National Poetry Month

So, here we are, April 1st and it's National Poetry Month...but that ain't no joke - it really is!

I'm taking these morning hours just for me - and poetry. I admit that while I've been working in San Francisco I've not been anywhere near my poetry - well, not like I'd like to. I'm so involved in other work that I don't get around to giving it more than a cursory glance.

But starting today, and every day in April, I am going to spend time with poetry even if I don't get to work on my own poetry, new or revisions, and even if I only blog about it on Wednesdays.

So you all (I flatter myself here - do I think anyone is even reading this blog? But just in case...) get to suffer my indulgence.

And to get it started, I'm focusing on Sandra Cisneros today I admit I have not read a lot of her work. I've enjoyed every interview I've been fortunate enough to listen in on, a lecture she gave at Cal State Dominguez Hills and write-ups about her books in Books and Author sections in local papers, but I don't know much of her work first hand and this exercise will actually get me to do what I should have done a long time ago -- read her collection of poetry (and reread others) that's been sitting in my bookshelf.

I came across a poem this morning (I'm ashamed to say its been sitting on my bookshelf for the past two years!) that cracked me up because the experience is familiar to me and it happens often, un no se que - and it's usually brought to my attention by others, in fact, it's always brought to my attention by others. It's much like having an accent: you don't know you even have one until someone points it out. It's like that, a curiousity about my being Mexican.

I think it's mostly due to the fact that I confuse a lot of people - I think I have one of those faces that can be anything: Hawaiian, French, Italian, Filipino, Samoan - I've even been asked if I'm Black - in my travels. When folks find out I'm Mexican, they all have questions, a story or want to talk politics. It's mostly funny - sometimes frustrating, sometimes sad, sometimes infuriating ("I like Mexican woman because they're all so sweet and docile"), but mostly it cracks me up. And Sandra captured the experience beautifully here, in her poem Mexican in France:


He says he likes Mexico.
Especially all that history.
That's what I understand
although my French
is not that good

And he wants to talk
about U.S. racism
It's not often he meets
Mexicans in the south of France.

He remembers
a Mexican Marlon Brando once
on French tv.

How, in westerns,
the Mexicans are always
the bad guys. And -

is it true
all Mexicans
carry knives?

I laugh.
--Lucky for you
I'm not carrying my knife
today.

He laughs too
-- I think
the knife you carry
is
abstract.


This makes me think of questions asked, and situations encountered in my travels, in Cuba, in the Dominican Republic, in Italy, in England - about Mexicans. I guess we're an abstract lot. I also remembered a time one of my brother's friends wanted to meet me: he wanted my brother to introduce us because he wanted to marry a Mexican woman because he likes Mexican food and he likes that Mexican women are sweet, family oriented and soft spoken. My brother had to disabuse him of that notion where I was concerned.

I don't try to hide my 'Mexicana-ness' but it's interesting how people interpret it -react to it. Most times I don't get angry. It amuses me most time, actually, it cracks me up - it often says more about the other than me. What else can you do but respond, laugh and then write about it? But it's also an opportunity - I chose to take this approach - to shed some light, to teach.

This poem makes me think, too, of Porky and a day in my life that I hadn't thought of in ages - 15 to 20 years or so.

Porky was a cholo who became a part of my life for an entire day on what was probably one of the worst Saturdays of my angst filled, late bloomer (I was 19) life.

It was supposed to be a fun weekend with my only two friends. My parents were strict and would never have let me spend an unsupervised weekend with friends, so I I did what any good daughter would do: I lied. I told my mother I'd be with my best friend Olivia and her parents (who my mother had met) on a family camping trip.

It turned into the weekend from hell that wouldn't die. Through no wish or fault of my own -only my own making - I was dragged through the worst slapstick, keystone cop, Rebels without a Cause B movie.

Porky nearly got us nearly killed twice, nearly arrested once, made us have to outrun L.A.P.D. through Echo Park, made us crash through a wedding party taking the requesite bride-and-groom-on-grassy-knoll pictures. I wasn't told until later that Porky was under strict orders, by his probation officer, to not be anywhere near the park, or general Echo Park area.

Porky, who 'borrowed' a cigarette from some veterano he'd never seen before, who, instead of thanking him for 'lending' him said cigarette tells him instead 'a rato te mato'. this set the tone for the day.

The veterano didn't take too kindly to being threatened with death by this mocoso - especially not after just having given him a cigarette. As I'm getting into the back-seat of Silvia's car I see him signal to two cars filled with his homies (Silvia was our driver - she was the only one of us with her own car -- a green camaro -- and Porky was her friend). The veterano and his buddies jump into their cars as we jump into our...and chase us...yes, I was in a car chase through the streets of downtown L.A. - me, Olivia and Silvia - and Porky, chased by two cars filled with angry cholos, badder, older and meaner than Porky, with weapons - and scarier than shit.

Scarier because they had their respect to regain.

In the car Porky is laughing, not understanding why this guy is so pissed, sticking his head out the window yelling maricon for getting pissed off - baiting these guys. Me, I'm yelling at Silvia for bringing Porky along in the first place - and I'm seriously praying. Olivia, she's got a frozen look on her face, staring straight into nothing, saying over and over shut up Porky, Shut up Porky. I know she's scared. Olivia grew up in quiet, calm suburbs - this was entirely new to her. I didn't. I was familiar. Because I was familiar, I feel I had a better handle on the situation, and more fear -- because I was familiar.

I never liked Silvia very much, but despite that, on this day I admired her incredible driving skills.

We out ran them.

Between Silvia's driving and my familiarity with L.A. streets, we lived to tell about it, only to have to run again when Porky decided he would treat us to hamburger, except Porky doesn'have money for hamburgers so he orders Silvia to drive to the First Street Mercado.

I thought, okay, maybe he has a Tio or Tia who owns a little taqueria who would feed us - I realize I haven't eaten all day long and I'm starving. Thank god for Tio's and Tia's. But when we get ther, I find out there is no Tio. There is no Tia. Only Porky who proceeds to rob a guy - stabs him once in the shoulder - for hamburger money. I refused to eat. Especially when we have to run again because the sirens are getting closer.

But wait, there's more!

It was almost the longest, most frightening day and night of my life to that point. I just wanted to go home. I prayed it would end - I promised never to lie - ever again, at least not to my parents.

When it all ended, so did my friendship with Silvia - a friend who could introduce me to someone like Porky, who held me hostage with the situation for an entire day, unable to get away from them unless I called my family and outted myself for having lied to my parents about where I really was - and with whom - a friend, who I discovered, knew many more Porkys than I suspected - and I didn't care to know a single one.

Anyway, Sandra's poem, her line "Lucky for you/I'm not carrying my knife/today" took me back to that weekend with Porky.

Porky, who in between bouts of laughter as we tried to outrun the veteranos, told Olivia he loved her...that he loved her so much he would tattoo his ass with "son tuyos" (they're yours) ...there's no higher compliment that some bad ass cholo dude saying his ass is yours....I guess.

Did I mention Porky was funny.

Bastard.

Orale Sandra, keep 'em coming.