can’t change my name, what can I change?”
“The meaning,” someone guesses.
“Exactly,” I say.
But many of the students are unsure. How can we change meanings of words?
“I’m a poet,” I say, smiling, “I can do anything.”
And with that I hand out the following poem. Obviously, I've built this lesson around the unsavory derivation of my name, but even if you don't know the meaning of your name, or if your name means something terrific, you can still do a lesson like this. The point here is to give kids a sense of the authority of what they know about themselves. When the kids read their poems, I always ask the listeners if they've learned anything new on hearing a classmate's work. Usually, they (and their teachers) have, much to the delight, and sometime surprise, of the poet.
My Name
In the dictionary
it says
Mark means
the Roman god of war
someone who likes to fight
except
I hate to fight
The dictionary is wrong
Mark means
someone who likes to write
It means
I like the color blue
beautiful blue skies
and blue oceans
Mark means
the one who likes to sleep late
the one who likes to dream
the one who rides his mountain bike
in the green cool woods
Mark means
I have a son named Jesse
I have thousands of books
I hate when it gets too cold
and I want to go to Mexico
Mark means
let's have fun
let's tell jokes
let's pretend the world is crazy
And those are only some of the things
I know Mark means
—Mark Statman
We read the poem. Now, I ask, what do you really know about me? The students respond with all the details of the poem. Do you know a lot more than before? I ask.
Yes.
I tell them to do for me what I've done for them. I ask them to write a poem that talks about who they really are, that isn't what someone else might necessarily say—not their parents, teachers, friends, or a name book—but how they understand themselves. “Tell me what you like,” I say, “what you hate. Tell me what makes you happy, what makes you mad, scared, sad. Tell me what you think I ought to know about who you are, things I’d never guess just by hearing your name or seeing your face.”
When they write, some of the students do this by using the name model I’ve offered. Others just describe themselves, sometimes by telling about significant moments in their lives.
My Name
My name means good
not bad it means
someone who likes to play I don’t like
the
cold
so to Dominican
Republic I want to
go I could not like the
cold
but I do like
the
snow
My favorite color
is white because it is
part of the
sky
I like to pretend
that I am the queen
that I fly on the
sky with beautiful
wings
—Veranda Sanchez, fourth grade
Corey
My name is a
feeling
A feeling of hope
love happiness and
laughter
My name is a
paper and pencil
just waiting to be used
My name is a gallant horse
Striding freely across a
meadow
My name can be lonely
Sad and blue
It can change like night
and day
It loves to talk and sing
and be the star of the
show
There is more though
So much more
but all other things
I have yet to explore
—Corey Bindler, fifth grade
I like bumblebees
I like sunny days
I like pepperoni pizza
I like playing baseball
My favorite team is the Mets
I like my house
because it has my bed
and something to eat and
a refrigerator
I like wood on a tree
because if it's cold you
get fire
—Stephen Luczaj, kindergarten
I like my house
I like the tulip with pollen in it
I like the way I have green bushes
around my door
I do not like the worm
I like McDonald's
I don't like a bird on the window
I like a balloon
and I like a rainbow
—Robbie Torosian, kindergarten
When I Was Born
When
I was
born
I entered
a world
where I
could
do
anything
I want
When
I was
born
I thought
to
myself
God
has given
me
a gift
to see
to hear
to touch
to taste
and
to feel
anything
I want
When
I was
born
I
looked around
and
I saw
stuff
I
never
saw before
I heard
stuff
I
never
heard before
I touched
stuff
I never
tasted before
when
I was
born
I
looked up
and
I
saw
an angel
waving
hello
to me
then
waving good-bye
because
I was
leaving
the place
I’d been
before
and
entering
a whole
new place
because
I was born
—Samrah Naseem, fifth grade
Me
Me, who laughs at the clouds
who smiles at the sky
who adores books
has theories
Nature is a gift
Loves being wild, zany
absolutely insane
tries new things
spreads my wings
explores the unlimited world
of possibilities
Freckles run across my face
my blue eyes dance and twinkle
Cats are soft; I like them
Frogs are slimy; I like them
light blue flowers tucked in hair
sweet, like me
—Lexi Merwin, fifth grade
II. Identification: Finding Yourself Elsewhere
I’ve known rivers:
I’ve seen rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset.
I’ve known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
—Langston Hughes
In “The Negro Speaks of Rivers,” Langston Hughes gives us a powerful sense of what happens when you move from thinking about your identity (who you are) and begin to think about identification (how you see yourself in relation to others). In a session that might follow the name lesson, I ask the kids to think about this. Sometimes I’ll start with Hughes: Who do the students think he is? Why does he speak of rivers? We talk about how his identification with others like him has deepened his soul, allowed him to see the power that comes from seeing oneself with others.
I ask the kids how they understand their own identities and whom they might identify with. We talk about different people we might identify with because of what we do, what we like or don’t like, and how, by making identifications, we’re able to see how we’re like others and how we are different.
One way I do this is to ask everyone to raise his or her hand. I raise mine as well. I ask all those who are human beings to keep a hand up (all stay). “Okay,” I say, “we all can identify with each other as human beings.” Then I continue: “All human beings who like pizza, keep your hands up.” Most stay up. I note then for the students that most of us can still identify with each other. The students look around, nodding.
“Now,” I go on, “all human beings who like pizza and think the color blue is one of their top three colors, keep your hand up.” Many remain. I add, “Who also like baseball.” Fewer now. “Who are also male.” Now it’s just the boys and me. “Who speak Spanish.” At this point, depending on the school and its population, there might be five or six hands up, there might be one or two. I’m still one of them. Then I say, “Who are also fathers.” At that point, I’m left alone.
What we’ve done, I explain, is to show how identity and identification show what we have in common but also what we don’t. I note how most of us could connect as pizza-lovers, but there was no one with whom I could connect as a father.
This leads to a final question for them: Are our identities and identifications always conscious and freely chosen? The clear answer is no. There’s little free choice in being human, or in our race or gender. We might choose to like pizza, although even that’s tricky—do we train our own taste buds? Sports and colors seem a little bit more conscious. That I speak Spanish is a choice, but, as many students easily note, it would not be if I lived in a country where Spanish is the primary language.
There are also varied ways of understanding one’s identity and identification. Identity can be described by gender, by class, or by race, for example. And these do often get named by the students and discussions emerge around what it means to be male or female, white, African American, Latino, rich, poor, and so on. It seems essential to me that we talk about these things with the students, at least with older ones for whom these categories are becoming issues.
In talking about identity with the students, I hope that they’ll think about their own individuality. The question, again, is not simply how others might label you, but how you label yourself. And what does it mean that you have chosen to describe yourself this way, and what then does that say about your own sense of identification with others?
In a simple way, for example, as a baseball fan, I can easily identify with other baseball fans, but more so with fans who are fans of my favorite team, and less so with fans of the opposition. I identify with other parents, but usually I have more in common with the fathers than the mothers. I identify with other poets, but not so much with performance poets as with poets who work on the page. The more I attempt to describe myself, the more the complexities, complications, and limitations of different identities and identifications arise. I am a white male who lives in New York City: it would be ridiculous for me to think that this fact has no effect on how I understand the world. It would be ridiculous for me to think that, being who I am, I could easily understand the point of view, needs, and wants of someone who is quite different from me. Which isn’t to say that I can’t do it. In fact, it’s one of the things that being imaginative and writing creatively allows us to try. But the fact is, it isn't easily done, and requires a lot of serious thinking.
Having talked about identity and identification, I tell the students the story of Gabriela Mistral, the Chilean poet who was the first Latin American to win the Nobel Prize for Literature, and whose work we’re going to look at (right away, I point out all the different “identities” we've established—woman, Chilean, poet, Latin American winner of the Nobel, object of study). I tell them how, in fact, Gabriela Mistral is not the poet’s given name, that she was born Lucila Godoy y Alcayaga. I tell them how when Lucila was growing up, nobody thought much of her. Her teachers thought she was slow, uninterested, and uninteresting. They told Lucila’s mother that school wasn't the place for her (it wasn’t mandatory) and they predicted that her future would be that of a house servant. But Lucila badly wanted to be a teacher. After she was asked to leave a number of different schools, her mother and stepsister, who were both teachers, decided that they’d teach her at home. By the time she was fifteen, she was working as a teacher’s assistant; at twenty-one, she was a high school teacher. Lucila became such a wonderful teacher and such an innovator in progressive teaching that the president of Chile named her “Teacher of the Nation.” She became an international figure in educational reform, consulting in the United States, Mexico, Brazil, Italy, France, and England.
But that isn’t the whole Lucila story, I tell the students. In her mid-teens, Lucila began writing poetry. She published her poems in local newspapers and magazines, signing them “A Friend” and “Someone.” However, in 1914, when she was twenty-five, she decided to enter her country's national poetry contest. To do so, she had to give a name, but since it wouldn’t seem proper for a young schoolteacher to be writing such passionate poems, Lucila realized she needed a pen name, one that would go along with her identity as a poet.
She chose Gabriela Mistral. Gabriela came from the archangel Gabriel, the opponent of evil. The mistral is a cold north wind that blows over the Mediterranean coast of France and nearby regions. So here was her identity: Gabriela Mistral, the poet. And her identification: her poetry would be a fierce wind against evil.
Mistral, I tell the students, actually did go on to win the poetry contest. It was the beginning of one of the great poetic careers of this century. The lesson? I ask. Hands come up.
“Don’t let anyone ever tell you you’re stupid, or that you can’t do something if you really want to.”
“Why?”
“Because if it is what you want, you have to try.”
“What if it’s someone who’s supposed to know better, I respond, a grown-up, a teacher?”
“That doesn’t make that person right.”
“Exactly, I say. Imagine what would have happened to Gabriela Mistral if Lucila had listened to all those other people and not herself.”
“There wouldn't have been a Gabriela Mistral.”
Exactly. Then I hand out the following poem.
Ayudadores
Mientras el niño se me duerme,
sin que lo sepa ni la tierra,
por ayudarme en acabarlo
sus cabellos hace la hierba,
sus deditos la palma-dátil
y las uñas la buena cera.
Los caracoles dan su oído
y la fresa roja su lengua,
el arroyo le trae risas
y el monte le manda paciencias.
(Cosas dejé sin acabar
y estoy confusa y con vergüenza:
apenas sienes, apenas habla,
apenas bulto que le vean.)
Los que acarrean van y vienen,
entran y salen por la puerta
trayendo orejitas de cuye
y unos dientes de concha-perla.
Tres Navidades y será otro,
de los tobillos a la cabeza:
será talludo, será recto
como los pinos de la cuesta.
Y yo, iré entonces voceándolo
como una loca por los pueblos,
con un pregón que van a oírme
las praderías y los cerros.
—Gabriela Mistral
The Helpers
While my baby sleeps
neither he nor the earth knows
how the earth helps me complete him.
The grass makes his hair,
his fingers, the date palm
and his fingernails come from beeswax.
Seashells give him his hearing,
and the red strawberry his tongue,
the stream carries his laughter
and the mountain sends him patience.
(I’ve left so much undone
and I am confused, ashamed:
almost no forehead, almost no voice,
almost too small to see.)
Those that carry these go and come,
enter and leave through the door
bringing little guinea pig ears
and teeth of mother-of-pearl.
Three Christmases and he'll be another
from head to toe:
He'll be grown, grown straight
like the pines on the slope.
And I will go then, through the towns
a crazy woman, proclaiming him
with a cry heard
by the meadows and hills.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Her baby isn't done.”
“What does that mean?”
“When babies are born, the students answer, they’re not whole people yet. They’re all squished up. They have to be finished.”
“So how does the baby in this poem get finished?
“By nature,” they reply. “By the earth.”
We talk about how this happens. Date palm leaves look like fingers, baby fingernails are soft, like beeswax, seashells have ear shapes and the sound of the ocean in them. Our tongues look like strawberies, both in color and shape. One fourth grader noted, too, that strawberries are sweet and that’s the best taste for the tongue.
“Why,” I ask, “in the second verse, is she confused and ashamed?” A hard question, but some students have ideas.
“Because it’s her baby. It isn’t finished, but she feels like it’s her responsibility. She needs to do her job and she isn’t sure she has.”
“And what about the three Christmases?” I continue. This is a tough question, too, but soon the answers come. Sometimes from the students, sometimes from the teacher.
“In three Christmases, the baby is three, almost four years old. The baby isn’t a baby anymore. It will keep growing, but already a lot of who the child will be is clear.”
I ask the students about younger brothers, sisters, or cousins: “does any of this seem true for children they know?” It does.
Identity: who you are. Identification: how you are in connection or relation to others. Mistral identifies her baby with gifts from nature. Write poems, I say, about your identity and identification. Some students decide to do it the way Mistral does, focusing on how nature completes them. For others, the focus is like Hughes's: the identification is not so much how the world is part of them, but more how they see themselves in connection—and disconnection—to it.
I’m the Lake
I am the lake
I am the one
that splashes in
the night, I am
the one that moves
smooth in the
morning, I am
the one that
makes the swan
move, I am the
one that makes
big waves in the
rain. When it is
nice and calm I make
soft waves. I can
see the trees in
my reflection
—Krystal Cummins, third grade
Mi Inspiración
El sol es mi inspiración
para seguir adelante
Dos bolítas cafes hacen mis ojos
Mi alegría viene del aíre puro
La palma de mi mano
es como una hoja nueva
Mis lagrimas son como un pétalo
de rosa que se cae
The sun is my inspiration
to go forward
Two little brown balls are my eyes
My happiness comes from the pure air
The palm of my hand
is like a new leaf
My tears are like
a falling rose petal
—Carmen Santos, fifth grade
If my eyes are the stars that stare
down at earth
Then my hands are the soil, how
much am I worth?
If my hairs are the feathers
that catch the cool breeze,
Is my tongue so sharp, that
I sting like a bee?
How much can you pay for
a glimpse of a free butterfly?
It’s priceless, you see, like
the sea and the sky.
My skin is mud, gentle and
smooth
And my fingers use dirt in
a gentle groove.
—Allison Sepe, sixth grade
One day
I was in the grass
The sun came out
I felt happy
I felt like a princess
—Anne Palmiotto, first grade
I am …
I am a turquoise star shimmering
in the dark night
I am a dolphin leaping
out of the blue Florida ocean
I am a bird singing
my favorite song in a dogwood tree
I am thunder talking
to the wild animals in the forest
I am a rocking chair rocking
a baby back and forth
I am happiness hiding
nervously behind a dark desolate eye
I am
—Jenna M. Schmidt, sixth grade
The Days before the Grave
When I do nothing, the trees will grow
Life will go on outside my world
People will die and flowers will wilt
Dark thoughts will be thought and I will still sit
Days will die and nights will begin
People will cry and I will still sit
People will laugh and people will sing
and I will still have thoughts that I cannot think
People will wallow in their own selves, despise
Pure red hatred will burn through their eyes
People will laugh and I will still sit
—Sari Zeidler, sixth grade
Chilled but Free
As I am at my window, sitting chilled and cold.
An eagle.
A bird.
Wings.
Flying away on his problems.
Never ending the beginnings.
Like the wind.
As I am at my window I look and compare.
A carefree bird.
Free.
The whole way through.
As a chill comes through my window
—evidence of the free bird’s fall—
an enchanting free feather.
Give me wings.
Give me wings.
I will go on.
—Caitlin Gallagher, fifth grade
I like the way apples taste
and the way butterflies fly
My best friend is Abigail
because she’s nice
Strawberry ice cream is my favorite
Adam is nice and kind
That’s why he’s my friend
—Theresa Groves, kindergarten
I Would Like To
I would like to know
what nothing is
To understand how dying feels
without really trying
I would like to find
what I can do
What I can do to fight
without really fighting
I would like to see
a fairy in her garden
And to know
what to do to become
who I am
I would like to be
a raindrop
for one moment
To feel millions of
years old
to feel water
being who I am
For just a moment
I would like to be able
to go back in time
do something over
Make things better
I would like to
see the rain
fall below me
I would like to
live a life
—Helen Staab, fifth grade
III. Biography: Writing out of History
Power
Living in the earth-deposits of our history
Today a backhoe divulged out of a crumbling flank of earth
one bottle amber perfect a hundred-year-old
cure for fever or melancholy a tonic
for living on this earth in the winters of this climate
Today I was reading about Marie Curie:
she must have known she suffered from radiation sickness
her body bombarded for years by the element
she had purified
It seems she denied to the end
the source of the cataracts on her eyes
the cracked and suppurating skin of her finger-ends
till she could no longer hold a test-tube or a pencil
She died a famous woman denying
her wounds
denying
her wounds came from the same source as her power
—Adrienne Rich
Adrienne Rich’s “Power” is a poem I often teach to older elementary school students who have been looking at the lives of important historical figures. It can help broaden the process of connecting with things and places they started with their identification poems.
When we read “Power,” I ask the kids about the Marie Curie they see in the poem. I ask them to think about what power is and what the poet means by it, and to think about the meaning of what Curie does, how her power as a scientist and a thinker also requires that she ignore the wounds caused by the radium even as she purifies the substance. In talking about what radium is and what it has meant to our world—it has had significant use in cancer therapies—we often move to a broader, more general discussion of radioactive materials. I ask them to think about the positives and the negatives: uses of radiation in war, in medicine, as a “clean” energy source versus polluting energy sources, the problems of nuclear waste. I ask them to think about the relationship of the second verse to the “tonic” of the first. We talk about tonics as fake cures, the idea of the snake-oil salesman trying to sell you something worthless. Certainly the radium Curie purifies is not fake, and Curie’s work clearly benefits others, but it also kills her. I ask the students to think again, what do they think of what Marie Curie did? Was the exercise of her power worth the result?
Rich’s poem also has a way of making a historical figure more human. Often students will know that Marie Curie was A Great Woman Scientist (as they’ll know that George Washington was The Father of Our Country and Abraham Lincoln was The President Who Freed the Slaves). But the idea that these Great People were more than that—that they were people with real lives, who were happy and sad, who fell in love, and ate dinner—isn’t usually a part of a young person’s historical thinking. It should be, though, because by making historical figures more personal, students are able to understand them better. The students can see similarities between themselves and those figures, and thus see themselves as part of history. In this way, history doesn’t seem remote and irrelevant.
When I ask the kids to use the personal lives of historic figures in their writing, I urge them to internalize those lives, to become those figures so they can write from that point of view. I ask them to think about moments in the biography of the person that stand out as different or unusual or surprising. I suggest that they write about a private moment, one that might be connected with our knowledge of the figure’s fame but doesn’t have to be. I remind them that even though they are writing these poems from the point of view of a famous person, they can write them just as they would write about their own lives. Such an approach allows fifth grader Joe Covelli to wonder about the loneliness of Alexander Graham Bell, to examine his famous experiments in the context of his private sadness. It allows Brittany Fiorino to explain what drove Dickens to write as much as he did.
Alexander Graham Bell at Night
I am lonely
I am wondering
I am thinking
I wonder if/or not to wed
I am thinking about my experiment
What will it be?
How will people react?
At night, I am all bottled up
I am sad
because I have no one to talk to
At night I think and wonder
about tomorrow, its reactions and its sorrows
At night I am worried because I may not awaken
When day comes, I will still wonder,
think and be lonely
For when night comes, I will feel the same lonely
thinking, wondering self I
was the night before
—Joe Covelli, fifth grade
Charles Dickens:
I Do It All for Maria
Maria
I do it all for Maria
I’m cold for Maria
I live for Maria
I lived with Maria
I’m poor but not for Maria
I published books not for the money
for Maria
I became wealthy and well known
because of and for Maria
I had children with Maria
Maria died
My heart died with Maria
I can’t live without Maria
I do it all for Maria
Maria
—Brittany Fiorino, fifth grade
Mark Statman is the author of four poetry collections, most recently That Train Again (2015) and A Map of the Winds (2013). He is the translator of Black Tulips: The Selected Poems of José María Hinojosa (2012) and Never Made in America: Selected Poems of Martín Barea Mattos (2017), and cotranslator of Garcia Lorca’s Poet in New York (2007, with Pablo Medina). Statman has also written extensively ...