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Viewing: Blog Posts Tagged with: Cisneros, Most Recent at Top [Help]
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1. Oldies But Goodies

Manuel Ramos

These reviews were first aired on Denver radio station KUVO, 89.3 FM, back in 1993 (Drink Cultura) and 1997 (Woman Hollering Creek). Must be feeling nostalgic, but sometimes you just have to look over your shoulder to see what lies ahead. Some of the observations in my reviews may be dated, but the books remain essential reading and core items in the Chicano Literature canon.

At the end I have an announcement about an opportunity for a scholarship to a writers' conference this spring at the legendary Algonquin Hotel in New York City.

DRINK CULTURA: CHICANISMO
José Antonio Burciaga
Joshua Odell Editions, Capra Press, 1993

This book is a quick tour through Chicano history, mythology, politics and food. The chapter titles hint at the broad nature of the writing in this collection: The Joy of Jalapeños, All The Things I Learned in School Weren't Necessarily True, A Mixed Tex-Cal Marriage, Piñatas, and The Last Supper of Chicano Heroes. Each chapter is a concise treatise on its chosen topic. With personal observation, family stories, and humor, these essays are tidy snacks of Chicanismo laid out for the reader to breeze through quickly and then ponder for as much time as required.

Burciaga treats with respect even mundane elements of life in the Southwestern United States. By doing so he provides a valuable document on the attitudes of people who, as he says, fought the yoke of the gringo oppressor while aspiring for equal opportunities.

For example, his chapter on The Great Taco War is, at first glance, only a short and funny commentary on the plethora of fast food outlets that have turned to offering Mexican food. Burciaga is initially amazed that a Taco Bell would open in the Mission District of San Francisco. The Mission is an enclave of Mexican and Latino influence and the home of world-famous taquerias that offer exquisite tacos and burritos to hordes of customers who often wait in lines that twist out the door and around the corner. But, according to Burciaga, the Taco Bell is doing quite well. He is put off by the strange menu that was created exclusively for the restaurant chain -- Enchiritos, Mexican Pizza, and Cinnamon Crispas. But he also notices that there are a large number of poor and low income people enjoying the creations, including seniors on fixed incomes, young vato locos, a nursery school class, and immigrants who speak not a word of English. The food is cheap and, as he notes, different and tasty in a funny sort of way. There is something important about the fact that fast food chains have recognized the drawing power of Mexican food and that almost all of them now offer a burrito or taco item.

Burciaga compares the Chicano people to the Aztecs, who have a saying: The Spaniards conquered us, but our culture conquered them. He also observes that there is passive resistance to the loss of our mestizo culture at almost every level of Chicano life, even if it is something as benign as defending the Mexican national character at a time when it is clear that Chicanos are no longer Mexicans. Burciaga concludes in one of his stories that to live on the border is to inhabit two worlds, two cultures, and to accept both without diminishing the integrity of either. He goes so far with this idea that he states, without embarrassment, that, culturally, he has as much of the gringo in him as he does of the Mexicano.

Drink Cultura is a friendly, funny, literate reflection of Chicano life in North America. I found it informative and educational, as well as authentic. I believe that any one, of any race or culture or generation, can enjoy this book. It provides insight and, in a curious twist that I doubt Burciaga intended, it also sheds much-needed light on the commonalities of human nature, rather than the differences that too many of us dwell on when we become embroiled in discussions or race, culture or nationalism.


WOMAN HOLLERING CREEK
Sandra Cisneros
Random House, 1991

Sandra Cisneros's first collection of short stories, The House on Mango Street, was published in 1984 and immediately secured her place as an important writer. Her lyrical prose and intensely personal voice captured the very human qualities of her colorful characters, especially those of Esperanza, the young girl modeled after Cisneros and her childhood in Chicago and on annual family treks to Mexico City.

Cisneros has a sense of irony and a wonder about life that fill her pages with emotion, melancholy or joy that rings true in the heart of her readers. Her stories are imbued with cultural references but they are accessible to all readers, simply because they are so well-written.

Woman Hollering Creek was published in 1991, more than seven years after her first collected effort at short fiction. She has said that her writing takes a long time, and that if it were easy, then she must be repeating herself, something she struggles to avoid. I try with every book, she says, to push myself to new heights, which also means that I've got to stumble and fumble and learn, knock my head against the wall doing it. For readers, the result of all this stumbling and fumbling is an exciting short story mix that stirs up the right feelings.

Cisneros excels at character sketches drawn with an exquisitely fine line and soft touch. Her characters dwell in the world of the mundane and routine until her prose turns them into symbols for all that is basic in us, all that is real.

There is, for example, in the story entitled Mericans, Micaela, the young girl who waits with her brothers for their grandmother outside an old church in an ancient Mexican village. The grandmother, the awful grandmother as she is known to the children, painstakingly prays for everyone in the family, including those who long ago gave up on religion. Meanwhile, the children have a little fun with some North American tourists who mistakenly think the children are Mexicans, only to be abruptly surprised when they hear the children speak English.

And then there is the tragic Cleofilas, the heroine of the story Woman Hollering Creek. Cleo is a woman from Mexico who was transported to Texas by her new husband, where she quickly became a victim of an abusive marriage. Cleo escapes only when a young Chicana givers her a helping hand and who, along the way, redefines the myth of La Llorona, the woman who for centuries has cried for her murdered children. In this story, Cisneros has given us a new image and posited an entirely new question that twists the old myth until it is almost unrecognizable: What if La Llorona isn't crying, but hollering for joy? The story asks why it is that for so many Latina women the only choices seem to be pain or suffering? Cisneros answers that question with with and pathos. She refuses to accept old and stale versions of life and, instead, offers her own unique vision. She reveals to us our own humanity in terms that we have not always been willing to accept.

Woman Hollering Creek is not a replay of House on Mango Street, nor is it the longer novel many of her readers were eagerly anticipating. Woman Hollering Creek stands on its own as an excellent collection by one of the best short story writers in North America.

BACKSPACE WRITERS CONFERENCE
Thanks to an extremely generous anonymous donor, two full-tuition scholarships to the 2007 Backspace Writers Conference will be awarded to writers whose work shows exceptional promise, and who have completed a novel and are actively seeking an agent to represent their work.

Tuition scholarships cover the conference registration fee, travel expenses to and from New York City, and hotel accommodations (May 30 - June 1).

Applications must be received between January 15 and March 1, 2007. Winners will be notified by April 15, 2007.

Applications will be accepted via email only. Get all the details on this page.



Next week, something new.

Later.

5 Comments on Oldies But Goodies, last added: 2/25/2007
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2. Pues, mi amor, just a few more words....




For those of you still in a love poem state of mind, three works of genius, and a small burnt offering from me.


Don’t Go Far Off, Not Even for a Day

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?


Pablo Neruda
From his book, Cien sonetos de amor (100 love sonnets),1986
Translated by Stephen Tapscott
University of Texas Press
ISBN: 978-0-292-76028-8



You Bring Out the Mexican in Me

You bring out the Mexican in me.
The hunkered thick dark spiral.
The core of a heart howl.
The bitter bile.
The tequila lágrimas on Saturday all
through next weekend Sunday.
You are the one I’d let go the other loves for
surrender my one-woman house.
Allow you red wine in bed,
even with my vintage lace linens.
Maybe. Maybe.

For you.

You bring out the Dolores del Río in me.
The Mexican spitfire in me.
The raw navajas, glint and passion in me.
The raise Cain and dance
with the rooster-footed devil in me.
The spangled sequin in me.
The eagle and the serpent in me.
The mariachi trumpets of the blood in me.
The Aztec love of war in me.
The fierce obsidian of the tongue in me.
The berrinchuda bien-cabrona in me.
The Pandora’s curiosity in me.
The pre-Columbian death and destruction in me.
The rainforest disaster, nuclear threat in me.

The fear of fascists in me.
Yes, you do. Yes, you do.

You bring out the colonizer in me.
The holocaust of desire in me.
The Mexico City ’85 earthquake in me.
The Popocatepetl/Ixtaccíhuatl in me.
The tidal wave of recession in me.
The Agustín Lara hopeless romantic in me.
The barbacoa taquitos on Sunday in me.
The cover the mirrors with cloth in me.
Sweet twin. My wicked other,
I am the memory that circles your bed nights,
that tugs you taut as moon tugs ocean.
I claim you all mine,
arrogant as Manifest Destiny.
I want to rattle and rent you in two.
I want to defile you and raise hell.
I want to pull out the kitchen knives,
dull and sharp, and whisk the air with crosses.
Me sacas lo mexicana en mi,
like it or not, honey.

You bring out the Uled-Nayl in me.
The stand-back-white-bitch in me.
The switchblade in the boot in me.

The Acapulco cliff diver in me.
The Flecha Roja mountain disaster in me.
The dengue fever in me.
The ¡Alarma! murderess in me.
I could kill in the name of you and think
it worth it. Brandish a fork and terrorize rivals,
female and male, who loiter and look at you,
languid in your light. Oh.

I am evil. I am the filth goddess Tlazoltéotl.
I am the swallower of sins.
The lust goddess without guilt.
The delicious debauchery. You bring out
the primordial exquisiteness in me.
The nasty obsession in me.
The corporal and venial sin in me.
The original transgression in me.

Red ocher. Yellow ocher. Indigo. Cochineal.
Piñon. Copal. Sweetgrass. Myrrh.
All you saints, blessed and terrible,
Virgen de Guadalupe, diosa Coatlicue,
I invoke you.

Quiero ser tuya. Only yours. Only you.
Quiero amarte. Atarte. Amarrarte.
Love the way a Mexican woman loves. Let
me show you. Love the only way I know how.


Sandra Cisneros
From her book,
Loose Woman, 1994, Random House
ISBN: 978-0-679-41644-9



WILDFLOWER

Yesterday, you called me wildflower,
and I knew what you meant; a free spirit
blooming outside domestic gardens,
precious for that, bursting with color,
but destined to be always and irrevocable other.

Perhaps you were imagining the field
by your house where wildflowers struggle
up upon their roots, despite harsh winds
and human traffic, or how, in the wild
flowers use their softness to crack through rock,
thirsting deep to hidden springs.

Because the wild flowers inside you,
your eyes sometimes melt,
and I feel awe washing over me
as you savor the iridescent wildflower
perched on a leather outcropping
only a few feet away, in a Byzantine land
where winds brawl, tempests toss,
and driven wild, flowers fly in all directions.

After hours, when time crashes down,
I wonder, do you sit below the cauldron
of night, watching the moonlight spill
onto the savage farm and wildflowers appear
as if by incantation, to beguile you
with their slow recital of dreams?

There, a chaotic winds whisper
over the cold lips of the wilderness
faint clues to life's exuberance
and reach, I know you're searching
for lost words of redemption, and hope
you find some with me, where the wild flowers.

Diane Ackerman
From her book,
I Praise My Destroyer, Vintage, 2000
ISBN-10: 0679771344


xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

PAST ALL THAT

I have loved you
past the place where
we were good poetry.
Past the Coltrane courtship songs,
past the stories of the ones that didn’t work out;
the ones we could have never loved like this.
I have loved you past the giddy laughter
right before you kiss me.

I have loved you to this place.
The place where we hold on;
trying not to forget.
Where we tell each other
everything will be alright.
When we know there's no money,
and sometimes you go away.
We drink our coffee
as a sacrament.

It was all scented skin
in the beginning.
We have transcended all that.
We are ordinary.
We are bedrock and cool earth.

We are married.



PASO VERDE

I am dreaming
dreaming a world
soft
green
flowing
world is word
word is my body
I am flowing
I am flowing to the place
where I meet myself
where the body is earth
there is no difference
I am curving
curving upward
arcing
I carry a green cup
I drink from it
evergreen
It holds water
a promise
I need this water
to live
all that lives in me
needs this promise
I am curving
I am arcing
I am flying
to my completion
to you, my love
the sky.

1 Comments on Pues, mi amor, just a few more words...., last added: 2/16/2007
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