Not a Territory of the Same

Hard to believe the years have become decades and the space in which one grew up is really no longer home and in fact no space in fact for peace. Difficult to digest causing vomiting and generalized discomfort this thought that peace and quiet is anomolous that this space in which one had once grown up is not a territory of the same. To face that one could live with more dirt more disorder more of all that which one would like to escape from in those trying times when the mold on showers and the dark dankness of tiled enclosures remind one of the distance from the land on which one was raised. The sunset has none of the joy of drunken laughter. The sunset could not have set one person free after a certain point. These landscapes north of a certain point are redundant. The vomit ingested from years of acid reflux was sucked out. We'll give you everything and more I guess this will not be enough in the end it is what is not given that one grows to miss what one has invented to be which to be truthful is then has now become much more real then what was initially proferred as one's identity fixed unchanging and real. And yet this time spent seeing that which is the origin is necessary if only to strip one of certain simple facile assumptions about where one comes from and what the meaning of return might be because suddenly return is not the longed for space any longer and a return is not a return in fact ever but a new trip and a new voyage seeing as how what was once there has not been for so long and the return takes one not to the same place but rather to a new place which is as distant from the original as the fake world which one must create to live in. In fact there is no going back then and there is no going forward we simply twirl in ever widening circles forgetting the textures of the enclosure from which we had emerged and remembering less and less but always conscious of the fact of forgetting. The innocence if it ever was there is completely unable to locate now but perhaps it is worth recovering this sense of no world outside of this one this small space having everything and nothing absolutely what one needs and yet so much less and somehow the words for this come more easily now somehow this face which was once perhaps younger now perhaps one does not have this face any longer and people can tell they can see perhaps in certain eyes that there is none of that left and yet all has been lost and there is nothing left to grasp on to and perhaps that is the unescapableness of it. Something like some feeling like Cat Power 2007 or maybe better Antony and the Johnsons 2005 or Ciëlo 2006. Like we came late to the party and can language can writing ever get you to an emotional place like this some emotional place where we all somehow began to write this and you could read it I suppose but wouldn't one party one good song one smile from someone's baby your own perhaps this feeling would be a million times more powerful than any conglomeration of lines computer aided lines on a page that are not to affect you in that same deep way and yet the language contains so much as well the language tells stories about how all of us came to be so competely confused and how all of it become so unavoidably intertwined and how words came to stand in for things and how the stories one tells simplify the narrative arc so much so as to make it all understandable and that which does not fit is thrown out and those stories are forgotten as so much unnecessary jabber and what does it mean to write all this then if one was never in a place to remember anything then how could language come up with something that would be stronger than the actual steadily dissappointing experience of life. One decided then not to talk about certain things certain sexual practices certain poems that are undeniably sad yet somehow fill one with a sense of humanity that in other moments evades one certain moments of hypocrisy certain moments when one forgets about the benefits of therapy and reaches out too hard makes a fool of oneself and trips and falls and no one no one would be there then because there are unarguably undeniably much better uses for the time of other people than to worry about one small fall of one person who is not worth much anyway and the story was not even well written or labored over one's life was not worth much anyway in the end certain embarrassing thoughts that one has which are not quite correct one's certain apologies for not belonging then for one's certain reasons.

Reportándome

El estómago hecho pedazos por los ritos de la cheve y la ansiedad del reencuentro.

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Una pequeña lista de nuevo vocabulario sonorense:

jiruto - desnudo
achichincle - asistente

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El año pasado cuando se me salió un Sorrrrrri después de haberle chocado a un muchacho con un carrito de esos de WalMart, fue motivo por un chingo de risa y burla. Me dieron mucha carrilla por eso pos. Este año todo el mundo lo anda diciendo. Como si fuera súper aceptado. Did I start a trend? Quién sabe.

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Un dicho nuevo:

Ponle Jorge al niño. - Toma lo que pediste con confianza.

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Lo que más hiere es la necesidad de siempre ser obligado a tomar decisiones.

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Pinche gente. Pinchi gente amorosa, calorosa, que te da la bienvenida como si uno fuera realmente importante. Los que se te abren el corazón luego luego. Los que te dejan entrar a sus casas, te preparan ensaladas y te compren papaya porque saben que uno es un poco especial. Los que te hacen sentir tan bien que hasta duele.

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Pinches sentimientos. Pinche sensibilidad de uno.

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El clima del desierto sonorense es mil veces mejor que el clima del Golfo de México. Hay que admitirlo.

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Ya me voy. Antes de cometer más masacres tejanas pos.

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Que nadie suba las fotos de la masacre.

La Lucha Sigue Sigue


Mi amiga, la regiamontana rosaritense Gabi Torres, me recomendó la poesía y video de Logan Phillips. Se lo recomiendo también. Tiene un sitio web, Dirty Verbs, que incluye un blog y además hay un chingo de sus videos en YouTube.

También, el Phillips menciona este artículo, Di No al Spoken Word de Heriberto Yépez. Otra perspectiva pues. Por ahora no voy a tomar ningún lado en el debate, pero me interesa mucho el trabajo que los dos están desempeñando. Los dos valen la pena leer y el trabajo de Phillips pues es encantador. Otra poeta gringo bilingue. ¡Qué vivan!

True Then And Now

When I was small, I spent hours trying to decipher this sentence. It never did make sense to me.
Now I understand it.

Towards Reclaiming a Way to Narrate Again

Maybe there is a way to write things without them being superficial but still to wander through the writing in a more organic kind of way. To explore and discover and find those tidbits and utilize vocabulary in new ways. Like Dave Eggers or Shelley Jackson seem to do sometimes. Something narrated in a detailed way, conscious of stolen hoses and other ephemeral items, often robbed in the cover of darkness. Sorry I am getting off of the point. I found Gertrude Stein again. This time in the house of my prometida in Hermosillo. And this establishes another process that I have little control over (o sea 1) learning how to narrate in a way that is detailed, organic and not cloying or superficial 2) mixing and demixing the two languages I live in). I want to narrate things again and learn to say things again in a clear way and the clear way is evasive and difficult. And both languages are mixed in daily life but daily life responds to different exigencies than writing or reading unfortunately. And I love Stein for her wandering narratives that never quite let you touch her never quite let you intern yourself inside her brain. I was reading a book that I picked up here at the Conference here in Hermosillo while I sat between Las Mafaldas who love her and the book was talking about piropos and it is a handmade book handbound and gorgeous and I do not think there is a website to look at because websites will never be hand made or hand bound and I ran into Jen Hofer's writing again. This time a poem translated into Spanish by a poet who Jen translates into English. And this seems to be a good answer to a difficult question about how to respect our own limitations and to find ways to cross at the same time. English is my mother tongue. And as they say, I also have a stepmother tongue. I should say to my drunken detractors officially that I am no more a wanna-be Mexican than I am a wanna-be American. Perpetually doomed to failure both projects I think. I suppose I should also mention that Sonoran food is frightfully lacking in fiber and high in alcoholic content yes here Tecate is included as a food generally. I will not eat another quesadilla for two months. I will not eat another quesadilla for two months. At least. The problem is that I am convinced that Manuel is right, albeit also cruel. The fictions of one small, relatively meaningless life cannot compare with a well written film script or a well developed novel. And yet narrators find ways to narrate and tie their words together into strings. And I´ll translate them and keep trying to find a way to write something myself, though doomed to failure surely. Sin más, signing off from mi casa Infonavit in Helmosillo.

Aztlán


- ¿Ón tá Aztlán? ¿Pallá?

- Sí. Pallá.

And I point off into hazy distance, ruled over by the columns of the tracks of the Metrorrey. In the distance, huge earthen piles techtonically erected over centuries and milenia make rippled anthropomorphic tracks across the sky. The naturalness of trees at miles distance peaking over tents and concrete walls and roofs. Sun glares down on the tented marketrow and we could be no closer to what is was once the land of the white heron. Who is to say that a treaty could define a land of ghosts and warriors. Small children press their faces to the glass to watch the skyline.

Una infinidad de techos abánicos sillas y mesas de metal abandonadas. En el cerro una colonia se levanta cada día más alta. Hay carros por allí arriba. Cinturones blancos mezclillas impecables una solitaria rasta que sale de la nuca del muchacho me distrae. La manera de hablar de caminar de moverse en el espacio. Todos van al paraíso clasemediero. A rhythm of waiting and watching. I am not looking at your youth your vitality. Not transfixed by your neons. I promise.

No me lleves la cartera. Miedo de estar fuera de la casa. Miedo al contar los días de extrañeza de andar perdido y solo. Ser fuereño una experiencia única. Mi condición me lleva a experimentar una nostalgía renovada. Estas esquinas esas banquetas. Todo se renueva. No estoy en casa. La tierra de las garzas está por allá. Sí, señor. Cáminale por allá un ratito. Sí llegas luego luego.







No hay por qué escribir things real aquí, ¿ves? It was all an act, desde hace mucho. Tú me viniste encima y pues ni me la hubiera imaginado. ¿Cómo puede ser que tú supiste todo? You left me in the dust. Ahora andas aparentando como si entendieras todo y por eso me esfuerzo a meterle palabras díficiles, construcciones gramaticales revueltas para que dejes de castrarme. Just so you'll be on the outside. What were we saying juntos anyway? Right, ya dejo las chingaderas porque esto no dice nada y no me ganará ni cacahuates como quién dice. Ni sé si los acentos están bien o no. Ya no me acuerdo. Hay que estudiar, un chingo. Por si las moscas. Porque en el carro, decidí muchas cosas pero nunca las terminaré. Se quedarán en ese vacío entre el antes y ahora. No que I know what, I don't y punto. It's all an act, te digo. See through it. ¿Y luego? It'll be okay. A new cliché turns round the esquina. Ni te lo esperaba, pero llegaste. Such trouble to have walked this far and nothing at all to show for it. Pido perdón a todos los fans. Pa' la próxima sí voy a mejorar.





Camelia La Texana

Uno tiene que ser orgulloso de su gente, en mi opinión. Y pues la hija de San Antonio, Camelia, nos ha hecho famosos.






¿Por qué es que todos los videos usan travestis para el papel de Camelia?





Y la letra:

Salieron de San Isidro,
procedentes de Tijuana,
traian las llantas del carro
repletas de hierba mala,
eran Emilio Varela,
y Camelia, la Texana

Pasaron por San Clemente
los paró la emigración,
les pidió sus documentos,
les dijó: ¿De donde son?
Ella era de San Antonio,
un hembra de corazón.

Una hembra si quiere un hombre,
por él puede dar la vida,
pero hay que tener cuidado
si esa hembra se siente herida,
la traición y el contrabando...
son cosas incompartidas.

A Los Angeles llegaron,
a Hollywood se pasaron,
en un callejón oscuro
las cuatro llantas cambiaron,
ahi entregaron la hierba...
y ahi también les pagaron

Emilio dice a Camelia:
Hoy te das por despedida,
con la parte que te toca
tu puedes rehacer tu vida,
yo me voy pa` San Francisco,
con la dueña de mi vida.

Sonaron siete balazos,
Camelia a Emilio mataba,
la policìa sólo halló una pistola tirada,
del dinero y de Camelia...
Nunca mas se supo nada

White People Love Obama


Despite what Hillary is saying these days:




White people still do seem to love Barack.

That's 75,000 people in Portland, Oregon at a Barack rally. But, right, white people in Portland probably aren't the hardworking white people that support Hillary so much. But, um, 75,000 people in Oregon can't be wrong. And yeah, they're probably not all white, but they are probably pretty similar to the demographics of Portland (almost 80% white) or Oregon (like 92% white). So yeah, I don't think Hillary is right that she has some secret white magic over white people. Stop race-baiting, Hillary.

The Second Award for Oppressive White Man of the Day

Seattle ICE Officers (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) are searching local courtrooms in Seattle, asking legal interpreters to identify Spanish-speakers. The officers are trying to check status and initiate removal proceedings for undocumented people and especially those with issues in court (which include traffic violations to parking to low level misdeanors).

Interpreters decline.

Link here.

(Seattle ICE enforcement field director Neil Clark wins the award for Oppressive White Man of the Day. This is the second of a series. The first is here.)

Good Legal Interpreting Glossaries

For the past year or so, I have been studying seriously to try to learn Legal English and Legal Spanish. Two completely new languages for me that have taken a lot of time and energy to learn. Interpreting is alone partially about terminology. When I first started I thought that the terminology would be the major difficulty. In fact, it is only step one: then there's grammar and memory and retention and phrasing and intonation and ethics and a million other important items. However, step one remains terminology; in fact, it is step one every day that an interpreter is working because one has to constantly be thinking about the terms used and how well they convey the specific meanign in question.

In any case, I have spent days searching for good legal terminology glossaries. I have already posted a good glossary for immigration interpreting. But here are links to several more glossaries that I have found helpful:

State of Washington Legal Glossary

Vera Project's Translating Justice: A Spanish Glossary for New York City

New Jersey Glossary of Legal Terms

If you have any more good ones, please let me know.

Javier Huerta's Fourteen Steps to Publishing Bilingual Poetry

From Javier's blog:

So the first step is to research those institutions (presses and journals) that accept Spanish and bilingual submissions.

So the second step is to submit as much and as often as possible. Publishers aren't going to find you, no matter how good your poems are.

So the third step is to learn that rejection is just part of the process.

So the fourth step is to read Rilke's "Letters to a Young Poet."

So the fifth step is to memorize "El Louie."

So the sixth step is to write a poem in your limited French.

So the seventh step is to organize your manuscript and have a nonpoet comment on it.

So the eighth step is to have your grandmother edit your Spanish poems.

So the ninth step is to send your manuscript to me at johuerta@berkeley.edu.

So the tenth step is to understand that you've never published before.

So the eleventh step is to not argue with your publisher once you have a publisher.

So the twelfth step is to consider publishing beyond the borders of the United States of America.

So the thirteenth step is remaining patient while it takes your publisher two years to publish your book.

So the fourteenth step is staying beautiful.





Se puede hacer poesía de todo. Todo puede ser poesía... Claro que de ahí a lograr esa auténtica ligereza en poesía, esa cotidianeidad, ese humor, esas viñatas epigramáticas, como las que aparecen el los autores [como] Cavafis; o bien, esas fábulas o escenas cotidianas, blancas, desnudas o moderadas en su retórica (como ciertos textos de Pacheco), hay un buen trecho... Uno hace sólo lo que puede, y no todo lo que ambiciona. Por lo demás, en la juventud se ambicionan demasiadas cosas, que luego se revelan del todo imposibles... [como] volver a medir y a rimar, aventura en la que de plano de obtuve mayores resultados...

- José Joaquín Blanco, Postales trucadas (2005)



Undocumented Speak (Hopefully)

There a lot of different blogs, books, articles, poetry, etc that in some way or another speak about the experience of the twelve or thirteen or fifteen million undocumented people in the United States. A few that I have been reading lately got me thinking about projects that take different approaches to reach similar ends:

1) A DREAM Act Texas blog by a college professor at the University of Houston, Marie Theresa Hernández, and (occasionally) by young people who would qualify for residency under the Act.

2) The blog Unitedstatesean Notes by poet Javier Huerta. He started a new feature on the blog where each week he spotlights a poem having to do with undocumented immigrants. This is how he put it on the first day of the series:

My intent is to show that a long and rich tradition of "undocumented" poetry exists in these United States. I plan to post a poem dealing with/written from the undocumented experience every Monday.

I think the critical point in this description is the "dealing with/written from" paradox. For Javier, "undocumented" poetry is not only by the undocumented, it is also poetry that deals with the experience. The fact is that there is a lot more poetry by Chicanos or mexicanos in Mexico or gringos about "undocumentedness" than there is work being published by undocumented people. I recommend checking out the series with work by Monica Teresa Ortiz, Monica de la Torre, and Lucha Corpi.

3) And now I just found out that McSweeneys (the Dave Eggers explosion), through what seems to be an imprint or related project called Voice of Witness, is publishing a collection of testimonies from undocumented people of diverse nationalities living in the United States, Underground America: Narratives of Undocumented Lives. It is edited by Peter Orner, who (I gathered from his introduction to the book) is an immigration defense attorney (or was at one time). The collection is founded on the principle that

We cannot begin to understand the situation facing undocumented people in this country unless we start listening to them directly.

So now the reason why I list these three is because each one of their projects does profoundly important work and finds creative ways to navigate the dynamics of solidarity. Each of them are trying to open eyes to the fact that undocumented immigrants are human beings -- writers, students, workers. In each case, the individual driving the project is not him/herself undocumented, though each one has their own story of how they came to the issue, whether through academic research, personal history or legal work. Each one has come to their own conclusions about how to navigate their insider/outsider position. I think each of these projects (whether electronic or print) gives us a lot to ponder: about solidarity, literature and voice. Worth checking out and thinking through.