“To say your name is
to bless myself.”
--Celeste
G. Mendoza
1.
In the poem “Tío Chucho would have you believe” you
explore language as a barrier or wound between the family dynamic as in the
line, “Our English a wound so deep/ between us.” Can you tell us more about the
role language plays in the poem, the family section, or the collection at
large?
The poem was
inspired by someone’s story about how in their family there was a real fissure
between those relatives whose English was “perfect” and those who had
difficulty with speaking and writing English because Spanish was their dominant
language. So in the family there were the “have-English” and the “have-not-English,”
those who did not master English were looked down upon by those who did. They
also were not only perceived as unintelligent but incapable of intelligence, as
if there was no hope for them to survive in the world because of their
perceived lack of mastery of English. Paradoxically, the Spanish speakers
looked down upon those in the family who were English-language dominant because
they had no mastery of Spanish; the Spanish speakers saw the primary-English
speakers as being “less Mexican,” and “Americanized.” When the two groups interacted
with one another you would barely be able to perceive how one group
discriminated against the other, they were family, but it was there in a subtle
way, and would slip out like it does in the poem, this sense of “us versus them.”
This type of
discrimination based on language proficiency is rampant I think in Latino
families and creates some real fissures solely because of how we speak or don’t
speak one language or the other. So in the poem I wanted to allude to how we
use language proficiency to rate one another (or ourselves), codify one
another, and cast one another away, or vice versa how we use it to assert
ourselves (or one another), distinguish ourselves, and many times discriminate
against one another for our own benefit or gain.
2.
You create an interesting cultural landscape
where windows are covered over in foil, lawns are bleached to yellow, crocheted
doilies are coasters for beer, and Malibu Barbie sits next to Baby Jesus—it
seems like this landscape is endowed with a tender humor celebrating difference.
Was this an intentional approach to the colorful world you present the reader
with? What other approaches did you have in mind when creating this landscape?
I am reminded
of a writing exercise that Sandra Cisneros would have us do in her workshops;
she would ask us to write down 10 things that distinguished ourselves from a
family member, then from a coworker, then from a friend, then from the person
sitting next to us. By the end we had this list of things, ideas, etc, that
made us singular, that defined who we were in some ways. So what you refer to
as “landscapes” represent my voice, my experience, some of what I grew up with
and what exists in my barrio in San Antonio, Texas.
Actually, for
me, this entire collection, is a love-song to San Antonio and to who I was/am
because of my home-city, to all of those specific landscapes with which I
identify, celebrate and in many ways venerate, like the foiled over windows,
the yellowed lawns, the doilies and the juxtaposition of our holy relics with
our toys. These landscapes are a part of me, my voice much like a golden carp,
a farm road, or a wheelbarrow is for other writers.
3.
In part Two: God, you delve into heavy topics,
such as violence in the poem “Saint,” loneliness in “About faith.” Were these
topics difficult to write about? Was it a cathartic or challenging experience?
Violence is a
topic that comes up in my writing frequently; I’ve experienced violence, both
physical and sexual, and definitely identify as a survivor in this context.
I’ve also witnessed violence and in some instances have been able to do
something about it, stop it and in others I’ve not had that power or
opportunity; it happens so fast.
My second
collection, which I’m now working on, is an exploration of violence. The poems
in the next collection were actually pulled from this manuscript so the poems
you refer to in this collection are the birthplace of my next book.
I don’t know if
I am able to talk clearly about the difficulty of writing about violence
because as someone who has experienced it first-hand I think I have a certain
type of relationship with violence that those who’ve not experienced it
corporeally or viscerally can’t understand in the same way I do; so perhaps for
me it is less difficult in contrast to someone else or more difficult. I don’t
know.
I can tell you
that violence appears in my poetry as it appears in my memory and on a certain
level I’m sure in my subconscious; and I don’t find it cathartic when it
appears in the writing. I just write, continue the line, the stanza, the poem.
I don’t think about the transformative nature of the writing when I’m writing
or revising; I’m thinking about the work not me. The transformation, the
healing happens separately from the writing for me. The writing is definitely
part of the working it out but I don’t know if I will ever be free from the
memories of violence that my mind and body still harbor. And to be honest, it
is not important for me to be free of them as much as it is important for me to
be as humane as I can, with others as well as myself, as they continue to walk
with me through my life.
You know, we
put so much pressure on ourselves to be pure and many times that pressure to
purify is where violence is born.
4.
I am interested in your exploration of faith in
the second part of your collection. You show us the effect faith has on the
believer, how it affects their life in real ways, such as the physical branding
of the tattoo in “El sagrado corazon,” and the reflective question in “About
faith”—Every day was for God. If it
hadn’t been/ who would I be? Ending with Believing in the one thing/ far enough away to not hurt me. Given
the prominence your collection devotes to the topic, are there any thoughts you
would like to share on your perspective on faith and how this relates to your
aesthetic portrayal of it in poetry?
Incidentally,
faith and violence are the two major beings in my second collection; it’s
interesting to me that you pulled them out from this manuscript. I can only
talk about my personal relationship with faith and won’t make any general or
broad arguments as it is such a personal matter, distinct for each individual.
My faith
was greatly influenced by the following: Catholicism, the religion in which I
was raised and I still practice; “Survivalism”, the way of living that my
maternal grandmother instilled in me; my readings of philosophy and poetry; what
would probably be categorized as curanderismo; and “new age” spiritualism. My
faith is a hybrid like any one else’s structure for living. I believe that if I
did not have this faith, this way of living, I would not be here in this current
state of living; I would have succumbed to the violence I experienced and
become a very violent person. I’m certain about this sobering fact and it has
nothing to do with where I was raised or my family or my barrio; it has
everything to do with how I internalized the violence I experienced, the level
of anger and rage I felt toward myself and the world for most of my life, so
much so that many times I didn’t care what happened as long as I got to get the
emotions out of me.
It is a
life-saver that I had my faith to help me mitigate the violence that I had come
to think was “just me,” my nature. It’s also interesting that I chose to become
an actor and be on the stage—a safe space to get enraged, “It’s part of my
character,” I would say. But I know that my faith and my dedication to my faith
is what supports me and gives me the strength to do all that I do and to be
closer to the true me, the one that is not violent, the one who chooses to care
for others and embrace them, rather than take a rock to their head. And though
it has been years, and believe me, I have worked on this aspect of my self,
there are still times when I know that I need to close my eyes, meditate, pray,
just get myself out of that place that will suck me down into another life. It
is easier now than it has ever been but it is not so easy that I don’t
recognize that it’s work.
So in
many of my poems up to now where there is violence there is also faith that
counters it. I can’t give you a Freudian reason why this occurs but I can say
that it is part of my aesthetic.
5.
In poems, such as, “La Pisca” you make varied
use of white space and line arrangement. Thinking about how this poem would
read if it was arranged in the conventional block form, it seemed like your
choice was more interesting. Can you tell us about the process for this choice?
Was it something organic, or did you experiment with arrangement before
deciding on this particular one? Were there other factors, besides the visual
arrangement that led you to try this approach?
The line breaks
and arrangement of this poem were part of the generative process, which doesn’t
always happen when I’m working on poetry as much as plays, but for this
particular poem I had a clear vision for what I wanted the poem to look like on
the page and so I went with that while I wrote it. That process actually helped
me with the crafting of the poem as well; so some of it was organic, the
initial idea, and then some of it planned as I saw that it could work and
continued with the format.
6.
Reading your poetry, I couldn’t help thinking of
Gregory Orr’s “Four Temperaments and the Forms of Poetry,” beginning with music
in “Lookin’ pretty,” story in “Marriage: Hunger,” structure in “Marriage:
Multiply,” and imagination in “Marriage: Break.” Between music, story,
structure, and imagination, which temperament would you say figures most
strongly in your work and can you give us a little background on why you think
this is so?
Personally, I
think “music” figures most strongly of the four though perhaps story would be a
strong second place. As I revise my work I observe that I write by sound; the
next word I use comes from previous words I’ve used because of the sound they
make when read aloud. I’m a singer, dancer and musician so I think my body and
mind are just trained to hear and create music unconsciously, so what I say
usually comes out in rhythm and what I write follows suit.
Story also
plays heavily in some poems because I’m a natural storyteller (I was raised in
a home of storytellers) so I think I’m always telling a story that usually has
some kind of conflict and always a reason why I am sharing it. For example, I
enjoyed writing the marriage poems because I think it is worth exploring the
institution of marriage, as well as human relationships and the nature of
love—all of which are not necessarily part of every “successful” marriage.
Story lets me explore what I perceive as a rather complex aspect of our human
nature.
In third and fourth place would be
imagination and structure respectively. I’m a rather logical person though I’m
rather imaginative but I do believe that the jumps in imagery don’t happen for
me in my first and second drafts of poems; that interplay is something I will
add in later in my revision process but always making sure it makes sense with
the particular logic of the poem. Personally, I think structure is the greatest
weakness of my poetry overall and something I would like to improve. I know that
working on “limiting” forms like sestinas and villanelles will help me build
confidence in this area, so I’m working on that aspect of my work.
7.
Beginning poets, like myself, sometimes struggle
with creating collections that cohere. As a poet who has created a cohesive
collection, can you share any tips about the process? Was it easy for you in
some ways or challenging in others? If challenging, how did you deal with these
challenges?
The initial
manuscript contained most of the poems from my Master’s thesis; it was much
longer and to be frank was not cohesive. It served its purpose for my thesis
requirement but was not a collection that I felt was of publishing quality. Plus,
it seemed to me that many of the poetry books that were and are being published
are less a collection of individual poems and more a series of poems that are
bound together by some element, whether it be theme or argument or symbol or
imagery or language. I wonder if gone are the days when you put together a book
from all the poems you’ve published in journals the past couple of years as
some of the more canonized poets did.
Anyway, I sent the
manuscript as my thesis to a few contests and publishers but received no
response; I worked on revising it but still all quiet on the western and
eastern and northern and southern fronts. So I just let it simmer for a few
months.
I will share
that right before I graduated with my MFA in 2007, I read Lorna Dee Cervante’s,
DRIVE, which was published by Wings Press in 2006. For some reason the
structure of the book really spoke to me. So, as I contemplated what to do with
my manuscript I went back to her text, studied it, and decided to try to divide
my manuscript up into sections or themes, as an experiment of sorts to help me
try to get out of revision rut. I also read T.S. Eliot’s, The Waste Land, which
Cervantes says was her inspiration for her book.
As I read and reread my work I came up
with the four “obsessions” from the poems I had written: family, land, faith,
and love. I took out all the poems that didn’t fit into any of these categories
and then got to writing some to fill in what I felt were gaps in some of the
sections—gaps in voice or perspective, or character. It was helpful to have a
guide and Cervantes and Eliot were stellar ones. Right now as I’m working on my
second collection, which is actually a book-length poem, I’m doing something
similar in the sense that I’ve been and continue to read as many book-length
poems as I can to see how others have worked with form, voice, rhythm, and
language.
My only piece of
advice is to read other people’s work and witness and think about their choices;
then read your own work with as much attention and intent and then feel your
way through it. The order will appear. Order always somehow does.
Celeste
Guzmán Mendoza is a native of San Antonio, Texas. Her poems have been
published in Poet Lore, Borderlands, Salamander, and other
journals. She has also had essays and poems appear in the following
anthologies: This Promiscuous Light: Young Women Poets of San Antonio
(Wings Press: 1996), Floricanto Sí!: A Collection of Latina Poetry,
(Penguin:1998); Red Boots and Attitude: The Spirit of Texas Women Writers
(Eakin Press: 2003), and Telling Tongues: A L@tina Anthology on Language
Experience (Calaca Press: 2007), among others. Her chapbook of poetry, Cande
te estoy llamando, won the Poesía Tejana Prize from Wings Press. Mendoza
received her bachelor's degree in English literature and Theatre from Barnard
College. She holds a MFA in Poetry from the Bennington Writing Seminars and a
Certificate in Spanish from the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. She
has received writing residencies from Macondo Writing Workshops as Hedgebrook
for Women Writers. She is a co-founder of CantoMundo, a master workshop for
Latina/o poets. Mendoza is also a playwright. Her original play, Burnt
Sienna, won the 1996 American College Theatre Festival's Ten Minute Play
Award. Her plays have been produced by the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center and
Teatro Vivo. Mendoza lives in Austin, Texas, with her husband. She currently
works as the Associate Director of Development at LLILAS Benson of the
University of Texas at Austin. She has more than fifteen years of fundraising
experience.
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