Tino Rodríguez,
"When You Hurt Me, I Won't Let It Show"
detail, oil on tin mounted on panel, 1999
*
An Interview with Rigoberto González
conducted by Roberto Cruz
Autobiography of My Hungers introduces us to the life of a speaker
looking to satisfy both his physical and mental appetites. It touches upon
author Rigoberto González’s childhood and adult years. It is not only a book
about struggle, but about growth, a journey to fulfill some of the voids
present in life. It is not only a recollection of memories, but a reflection of
each of the experiences that are there to tell both the story of a life, and
the way in which these experiences shape a life. As the son of immigrant
parents myself, some of the themes in this book spoke to me. As with González’s
experience in his younger years, I too have learned from my experience of
growing up in Houston.
The interview below
is a tribute to some of the major components of this book. My questions were
aimed at touching upon general themes, as well as specific pieces. They reflect
upon some of González’s feelings throughout his life, and even on his thoughts
on certain past experiences through the viewpoint of the present. Identity is a
theme I address in some of my questions and his responses hint at the struggle,
sometimes, of being comfortable assuming an identity that feels true rather
than being limited by some of the people around him. Coming up with some of
these questions and reading Autobiography
of My Hungers caused me to reflect upon my own circumstances. González’s
answers made me realize that growth is something that is lifelong and ongoing. Coming
across this book certainly brought about this feeling that nothing is assured,
life keeps changing and I will keep coming across experiences that will shape
me in a different way. There should never be any rush to have your life figured
out.
—Roberto Cruz, University of Notre Dame (class of 2017)
***
Roberto Cruz: I noticed that the
“piedrita” excerpts are introduced every few chapters. How do you see these
functioning in the book? Was their placement intentional or somewhat random?
Rigoberto González: The
piedritas are dispersed to appear random but they’re actually connected to the
timelines of the sections. I wanted these poem-like pieces to be a visual
contrast to the prose (which is why they are shaped by italicized lines not
sentences) and to represent the surprising little finds I reference in the
opening piece, which explains what piedritas are and how they too are valuable
finds. In the earlier drafts of the book I had no piedritas included, so it
read like a much different book. Including them allows the reader to pause and
reflect more often--particularly critical since many of the entries are heavy
with emotion and imagery.
RC: Different chapters of the book deal with different desires,
both internal and external. Is this idea of desire meant as the book’s
foundation given its title?
RG: Yes, desire is
interchangeable with hunger—especially when that desire is not sated. Physical
and emotional desire consume the body equally and can cause the body damage.
But that doesn’t mean that the damage is irreparable—I also believe in the
wondrous ability of the body to heal. Yet in order to heal, the body has to
identify its wounds.
RC: The piece “fire” talks about the envy behind a family’s tragedy and
ultimately their exit from that neighborhood because of a fire. Later on the
book transitions into a later time in your life. Could you talk about how this
might relate to your being able to escape an environment you seemed to dread?
RG: A complex relationship to home, to
family, is bittersweet in that way: we love but we want to leave. The decision
to escape is connected to the reality that certain hungers will not be appeased
at home. Certainly that’s why many have left the homes they love—for economic
reasons, yes, and a lengthy history of migration from Mexico to the U.S. has
been evidence of that. But I’m also alluding to the exodus of the LGBT
community—how many of us leave home in order to survive, to be ourselves
outside of silence and invisibility. My family left Mexico in order to live. I
left my family in order to live.
RC: Several of these pieces, like “trash” and “witch,” deal with
strong reactions to the situation that you saw yourself living in as a child.
How did this upbringing shape the decisions you faced as an adult?
RG: Those pieces were
the most difficult to write. In fact, it took me 30 years to be able to write
concretely about childhood poverty. I suppose there’s no greater incentive than
such an experience to grow up wanting to achieve, to build memories shaped by
success, not failure or dearth. Being haunted by poverty fueled my work ethic,
my determination, my ambition. And in many ways I also considered my journey an
extension of my parents’ journeys—I wanted our story, the story of the González
family, to move away from want and unhappiness. Strangely, as I grew older I
realized I encountered other kinds of wants—but struggle was nothing new to me
by then, and I also knew that no desire had to be fatal.
RC: You
mention in your book that your family went back to Mexico, while you were able
to stay in the United States and get an education, but then go on to write
about your nostalgia for home. Could you talk about the process of establishing
your identity while belonging to these two completely different worlds?
RG: When my family
returned to Mexico in 1992 it was both freeing and frightening. My freedom was
that I became completed independent—whatever choice I made would be reported
back to family after the fact. Whatever mistakes I made were completely mine.
Suddenly my life was in my own hands. But just as quickly the reality of the
situation also came to light: I was alone, I had no home. I grew up hearing
grow-ups consult each other, give themselves terrible advice, but also come to
each other’s rescue. I had none of these options. Ironically, the longer I
lived outside of that world the more I thought about it. My longing for that
comfort zone became sated by my writing—simply returning was not the answer,
but rather, examining that place I used to call home and reminding myself of
its flaws as well as its blessings helped me make peace with my solitary
journey. And not so solitary at that since memory became my constant companion.
I’m not sure if that’s the best of both worlds but it’s certainly the most
beneficial to a writer, an artist who mines the past to have a future.
RC: The piece “voracious” seems to deal with a long trauma, with a part of
your past that still haunts you. Do you consider this long standing hunger
something you are managing to overcome or something you have learned to live
with?
RG: When I was a college
student I suffered from a number of eating disorders—kboth anorexia and
bulimia. Whatever social anxieties I had became heightened in that unfamiliar
territory I was now inhabiting. It wasn’t until my late 20s that I stopped,
though I don’t think it was a conscious decision. I’m not sure what changed
that but suddenly I was gaining weight and overeating. Since then I have
learned to control my eating habits, somewhat, but there are some things I can’t
shake, like being unable to leave food on my plate without guilt or being
unable to keep much food in my apartment. To this day when I have guests
they’re surprised I have very little to nothing in the fridge. That inability
to store food I have learned to live with. I’m not sure what kind of lesson I’m
offering here but I believe it’s something I will be exploring in a future
project. I’m still thinking about this.
RC: Throughout the book it is evident that there
is a certain company that you long for. Was being a gay immigrant something
that made it harder to find the company you were looking for?
RG: Yes, absolutely. It’s not coincidence that most of my
boyfriends have also been gay immigrants from Guyana, the Philippines, Jamaica,
the Dominican Republic. There’s a special unspoken affinity I have for men who
understand the nature of cultural displacement and dislocation. I also write
about my only girlfriend, who was born in Taiwan. I don’t have to explain the
longing for home to any of them; they understand. I believe that’s why I have
lived in NYC all these years. It’s a place of immigrants. But that commonality
doesn’t translate into a functional relationship necessarily. Still, I have
hope. I can’t see myself at this moment building a partnership with someone who
doesn’t have a connection to a distant place, culture or language on the map.
RC: This is a very
powerful book that touches upon a lot of experiences and how they shaped you,
amongst these was your mother’s death. Would you say that her death added to
the longing for the company that seems to be a major theme throughout the book?
RG: I believe so. Hers was the single loss that never quite
healed. I was only 12 when she died. Thirty-two years later I still miss her
and that feeling of being loved by someone who wants only the best for me. I
have yet to find that in my life, and I say that with the utmost respect for my
good friends and few relatives who are still alive. I suppose I have
romanticized that intimacy to an extent that nothing will come close to it, but
I’m fine with that—it becomes a high standard, not necessarily unreachable. For
the moment I am living my life, content to be doing what I love best—writing.
I’m nurtured by my work, the few friends who can put up with my moody nature,
and by the knowledge that what I’m laboring over is being read and appreciated.
It’s not such a bad place for a man like me who used to be a child with very
few things to call his own, with very little room to dream.
***
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