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After twenty years with Maria, before that life with a wife, his mother, two kids, a maid, Carlos Bluhm stares into the brownness of the city numb with pain, oblivious to the crowd’s resentment of his gringoness on their streets. In the distance, Bluhm’s German-Peruvian pals call his name to bring him back into their protective embrace. So ends Marie Arana’s Lima Nights. It’s a novel whose pages you keep turning not because the characters are endearing—quite the opposite—but to see if there’s a point to Carlos Bluhm’s loser of a life.

Maria has never been there throughout the novel, despite her pivotal role in the mess that is Bluhm’s life. He first spots her at a taxi dance bar, Lima Nights, where women keep men buying liquor, then after hours making whatever deals they can turn. An experienced woman counsels Maria to capture a man’s attention by slipping her datos into the guy’s coat pocket. Make a good choice and a woman earns long-term security and a taste of the good life that comes of being a man’s mistress.

Maria chooses Carlos, a forty-something man out on the town with his three pals. Not that Maria’s been on the job all that long, or other work for that matter. She’s fifteen years old, a couple weeks from turning legal. Maria desperately wants out of a life in Lima’s worst slum, her mother an alcoholic who takes in men and laundry to support Maria and her two brothers. Talk about highly motivated to do whatever it takes to shake free of that futureless history, that’s Maria. If something good has come of Maria’s years with Carlos it’s the slim chance that her future will not be to return to that slum and her mother’s footsteps.

But Lima Nights is not Maria’s story. And it’s not Carlos Bluhm’s, despite his central role. Lima Nights is a political novel. Marriage politics looms above all, defining the tragedy that comes to familia Bluhm. Arana casts a cold, subjective eye on men’s philandering and women’s tolerance. Except for Oscar the shrink, the cohort are scions of rich families down on their luck. With their grandfathers’ economic empires dismantled, the men live in Lima’s elegant houses but work regular jobs like camera salesman, appliance store entrepreneur, hotel manager. Bluhm struggles to make ends meet; to pay for his pleasures he begins dismantling his heritage, selling family silver and pre-hispanic artifacts.

Maria never gives a conscious thought to what she’s done to Bluhm’s family, other than one uncomfortable moment staring into the eyes of Bluhm’s younger son, who is older than Maria and who finds Maria beautiful. The women’s attitudes range from bitter resentment of the men covering for each other to zero tolerance only when confronted by hard proof. That’s Bluhm’s wife. Only when confronted with firm evidence of Bluhm’s tryst with the Indian girl, does the wife move out, taking Bluhm’s mother with her, and the maid. Maria moves into the empty house the first night. It is an empty dream but she takes full advantage of it, investing the next twenty years of escape in making the nest a comfortable home.

Bluhm’s friends cannot understand his actions. Not that the girl is not alluring, nor that she’s only fifteen. Only the psychiatrist is troubled by the child’s age. For his part, Bluhm anxiously waits until her birthday to make his first physical move on her. Maria’s main fault is being a chola--brown-skinned India. Indians like her, according to Bluhm’s buddies, are good for a one-night stand but not someone to settle down with. It’s an attitude Maria feels too, thinking herself disposable to men like Bluhm.

This vicious prejudice permeates Bluhm’s light-skinned society. It is the immovable force against the irresistible force of Peru’s indigenous and mestizo masses. This ugly undercurrent of hatred converts Lima Nights from a sadness-infused battle of the sexes fable to a frustrating metaphor for Peru’s decaying colonialism. The intractable divide between cholas like Maria and white-skinned Europeans like the Bluhm’s German-Peruvian social circle offers no escape to either side. There is hope. Bluhm’s sons wash their hands of their father’s past—neither of them wants nor needs the old place, they’ve carved out their own fortunes by dint of their own labor. Just as there’s hope that Maria’s future will not be like her past, if she can parlay into a job what she’s learned as a chola living a middle-class gringo life. If not, there’s always the slum, or the Shining Path, or something less.

A ver, Maria. Suerte. Carlos, you did it to yourself and whatever happens next, you have it coming. Readers have it coming to them to enjoy Arana's Lima Nights.

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Your humble writer this week was blessed had the task of trying to fill the shoes of Johanny Vazquez, at this month's Palabra Pura. La Divina is in Puerto Rico where I'm sure she's enjoying family and holding court. In a bedrock venue of Chicago's Mexican community, Decima Musa, Palabra Pura offered  two dynamic poets, and the pre-show conversation was a lively, full-bodied discussion on female aesthetics and female presence on stage. The evening resonated with work that puts flesh on the bone, that breathes a sense of everyday spirituality and working-class nobility into their work. 

Naomi Ayala is the author of This Side of Early (Curbstone Press, 2008) and Wild Animals on the Moon (Curbstone Press, 1997). Her third collection of poems is forthcoming from Bilingual Review Press in 2009. Ayala’s work has appeared in numerous journals and has been anthologized in Seeds of Fire: Contemporary Poems from the Other USA (Smokestack Books/U.K., 2008), Boriquén to Diasporican: Puerto Rican Poetry from Aboriginal Times to the New Millennium (University of Massachusetts Press, 2007), The Wind Shifts: New Latino Poetry (University of Arizona Press, 2007), and Latino Boom: An Anthology of U.S. Latino Literature (Longman, 2005). Ayala works as an education consultant (with a specialty in curriculum design and development), a translator, and teacher, and is currently serving as the Director of Development for Fiesta DC.

From Consortium, about This Side of Early...These poems straddle two landscapes—contrasting the imprints of gentrification with the supernal, come by way of the woods. Ayala’s poems deconstruct the political world of man, offer hope through a compelling, lyrical spiritual intimacy, and bridge the gap between the two with words full of ecological intensity. Her deep connections with the working class combine with a love of the land to offer us lilt and dream, revelation and foretelling. Many of the "seeings" she brings us walk the edge of cultural resilience, where the illusion we see of the outside world speaks to us most when we turn within.

Diana Pando is a megaphone for Latinos in the arts. She has been Managing Director of Teatro Vista, Interim Managing Director for Teatro Luna, and worked with Luna Negra Dance Theatre and DeLaTorre Fine Arts. Through Teatro Vista she has been able to initiate dialogue between communities and arts groups resulting in youth outreach programs in the Back of the Yards neighborhood and increased Latino theatre in Little Village. She is one of the founding members of Proyecto Latina, a collaborative between Teatro Luna and Tianguis Bookstore and former contributing writer for Dinero Magazine. She has contributed writing to Teatro Luna's critically acclaimed show MACHOS, Lunaticas, collaborated with artist Luis DeLaTorre and maintains a blog called Art Botanas for Latinos in the arts.

She is a member of the Latina Leadership Council for the Chicago Foundation for Women. This October she will be the featured reader at Proyecto Latina hosted at RadioArte. Currently, she works with the Community Media Workshop helping nonprofits tell their stories. She is a lifelong resident of the Bridgeport neighborhood where she resides with artist Luis DeLaTorre and their dog Cometa

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This is a multicultural anthology of spiritual writings by women. In rediscovering spirituality in a female context, this is ideal source material. By ‘source’ I mean personal soul food to feed my own yearnings, ground water for the wellspring of my daily life. Storming Heaven’s Gate skillfully bridges the everyday with the divine, featuring the writing of Pat Mora, Lucille Clifton, and Audre Lorde. I would like to comment specifically on the work of these women and its impact on my creative life.


Pat Mora’s contribution is a list poem, in which she invokes the Goddess through her many Aztec names. In a cry for wholeness and renewal she calls on Coatlicue, Tlaliyolo, and the Virgin de Tepayac/Guadalupe. Coatlicue is the serpent mother, representing all and nothingness from whence all emerges. Tlaliyolo is the creator/destroyer of worlds, and the Virgin of Tepeyac/Guadalupe is the eternal maiden, ever able to renew herself across the ages. The world springs forth, eats itself, springs forth again, dissolves itself in velvet blackness, and rises again, as one, as many, divine and common. These facets of the divine reflect exactly the kind of sensual, radiant cycle of spirituality that are the hallmark of Storming Heaven’s Gate.

Creatively and personally, I needed to engage the Goddess in a Latin context. In doing so, I found freedom from restrictive ideas of female identity that have been Catholicism's and colonialism's legacy. It is precisely the idea of sin, of the inherent pollution of women’s bodies, that had to be broken through for me to fully claim my creative energy and direct it.

As I continue to try to make new work, I have to reach out for connection in an ever-deepening way. My personal spirituality is being plumbed for imagery, for language, for a way to connect with something larger than myself.

Ironically, and in a way I can only begin to comprehend, this spiritual connection is plumbing me as well. What I mean here is that I can't forget that writing is my tether to something divine. Personal success, critical or audience acceptance needs to remain a secondary consideration, as much as care about those things. ‘What is being worked though me?’ is the question that I have to ask myself, the question that demands an answer at the end of the day.

In 'brothers, part 6,' Lucille Clifton cries out to a silent God who turns a deaf ear to suffering. She asks:

tell me why
in the confusion of a mountain
of babies stacked like cordwood...
tell me why You neither raised your hand
nor turned away...why You said nothing. (p.28)

I can feel my own tears lodge in my throat as I write this. What a terrible beauty exists in her description of both a personal and global apocalypse. Her wound, her grief, the abandoned bodies of nameless children, unsaved, unprotected.


Clifton asks the eternal question of a God she desperately wants connection with but does not understand. I remember my own rage at what I saw at the time as God's silence in the face of my own childhood abuse. I see now that what happened was part of my story unfolding, the catalyst for who I've become. It was a singular gift, a defining moment, in which I had to choose to live and to transform. In my case, that moment is where I encountered a God/Goddess.


Lastly, Audre Lorde illustrates the kind of language and imagery I can only hope to achieve someday. She was poet, theorist, theologian, lover, survivor, and griot - someone who once tore down the Master's house and built a temple to the New/Old Mother. One poem in particular kept speaking to me, even in dreams after I read it for the first time. In it, Lorde writes:

Attend me, hold me in you muscular arms, protect me
from throwing any part of myself away. (p.67)

How perfect this quote is, to its vision of encountering the very dark and moving into the light. How moving it is to hear a call to restoration and rebirth in a woman’s voice, shaped by She-Who-Is.

• ISBN-10: 0452276217

• ISBN-13: 978-0452276215

Lisa Alvarado

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Teatro Luna Fabulousness!

Teatro Luna has a BRAND NEW SHOW opening on March 6th, but you can catch it now! This Saturday and Sunday see a sneak preview of Teatro Luna's most intimate show yet... SOLO TU, a collection of four interwoven solos all about different women's experiences with PREGNANCY.

One woman thinks she's finally built the perfect family - Mom, Dad, Cute Kid- until an invasion of mice makes her wonder what's really going on. Another woman finds herself caught up in the worst kind of Baby-Daddy-Single-Mama Drama. Meanwhile, a woman in her third year of trying to get pregnant decides her pregnant friends make her want to vomit, and her close friend wrestles with pro-life activists, hospital robes, and how she feels about having an abortion in her 30's.

SHOW RUN: March 6-April 6 2008 Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays @ 7:30 pm Sundays @ 6pm Chicago Dramatists 1105 W. Chicago Ave, at Milwaukee Tickets $15, Student and Senior Discount on Thursdays and Sundays only, $10 $12 Group Sale price, parties of 8 or more For tickets, visit www.teatroluna.org


Mind, you the company is filled with talented, writers and performers, and it was rough to pair down, but gente, enjoy this interview with three of Teatro Luna's members, Diana Pando, who does administration for the group as well as writing, Tanya Saracho and Diana Herrera, both writers/actors.



Describe your own personal journey as a writer.

Well, I’m trying to catch up to myself in this writer’s journey. I write poems, press releases, blog, snippets here and there of scenes and dialogue. I want to spend more time writing fiction and trying to better understand my creative process. I’ve worked with a lot of people in the arts and enjoy supporting their creative efforts. This year, I’m going to be a little selfish and focus in on my creative pursuits. I’ve always liked journal writing. Just the other day I dusted one off and leafed through the pages and it allowed me to remember myself in another place and time. Writing is so powerful. I think when you write your higher self is revealed.

How did your voice and your message begin to reveal itself?

Voice is so powerful. You either use it or lose it. I think my writer’s voice is still revealing itself in these early stages of my writing life. For me it’s writing bits and pieces here and there. Eventually, coming back to the kladeiscope of writing that I do and putting it all together.

Who were/are important influences for you?

There are a lot of wonderful writers that inspire and influence me. The one that impacted me directly was my mom. She worked long hours at a meat packing plant and at the thrift store on the south side so I can have the luxury of writing. After she passed, I found a lot of notebooks with journal entries, unfinished letters and poems. Every now and then I find a little note that brings a smile to my face.

How does Teatro Luna feed your creative life and vise versa?

Teatro Luna has creative energy spewing out in every direction. The ensemble is such an energetic and hilarious group of talented women. You can’t help but be inspired. They are paving the way for that next generation of Latinas in the arts. I’ve had the opportunity to participate in one of their writing workshops. The piece that I created out of the workshop is called Tía Betty and the Glucose of Doom based on my mom’s struggle with diabetes. The workshop process is definitely a powerful one. It gave me the creative kick in the butt to nudge me a long. As a result, the 20 minute piece I wrote is slowly expanding taking on a life of it’s own. I work on and off on it because it’s a hard and personal piece to write.

What's the significance of working in an all woman-all Latina teatro?

I think it was in 2002 when I first went to see one of TL’s shows when they were at the Pilsen space. I was blown away! I had never seen Latinas on stage before. It was a major discovery for me. By creating new works Teatro Luna is impacting local and national audiences through touring. Teatro Luna is currently the only Latina theatre company producing full seasons. For me there is nothing better than seeing these brilliant Latinas blazing on stage and practicing their art and sharing the stories of Latinas with others. Their communal creativity is really in harmony with each other and adds to their success.

You work in a variety of discplines---playwriting, poetry, performance--
Talk about the differences in each. Is there a genre you feel is your "favorite?"

As an emerging writer, I think my strengths are poetry and fiction writing. I’m dabbling in playwriting because I’m absolutely fascinated by creating dialogue and having actors bring the characters to life. Even though I’ve been doing theatre administration for Teatro Luna they teach me so much about the process.

Talk a little about Proyecto Latina. What do you hope it provides for community writers, and book lovers?

Proyecto Latina is a wonderful community based initiative between Tianguis Bookstore, Teatro Luna and myself. This open mic takes place every 3rd Monday of the month at Radio Arte and it’s a place for Latina’s to come out and show off their talent whether it’s poetry, fiction writing, belly dancers and Hula Hoopers it’s an open mic that brings together emerging and established Latinas in the arts to share, explore and encourage their creative pursuits. We are impacting that next generation by giving them an outlet to show off their creativity. Irasema Gonzales, owner of Tianguis Bookstore, has done an amazing job of lining up some the best features. There’s even a chismé box where you can drop your anonymous chismé and we read them during the open mic. Please drop in and check it out. Log on to http://www.tianguis.biz

What are you sources of inspiration?

A source of inspiration for me is walking through the city. I’m a big fan of long walks despite a toe spur gone amuck. Anyway, too much information. Friends always look at me with suspicion when I tell them we are just three blocks away. Rightfully, so I guess. Three blocks is the equivalent of ten blocks for me. I’m a wanderer. I love to look at people, places and things. Me embobo luego, luego, especially when I’m in Mexico City. There is nothing like being in the Zócalo on a rainy day. Definitely inspires and leaves me drenched. I always forget my umbrella…

What's the role of female friendship in your daily life and as a writer?

Funny you should ask this question. It’s my lifeline! I can’t go back to anything else. In 2002, Irasema Gonzales invited me to see a reading of Sandra Cisneros up at Loyola. I was feeling a little lazy and it was cold out. Thankfully, she dragged me out there anyway. It was an amazing reading and what came out of it was such a blessing. After the reading Sandra was signing her book and answering questions. There was this annoying girl with a red shirt talking and talking to Sandra. “Hurry Up” I wanted to yell “We want to talk to Sandra too!” The line finally began to move and when we got there Irasema asked about writing groups and Sandra told us to connect with the woman in red. The woman in red is now a dear friend and fabulous writer. Our writing group consists of Lizann Acosta, Professor of World Literature & Teatro Luna Artistic Associate, Irasema Salinas, Tianguis Bookstore Owner, Family Dr. Yolanda Cardenas, Magda Banda Ph.d Candidate in Comparative Education and me. Sandra probably has no idea but she’s our writing group madrina.

Where would you like to be creatively and professionally in ten years?

In ten years, I will be producing consistent work in different generes of writing, collaborating with other Latinas on projects, encouraging Latino professionals to support the arts through philanthropy, create the Mariposa Atomica Arts Fund and do advocacy work for the arts. Latinos enrich the arts in the city of Chicago and it’s important that we support and cultivate those efforts.

Tell us something not in the offical bio.

I have an 800 pound Dalmation and he’s more than a decade old, I’m a mascara junkie and my favorite mantra is vision + action = Reality.



Describe your own personal journey as a writer.
How did your voice and your message begin to reveal itself?
Who were/are important influences for you?

I am undisciplined and disorganized. My journey is clunky and aimless lately. Ultimamente, I write because projects are due. I haven't written for the joy of it in a while. Well, angry emails and blogs, but nothing of note. Inspiration hits me like a headache, or a stomach ache-it's a painful process sometimes-and it hits at the most inopportune times. Like when I'm driving and talking on the phone, when I'm in a waiting room-with no paper or pen, when I'm in the bathroom. It just hits and runs through my body like diarrhea. It is not a pleasant experience sometimes. It used to be. The little lightning bolt that tingled. Now? It's mostly a painful thing. Maybe it's because of the pieces I've been working on lately. I don't know.

Everyday people influence me. I love how people talk. I love dialogue. I love talking. I sort of like listening. I like talking more. But when I do listen, I love the shifts in cadence and tone, tilts of accents and quirks of the vernacular. I love how people talk. I love how MY people talk. And that umbrella is a large one. I consider most MY people.

How does Teatro Luna feed your creative life and vise versa?
What's the significance of working in an all woman-all Latina teatro?

I would never have been able to explore the topics and styles I've explored during the last eight years, had it not been for Teatro Luna. Who would've produced a half bilingual play about a two young Mexican girls growing up in Texas? Who would have produced three monologues about being a woman of Mexican descent, and let me play them all? Who would have let me show my scars, both physical and emotional, and not judge me harshly for it? No where would I have been able to do that. Teatro Luna is a beautiful thing. It's a sisterhood, it's a womb-I don't care if I sound cheesy-it IS a womb. People feel it when they come around us. Everyone's worked is supported, pero tambien nos jalamos las orejas. It's a beautiful thing. I love women. I love women's stories. I love to give voice to women. I...I just love women.

In a related vein, Teatro Luna has plumbed the Latina experience and pushed the envelope on issues of identity, gender and relationship. Talk about TL's significance as a child of traditional teatro, of post-movimiento social commentary.

It's hard for me to have perspective on this. I'm not objective. Obviously, I think what we do is really interesting. But I don't think we've pushed the envelope enough. What we do is pretty simple. We get up there and tell stories. If that's not traditional teatro, I don't know what is. In form, we are not that...I don't know, we are not that innovative. Episodic, ensemble-built work has been around since the Greeks, since Miracle plays, since Spanish pasarelas and posadas de la colonia and early twentieth century Latin American revistas. I think our uniqueness is found in the sum of our parts, in the combination of how we treat topics, how we build pieces, in our gender and our race/ethinicity/nationalities. It's the sum of all those things that create that special something that is Luna.

You work in a variety of disciplines---playwriting, poetry, performance--
Talk about the differences in each. Is there a genre you feel is your "favorite?"

I'm mostly a writer for the stage. I don't have a talent for poetry. I respect poets immensely. To be able to structure and mold words aurally and rhythmically is a talent I truly admire.

Talk a little about Proyecto Latina. What do you hope it provides for community writers and book lovers?

I can't believe we've been doing Proyecto Latina for two years now. I remember the first time we did it, and how we filled Meztli Cafe and how every one was excited about every performer. You could feel the electricity in the place. Not much has changed, the location perhaps, but people are still excited to hear and support new work by Latina writers-of all genres, not just poetry. It provides a much needed outlet and cocoon to nurture our work.

What are you sources of inspiration? What's the role of female friendship in your daily life and as a writer?

All my plays are about females. I don't think that's limiting in the least; They all deal with a female central character and I can't deny it, each and every one has at least a bit of coloring that I draw from the women in my life. My mother, my sisters, my Teatro Luna sisters (who are more than friends)... I take the ribbons of vernacular from their mouths and plaster them on the stage. Their words are much more brilliant than mine will ever be. They are wise and funny and flawed. It's my friend's Yadira's zinger lines and her obsession with the perfect meal. It's my friend Miranda's struggle for her dreams and the sting failure causes. It's Tatiana's depression and her unwillingness to come to surface, but her attempt at it every day. It's my friends navigating their contradictions. Those things are much more interesting than anything I'd come up with on my own. Now I might piss people off. Make them angry because I just take one tiny little shade of blue here, or a smudge of brown and they think that's definitive of my opinion of them. But that's never the case. I am often in trouble for it though.

Where would you like to be creatively and professionally in ten years?

I'd love to be feeding myself fully with the work. Sharing it with as many people as possible. In whatever form. Whatever that means. Whether bigger stages. More productions. Far reaching publications. I'm not sure what that means, but I'd like to have figured it out and be in a place to open doors for other people. Be on the founding stage of programming that makes sure our voice is being heard. In ten years I would have liked to have gotten out of my myopic state and attempt a period piece about hoodoo in the American South during the late 1800's. Nothing to do with Latinidad. That's just a little project that has been rattling in my brain. But it's a long time for that one. In a decade, I'd like to have a cannon of work I can be proud of, but having the best yet to come. Also, in ten years Teatro Luna will be an institution; financially healthy, administratively strong, artistically excellent. Still doing the work.

Tell us something not in the official bio.

I am addicted to divination and getting my cards read. Every week. Every. Week. My name is Tanya Selene Saracho Armenta, and I am a divination addict.



Describe your own personal journey as a writer.

I took a new plays workshop class in college as an actor, but the teacher made all of us write these six-line scenes…it was my first time writing dialogue and characters and I had a blast. My teacher thought I had potential, so he kept bugging me to take his Playwriting class. I was like, I'm not a writer but he persisted. I finally took the class and fell in love with writing. I write solo pieces and short plays now, and I'm working on trying to get a full-length completed…kinda hard when you have a 6 month old at home! But I'm trying!

How did your voice and your message begin to reveal itself?

I don't think my voice really revealed itself until I started working with Teatro Luna. I learned a huge lesson "write what you know". I also learned to write from a more honest place—my writing has progressed leaps and bounds since I started working with these lovely ladies!

Who were/are important influences for you?

Important influences—I'm not very well read when it comes to playwrights—I know, I know…it's a shame. But I do have to say that Tanya Saracho has been a huge influence on me. I love how ALIVE her characters seem—she is so good at mapping these journeys for her characters that are interesting and humanizing…you walk away from the show dazed, thinking where did that time go? It just flew by? What's going to happen to that lady now? And you find yourself still wondering about that character weeks later…that's the sign of a great writer. To keep you involved with the story even after you leave the theater.

How does Teatro Luna feed your creative life and vise versa?

Since a lot of the TL projects are ensemble-based, I tend to spark ideas off my fellow cast members. I love that they have workshops where you can bring in your writing and get feedback…I think it's such a great environment for developing new work.

What's the significance of working in an all woman-all Latina teatro?

The all-woman all-Latina teatro is a GODSEND. I worked in sketch comedy for a long time, and the male competitiveness is incredible. And if you are a woman who is a talented and prolific writer, watch out! One time, I actually had one of my cast members call me to tell me to stop writing so much…he was upset that I was constantly "showing him up" because I'd bring in 10 sketches to his 3. It's fine to have healthy competition, but not in an ensemble setting. That conversation ruined the project for me. Another wonderful thing about working with all women is when you're having a bad day, you don't get the "she must be PMS'ing" eye roll…you can be more open with your emotions. It also frees you up creatively because you are more likely to be more open with your work and more willing to accept criticism.

I enjoy the COLLABORATIVE feel of TL, and a lot of it has to do with the all-women role. As for all-Latina…it's like being home. I might not speak Spanish, but I identify as Latina…and it's nice to be in an environment where I don't have to explain why I'm not drinking margaritas on Cinco de Mayo!!! It's also inspiring to have this group of strong, talented women who embrace their heritage.

In a related vein, Teatro Luna has plumbed the Latina experience and pushed the envelope on issues of identity, gender and relationship. Talk about TL's significance as a child of traditional teatro, of post-movimiento social commentary.

Egads…that question feels like an essay test I haven't studied for!!!! I think Coya and Tanya will be able to give you a better answer than what I can give…pass!

You work in a variety of disciplines---playwriting, poetry, performance--
Talk about the differences in each. Is there a genre you feel is your "favorite?"

I don't work too much in poetry, except what I write in my journals that will never been shown to ANYONE 'cause it's really bad poetry! But here we go with the other two. My favorite has to be playwriting because I think I have a God complex. Seriously, it's intoxicating to create this whole world and populate them with these people that use YOUR WORDS to express themselves…then if you're lucky you get a chance to see it LIVE!! How cool is that? Also, though…there is that moment of CONNECTION. When you make a bulls-eye with the hearts of your audience members. There is nothing as gratifying as when someone comes up to me after a show and tells me, you were writing about me. I wrote a piece in "The Maria Chronicles" about visiting my brother in prison, and after shows I had several people tell me about their experiences with family members in prison. One lady told me that after my piece she reconciled with her brother and visited him for the first time in years. That really touched me. It might sound trite, but it's true…writing plays for me is like reaching out and saying "I'm not alone, you are not alone…for this moment we will be taking this journey together". I write because sometimes these feelings I have are so intense it becomes necessary to overflow them onto paper. I chose to share my journey, though, instead of locking it up in a diary (well, except my poems. Those don't need to be shared!).

So where does performance fit in? To me, performance is another level of connection with the audience. It's very cathartic, and it's wonderful because you get instant gratification…laughter during a one-liner delivered just right, silence during a dramatic moment…applause. Oh, the applause! Performing is such a high, because you are on this tightrope wire where any sudden change (even something like the theater being too hot or the seats too uncomfortable) will distract your audience…you have to EARN their attention…but once you've earned it what a RUSH.

Talk a little about Proyecto Latina. What do you hope it provides for community writers and book lovers?

I've enjoyed participating in Proyecto Latina in the past…unfortunately I've been absent from the monthly events for a while. However, I think it's such a wonderful opportunity for new artists…and I LOVE that there is a set limit of people that can perform, that it's a 5 minute time limit and that there is a featured performer. That is key…to be able to enjoy these "tastes" of performance without being overwhelmed by a 4 hour open mike. I know being able to hear various artists has inspired my own writing. I'm hoping I can start attending again…I've missed it!

What are you sources of inspiration? What's the role of female friendship in your daily life and as a writer?

My family is a HUGE source of inspiration for me—we have this carefully honed sense of humor that I use in my writing. They are very supportive of me—I talk a lot about them in my pieces and I haven't been disowned. Yet. I love comedy, so of course I'm all over female writers like Tina Fey—even watching the old episodes of The Carol Burnett Show gives me inspiration as a writer. Currently I'm working on a two-woman show, and we are using "The Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe" as inspiration…Jane Wagner and Lily Tomlin collaborated on this piece, and it's amazing.

Where would you like to be creatively and professionally in ten years?

Creatively, I'd like to still be writing and getting my work produced…if I can perform occasionally that would be a bonus. It's hard because I do have a family now, and I'm the primary breadwinner…so not only do I have to balance work with family, I have to find time to write and stay involved in projects as well. The good thing is that my husband is VERY supportive—in fact, he's the one that keeps pushing me to take on these projects and he's great about covering the night shifts at home, taking care of our daughter and the house. So it's just a matter of figuring out what the next step is…the point is, I can't figure out next year, much less TEN years from now!!

Tell us something not in the official bio.

I am a HUGE fan of science fiction—my favorite authors include Ray Bradbury, Richard Matheson, HP Lovecraft, Charles Beaumont…and I LOVE TV shows like "The Twilight Zone", "Heroes", "Lost"�anything with a sci-fi edge to it! And yes, I was one of those geeks that stood in line for Star Wars tickets. Han Solo was my first crush.

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Please take some time to read about the land struggle that is currently underway, and not being covered by mainstream media. Margo Tamez, author of Naked Wanting and Raven Eye, wants readers to know about the struggle between the Department of Homeland Security and native peoples on the issue of border rights.

Border struggle article, here.

For background on Margo, her poetry, and her commitments, read my conversation with her, here.


Lisa Alvarado

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Sheryl Luna was born and raised in El Paso, Texas. Her collection of poetry Pity the Drowned Horses won the first Andres Montoya Poetry Prize sponsored by the Institute of Latino Studies and the creative writing department of the University of Notre Dame. The judge was Robert Vasquez. The collection was profiled in "18 Debut Poets who Made their Mark in 2005" by Poets and Writers Magazine. A graduate of Texas Tech University, she earned a doctorate in contemporary literature from the University of North Texas and a M.F.A. from the University of Texas at El Paso. She also holds a M.A. in English from Texas Woman's University. Her work has appeared in Feminist Studies, Notre Dame Review, Georgia Review, American Literary Review, and many other nationally acclaimed journals. She's received scholarships from the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center and the Napa Valley Writer's Conference. Pity the Drowned Horses was a finalist for the National Poetry Series and the 2006 Colorado Book awards. Her second manuscript of poems, titled 7, was recently runner-up for the Ernest Sandeen Poetry Prize sponsored by University of Notre Dame. She currently teaches at the University of Colorado in Boulder, Colorado.

Bones

Once, as a girl, she saw a woman shrink

inside herself, gray-headed and dwarf-sized,

as if her small spine collapsed. Age

and collapse were something unreal, like war

and loss. That image of an old woman sitting

in a café booth, folding in on herself, was forgotten

until her own bones thinned and hollowed,

music-less, un-fluted, empty.

She says she takes shark cartilage before she sleeps,

a tablet or two to secure flexibility and forgets

that pain is living and living is pain.

And time moves like a slow rusty train

through the desert of weeds, and the low-riders

bounce like teenagers young and forgiving

in her night’s dream. She was sleek in a red dress

with red pumps, the boys with slick hair, tight jeans.

She tells me about 100-pound canisters of lard

and beans, how she could dance despite her fifth

child, despite being beaten and left

in the desert for days, how she saw an angel

or saint glimmer blonde above her, how she rose

and walked into the red horizon despite

her husband’s sin.

I’m thinking how the women

in my family move with a sway, with a hip

ache, and how they each have a disk

slip. The sky seems sullen, gray, and few birds

whisk. It’s how the muse is lost

in an endless stream of commercials, how people

forget to speak to one another as our ending skulks

arthritically into our bones, and the dust

of a thousand years blows across the plain,

and the last few hares sprint across a bloodied

highway. Here in the desert southwest, loss

is living and it comes with chapped lips,

long bumpy bus rides and the smog of some man’s

factory trap. And there are women everywhere

who have half-lost their souls

in sewing needles and vacuum- cleaner parts.

In maquiladoras there grows a slow poem,

a poem that may only live a moment sharply

in an old woman’s soul, like a sudden broken hip.

And yet, each October, this old woman rises

like the blue sky, rises like the fat turkey vultures

that make death something beautiful, something

towards flight, something that circles in a group

and knows it is best not to approach death alone.

Each October she dances, the mariachis yelp

and holler her back to that strange, flexible youth,

back to smoky rancheras and cumbias, songs

rolling in the shadows along the bare Mexican hills.

She tells me, “It’s in the music, where I’ll always

live.” And somehow, I see her jaw relax,

her eyes squint to a slow blindness

as if she can see something I can’t.

And I remember that it is good to be born of dust,

born amid cardboard shanties of sweet gloom.

I remember that the bare cemetery stones

in El Paso and Juarez hold the music, and each spring

when the winds carry the dust of loss there is a howl,

a surge of something unbelievable, like death,

like the collapse of language, like the frail bones

of Mexican grandmothers singing.

Ambition

Danny Lopez was so dark that some thought he was black.

His eyes were wide and wild.

When he ran, his short frame’s stride heated the streets.

Sweat trickled down his bony face, and his throat

lumped with desire, the race, the win.

We used to sit on the hood of my parents’ car,

gaze at the stars. He would win state,

dash through the flagged shoot in Austin,

get a scholarship to Auburn, escape the tumbleweeds,

the dirt floors of his pink adobe home, his father’s rage.

We were runners.

Our thin bodies warmed with sweat, and the moon round

with dreams of release. We lived a mile from the border;

the Tigua Indian drums could be heard in the cool evenings.

Our rhythmic hopes pounded dusty roads, and cholos

with slicked hair, low-riders, were only a mirage.

We drove across the border, heavy voices, drunk

with dreams, tequila, and hollow fears. We ran

trans-mountain road, shadows cast cold shivers

down our backs in the hundred-degree sun.

Danny ran twenty miles, finished, arms raised

with manic exultation.

The grassy course felt different beneath his spikes,

and the gun’s smoke forgotten in the rampage of runners,

his gold cross pounding his chest to triumph, his legs

heedless to pain, his guts burning.

Neither of us return to the cement underpasses,

graffiti, and dry grass, though I know

the drums still beat when we look at the stars,

and our eyes flicker with ambition.

Brown children in tattered shorts still beg for pesos,

steal pomegranates and melons.

Young men with sweaty chests and muddy pants

ask my mother for work, food,

passage to that distant win

somewhere on the other side of Texas.

Today the green trees are wet with rain,

and I am too lazy to run. The desire to run my fingers

down an abdomen tight with ambition, is shaky, starved.

It’s been too long since I’ve crossed that border,

drunk tequila, screamed victorious

at the mountain. The stars seem small tonight,

they don’t burst over the sky like they did back then.

These poems, these books don’t ravish me

the way Danny could, the way the race could.

His accented English, broken on the wind, and his run,

his lean darkness, drove exhaustion to consummation.

The wind seems too humid in this preferred place,

and when I hear throaty Spanish spoken in the lushness,

I long for the grimy heat,

the Rio Grande’s shallow passage,

the blue desert, and the slick legs of runners

along the smoggy highway.

The Cordova Bridge

I’m not writing delicate silver birds or some Southwest

aubade. I am rough in a pebbled and stickered dead sea.

And here, crazy-sad among the flowerless places

I sweat my way through the dirge of horns and radio

blues. Smog- filled air. Sweaty dark-dirty children hang

on my car. Their paper cups hold out a coinless surrender.

El Pasoan’s call them scam-gangs. Bumper to bumper

as a rainbow smears the sky, window-washers beg for dimes.

The streets narrow in Juarez. Gaudy green hand-painted

school buses block signs. The poor wait. A bright scholar

described las ciudades hermanas as unmoving. Blue hills,

the river’s banks deceiving us to see one-sided, blind. Juarez,

me later driving in circles, cursing the mad stops, the move-over

hurriedness. El Paso’s streets are wide, people erect chain-

link fences, bars over windows. They love their small plots

of land, their jalopy cars. A poet once sang a maid’s daily

dread over Cordova. I think I see her sweating away.

I once drew a breath of lush serenity, words danced

as small breaths, gilded beads. But you see, I was cursed

in this dust, crystallized among charcoal frowns and smiles.

At times, anger is an unnamed cry. Must one sing lichen,

lagoons, a glint of sky, creamy white breasts? Here, men

and women living bare dance among crumbling things. A man

without a leg has hopped that bridge for thirty years eyeing

shiny red Firebirds. What was a bird of red-fire to him?

Do we all rise phoenix-like from our tumbleweeds? Rain-

wash twirls about brown knees, rolled jeans, bare feet.

Popsicle-sellers close tiny carts, cigarette boys cover

damp cartons. And I am dry as an American can be.

• ISBN-10: 0268033749
• ISBN-13: 978-0268033743

Lisa Alvarado

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It's a night to put your pen and papelitos away, and instead whip out your dancing shoes, and open up to inspiration. Proyecto Latina invites you to join us and celebrate our 2nd Anniversary Soiree Saturday, January 19th @ 7 p.m. to ?

Junior's Sports Bar (In Pilsen)
2058 W. Cermak Road.

No cover. Antojitos for the early arrivals. The spoken word artists will start at about 7:30 and the band should kick in by 8:00...y despues el baile. The afterparty will have a Morrisey Tribute night.

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Marion Woodman is a Jungian analyst—and is one of the most inspiring voices in the global movement for peace. Here she joins forces with Elinor Dickson, Director of Psychological Services at St. Michael’s Hospital, Toronto to produce an informed and penetrating investigation of a source of spiritual and creative power, not popular in Western circles. In Dancing in the Flames, they point to a constellation of archetypal ideas which they hope will be a source to inspire and inform: the mythical complex of the Dark Goddess. Their book operates on two levels, as a guide for individual transformation and ultimately transforming society.

The core of the book is a cluster of chapters using psychoanalytic material that draws on the mythology of the Dark Goddess. Mind you, the frame of reference is European, but Woodman does attempt to bring in a non-Western perspective, honoring as best she can the thousand years of Hindi veneration to Kali, the root source for this archetype.

At a broad-brush level, this initially involved the matriarchal phase, a belief in a living world where everything in nature held spirit-life flowing from source, the Great Mother. This was followed by the emergence of a separate. individual 'self', then the formation patriarchal and hierarchical power structures.

Throughout the early part of this history, the archetype of this Goddess progressively is split off more and more from that of the Great Mother, emerging as a her polar opposite---killer, and scourge. In reality, it's the cleansing aspect of the Good/Bountiful/Great Mother. The split of the Great Mother vs. Dark Mother mirrors that schism between matriarchy and patriarchy, the body and the spirit.

The authors make the case that in the period that followed, both the Great Mother and the Goddess are repressed, and driven into the "murky depths of our unconscious." Yet the culture of the Goddess lives on, underground, in succeeding centuries. It eventually finds expression, despite repression, in the form of the Black Virgin from the twelfth century onwards. And I would argue, our own veneration of La Virgen, of Tonatzin, who survived colonization, a remains a vital life force in the Chicano/Mejicano soul and psyche.

The authors make an impassioned case that society as a whole must reclaim the Dark Goddess. To underscore, they turn to personal analytic material, allowing the reader to make their own contact with the goddess archetype. The mythological aspects of Virgin, Mother and Crone, making up the European triple goddess, are followed through their appearance in the therapies of both men and women, these images used as tools in the process of personal evolution. In my experience of Eurocentric, new-age feminism, its subtle racism links creativity/goodness with the idea of light and so I found it powerful and liberating to be reminded of the imagery of the holy darkness, its power to cleanse, nourish and renew.

This idea of darkness, again, is no stranger to indigenous ideas of the Mother--She Who Is. I have a personal source of connection to the Santeria/Yoruba deity of Oya Yansa. Oya is also also Dark Goddess, keeper of the whirlwind, sweeping clean all that is decayed, corrupt. It was important for me to reframe my own ideas of Mother, particularly in contrast to the long-suffering Virgin of my youth. This book was a thought-provoking resource, stirring up a fleshy, full-bodied, powerful female deity, one with deep hunger, deep ability to consume, transmute and transform.

The authors give a picture of integration inspired by the qualities of the Dark Goddess, a process in which fear of death, fear of nature, and fear of our own femininity (whether we are men or women) are reconciled in the dark. They stress the dangers of yearning for a world of "pure" spirit and "light," a state where in our yearning for perfection, we confuse a certain kind of "perfection" with wholeness.

I would further challenge the notion of light equaling perfection---light without the regenerative power of darkness is half of what is and only half. And under the harshness of unending, unshrinking light, all fades and withers away, spent beyond resources, starving for rest, for the dream world, for losing oneself and finding the body made anew.

One of the most interesting parts in the book subdivides the process according to the traditional chakra system, while still basing the account firmly on the actual material of analysis. From this viewpoint, integration is seen as a process of “building the subtle body,” of embodying spirit in a complete and integrated way.

The key step in this process, for the individual, involves the recognition of our own autonomy, the acceptance of ourselves, and the finding of our own voice. For this to happen, "it takes great resolve to enter the darkness of our own chaos, to give up the familiar path and begin to trust in our own experience. The recognition and unconditional love of oneself is never a selfish journey."

It's a journey of seeking awareness, increasing confluence between those things we normally separate as "physical" and "spiritual." At the end, the book returns to the societal level, where the authors’ believe the protests of the Sixties "were the seeds, at a culturally recognized level, of a movement based on hope for a more meaningful existence.... What began as a protest has become a challenge, a challenge that will involve not only technology, but a new understanding of human mythology."

Depending on how we choose to phrase it, either ideas of ' science' must be revamped to include experiencing this relatively unused 'female' approach, or needs to be blended into a larger view that gives equal status to this view. The authors’ account at the end gives us a start -- some tools that may enable us to do this. They give us immense hope, and also a profound challenge. This new vision is not one that we can dream up intellectually: it can be reached only by transformation, only if we "throw ourselves into the flames and dance in the refining fire..."

Our traditional ideas of 'science' stresses the intellect, the rational—in archetypal terms, a 'masculine' construct. It operates with ideas of impersonal, 'objective' discovery and 'absolute' truth. While it's an important way of knowing, it has limits as a basis for a new world view. There are deep questions that emerge. How do we construct gender and identity? How are those concepts linked to to behaviors like violence and passivity? How can we integrate complicated, contradictory ideas of male/female that include ‘dark’ and healing forces in both?

This book kept me up at night. It was another piece of encouragement to let go, to delve deep, and look at what's revealed without flinching. I'm always on the lookout for things that will strengthen me, as well as shake me up. The themes of violence, sexualized violence in particular, are shot through the fabric of this American life, and to ignore them is one darkness I find unacceptable. Dancing in the Flames provides a kind of comfort, as well as a challenge.

ISBN-10: 1570623139
ISBN-13: 978-1570623134

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OYE-LISTEN! A Bi-monthly Performance Series

About the performance and presenting artists -
Sharmili Majmudar & Amisha Patel, Dawn Herrera/Terry

Teatro Luna and Jane Addams Hull-House Museum join forces to showcase new works by emerging, Chicago-based performing artists. This collaboration aims to provide women artists of color a space to share personal stories and reflect on contemporary social issues facing their community. By remaining true to the lives and experiences of women of color, this series creates bridges among Chicago ethnic communities.

OYE-LISTEN! MONDAY, September 24, 7-9pm

Our Living by Sharmili Majmudar & Amisha Patel
Our Living a collaborative spoken word piece with musical background written and performed by two Gujarati Indian American women that interweaves our experiences and explores identity, sexism, racism, colonization, and re-emergence through reclaiming our true selves. In this piece, we remind ourselves of how our living depends on each other, despite and in the face of the oppression we experience. Through poetry, we reclaim truth and each other.

PORTALES: Mitologia Subjetiva (Matrilineal) by Dawn Herrera/Terry
Something between monologue and performance, PORTALES is a gently surreal portrait of a personal history, offering one possible account of the how borders may be internalized and inhabited. A work in progress, PORTALES will eventually weave together more strands of family narrative to further explore physical, cultural, emotional and spiritual legacies.

For more information about the artists, please visit: www.hullhousemuseum.org.

7pm - 8:40pm Performance
8:45pm - 9:00pm Post-show discussion
Jane Addams Hull-House Museum
Residents' Dining Hall
800 S. Halsted St, Chicago, IL

This is the third event in the series; the first two were standing room only:
make your reservation soon!

This event is FREE. Light refreshments will be served.

Reservations are recommended,
call 312.413.5353
This event is ADA accessible. If you have a disability and need additional accommodations to attend this event, please inform us at the time of reservation

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Ana Mendieta was a Cuban performance artist who lived in New York in the 1970’s. The title Where Is Ana Mendieta, not only refers to the suspicious circumstances of her death, but to the nonexistent presence of the work of women artists in mainstream exhibitions, to the absence of work that portrays the aesthetic rooted in Latino cultural identity.

Mendieta boldly explored women’s identity, sexuality, and spirituality in pieces that were deceptively simple. Her work was constructed from the elements themselves, dirt, water, and light in their most basic forms; her themes revolved around the ideas of burial, rebirth, submersion in the natural world. From a perspective beyond the dominant culture's construct of nation, a construct of governments, the hegemony of conquerors, Mendieta's work reverberates with a older, indigenous idea of nation. It challenges the viewer to envision an idea of nation and identity based on a direct relation to the Earth itself.

In a series entitled Tree of Life, Mendieta flattened herself against a large oak tree. She is naked, covered with gesso and paint to simulate tree bark. Where does the tree stop and Medieta begin? Where do we stop and our connection with nature begin? Simply done and deeply resonant. I immediately saw a connection between this piece and a Mexican/Chicano idea of rootedness to place that is not hemmed by borders, but by history and ancestral links to land, to nature itself.

In another, untitled series, Mendieta is shown in a series of photos. Again, she is naked, this time in an isolated field. Next to her is a skeleton. The photos show her climbing onto the skeleton, embracing it. She creates a powerful image of the life/death cycle, as well as a quintessential Latino commentary on mortality. At the heart of existence, life and death are united in an eternal embrace. In the midst of life, its fullness, its lushness, its sensuality, Death is constant companion. While modern, European-based culture constantly seeks to avoid aging and mortality, there are traditions that accept its centrality. Mendieta brilliantly illustrates that death is both the beginning and endpoint of all things.

Mendieta worked closely with a variety of feminist artists, but did not label herself as feminist, and I understand the reticence in using the label. The women's artistic community did not offer a truly supportive relationship, and while she had meaningful connections with individual artists, her work was not be adequately appreciated by feminist and post-feminist critics. In a nutshell, Mendieta did not invent a new relationship to body and Earth, she reclaimed an ancient one, but was never embraced by the 'larger' artistic community.

I was profoundly moved by her work. The work is poetry, visual poetry, poetry made flesh. These are clear, visceral, and direct images that I hope to use as a touchstone in my writing and performing, particularly in performing. I want to tell a personal and universal story with my body, and Mendieta has created a standard for me, as well as strengthening and deepening a physical lexicon.

Blocker’s writing is dry and extremely formal, making this difficult going as a reader, but don't be dissuaded by that. I wonder if some of the density of language was more an expression of Blocker's own inability to grasp and express the power and simplicity of Mendieta. However, the book sings when Blocker allows the work to speak for itself.

ISBN-10: 0822323249
ISBN-13: 978-0822323242

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In this series of essays, Fusco concentrates on examining the work of Latino/a performance artists born in the U.S., and the themes of “otherness” and culture clash. Performers such as Andres Serrano, Laura Aguilar, and Fusco’s longtime collaborator, Guillermo Gomez-Pena, are held up to the light for close consideration.

In the essay targeting her collaboration with Gomez-Pena, she details a performance done in public venues (museums, municipal buildings) where she and Gomez-Pena created a living exhibit, posing as “specimens” of a fictional indigenous tribe. They displayed themselves in a cage, with dress and talismans gleaned from Pan-Latino/a and popular culture. Her commentary on the experience, on being the observed ”other,” and what she saw as the fascination of the predominately Anglo audience as observer, underscored the themes of objectification and the blurring of public and private.

I had mixed feeling in reading about this performance. On the one hand, I think it was a bold and important artistic move to skewer the dominant culture's idea of 'preservation' and 'curation ,' to challenge it as a kind of pandering to that culture's fascination with they perceive as the 'exotic' indigenous. Never mind that in many cases, these exhibits are only possible as a direct result of colonialism, genocidal practices, and grave robbing. How different is Fusco's and Gomez-Pena's living exhibit behind bars from the guided tours held on the the rez, or in barrios, in farm worker camps?

I wonder to what extent the audience grasped that under the rubric of "Latino," there exists hundreds of complex societies, with a heterogeneity of language, practices, rituals. I'm concerned that the work only engenders the knee-jerk, superficial shudder of guilt in primarily white, middle-class audiences.

In the post-performance discussions of Housekeeper's Diary, the comments from some middle-class people reveal discomfort and their own lack of knowledge as to how to even treat their own maids in a more real, humane way. But there are also comments about what is the vitality and vibrancy of working people--comments about the inherent dignity they sense, despite an external objectification. This, to me is the kind of dialog and engagement I find most satisfying as a performer.

While those points of divergence are significant, I felt I had read something that will challenge me to keep thinking about the political context of performance. One last reservation with this book was Fusco’s tendency make referential comments about to different artists, without always placing them in context. This can make for a limited appreciation of the the work as a whole, as well as perpetuate an unfortunate tendency of performance artists conversing amongst themselves. (Particularly since Fusco plumbs the legacy of imperialism, colonialism in her work, it strikes me as odd that she gears her writing to the art intelligentsia. ) It's a challenge, however, worth the effort of cross-referencing and research for the reader.

ISBN-10: 1565842456
ISBN-13: 978-1565842458




Teatro Luna has a VERY exciting show opening in early November. It is called Machos, and it is based on interviews with 50 diverse men nationwide. Our ensemble members will be performing as men (we have a movement coach and everything) talking about their lives, their work, and, of course, women. If you'd like to bring a group of students to see the show, please contact [email protected]. We'd be happy to arrange a group rate, a post-show discussion, or even a classroom visit.

Volunteers Wanted!!!

We desperately need volunteers to help us transcribe the last few interviews. Transcription is a time-consuming, tedious process, but nothing could help us more as we work to finalize our script. We're looking for people who can dedicate 10-12 hours in the next week - a lot of ask, we know! In exchange, we will offer you your choice of $50, 4 tickets to MACHOS, or 2 VIP tickets to a MACHOS special event. And of course, a thank you in the program and our undying love. Well, at least MY undying love. I can't speak for everyone. if this sounds like something you can commit to, please e-mail Belinda at [email protected].

Oye-Listen! Call for Submissions for September & November

So far, OYE-LISTEN! - a new collaboration between Teatro Luna and Jane Addams Hull-House Museum- has been a blast. Our June and July series had packed houses and vibrant performances from Yolanda Nieves, Sandra Santiago-Posadas, Lani Montreal, Francis Allende-Pellot, Gesel Mason, Toni Asante Lightfoot, Anida Yoeu Ali, Cristal Sabbagh, Andrea Wukitsch, Keiko Johnson and more. There's still time to join the fun! We are currently seeking performers for slots in September and November.

For submission guidelines or questions, please email to [email protected].

Proyecto Latina - AUGUST 20th

The next Proyecto Latina is on Monday, August 20th @ 7 p.m. Our August feature is Stephanie Gentry-Fernandez, she shares from her collection of poems. As always there will also be Chisme box and open-mic . Free. Join us at Tianguis, 2003 S. Damen.

Stephanie Gentry-Fernandez A native of Chicago's South Side, has been involved with a number of organizations including Teatro Luna, About Face Theater, and el Cafe Teatro Batey Urbano. Stephanie has facilitated journaling and poetry workshops for young incarcerated women and adult female survivors of domestic violence. She moved back home to Chicago after a two and a half year stint in the hippy Bay Area. Her work addresses issues like anti-oppression, survival, healing, and hope. Stephanie is currently working as Associate Director of the Chicago Freedom School.

About Proyecto Latina: Proyecto Latina is a collaborative between Teatro Luna, Tianguis, and Mariposa Atomica Ink. We are excited about showcasing Latina talent and are always seeking outgoing Latina poets and performers for our monthly open mic series. Proyecto Latina takes place the third Monday of every month. Its an open mic so everything's game: Poetry, spoken word, music, monologues, shorts y en el idioma que prefieras. And if you're too shy to get on stage come and be one of the lucky spectators.


Teatro Luna Upcoming Season!

Get ready for a whole year of Teatro Luna! We have three brand new shows coming up.

Machos, a new ensemble performance based on interviews with men nationwide, opens November 8th. Solo Tu, a collection of four solo plays about four very different women, opens February 28, 2008. Restaurant Spanish, an ensemble play about immigration and communication, opens late summer (dates TBA).

Visit us at www.teatroluna.org or www.myspace.com/teatroluna

Lisa Alvarado

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Aracelis Girmay writes poetry, fiction, & essays. Teeth, her collection of poems, was published by Curbstone Press in June 2007. Her poetry has appeared in Ploughshares, Bellevue Literary Review, Indiana Review, Callaloo, & MiPoesias, among other journals. Her collage-based picture book, changing, changing, was published by George Braziller in 2005. Girmay is a Cave Canem Fellow & former Watson Fellow. She teaches writing workshops in New York & California.

(That's the official bio, gente, but I think you'll love hearing Aracelis on Aracelis in a recent email I received.)

*****

"I've loved books & the idea of reading since I was little. The story goes "you used to memorize the books & sit & read from memory before you knew how to really read." I used to sleep with my books. I LOVED to read, and then, I used to tell my younger brother stories. My grandmother still has folders of stories I'd write at her house. When I was 13, though, I read The Bluest Eye, I remember thinking: Oh, god, we're allowed to write like that? The way we think? The way people talk? The ways my people talk? Oh, really? It opened up this door of permission---I didn't know, really, that writing could represent me, not until then. wow, something in the way that I perceived writing & reading changed in me then.

I started sharing my work with other people when I was in college--Writing has always been my lifeline--my way of figuring & making sense & asking questions & maintaining hope, a hope. But it wasn't until college that I realized that I HAD to cultivate this work--that I HAVE to write. It is one of my absolute necessaries. Circulation, breath, communication, memory, wildness, & order. My mom is Puerto Rican & African American (Georgian)--from Chicago, & my dad's Eritrean, born in Gondar, Ethiopia. Both of them are amazing story-tellers--who tell the stories in very different ways. But, oh! The stories--they are essential--I always had the sense (even when I was very small) that these stories would be the only landscapes in which I'd meet, say, my Great Aunt Tiny, my uncle Samuel, my grandparents, my countries.

I knew, too, that the stories were not only important for me & my brother to hear (my sisters weren't born yet), but for my parents to say out loud. I remember witnessing the powers a story can have on the person telling--the way connections that weren't made before can be made in the telling. I write because it is my way of speaking, my way of figuring, my way of connecting, moving deeper into my life. I write, too, in the words of Carolyn Forche: against forgetting. I write the things that others wish I would forget. The things I cannot bear forgetting. The things I cannot survive forgetting. I write to get something back: world, that is, to still myself, somehow, & consider the things the world is constantly showing: see, see this! hear, hear this! say this! remember, remember!

I write to undo time, to go back & fiddle, to sit with what I've been given, to learn something, really, to visit the ghosts & let them know I see them.

Influences--poets, fictionists, painters, musicians: Helene Cixous, Aime Cesaire, Audre Lorde, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Toni Morrison, Frida Kahlo, Martín Espada, Gwendolyn Brooks, Nazim Hikmet, Anna Akhmatova, Ovid, Etta James, Derek Walcott, Naomi Shihab Nye, Cy Twombly, Lucille Clifton, Caetano Veloso, Pharoah Sanders, Taha Muhammad Ali, James Tate, my students, a few of Hayden Carruth's poems knock me out--hugely, church stories, my family's stories, my parents, my family's dead; and every accordion: every accordion is my influence."

*****

And if you haven't already fallen in love with her and her writing, take a look at what others have to say about the Divine Ms. Girmay.

"In Teeth, the poems of Aracelis Girmay ring out with a burning truth as she transports the reader into the world of despair, discrimination, sorrows, triumphs, joy and the courage it takes to flourish as a woman of color. Her keen observations are put forth with an appetite for life without fear or self-consciousness as she weaves her words into a range of potent poems." -- Nicholasa Mohr

"The poetry of Aracelis Girmay is so strong, so brave, so lyrical, so fiery, so joyful, that the usual superlatives fail. I think of Sandra Cisneros and her words of praise for another writer, Denise Chávez: 'I love this book so much, it sounds like I’m lying.' Exactly." -- Martín Espada

"In the foreword, [Espada] calls the poems, 'hard, cutting, brilliant, beautiful.' As I read Teeth, I have to say that it did not take long for me to agree with [his] opinion. But more than that, I have to say that Girmay has put together one of the best debuts by any poet in recent memory...This collection is sure to continue to create a significant amount of well-deserved buzz. No doubt it will garner more praise and will be mentioned among nominees for literary awards. Indeed, Aracelis Girmay is the real deal."-- Jose B. Gonzalez, Co-Editor of Latino Boom

"In her powerful debut collection of poems, Teeth, Aracelis Girmay reaches out to her various cultural lineages (Eritrean, Puerto Rican and African American) and weaves them into a distinct voice, political and beautiful as 'bullets of ivory'...Teeth delivers on its promise to be a fierce, proud book of poems that provokes thought and invites its readers to be a poet's unique and expectant universe, where celebration and protest, lament and solace, sound and silence, intertwine and thrive."-- El Paso Times

Aracelis Girmay makes me want to be a better writer. TEETH is a stunning piece of work de sudor y socorro. She has the gift -- able to craft indelible work fashioned from the bones of ancestors and living, singing blood. Girmay's been blessed to be mentored by Martín Espada but make no mistake, her voice is wholly and fully her own, as is her subject matter. Her mastery of poetic form and an almost ruthless, heartbreaking beauty is shot through this unforgettable volume. Like Espada, she seamlessly fuses the personal and political, revealing where the wounds lie. And Girmay always, always, returns to the indomitable, unquenchable spirit that saves even the most disadvantaged, the most abused from being mere victims. She is also brave enough, wise enough to show her heart in love and at play.

But the social power of this book is never diluted At its essence, TEETH reminds me of a passage in Maxine Hong Kingston's The Woman Warrior. A young woman, a peasant girl, has completed her training to become a soldier, the means by which her family and her village will seek justice against the overlord. With a whisper-thin blade, her parents inscribe the history of abuse which all of them have suffered. The girl's back becomes her eternal oath, a record laid into the flesh, but it is never reduced to a scar.

ARROZ POETICA

I got news yesterday
from a friend of mine
that all people against the war should
send a bag of rice to George Bush,
& on the bag we should write,
“If your enemies are hungry, feed them.”

But to be perfectly clear,
my enemies are not hungry.
They are not standing in lines
for food, or stretching rations,
or waiting at the airports
to claim the pieces
of the bodies of their dead.
My enemies ride jets to parties.
They are not tied up in pens
in Guantanamo Bay. They are not
young children throwing rocks. My enemies eat
meats & vegetables at tables
in white houses where candles blaze, cast
shadows of crosses, & flowers.
They wear ball gowns & suits & rings
to talk of war in neat & folded languages
that will not stain their formal dinner clothes
or tousle their hair. They use words like “casualties”
to speak of murder. They are not stripped down to skin
& made to stand barefoot in the cold or hot.
They do not lose their children to this war.
They do not lose their houses & their streets. They do not
come home to find their lamps broken.
They do not ever come home to find their families murdered
or disappeared or guns put at their faces.
Their children are not made to walk
a field of mines, exploding.

This is no wedding.
This is no feast.
I will not send George Bush rice, worked for rice
from my own kitchen
where it sits in a glass jar & I am transfixed
by the thousands of beautiful pieces
like a watcher at some homemade & dry
aquarium of grains, while the radio calls out
the local names of 2,000
US soldiers counted dead since March.
&, we all know it, there will always be more than
what’s been counted. They will not say the names
of an Iraqi family trying to pass a checkpoint
in an old white van. A teenager caught out on some road
after curfew. The radio will go on, shouting
the names &, I promise you,
they will not call your name, Hassna
Ali Sabah, age 30, killed by a missile in Al-Bassra, or you,
Ibrahim Al-Yussuf, or the sons of Sa’id Shahish
on a farm outside of Baghdad, or Ibrahim, age 12,
as if your blood were any less red, as if the skins
that melted were any less skin, & the bones
that broke were any less bone,
as if your eradication were any less absolute, any less
eradication from this earth where you were
not a president or a military soldier.
& you will not ever walk home
again, or smell your mother’s hair again,
or shake the date palm tree
or smell the sea
or hear the people singing at your wedding
or become old
or dream or breathe, or even pray or whistle,
& your tongue will be all gone or useless
& it will not ever say again or ask a question,
you, who were birthed once, & given milk,
& given names that mean: she is born at night,
happy, favorite daughter,
morning, heart, father of
a multitude.

Your name, I will have noticed
on a list collected by an Iraqi census of the dead,
because your name is the name of my own brother,
because your name is the Tigrinya word for “tomorrow,”
because all my life I have wanted a farm,
because my students are 12, because I remember
when my sisters were 12. & I will not
have ever seen your eyes, & you will not
have ever seen my eyes
or the eyes of the ones who dropped the missiles,
or the eyes of the ones who ordered the missiles,
& the missiles have no eyes. You had no chance,
the way they fell on avenues & farms
& clocks & schoolchildren. There was no place for you
& so you burned. A bag of rice will not bring you back.
A poem cannot bring you. & although it is my promise here
to try to open every one of my windows, I cannot
imagine the intimacy with which
a life leaves its body, even then,
in detonation, when the skull is burst,
& the body’s country of indivisible organs
flames into the everything. & even in
that quick departure as the life rushes on,
headlong or backwards, there must, must
be some singing as the hand waves “be well”
to its other hand, goodbye;
& the ear belongs to the field now.
& we cannot separate the roof from the heart
from the trees that were there, standing.
& so it is, when I say “night,”
it is your name I am calling,
when I say “field,”
your thousand, thousand names,
your million names.


IN THE CANE FIELDS

You are a steel-blade woman,
I am a steel-blade man.
When we dance like this,
head-high in the cane,
my heart beats red with want.

It’s a dangerous taste
gonna swing me from some hanging tree.

I am a steel-blade woman.
You are a steel-blade man.

If the Boss Men follow
down the dirt red road,
accuse us of blackness & of love,
let us live again, sweet,
come back & haunt these fields.


FOR ESTEFANI LORA, THIRD GRADE, WHO MADE ME A CARD
for Estefani Lora, PS 132, Washington Heights

*
Elephant on an orange line, underneath a yellow circle
meaning sun.
6 green, vertical lines, with color all from the top
meaning flowers.

*
The first time I peel back the 5 squares of Scotch tape,
unfold the crooked-crease fold of art class paper,
I am in my living room.

It is June.
Inside of the card, there is one long word, & then
Estefani’s name:

Loisfoeribari

Estefani Lora

*
Loisfoeribari?

*
Loisfoeribari: The scientific, Latinate way of saying hibiscus.

*
Loisforeribari: A direction, as in: Are you going
North? South? East? West? Loisfoeribari?

*
I try, over & over, to read the word out loud.
Loisfoeribari. LoISFOeribari.
LoiSFOEribari. LoisFOERibARI.

*
What is this word?

I imagine using it in sentences like,

“Man, I have to go back to the house,
I forgot my Loisfoeribari.”

or

“There’s nothing better than rain, hot rain,
open windows with music, & a tall glass
of Loisfoeribari.”

or

“How are we getting to Pittsburgh?
Should we drive or take the Loisfoeribari?”

*
I have lived 4 minutes with this word not knowing
what it means.

*
It is the end of the year. I consider writing my student,
Estefani Lora, a letter that goes:

To The BRILLIANT Estefani Lora!

Hola, querida, I hope that you are well. I’ve just opened the card that you made me, and it is beautiful. I really love the way you filled the sky with birds. I believe that you are chula, chulita, and super fly! Yes, the card is beautiful. I only have one question for you. What does the word ‘Loisfoeribari’ mean?

*
I try the word again.
Loisfoeribari.
Loisfoeribari.
Loisfoeribari.

*
I try the word in Spanish.
Loisfoeribari
Lo-ees-fo-eh-dee-bah-dee
Lo-ees-fo-eh-dee-bah-dee

& then, slowly,

Lo is fo e ri bari
Lo is fo eribari

*
love is for everybody
love is for every every body love
love love everybody love
everybody love love
is love everybody
everybody is love
love love for love
for everybody
for love is everybody
love is forevery
love is forevery body
love love love for body
love body body is love
love is body every body is love
is every love
for every love is love
for love everybody love love
love love for everybody
loveisforeverybody


Last words on TEETH ---

Sigh. Sigh Again. Glorious. Go. Buy. The. Book.


ISBN 978-1-931896-36-8

*****

Sister Chicas gets a fantastic mention in Julia Alvarez' Once Upon A Quinceañera. We were completely bowled over to find that Julia had written a glowing paragraph about our book on page 48, as well as listing us in the reading guide! The project continues to be blessed and we are all so grateful for the kind words and the support.


Lisa Alvarado

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Johanny Vázquez Paz was born and raised in San Juan, Puerto Rico. She holds a Master of Arts in Hispanic Studies from the University of Illinois at Chicago and a Bachelor of Arts in Sociology from Indiana State University. Her book Streetwise Poems/Poemas Callejeros was recently published by Mayapple Press (Michigan, 2007). She co-edited the anthology Between the Heart and the Land / Entre el corazón y la tierra: Latina Poets in the Midwest (MARCH/Abrazo Press, 2001) and was included in the compilation Poetas sin tregua (Spain, 2006) of Puerto Rican poets from the 80's generation.

Some of her poems appeared in the anthology Más allá de las fronteras (Ediciones Nuevo Espacio, New Jersey, 2004), and she was published in the collection Carpetas de Luz after winning the Voces Selectas 2000 poetry contest of Luz Bilingual Publishing. Johanny has been published in the literary magazines VOCES Journal (Univ. of California), El Centro Journal of the Center for Puerto Rican Studies (Hunter College, N.Y.), Beyond Borders (De Paul Univ.) and Yagrumal (Puerto Rico), among others. She currently teaches Spanish at Harold Washington College in Chicago, IL.

Johanny Vázquez Paz nació y se crió en San Juan, Puerto Rico. Posee una maestría en Estudios Hispánicos de la Universidad de Illinois en Chicago y un bachillerato en Sociología de la Universidad del Estado de Indiana. Su libro Streetwise Poems/Poemas Callejeros fue recientemente publicado por Mayapple Press (Michigan, 2007). Co-editó la antología Between the Heart and the Land / Entre el corazón y la tierra: Latina Poets in the Midwest (MARCH/Abrazo Press, 2001), y fue incluida en el libro Poetas sin tregua-Compilación de poetas puertorriqueñas de la generación del 80 (España, 2006).

Además, algunos de sus poemas aparecen en la antología Más allá de las fronteras (Ediciones Nuevo Espacio, New Jersey, 2004), y fue publicada en la colección Carpetas de Luz después de ganar el certamen Voces Selectas 2000 de Luz Bilingual Publishing. Johanny ha sido publicada en las revistas: VOCES Journal (Univ. of California), El Centro Journal of the Center for Puerto Rican Studies (Hunter College, N.Y.), Beyond Borders (De Paul Univ.) y Yagrumal (Puerto Rico), entre otras. Actualmente es profesora de español en Harold Washington College en Chicago, IL.

Aside from the obvious descriptors in her bio, Johanny Vázquez Paz is quite simply a force of nature. She's warm like earth, clear and bracing as running water, and bright as the canopy of morning sky. She's also a Chicago literary fixture, and it's been our very good luck indeed that she's been the host of Palabra Pura since its inception. It's Johanny's voice you hear each month at California Clipper welcoming you, teasing you, coaxing you to relax and enjoy. With her inimitable presence, the bar becomes nuestra joint, an opportunity to savor. And the experience is made richer by her sharing her own poetry, setting out the first course in that feast of words that is a Palabra Pura reading.

There is so much to appreciate. She is also a poet of what I like to consider working class sensibilities -- direct, honest, but full of profound feeling, true feeling. In the 2007, the release of Streetwise Poems/Poemas Callejeros, Johanny shows us how deeply the streets run in her veins, the public and private ways her heart holds the love of family and their stories. No matter how much her work is anchored in an urban base, she is tethered always to la isla, to Puerto Rico and its sorrow and strength, always writing from an solid place of female dignity. Take a moment and read for yourself.

Daughter of the City

I feel the streets in my veins

avenues

highways

alleyways

boulevards

roads without stop signs or lights or signals

live within me

circling the bewildering labyrinths of my being,

noises echo loudly at every corner,

each step banging like a hand on a drum,

horns demanding that others move out of the way,

shots crying farewell to their reasons for hate,

screams hiding by the anger of a barking dog.

Daughter of the city

citizen of hell

resident of purgatory.

I am a skyscraper inhabited by urgency,

a map of nameless streets,

only the suicidal wind dares to speed

past the danger signs of my curves.

Hours merge without boundaries into dawn;

my anxieties open for business twenty-four hours a day

without ever finding peace and quiet

inside the insistent beating of my sleepwalking heart.

Letter to My Mother from Chicago

Don’t worry about me, madrecita,

everything seems fine in the northlands

and I perfect myself before your eyes.

No problem disturbs me

more than ten hours a day

my health is excellent

without doctors or healthy diets

and there is no one to interrupt

my eternal solitude.

But, don’t be worried, mami,

it’s not as bad as you think.

There are millions of jobs here

that don’t pay well

there is a lot of money

in other people’s accounts

new buildings go up every week

with people trapped behind each door.

If I sound sad maybe it’s because

I miss my homeland, my family and everything,

because the weather chills my bones more each year,

because of the things-to-buy list

that grows like a well fed child,

because of the problems that visit me daily

without an invitation.

I’m fine,

I survive day by day

taking care of things myself,

don’t feel sad, viejita,

life is perfect here.

Reasons of Worth

because I sin in secrecy and silence

keeping before the world

a record of impeccable morality

because I have withstood deserved insults

in the dark corner of rancor and hate

because I could have taken advantage of many men

but I chose solitude over lies and convenience

because I did not prostitute my ideals under the assault

of those whose only ideal is profit

because I was born woman and I bleed

and I am impregnated and I give birth

and I raise and nurture and clean and organize

and I stop bleeding

for these and many other reasons of worth

I deserve fame right now

be it fifteen minutes of praise,

be it an ovation of applause and roses,

be it my image glowing on television,

or my touched-up photo in some important magazine,

be it an honorable mention in some contest

or a trophy with my name engraved,

whatever it may be, but let it be grand...

because

I deserve fame!

I deserve glory!

For more of Johanny's writing, please enjoy the following:

PUBLICATIONS-

Book Poemas Callejeros / Streetwise Poems published by Mayapple Press, Michigan, 2007.

Poem published in the anthology The City Visible: Chicago Poetry for the New Century, Cracked Slab Books, Chicago, 2007.
Poem: Our Revolution.

Poems published in Más allá de las fronteras anthology published in New Jersey, USA, Ediciones Nuevo Espacio, 2004.
Poems: Sentada en la arena mirando el mar, Sin debida sepultura.

Article "Café con demasiaaaaada leche: I am a Black Woman Trapped in a White Woman's Body" and poem published in Que Ondee Sola, Northeastern Illinois University-Chicago, IL, March 2003.
Poem: Anhelo africano.

Song lyrics written included in the compact disc Compromiso by Luis Jahn, Chicago, IL, Del Sur Music Publishing, 2003.
Poem: Cada familia.

Co-edited and published poems in Between the Heart and the Land/Entre el corazón y la tierra; Latina Poets in the Midwest anthology published in Chicago, IL, 2001, MARCH/Abrazo Press.
Poems: Liviana / Light Heart (both versions in all indicated), Por un hilo / By a Thread, A la vida / To Life, Morning After.

Poems published in VOCES: A Journal of Chicana/Latina Studies, Volume Three, Number One and Two, University of California, Davis, Spring 2001.
Poems: Con fe / With Faith (both versions in all indicated), Dedicado a Soledad / Dedicated to Solitude, Veinticuatro Horas / Twenty-four Hours, Liviana / Light Heart, Razones de Peso / Reasons of Worth.

Poems published in Centro Journal of the Center for Puerto Rican Studies, in the article "New Rican Voices", Volume XII, Number 1, Hunter College, New York, Fall 2000.
Poems: African Yearning, Carta a mi madre.

Chapbook El filo de la esquina published in the collection Voces Selectas 2000, Carpeta de Poesía Luz Número 4, Luz Bilingual Publishing, Sherman Oaks, CA, 2000.
Poems: Por un hilo, Con fe, Palabras cortas, Juerga de dos, mentira de muchos.

Poems published in ¡Sin linderos ni arrabales, hacia el Siglo XXI!, Segunda Parte. Anthology published in Madrid, Spain, 1999, Calíope Press.
Poems: Liviana, ¡Qué grande estás!

Poems published in El Otro Newspaper, Chicago, IL, December 1999.
Poems: Si alguna vez, Razones de peso.

Poem and short story published in ¡Sin linderos ni arrabales, hacia el Siglo XXI! anthology published in Madrid, Spain, 1999, Calíope Press.
Poem and Short Story: En las mañanas, Con fe.

Poems published in Yagrumal literary magazine, 1999 issue, Peñuelas, Puerto Rico.
Poems: Callejón, Cada familia, ¡Hay que...!, Con fe, Bailando bolero sola, Resolución de fin de año.

Poems published in ¡Y Dios la hizo mujer! anthology published in Madrid, Spain, 1998, Calíope Press.
Poem: Razones de peso.

Poems and article published in La Raza Newspaper, Chicago, IL, July 1999.
Poems: Bailando bolero sola, Callejón.

Interview published in Que Ondee Sola, Northeastern Illinois University-Chicago, IL, March 1999.

Poem published in Que Ondee Sola, Northeastern Illinois University-Chicago, IL, April 1999.
Poem: Our Revolution.

Poems published in Beyond Borders: Más all de las fronteras literary magazine, De Paul University, 1997-98 issue.
Poem: Cada familia.

Poems published in Diminuendo, volume ii, issue 1, Loyola University literary magazine, October 1998. Poem: Alleyway.

Poems published in Karacola literary magazine, 1998, Santiago, Chile.
Poem: Razones de peso

Poems published in Abrapalabra University of Illinois literary magazine, Chicago, IL, 1996
Poem: Anuncio.

Poems published in Fe de erratas, August and November 1993 issues. Poems: Mujer, Débil.

Lisa Alvarado

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The lovely photo is of an equally lovely and powerful writer, Tara Betts. (Not quite the plain brown wrapper...) It's been almost ten years ago that I was paired with Tara as her mentor in a City of Chicago arts program. To this day, I'm not sure what I taught her, but it has been my privilege to read her work, watch her develop and soar as a writer, a performer, and as a critical thinker. She is a person of crystal clear intent and ethics and it is that clarity and that moral compass that infuses all of her work. Tara is that rara avis who is able to dive into the canon, retrieve what she needs and resurface to the real world where the rest of us dwell. She knows her sestinas, her villanelles, her haikus, but she is not seduced by the prettiness of form over content. Her work is rigorously constructed, but framed with direct, clear language, unambiguous. Tara Betts knows where her loyalties lie --- the African American experience, femaleness, urban life, the place where class and race intersect, and as readers we are all the better for it. Take a close look at the pieces following this interview, and you'll see exactly what I mean.

Describe your odyssey in becoming a writer. How does African American and female identity influence your work? What would you say are your major influences, both personally and in a literary sense?

My major influences initially were ntozake shange, Maya Angelou, Paul Laurence Dunbar and Langston Hughes. When I was around 12 or 13, I kept a diary a little before this point, but began writing poetry shortly after I read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. I had always been a reader, but I didn’t always see books in the library that looked like they talked about people of African descent at all. When I was in high school, I worked at the Kankakee Public Library and learned the stacks better. Sometimes, I would sneak off and read. It was then that I aspired to be a journalist so Rolling Stone, Essence and U.S. News & World Report were also part of my obsession as well.

When I started attending Loyola University on the North Side of Chicago, I kept writing, indulged more and more in Vibe and The Source, and eventually did an internship in New York at BET Weekend magazine in conjunction with the New York Daily News office. It was an amazing summer too. It solidified that I had to keep writing, even though I was a student activist and editor for The Loyola Phoenix. It was in college that I read more about Hurston, the Negritude poets, Toni Morrison, Fanon and Cheikh Anta Diop.

Although I felt like these were eye-opening experiences, I felt like I was always challenged by the more conservative influences on a highly Republican, very Catholic Jesuit university that somehow managed to talk about social justice issues.

By the time I was in my second year at Loyola, I had started organizing poetry readings on campus. This was before poetry became trendy again, so I shared some of my favorite poets and collaborated with other student organizations to make the readings happen. I remember inviting Malik Yusef to campus and bringing Ramona Africa from MOVE Organization with help from Tyehimba Jess. Tyehimba and Malik were the first two poets I met on the Chicago scene. Shortly before I graduated from Loyola in 1997, Malik Yusef gave me my first poetry feature at The Cotton Club on Michigan Avenue. I started reading at Lit X, this jazz club called Rituals, Afrika West bookstore, Guild Complex and eventually Mad Bar, which is where I started slamming. I slammed once or twice at Green Mill, but it didn’t feel like an audience of my peers, even though I enjoyed the work from poets like Sheila Donahue, Cin Salach, Regie Gibson, Dan Ferri, Maria McCray, Marc Smith and most vividly Patricia Smith.

At this time, I was also exploring the feminist possibilities in my poetry. I performed with Sharon Powell, Marta Collazo and other women in a show about menstruation called “The Empress Wears Red Clothes.” I had sort of exited the hip hop heavy part of my life, even though I was still writing pieces here and there, going to shows, hosting a hip hop radio show called “The Hip Hop Project” with my good friend Lional Freeman (AKA Brotha El), meeting graf writers and admiring dj skills.

After leaving “The Hip Hop Project” and doing readings for about a year and a half, I started to slam at Mad Bar. I was on the first two Mental Graffiti teams in 1999 and 2000 with poets like Mars Gamba-Adisa Caulton, Marlon Esguerra, Dennis Kim, Shappy and Lucy Anderton. Although slam became a very stressful thing for me, I got to spend time with a wide range of aesthetics and personalities that I really loved and admired for different reasons. I also had the opportunity to co-host, curate and promote an all-women’s open mic and performance space called Women OutLoud with women like Mars, Lucy, Anida Esguerra and Krystal Ashe.

While I was slamming, I started getting more into a range of poets like Pablo Neruda, Gabriela Mistral, Julia de Burgos, Sonia Sanchez, Jayne Cortez, Carl Sandburg, Lucille Clifton, Gwendolyn Brooks, Stanley Kunitz and others. I also started workshopping with various poets through the Guild Complex. My first workshop leader was Sterling Plumpp. He pushed me to keep writing, read more sisters and just be persistent. He’s a master of the poetic line and very much a blues man. More people should be reading his work. I also went on to do workshops with Afaa Michael Weaver who pushed me to be honest, vulnerable and study a diverse range of writers. I really wanted to just read writers of color at one point, and he still reminds me of how there is so much to learn from everyone. Lucille Clifton and Quincy Troupe were also poets that I participated in workshops with and these experiences led to my real urgency to be a part of Cave Canem, a workshop/retreat for writers of African descent started by Toi Derricotte and Cornelius Eady. There are too many poets to name that I have met through this retreat that have fed, taught and inspired me.

The students at Young Chicago Authors were also a big influence on my writing. Through YCA, I began teaching writing classes. Since I had to teach what I was doing, I was more conscious of what I did or explaining why a certain work moved me. I also got to develop my own classes, like an author study on Neruda, Hip Hop Poetics, Poetic Forms by Communities of Color and Women Writers as Essayists. By the time I left Chicago, I had firmly rooted my voice that I think is always expanding and refining itself. I had started the MFA Program in Poetry at New England College (graduated in January 2007) and moved to New York. Now, I think I’m trying to read as much as I can in fiction, new poets, history and the classics that I need to catch up on. Wanda Coleman, Martin Espada, Marilyn Nelson are just a few of the poets who really move me these days.

You've written extensively about African American labor leader, Ida B. Wells. Describe her significance as subject matter.

It’s funny you would ask about the Ida B. Wells’ poems. I started writing about her years ago, and I’ve never quite finished the series that I set out to do. I read about her and her own books like A Crusade for Justice, Southern Horrors and The Memphis Diary edited by Miriam Decosta-Willis, and I started researching lynchings. This was around the time that Without Sanctuary, a book of photographs taken at lynchings, was released.

In 1892, one of Wells’ close friends Thomas Moss and the co-owners of the Black-owned People’s Grocery Store were basically lynched for offering better products and better prices to Black customers than the white storeowners. Wells had already initiated a public transportation boycott and filed a successful lawsuit that was eventually repealed when she had been thrown off the train for refusing to go to a smoking car. She refused so adamantly that she dug in her heels, and it took two men to remove her after she bit the conductor on the hand. In fact, she started her paper The Free Press in response to this ousting, and convinced record numbers to leave Memphis and stop taking public transit.

As a result, at a time when women were not even considered able to handle the strong material of journalism, Wells convinced people to do things with the facts that she gleaned. She also started the first suffrage organization for Black women in Illinois, helped start the NAACP, ran an organization for Black men that was similar to the then-segregated YMCA who would not house or notify Black men of employment opportunities, and initiated the anti-lynching crusade in the U.S. and the U.K. So, her radical scope really drew me to her, but also some of the things she did that were just hilarious. For example, her daughter Alfreda Duster describes how she went into a department store in Chicago and was waiting to be served. Of course, they acted like this Black woman was not even standing there, so out of exasperation, she drapes a pair of men’s boxers over one shoulder and starts to walk toward the exit. Then someone finally asked her what she was doing, and she told them “trying to buy these.” So, her ties to Chicago, her sense of humor and strength, and her need to document her place in history when so many women were forgotten, omitted and erased, has brought me back to her example again and again.

You made a strong connection to Latino poets, Latino poetry and culture. Can you talk more about that?

In my youth, I studied Spanish in high school, and I hardly knew any people from Spanish-speaking cultures, but when I went to college, I finally met more than Black and white people en masse. I really tried to support all people of color, so I learned a lot and tried to understand how our experiences overlapped and differed. I also took a class with Dr. Susannah Cavallo called Afro-Hispanic Literature where we read writers like Carolina Maria de Jesus, Jose Lima and Nascimiento’s Brazil: Mixture or Massacre.

I would have to say that Pablo Neruda brought the metaphor to life for me in a way that no other poet has. After him, I was drawn to so many others like Xavier Villarrutia, Gabriela Mistral, Cesar Vallejo, Daisy Zamora and anthologies like Martin Espada’s Poetry Like Bread and Stephen Tapscott’s Twentieth Century Latin American Poetry. I also read Chicago-based writers like Luis Rodriguez, Ana Castillo and Sandra Cisneros.

While I was living in Chicago, I got to read with so many Latina women who just wrote things that moved me. Some of them included Brenda Cardenas, the late Sulima Q. Moya, Susana Sandoval, Johanny Vazquez, Beatriz Badikian-Gartler, Katherinne Bardales, and of course, Lisa Alvarado.

In 2001, I had an opportunity to exchange with writers in Cuba at the now defunct Writers of the Americas Conference where my workshop leader was Jack Agueros, and we got to talk to writers like Junot Diaz, Maria Irene Fornes, Achy Obejas and Danny Hoch. While we were there, we met many local writers. One of them, Leo Navaro Guevara moved to the U.S., and his son Anton is my first and only godson.

Now, that I’m on the East Coast, it’s such an amazing experience to see the range of writers like Willie Perdomo, Magdalena Gomez, Tato Laviera, Sandra Maria Esteves, Jesus Papoleto among others. The Acentos series in the Bronx also gave me the chance to see a lot of these poets up close and to hear more of the type of work that I had only read.

What would you describe as your major themes?

History, family, politics, and love (mostly because we need to remember why we struggle in the first place).

You've had a lot of interface with spoken word, slam poetry, etc. How would you describe those genres v. 'literary' poetics and form?

Spoken word is an untapped wellspring of possibilities. Unfortunately, since people are catering to the lowest common denominator and writing pieces that will garner a shock, laughter or a tour through the spoken word circuit, there is not the same kind of interest in the work that I had before. Now, do I think that the slam offers young writers a chance to build their confidence and articulate themselves clearly in front of an audience? Yes. Do I think that it can lead people to read their work with feeling and internalize the meaning of what they’ve written? Yes. Do I think it can lead to people producing one-person shows, records, verse plays, books, creative collaborations and radical, through-provoking performance? Yes. And lastly, are there too many people competing for little-to-no-paying gigs for the big payoff of three-five minutes on television? Yes.

What most people don’t realize is that performance becomes a job. Even if you love it, you must maintain what will keep you working, and there are contradictions that compel people to ask hard questions about the growth and integrity of their work. Not enough people are asking themselves about that. I also think that if spoken word is continually pigeonholed as slam poetry and watered-down hip hop by wannabe emcees, then it will be relegated to the ghettos of forgotten poetry. There are too many good poets of color coming out of such performative experiences to be limited by this kind of categorization. Spoken Word is a category promoted by NARAS. Oral traditions across centuries and cultures have always existed, so we have to remind people that internalizing what we write and sharing it orally is not new. So, I don’t necessarily think there is a difference in the text, unless you’re a lazy writer who overcompensates through performance. Anything written can be performed, published or exhibited. It’s just about how it’s done.

What would you describe as your core strengths as a writer....where would you like to see yourself grow?

My core strengths. Now this is a difficult question. I think it’s been my willingness to always do what I feel like I need to do to grow. I haven’t always made many friends that way, but inevitably I wrote what I wanted and earned most people’s respect. I want to spend more time reading, trying to grow as a critical writer and write more prose. In terms of poetry, I’m intrigued with poetic form and how can we subvert with Eurocentric canonical notions that we have about it. I would like to collaborate with more visual artists and musicians since I’ve often been a solo writer sharing my work.

How would you describe your connection to young writers as it relates to your creative life?

My connection to young writers has kept me from being hyper-cynical/critical. They look at the world with new eyes, and when they have the breakthrough moments where they articulate something so honest and challenging for the first time. I live for those moments. Young writers make me always consider what it takes to keep writing new, how does writing work as an art and a disciplined practice. Sometimes, I think it’s only me who keeps me writing, which is true to some degree, but they are the ones who keep me writing.

Where do you see yourself in ten years, personally and creatively?

Ten years from now, I’m hoping to have published at least two or three books, not necessarily all poetry, maybe one of them is an anthology. I’ve thought I might have a Ph.D. in African American/Africana/Black Studies (whichever term people think they need to apply), American Studies or Women’s Studies by then. Teaching, traveling and balancing that with a family would be nice. Hopefully, I will be practicing yoga on a regular basis. I remember one time a student at Wright College asked me in a Q & A, what I wanted to do with my life, and I proceeded to tell her about all my professional goals and writerly aspirations when she cut in and asked, “other than that?” I felt like some inner voice had been plucked from my head and embodied in this girl. So, I thought about it, and yoga, having a garden, developing a spiritual life, staying politically responsible and critical and having good friends who could give a damn whether I write or not were my response to her question. All of that is still a work in progress.

What's something not in the official bio?

I always liked the fast, gravity-defying rides at carnivals and amusement parks. I recently freestyled on the mic with an all-female Afrobeat band in New York called Femm Nameless.



Not On the Menu

If Portugal was edible, could it be swallowed
like some country fruit, goosebumped as unripe
avocado, heavy with sweet guava wet
that lingers inside the cheeks?

Would Africa taste bitter and glitter
on the tongue from its ripe diamond seeds?
Would the silt of India be the truest curry
bursting a heat against the mouth’s roof?’

Every day an international hors'douvres platter
crosses so many tourist imaginations like
a hectic maitre’de.
There are Indian families in steamy kitchens,
Taiwanese men’s bicycles crisscrossing
Manhattan’s traffic-glutted streets,
Puerto Rican girls smiling for bigger tips
when offering mofongo,
and Cubans proffer mojitos
and freshly killed chicken
for that one night at El Hueco.

America, though, would distance itself
from its bitter Billie Holiday image in stalls
of worldly produce. America would be slick
with campaigns on its nutritional benefits.
America would be so shiny the shellac needs
cracking and peeling. Imagine.
America’s fruit, so sweet it eats the teeth
with its ache.

While movies ripen into
culinary pornography
Eat, Drink, Man, Woman,
Soul Food
Tortilla Soup
Like Water for Chocolate
The cinematic menu sounds
like a veil pulled across the face,
the sweaty thump of samba,
a pinprick protruding
from a map of exotica
where spare grain
of days remains unsampled
since the trees of America
require so much tending.


There Goes the Neighborhood
for Maxine Kumin

Aerial shot omniscient view bent above
asphalt playground. Sidewalks become
concrete football fields where Brooklyn
accents weigh down boys’ tongues
that count like girls circle one another.

They bend clothesline, extension cords,
double helix style rotations beneath
spinning jumping sneakers.
Speakers turned walls claim
the street as official block
party bidness. Metal drums split
open with orang charcoal guts plead
for red meat, then sizzle relief.

Brownstone stoops fill with girls
clinging to gossip like the new neighbor
holding his golf club bag as if announcing
shift change for baggy pants & oversized
shirt-wearing boys who stand too long on
the corner. Count each baby
in mad math that’s called living.
Take a breath when change claims
one more before you blink.

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Jane Alberdeston Coralin is a Puerto Rican poet whose work has been published in literary magazines and poetry anthologies throughout the U.S. and Canada. An alumna of Cave Canem, a writers' organization for poets of African descent, Jane has performed her work in arts events and mentored writer's workshops in schools throughout the East Coast. Her poetry collections, Waters of My Thirst and The AfroTaina Dreams, are still in circulation. She is currently working on a poetry manuscript called Songs of a Daughter's Make Believe. She just completed her doctoral studies in English at Binghamton University in NY.

My blessing in knowing her is I have come in contact with poetry of heartbreaking beauty, but in addition, she is another co-author of Sister Chicas. Her Taina is self aware, whip smart and a deep dreamer, just like Jane herself.

Describe your odyssey in becoming a writer. How does Latin and female identity influence your work? What would you say are your major influences, both personally and in a literary sense?

It's wonderful how you begin with the word "odyssey"; most of the time it's felt like I've been on Discovery Channel's "Deadliest Catch" crab boat, rolling on the waves wishing for a full net. It's a type of wishing that happens with me too, a wishing for what I think is the right word, the best image, the loud line that will carry the story forward.

I am the cliche: the writer that started way-back, fourteen and pimply and unpopular. I had one friend, also a closet writer. We started writing Harlequinesque romances together. Lots of boys and horses. Only later, at eighteen, depressed and lonely in Long Island, far away from my mami and her Puerto Rico, did I learn to write truly, as in about my life, the things I understood and knew. And I could only get to that point through the vehicle of poetry. But I was a language novice; though I viscerally understood poetry's power, I hadn't yet grasped all the tools, the glorious avenues that poetry drives.

So, again, I floated on the waters, till I arrived in Washington DC and was warmly welcomed by the poetry community. I started reading at a dive called 15 Minutes on 15th Steet NW DC. A long Amtrak train ride waited me at the end of that night, but I knew it was the only way I could get to know people and kill the shy girl within. Monday nights I was there, sipping back Sprites with lime, scratching through wrinkles sheets of poem, waiting to be called on stage. Later, I found my community at It's Your Mug, a poetry cafe in Georgetown on P Street NW in the 90's. Imagine a room so filled with people it was warm in the winter, as if a hearth were burning in the corner. But there was so fire except for the flames coming out of some of the most political and dramatic poetry in the city. And the poets got me - they got my images, they got my song - they appreciated my life living on the fence, on the cusp of self: Americanness, blackness and Puerto Ricanness. I didn't see myself as a prism, but as a broken thing.

This was my new story to tell; not because it was hip or cool in 1995 to Latina in DC. This was my story to tell because I'd come to a point where my Latinaness and Blackness were speaking to each other. Narratives in my family long buried were suddenly crawling their way up and out of me. I heard my grandmother in Julia de Burgos's "Rio Grande de Loiza". Poems from Martin Espada, Marjorie Agosin, Judith Ortiz Cofer, and others were guides for me to move into the cave where the stories hide.


You were an established poet for quite a while before you stated writing fiction? Is the creative process different for you when you work in different genres? How so?

Oh, I was always a fiction writer; I think I stored the fiction away for awhile, boxed it up in cardboard boxes. I was afraid. Fear's so powerful, it struck my down for awhile. The poems were easier to admit were mine. Even that took years. It took for a very long time to say I was a writer, so your question throws me off the fence a bit. I kept poetry and fiction in very different camps: poetry to the far left, fiction over the hill and through the woods. I couldn't imagine their sharing space in my head at the same time. That would have meant I had grown as a writer! We can't have any of that.

Talking about fear, it was excruciating for me to imagine people would care about what I had to say. Shy for most of my life, I used poetry as the vehicle to talk. The poem would say everything I needed it to say and it would also silence what needed silencing. It's still very difficult for me to speak up, to say what I want, what I don't want or feel comfortable with. It's a constant battle for me: performing poetry became a stage where I could practice being heard. When I read a poem (mine or another's), I am amazed by how I feel as if the woman talking were from Mars or Pluto, blue with ice. So, if by established, you mean comfortable, I'd have to say NO. I'm never comfortable. But I'm still working - there's so much I still need to learn and try. I'm always oscillating between jumping off the cliff and never writing again or loving the process so much I'd marry it, as my 11 year old nephew would say.

Part of what keeps me going is the challenge: I become so enamoured of other writers' works: Edwige Danticat, Lucille Clifton, ZZ Packer, Zora Neal Hurston, my fellow artists and friends. Right now I am reading Kiran Desai and it was enough to strike me dumb for a bit. I couldn't think of creating for a couple of weeks. And then... something, as usual, popped in my head, deep in it, like a blooming cereus in the desert night. And then all was/is well. I feel/felt right with the world. Stumbling this practiced way is the only way I have of staying in love with process, thickening with it.

What's coming down the pike? For the past three or so years, I've worked to meld poetry and fiction, to blur the lines. I believe muddling the genres can help you strengthen the muscles for both. For example, in my own work, my dialogue in fiction stopped being stale and my poem-spaces have grown. I tell my students to listen in elevators, on the street, in restaurants. People don't know they way they speak is poetry. I use this exercise myself, fixing my ears to this magic has helped me hone in on my own work and shape it. I listen more to people, especially children. Their sounds and word choices, image constructions are so musical and poem-perfect. Children carry in their little mouths the very best metaphors. They have an intricate relationship with the power of image. They aren't held back by what keeps us, even writers, from say what needs to be said. They aren't full of the flowery language, yet they are such glorious gardens.

What would you describe as your major themes?

Do you have enough room? My poems explored my race and nationality; they interrogated my father and his abandoning my family; they looked at migration and the grasp of one's culture over assimilation. In one of the poems I sent you, "Smoke", I was dealing with the idea of my father's depression, something I had never in my youth or early adulthood even thought to explore. But being able to look back with twenty-thirty sight, I can deconstruct my memories, see my father staring out a lot, having several afternoon drinks till he fell to sleep at night, bark at us though we'd done nothing to inspire ire. His beer-thick fog of unhappiness started to speak up, some fifteen years after he'd left us. It started to speak up in poems, interrupt rooms of poems, move through my writing like a bull in a porcelain shop. I could not ignore its chatter, its rumble. It's this way with most of my work, the stories too. Characters (whether in a stanza or paragraph) just won't leave me alone. The only way I have of shaking them off my back is to pay attention. Close. Jot down what the monsters say when they say it. Then I'm free. Somewhat.

Right now I'm interested in discussing womanist themes and spirituality. The women's voices tapping on my head like clockwork hammers come from the abused, stolen, disregarded. The spiritual element comes from our response, the way we use our stories to protect each other, to protect our children. I've been exploring this in my critical studies, but like everything in my life, the academic has arced into my creative work. And that has awoken memories of my Abuelita's storytelling. Or maybe the stories are the reason behind my academic studies? We all have "talking" memories; if not from an Abuela, then an Abuelo, or a Tia or Uncle or a Madrina sitting the kitchen, the porch, the stoop, or garden. Have you read Judith Ortiz Cofer's memoir Silent Dancing? When I read it, I was convinced she was talking about my Abuela Juanita. I could have leaned in and touched my own grandmother between those pages. I don't have many pictures in my head from when I was young. I wish I'd listen more, listened closer. A lot of what's inside my throbbing cerebrum is part photo-memory, adopted copies of those yellowing Kodak snapshots. One is clear: I was twelve and on my first period and it was my grandmother, sitting queen-like in the dining room, telling me how to stay away from boys. All that story wrapped up in her own carefully detailed narrative and the threads of a Bible story, full of suspense and worry, a story to scare the adventure out of a girl. I can see her now, her honey-glow skin, gold rimmed glasses, a black woman with a roman nose - the only thing she had left of her mother who died roasting coffee beans in a ramshackle house in Anasco, Puerto Rico.

Though for the past two years I fought against the confessional or personal narrative in my poems and looked at the universal, I have learned from the literary great Audre Lorde that those dichotomies come together beautifully in the end. I don't fight the onslaught anymore. And there is an onslaught: I have the good fortune to have my mother with me; she, the last repository of all the lost tales, and I are working to piece my grandparents' stories together. Why? I want my nephew to have this history, a history which has been part of my construction and is part of his.

Is there a particular spiritual practice that informs your work? If so, can your share its importance?

I don't generally speak about my spiritual choices, but I will say that my writing is a spiritual process. Years ago, in Mexico City, I became friends with a devotee of a Hindu guru named Satya Sai Baba. My friend made annual pilgrimages to Calcutta and then returned from her retreats full of stories. Her eyes would glass over as she talked about lingams and divine ash and the Ganges sitting behind her in the sun like a forever ribbon of silvery skin. Her breath even smelled of incense, her hands at her heart as she spoke. She was contagious. I could not go to India but I had India in her. And felt God in that exchange. This is to say that I do my best to find God in everything and that I attempt to take, not only into my work, but into my everyday.

It's not so easy; I fail often, so I meditate. I have always been struck by how the creative experience is so closely related to meditation. If I am doing it right and am immersed soulfully in the act of creating, whether it be a drawing, a poem, or a story, I lose the busy, noisy, encumbered world around me. It is as if the walls fall away. And yet, I also become full of the world: the world that suffers, that is joyous, that breathes and dies. I feel open to energies not readily available in the hustle of a normal day. I am raw and vulnerable, but not vulnerable to danger, but open to love, immeasurable. I struggle to maintain that level of "meditation" when I write, even when I am uninspired. Inspiration is everywhere. I remind my students of this, while reminding myself.

I feel most animal when I write or draw. It is not art at that moment, not full of the pretense and arrogance that divides the creation from the world. In that moment, there's something metal in my mouth and I am full of air, as if I were a helium balloon. That is the texture of the experience. It is harder to explain the emotion behind it. Can I say I feel connected to the Divine?

What would you describe as your core strengths as a writer....where would you like to see yourself grow?

I enjoy the way I fall in love with the playfulness of language. My grandmother died when I was twenty-one. I had pretty much grown up with her, so when she died, I lost a limb, a living and loving part of my life. I had a hard time understanding that loss and stopped taking care of myself, grew angry with the world. But while sunk deep into depression, eating potato chips and watching soaps all day, I did write. Cringing angry poems crouching in the dark. Horror stories full of dead people. I experimented with electricity, making words into lightning rods burning up the page. It was the most creative period of my life -- so far. My mother worried - I must have looked a little scary; so she enrolled me back in college. I was exceedingly proud of the first paper I wrote for my composition class. My professor was cute. People talked to me. Life was getting better. Then -- my essay slipped from my teacher's hands into mine, like a grenade, a fat shame bomb. He'd written in red screaming pen, wide across the page like a banner: TOO FLOWERY. I was crushed. My writing life, my life, was over. I dragged myself to his office, blubbering, eyes swollen, embarrassed. Luckily, he wasn't there. It took two classtimes for me to summon up the courage to tell him what I felt without breaking apart at the seams. In the end, his response was that I was a good writer and just needed to practice. From there on in, that's what I've been doing: practicing.

I do my best to stretch the arms of words, to double, triple, quadruple their meanings and possibilities. I do tend to get away from myself (admittedly, even here). It takes several revision sessions to rein myself back in. This year I 'm going to work on a graphic novel project. This project will force me to control my elaborate, curlique way of expanding text. I will need, unlike my responses to your questions, to keep the **** short. And yet there's something very Juanita (and a little like my mother) that lets me ride the tangent wave that leads me to story. I'm going to go with it - it's worked for me so far.

We collaborated in writing Sister Chicas... how would you describe the impact in crafting a novel in that way?

The impact has been indescribable. I namely became friends with two talented writers. I learned from Ann Cardinal how to make a character pop through their language. Where my characters have the poet-voice in them, obscure, quiet, a little consumed, hers explode! They take on the page like war - they are full of talk and dragon. I love her gorgeous way of making her characters stand out: veined, real, blood people. From you, Lisa, I watched scenes unroll. You write like film. My eyes can follow and swallow each moment as if I were living it myself. Also, I learned to appreciate the art of editing, your precision and care. Thanks to our connecting, I finished with my adolescence! I still can't believe it was one phone call that brought Taina, Graciel and Leni out from the wood. This can only be exemplary of how the universe brings us to certain situations and places so that we'll learn. It is the Divine at work. From girl to woman, I believe I grew into a careful writer, watching around bends and corners for missteps in continuity. Like Taina, I learned to walk in heels. I couldn't have gained that experience anywhere, except through the pearl of our collaboration.

Years ago, a poet friend talked to me about credos. I didn't have one. It was the Sister Chicas project that helped me earn a credo, a belief in what I mean when I say I'm a writer. I learned more about myself in that encounter, in that sharing, than I ever had before: the dangers between what is friendship and business. I learned about responsibility to another and loyalty to one's art, to one's message.

How would you describe your ties to family and place as it relates to your creative life?

My family, living and dead, is extremely important to me, first as person who needs love and validation. Secondly, as a writer, they provide for me a vast landscape of memory. You got a truck load of those earlier in this interview. Though some places of that valley that is the past are unreachable, it is my family that reminds me that I am part of that story. Even those who've gone (whether by choice or not) are a section of the weave of that fabric. There is nothing I can extract or throw away. Even the ties broken by my father are vital to who I am and what I tell. His absence, though no longer painful, is still part of my experience as a woman. I no longer live on the island I write about. Does that mean I am disassociated from the oily mangroves or the cliffsides dipping into the ocean or the lovely stuck roasting pigs lining the dusty highways? I am only slightly bereft; my heart and mind make up what is not there. Memory is such a spirit that it is voice and it is blood. I can call it Latina, like I can name it African diaspora, like I can say it's female. But truly what I am is a construction of stories: island, mainland, back street, city, country, suburb, military base, coffin, nursery. I am part of that language, that text.

Where do you see yourself in ten years, personally and creatively?

I believe that wherever I am creatively is where I'll be personally. I recently received my doctoral degree in English literature from Binghamton University. When people ask me what I took from the experience, there is only one thought bursting in my mind: I spent five years writing. I woke thinking of what I wrote before sleep. I went to sleep thinking of what I wrote during lunch. Or thinking of what my students wrote. Or what they wanted to write. I have been very fortunate to have been given the time, the funds, the fellowship and the space. Who else can say that? Whatever I do, whether it involves driving a cab (which I would be horrible at) or teaching in a classroom, I hope I continue exploring those disconsolate, buzzing, ecstatic voices within, bubbling at my seams, ready to spread their words.

What's something not in the official bio?

I got MAD Nintendo skills. Well, not really. Recently, I beat my brilliant and talented nephew at a game and not being techinically-inclined in any way or fashion, it felt pretty good. I was never really sporty either - though I had the Adidas with the side green stripe and the Members Only jacket (are there still members or have they been excommunicated?) I was so bad at sports that I became a cheerleader. Shy girl - a cheeerleader - a really bad cheerleader. After a cheer, I usually ended up facing the wrong way. I never really got the hang of the round-the-world thing, one time landing a foot in a pothole and chipping a bone in my ankle; another time, slipping into an ant hill. The ants weren't thrilled, believe me. I guess it was another reason, other than being clinically poor at Mathematics, I became a writer. I think I made the right choice.

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Ann Hagman Cardinal is a freelance writer, novelist, columnist, as well as the National Marketing Director for Union Institute & University. Ann has a B.A. in Latino Studies from Norwich University and an M.A. in sociology and creative writing from Vermont College of UI&U. She is currently working on her MFA in Writing from Vermont College as well. Her column, Café Con Lupe, appears in the state-wide publication Vermont Woman. She just completed her second novel entitled La Mongosta & The Pirate and is hard at work on her third. She lives in Vermont with her husband Doug and son, Carlos. She is also the author of The Gift of the Cuentista, a breakout novel of depth, of roots, of Puerto Rican identity and and family. It is also the story of one's girl's odyssey to adulthood and the meaning of a very special gift of sight.

Ann is a sister of my heart, and she's also one of the Sister Chicas trio of authors. Leni was written by Ann as wry, tough/tender, with a soul deep as a hidden aquifer. This too, is Ann.

Describe your journey in becoming a writer. How is it integrated with your identity as a woman, as a Latina? Can you talk about your major influences, both personally and in a literary sense?

I never imagined I would be a writer until I returned to college as an adult student. Even then, if I hadn’t have been at a non-traditional program where I was exposed to other students doing different kinds of studies I’m not sure I ever would have become one. I met some wonderful writers who encouraged me, and after a year of insisting, “I’m not a writer!” I got the bug. But it was inspired by my desire to pass on elements of my Puerto Rican heritage and mother’s family to my son, Carlos. He never got to meet his abuela, so it is a way to put him in touch with her. And it’s helped me identify with those roots as well.

The cuentistas in my family, the storytellers that came before were my first influences. After that I was completely enthralled by Isabel Allende with her lyrical and beautifully written novels with their powerful political subtext. Also, Julia Alvarez is a wonderful writer, and I like that she publishes in different genres: novels, memoir, poetry, children’s literature. And Judith Ortiz Cofer, I was so taken with Silent Dancing, I didn’t realize it was a young adult book until after I read it. She has just the kind of clean but elegant prose I admire.

What differences do you experience as a novelist vs. writing as essayist/columnist/journalist? What parts of yourself take the foreground...the background when you work in different genres?

Good question. Well, as a novelist the answer depends on which novel I’m working on. I write literary fiction, but I love to write genre as well, horror, romance. These work different muscles than their literary sibling. The literary fiction is more taxing, pulling from a deeper place, while writing genre for me is pure joy.

As a columnist/journalist I feel like I am more of a sociological observer, mining stories and ideas from every day life. With my column Café Con Lupe, I like to talk about things that resonate with people on a universal level. Not each column reaches everybody, but when I get feedback from someone who says, “Your story made me think of the time my own mother…” I love that! That means I’m reaching people, and really, that’s why I write.

What would you describe as your major themes?

Issues of outsiderness. As a light-skinned half Puerto Rican I never felt totally at home in either world, and I’m amazed at how many people feel this way for different reasons. As I titled my most recent short story, I feel like a “Fish Out of Agua.” In addition, I often write about children who lose their parents at a young age. Having gone through that I know that this is a loss only someone who has experienced can understand. It defines you as a child and as an adult. Also, I love to write about la isla. That island and my family there are so damn important to me; they offer me a way to keep in touch with my mother.

What do you feel are your strengths as a writer....where would you like to see yourself grow?

I’m a very visual learner, so I see things clearly in my mind as I write them. I’ve been told that adds visual texture to my writing. I also love to write dialogue, and I listen intently to the way people talk and attempt to capture that.

As for growth, I’ve learned so much over the last two years of my MFA program, I think my brain is full! But there are so many ways I would like to grow. I’ve been trying to tackle short stories this last semester, and that is going to be a lifelong challenge as I find it a difficult form.

We collaborated in writing Sister Chicas... how would you describe the impact in crafting a novel in that way?

In past interviews I called it miraculous, and that has only become truer with time. To be able to learn from each other, and grow as a writer because of my connection to you two made it a transformative experience. And it continues to amaze me that we were able to do it, no egos in the way, supporting each other with love and sisterhood. Miraculous.

You've made a choice to live in VT as a NYC transplant....How has that choice affected you life? Your writing?

It’s funny, I didn’t really identify with my Latina side until I moved here and the culture was no longer readily available. In NYC, I could walk down the street and hear Boricua Spanish, smell tostones frying from an open window, hear meringue pulsing from a car window. But in Vermont I have to actively seek out other Latinos. That has made for some incredible connections, including meeting you and Jane! I’m also not sure I would have become a writer in NYC, it was finding a progressive education program that opened me up.

I love it here. My mother used to say it reminded her of Puerto Rico in the 30s with its rolling green hills, slow pace, and warm people. It’s a great place to raise a child.

You're a wife and a parent; in what ways do you feel those roles intersect with your life as a writer?

I think it is impossible to separate them out. I learned when I went to a writer’s residency last year, and my son broke his arm and I couldn’t be there, that I write better having him and my husband near me. I need to know they are safe and well to create. My son is the reason I write, really. My column deals a lot with my marriage and certainly parenthood. In that venue I aspire to be the modern Latina Erma Bombeck. Life is so bizarre and humorous, and we all need our diversions. Her writing and viewpoint made day to day life lighter.

Where do you see yourself in ten years, personally and creatively?

Still writing novels, and maybe with enough financial stability that I can do it more than on the fly. My goal is to not have to fit my writing in between everything else. To make it a main course and not just a side dish of my life. By then my son will be at college, and I hope to have a condo in Luquillo so my husband and I can go down there for a couple of months each winter. Though I love Vermont, the 40 below zero thing kind of sucks.

What's something not in the official bio?

I love tattoos. My sister was a tattoo artist and is getting me back into them in my middle age. They ain’t what they used to be and I just wrote a piece for AARP Magazine about the trend of getting tattooed after 50. Life is too short to not be inked.


An excerpt from The Gift of the Cuentista:


My mother's Uncle Javier lived next door, and I would spend each visit running back and forth between the houses with my Puerto Rican cousins, skinning my knees and pulling my second language out from under the cedar blocks of winter storage in New Jersey, where the only Spanish I heard was at the local bodega where Mom bought her guava paste. After a few days of shyness, I would begin to feel comfortable with the other children, following along where they led, playing the games they played.

But among them I always knew I was different: larger, pastier, louder. I longed to be like them, switching so easily from elegant Español to an English that was more grammatical than my own. I watched their lithe bodies move easily among the adults, answering questions about school with enthusiasm, joining the conversations about art, culture and history. I sat on the periphery of these gatherings feeling thick-tongued and unable to speak in either language, watching the adults throw their heads back in laughter over something my cousin Maria had said. I looked at my play clothes that had seemed fine alongside the neighborhood kids in New Jersey, but on the island felt shoddy and mismatched; at my un-groomed hair, too short and boyish.

When my visits expanded to the entire summer, I learned to adjust to my life on the island, and then back again when I returned to our cold suburban home. Sometimes, on the flight home in late August, I would think about how I seemed to be most comfortable there, among the clouds high above the Atlantic Ocean, halfway between the two places.

My cousins did their best to make me feel welcome on their island. They were, quite honestly, much nicer children than I was. They were always polite, always thoughtful, and I would try to emulate them after I left each year, but this unnatural decorum would usually only last a week…maybe two. They were all about my age, and together we ran through Javier's one-story, concrete house at top speed, sliding over the slick, tiled floors, as adult reprimands in rapid-fire Spanish trailed after us like a kite tail. We had to pass through the last room, a bedroom, before we broke free of the building and barreled into the back courtyard, scattering chickens and dust in every direction.

The first time I encountered one of the room's inhabitants, I stopped short at the threshold, staring at the unexpected occupant on the shadowed bed. My cousins collided into me from behind, and seeing my apprehension they said, “Don't worry about her, prima,” as they pushed around me and pulled at my arms, taunting me to follow them through the darkened room. “She can’t hear you. Vamos!”

I could smell the room before I entered it. Medicinal. Antiseptic. Stale. I pulled free of my cousins, my feet rooted to the doorsill, hearing their jeering voices fade as they scampered out into the daylight. I looked down at the scrubbed white Formica floor, the gray and blue dots forming moving patterns if you stared at them long enough. Tía Lourdes made sure the room was spotless. She had been a nurse, and so the care of the infirm family members often fell to her. The lights were low, the bright afternoon glare permitted entry only through the wooden louvers that covered the windows, a narrow stream of sunshine spilling through the partially open back door, still swinging from my cousin Carlos’ escape.

A large wooden crucifix was the only decoration on the white stucco walls, the graphic dying figure of Jesus a ghastly contrast to the room’s sterility. Because of the near darkness, it was at least ten degrees cooler than anywhere else in the house. And there she was. An ancient female relative—my cousins couldn’t even tell me whose—or the shell of one, lying on the bed to the left of the door, connected to a maze of medical tubes like the tentacles of a pale jellyfish. I could feel a current of anxiety running through my limbs. After a time, I decided I would steal quietly but quickly through the room, not looking over at the bed. I made it halfway across when a crackly voice emerged from the still, waxen figure under the white chenille bedspread.

“¡Ay Virgen! ¡Madre de Dios!” she yelled. I jumped and tore into the backyard, temporarily blinded by the summer sun, but grateful to be free. I avoided the room for the rest of that visit. Not because I thought I would disturb her—she was completely unaware of the youthful activity around her—but because I felt a reverence in the presence of one whom my cousin Inez told me was so near death. But also a fascination. I would occasionally peer through the slatted windows from the safety of the concrete courtyard, the sun on the back of my head reminding me that I was still outside the room, away from her spell.

But she was just the first: every year from then on there seemed to be a new old lady lying sentry in the rear chamber. To my cousins, these women barely existed. Each day they screeched through the room, bellowing to each other along the way. But it was easy for them. They didn’t have to worry about the old woman coming back to them after death: that honor was reserved for me.



Some last thoughts: In Gift of the Cuentista, Ann paints a picture of a young girl's struggle to know herself, to know her family, to be comfortable in her skin literally and figuratively that burns itself into the mind's eye. In this passage alone, we taste, see and smell this small universe in which someone looks for home and begins to see out what a long, long, trip it truly is.


Lisa Alvarado

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I wanted to help La Bloga celebrate LGBT Pride month by profiling Amigas Latinas, an affinity group here in Chicago and one of its founders, Evette Cardona. I was lucky enough to meet Evette through her partner, Mona Noriega, both of whom have done groundbreaking work in the Latina and queer communities, with local and national impact. As a typical example of the kind of support the organization offers, when I, Ann Cardinal and Jane Alberdeston Coralin launched the release of Sister Chicas in Chicago in 2006, the Amigas were in full force at a reading they co-sponsored with a landmark Chicago independent bookstore, Women and Children First. With love and gratitude, I offer this post.

Find out more about this remarkable woman who is also an inductee in the City of Chicago Gay and Lesbian Hall of Fame and this vital organization.

Evette Cardona's lesbian activism began in 1993 when she came out "publicly" and became a founding member of WACT (Women of All Cultures Together), a gathering of lesbians, bisexual women, and heterosexual women allies taking advantage of Chicago's diversity to bridge racial, ethnic, and cultural divides. The group has held monthly potluck brunches throughout the Chicago area. During Cardona's tenure with WACT, over 70 brunches gathered suburban and city lesbians together.

As an organizer, she has helped to lead or found several community groups, including Women of All Cultures Together, Amigas Latinas, the Lesbian Community Cancer Project, and the Center on Halsted Steering Committee. As a philanthropic administrator, she has been especially helpful in funding organizations serving historically underrepresented community sectors.

In the summer of 1995, Cardona helped to found Amigas Latinas as an organization for Latina les/bi/questioning women. Through a model of monthly dining and discussion groups, the organization has provided a celebratory environment for English- and Spanish-speaking women to learn about the Latina community's diversity. The group addresses such issues as immigration rights, language barriers, and homophobia in special relationship to ethnic discrimination. In 1999, Cardona helped to create the Aixa Diaz Scholarship Gift Fund, named after an Amigas Latinas founder, to aid a Latina lesbian or bisexual student fighting high school homophobia and to aid children of Mozart Elementary School, where Diaz had taught first grade.

In 1997 Cardona became a member of the planning council of Color Triangle, a consortium of persons from various organizations who meet to discuss racism within the Chicago lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) community. She also co-chaired the Leadership Development Institute, designed to foster leadership in Chicago's LGBT community.

In 1998, Cardona joined the board of the Lesbian Community Cancer Project, which addresses lesbians' and women's health issues. In the autumn of that year, she aided in producing El Sexto Encuentro, the annual conference of LLEGO, the National Latina/o Lesbian, Gay Bisexual and Transgender Organization, which was hosted in Chicago.

Most recently, Cardona has become a member of the Center on Halsted Steering Committee, which in conjunction with Horizons Community Services is developing a community center that is anticipated to open in 2004. The committee is seeking community suggestions and involvement.

Professionally, as a Senior Program Officer at the Polk Bros. Foundation, she co-chaired the Funding Lesbian and Gay Issues Group of the Donors Forum of Chicago, which is a regional association of grant-makers. She is a current board member of the national Funders for Lesbian and Gay Issues and is an executive committee member of Chicago Latinos in Philanthropy. She received a master-of-arts degree from the University of Chicago's School of Social Service Administration in 1998. In 1997, Cardona received a Leadership Award for Community Service from Chicago's Association of Latin Men for Action (ALMA). In 2001, the American Civil Liberties Union of Illinois presented her one of its annual John R. Hammell Awards for her work in the LGBT community.


What is Amigas Latinas, and what need did it meet for Chicago area Latinas?

Amigas Latinas is a support, education and advocacy organization that provides safe spaces, educational opportunities and resources for Latina women who love and partner with women to explore, challenge and celebrate who they are as women, as mothers, as daughters, as comadres.

The need we fill is both to offer space for women to understand and explore their lives at the intersection of their identities - Latina and woman-loving-woman at the same time to just be in the same space as other women like themselves, speaking the same language and sharing
the same culture.

Can you talk about its constituency and the ways the organization is representational? What kind of outreach does Amigas do to meet its goals? Platicas? Events? Socials?

Our membership is close to 300 women from all Latina cultures and all ages. Our diversity spans the range from third-generation, monolingual English speakers to recently-arrived, monolingual Spanish immigrant women. Many are newly out, many have been out for years and years and seek us out for the friendships and affinity we provide. About a third have children from previous heterosexual marriages, some are still in heterosexual marriages, some have disclosed issues of domestic violence and struggles with alcohol/substance abuse.

In the past several years, we have seen a 50% increase in the number of immigrant monolingual Spanish-speaking women seeking services that are non-existent due to a chronic lack of bilingual, bicultural service providers that are sensitive to sexual identity issues.

We mail to our membership of nearly 300 once to twice a month to advertise our monthly platicas, workshops and events, we have a listserve with about 200 women on it that is a great way to advertise quickly and broadly. Our web site is increasingly becoming a way for women to find us, too. We also advertise somewhat in the gay rags especially around special events, but we rely a lot on word of mouth. We have linkages with other lgbt organizations and are present at public events be it LGBT or Latino events to ensure the Latinaqueer voice is heard.

Aside from social contact and support, what kind of community building is Amigas involved with in both the Latino and LGBT community?

We spearheaded the development of the Chicago LGBTQ Immigrants Alliance (CLIA) to look at the challenges, myths and realities that arise at the intersection of queer and immigration issues. (We're planning a town hall for CLIA on June 12). We also helped create Entre Familia, the first Spanish-speaking PFLAG in the Chicago area. It's been meeting for three years. We partner with ALMA ( a gay Latino men 's affinity group) to do that work. We also partnered with Center on Halsted to start the first Latinaqueer youth group that meets monthly at the Center's facilities.

This January we launched our Proyecto Latina survey to gather information about who we are and what our needs, dreams and challenges are. That data will be used to inform our future work mobilizing the Latinaqueer community to inform and challenge policyholders and legislators to respond to and improve our lives.

Our biggest non-queer partnership is with Mujeres Latinas en Accion (a social service/anti- domestic violence organization) and we have annually provided trainings and education sessions to help their staff better serve Latinaqueer victims/survivors of domestic violence.

Talk in depth about the organization's scholarship activities and it's significance.

In 1999, Amigas launched the Aixa Diaz Scholarship Fund in memory of founding member, Aixa Diaz, who brought vision and commitment to the Latina lesbian/bisexual community through her organizing efforts, and knowledge and encouragement to Latino children through her dedication as a teacher. Over the last 7 years we have raised money to provide financial assistance to a young, lesbian/bisexual student activist of Latina heritage entering or enrolled in college who actively works to fight homophobia in high schools. Awards have also been given to gay-straight alliances (GSAs) in high schools with large Latino student populations and to the Mozart Elementary School where Aixa taught first grade, served on the Local School Council and was the Chicago Teachers Union delegate.

This work reflects the commitment Amigas has to education as a means of empowering women. We have awarded 12 scholarships ($1,000 - $2,000) to date and will award 3-4 scholarships this June. Our biggest success with the scholarships was last year when we brought on a 2004 Aixa Scholar, Zaida Sanabia, to head up our youth group efforts. She has been a wonderful addition to the Amigas family and is doing excellent work reaching out to Latinaqueer youth.

There are been much invisibility in the Latino community for women who love women. How would you describe the importance of LGBT reality to our people.

Amigas is built on the philosophy that as Latinas who love and partner with women we cannot separate our identities and often are asked to do just that throughout our lives. Coming out is a life-long process and being able to successfully blend our identities to live as healthy and complete persons in our families, work environments and communities is the reality we strive for with every activity we provide. As our vision statement proclaims we "celebrate our lives with pride and acceptance, without boundaries or limitations, fearlessly and unapologetically."

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Continuing with this month's focus on Chicago Latino literary life, this week's column will take a look at Proyecto Latina, one of its constituent groups , Tianguis, and one of its organizers, Irasema Gonzales.

About Proyecto Latina

Proyecto Latina is a collaborative between Teatro Luna, Tianguis, and Mariposa Atomica Ink. We are excited about showcasing Latina talent and are always seeking outgoing Latina poets and performers for our monthly open mic series. Proyecto Latina takes place the third Monday of every month. Its an open mic so everything's game: Poetry, spoken word, music, monologues, shorts y en el idioma que prefieras. And if you're too shy to get on stage come and be one of the lucky spectators.

Proyecto Latina -- Recent and upcoming performers/2007 Calendar

January 15th: Diane Herrera
February 19th: Luna Blues Machine
March 19th: Silvia Rivera
April 16th: Sylvia Manrique
May 20th: Paloma Martinez-Cruz
June 18th: Lisa Alvarado.........it's shameless self promotion, forgive me.

...more dates coming soon...

Proyecto Latina's 2006 featured performers were: Belinda Cervantes, Maritza Cervantes, Tanya Saracho, Norbella Peña, Teatro Luna w/ Piece of Ass, Diana Campos, Achy Obejas, Coya Paz, Lupe Martinez, Yolanda Cardenas, Diana Pando, Irasema Gonzalez, Magda Banda, and Alicia Ponce.

WANTED: LATINA TALENT

Know someone we should feature? Is it you? We are always looking for established and emerging talent. Is it your mom, sister, bff, novia or vecina? Drop us a line, send us a sample of your work to: proyectolatina at tianguis dot com. Or sign-up for the open mic and show us what you got.


I was born and raised in Chicago. I began getting in trouble in fifth grade for reading books during class. Around the same time, I got the urge to write and began drafting stories in my notebooks. My parents noticed and when I was in 8th grade my dad bought me a typewriter for my birthday. I attended a public grammar school and a Catholic High School. Drama and writing activities at school were always my favorite outlets. In 1995, I entered Columbia College Chicago. Simply getting into college was a miracle since I had minimal guidance from my high school counselor, and as a first generation college student I was for the most part on my own.

I’m still a book lover and writer, and now also a blogger, and merchant. In 2006 I unveiled Tianguis, a cultural shop featuring books and work by Latino writers.

A few months later in January 2007 I helped co-found Proyecto Latina, a monthly open mic featuring emerging and established Latina talent. I meet with my writing group monthly for writing, chisme, and sangria, and in 2007 we published the chapbook, “Afternoon Wine: Vicios, Suenos y confesiones.”

My work also appeared in the anthology, “Between the Heart and the Land: Latina Poets in the Midwest, published by March Abrazo Press, 2000. I live with my wonderful husband and two cats in Chicago’s Little Village neighborhood. When I grow up I wanna be a mommy, live on a goat farm and get a dog—-and not necessarily in that order.

Irasema--Tell us about Tianguis. Some people would say: "A tea room in a Mexican neighborhood? No way!" What's your response to them?

Well, we are not exactly a tea room. I think the word tearoom carries a certain connotation of formal afternoon teas or elaborate tea ceremonies. I’ve incorporated what I enjoy the most from tea and books into my concept—it was the kind of place I always wanted to frequent.

I am by no means an official spokesperson but tea definitely has its role in Mexican culture. There is Lemongrass or te de limon, manzanilla or chamomile, jamaica or hisbiscus tea is used to make an agua fresca, which is really an ice tea. And I’ve always enjoyed te de canela with a touch of milk.

You also represent one of three groups that came together to found Proyecto Latina. Talk to us about those groups, how they came together, and the purpose and focus of the project.

When I first opened my store last year my friend, Diana Pando came to me with an idea that her and Coya Paz, from Teatro Luna had been talking about.

The idea was to have an open mic that would be by, for and all about Latina talent—we would feature established and emerging talent. I loved the idea and we’ve done it ever since. Every month we pick a Latina and we try to keep the features diverse, we’ve had actresses, musicians, comedians, poets, and writers. There is always eight open mic slots for interested participants. There are no hang-ups on language, the programming is bilingual and we’ve had Spanish, English and Portuguese work featured. Most recently we had a teacher that made a suggestion and ultimately inspired the chisme box.

That has been a really fun element to incorporate—people drop in anonymous chismes and we read them in between participants, the winning chisme gets posted on Proyecto Latina’s myspace account.

Who are the artists so far that have performed? Do you see a thread connecting their work? Is there a a general direction Proyecto Latina is attempting to forge? If so, what would that be, and how does that relate to the Chicago poetry/arts scene, and the Latino writing and arts community here in the city.

All the women that have been featured have such presented phenomenal work, they include emerging and established talent. Some of last years highlights included Achy Obejas, Coya Paz and Teatro Luna ensemble, Diana Campos, Silvia Rivera, the Luna Blues Machine, and Lupe Martinez.

As for a common thread connecting their work I would probably have to say its the seriousness which all the women, including performers and our audiences members take the work. Its great to hear and identify with each others work without there being hang-ups on language or cultural nuances.

As a former writing student that sat in classes where many times, I was the only Latina, its empowering and exciting to see so many of my peers making such wonderful contributions—it’s a monthly reminder that we are in good company. I am one to definitely encourage an artist to create their own opportunities instead of waiting for the mainstream’s approval or permission—I think Proyecto Latina can help encourage that. And perhaps the result of those efforts will mean more visibility, or the initiative of even more creative projects by Latinas in this city.

What's the importance of Latina space for the development and presentation of writing?

A Latina space is very important, it was something that was definitely missing. There are stories, songs, skits, that only we can tell. We hope to nurture and inspire others, and if nothing else at least provide an opportunity for fraternity and networking.

How would you say Proyecto Latina offers something different than the slam/spoken word scene, particularly as it seems that slam is now a pigeonhole for many writers of color?

Most if not all, of our feature performers are working on very exciting projects. I personally am always asking for demo cd’s or encouraging self-publication of chapbooks, or online blogs—anything to get our work out there. We are always making a ton of announcements about other events, we are most definitely a busy crowd. We are writers and artists of color but we’re not letting that hold us back.

Who would be in your dream line-up and why?

Hmmm, that’s a hard one. There is so much to pick from. Would this be a one hour event or a four day festival?

Where do you see Tianguis and Proyecto Latina ten years from now?

Tianguis will hopefully have more bookshelves, cover a lot more square footage, and have the resources stock more books and host more readings by Latino writers. Proyecto Latina will still take place the third Monday of every month, and a new generation of Latinas will be making their contributions.



bookshelf photo credit: Cindy Mosqueda aka Cindylu/www.loteriachicana.net

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Teatro Luna was founded in June 2000 by Coya Paz and Tanya Saracho, with an original ensemble of ten women from diverse Latina/Hispana backgrounds. We came together because we realized that the stories and experiences of Latina/Hispana women were undervalued and underrepresented not only on the Chicago stage, but beyond.

Many of us had similar experiences of being asked to perform stereotyped images of ourselves that were often one-dimensional and, at times, offensive: spicy sexpots, voiceless maids, pregnant gangbangers, timid "illegal" immigrants, etc. We were also concerned that the few parts written for Latina women often went to non-Latina actresses. We felt that we had to do something. Our answer was Teatro Luna, Chicago's first and only all-Latina theater.

Teatro Luna, Chicago’s only all-Latina Theater company is pleased to announce the world premiere of LUNATIC(a)S, a new play about women’s everyday insanity.

LUNATIC(a)S

From Chicago-style road rage to an obsession with catching muggers, LUNATICAS uses Teatro Luna’s trademark humor and honesty to tell a truth we don’t always want to tell: Sometimes, we’re just a little bit crazy.

Directed and developed by award-winning playwright Tanya Saracho,
LUNATIC(a)S tackles Teatro Luna’s namesake The Moon (La Luna) and places our true-life stories in the context of myths and superstitions about women, Latinas, and the moon.


LUNATIC(a)S follows Teatro Luna’s critically acclaimed shows Quita Mitos and S-e-x-Oh!, bringing a range of Latina stories to light. Reimagining the Mayan goddess lx Chel as a modern day urban Latina, LUNATIC(a)S moves from the mythical (the moon is always female) to the serious (violent mothers) to the tragically hilarious (the slow slide from jealous girlfriend to bonafide stalker). As always, Teatro Luna is cheeky, straightforward, and willing to tell even the most outrageous secrets about our Latina lives.

Where: Chicago Dramatists, 1105 W. Chicago, Chicago, IL

When: PREVIEWS: June 1st, 2nd and 3rd 2007 || OPENING: Thursday June 7th, 2007 || RUNS FROM: June 7th to July 15, 2007 (Thursdays @ 7:30pm, Fridays and Saturdays @ 8pm, and Sundays @ 3pm)

Who: PERFORMED: by Belinda Cervantes, Maritza Cervantes, Gina Cornejo, Yadira Correa, Miranda Gonzalez, and Suzette Mayobre. DIRECTED AND DEVELOPED BY: Tanya Saracho

How Much?: PREVIEWS: $10, $7 Students (ID required) || GENERAL: $15, $10 Students (ID required), Groups of 8 or more, $12

For Reservations: Call 773-878-LUNA

For more information visit: www.teatroluna.org

As all Teatro Luna shows, LUNATIC(a)S is performed in English with a sprinkle of Spanish.

Important note: This show features frank discussion about intimate topics as well as images of real women’s bodies and may not be appropriate for younger audiences.

About Teatro Luna:

Teatro Luna is Chicago’s first and only all-Latina theater ensemble dedicated to creating work that showcases the talents of Latina/Hispana artists. Founded by Tanya Saracho and Coya Paz in 2000, Teatro Luna is dedicated to expanding the range of Latina/Hispana roles visible on the Chicago stage and beyond. Previous shows include Generic Latina, Dejame Contarte, Kita y Fernanda, The Maria Chronicles at Theatre on the Lake, and Solo Latinas at Chicago Dramatists. In addition, Teatro Luna is frequently asked to bring their trademark blend of ensemble performances to theatres, universities and festivals across the county. www.teatroluna.org


Teatro Luna announces auditions for our fall run of MACHOS, an interview based project drawn from conversations with men all across the country.
We are looking for Latina/Hispana performers of all ages who are comfortable and able to play MEN. Previous performance experience is a plus, but not mandatory.

Performers must be able to commit to the following dates:

Performances Thursdays through Sundays,
November 1-Dec 15th.
Rehearsals Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Sundays
starting September 4th.
Performance/writing workshops twice a week (TBD)
June 15-July 15th

Auditions for Machos will be held June 2nd, between 10am and 2pm. To schedule an audition, please e-mail [email protected] with your preferred time (15 minute slots) and a phone number where you can be reached.

To audition:
-Please come dressed to show us that you can perform as a man. We are looking beyond the stereotypes, so whatever that means to you! (There is a changing room available if you would like to change before or after your audition.)

-Please prepare a short (1-2 minutes MAX) original piece - it can be a joke, a story, some chisme, a monologue, a poem, lo que sea - we just want to get a sense of what you have to say and how you say it! Pieces should be memorized if possible.

-Please bring a recent headshot or photo, and a copy of your resume.
Teatro Luna is Chicago's first and only all-Latina theater company. Visit us on the web at www.teatroluna.org and don't miss our upcoming show Lunatic(a)s, playing June 1-July 15th at Chicago Dramatists.

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Here's my review of both Naked Wanting and Raven Eye. If you're looking for spun sugar literary confection, and easy comfort, move on. But if you want to encounter poetry that disturbs you in the best possible way, keeps you up at night, demands that you respond with your heart and your mind, read these books.

Margo Tamez is a poet whose work is not easy, clearly born of experience raw and real, making the reader touch that place of pain, of personal wounding far, far, away from the romance of the Southwest and the stereotype of the "stoic noble" on the rez. Her writing forces us to look where the bodies are buried, when we want to turn a blind eye to the violence wreaked upon the individual and environment. Both Naked Wanting and Raven Eye gave me that gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach, the tight, clenched first buried in the chest. Bless her for that.

And bless her, too, for somehow still weaving threads of redemption and reemergence in the face of soul breaking sorrow, for offering real mythos and confronting false spirituality. But to put a finer point on it, read what others have written about this singular poet.

This book is a challenging cartography of colonialism, poverty, and issues of Native identity and demonstrates these as threats to the environment, both ecological and social, in the borderlands. Each poem is crafted as if it were a minute prayer, dense with compassion and unerring optimism. But the hope that Tamez serves is not blind. In poem after poem, she draws us into a space ruled by mythic symbolism and the ebb and flow of the landscape—a place where comfort is compromised and where we must work to relearn the nature of existence and the value of life. —Norman Dubie

Margo Tamez’s poetry is an emotional journey, and I find myself softly invoking a line from her book: ‘may the way be in peace.’ Read it; you’ll know what I mean! —Simon J. Ortiz

Margo Tamez’s poetry works like a heartsong, it makes us brave. Her alive response to what kills makes us want to stand up with her and sing in the face of the enemy. She shows how hard it is to fight oppression and reminds us what is at stake: living beauty. . . Margo Tamez’s call to battle both instills fear and thrills us. —Heidi E. Erdrich

My Mother Returns to Calaboz

"The Lower Rio Grande, known as the Seno Mexicano (the Mexican hollow or Recess), was a refuge for rebellious Indians from the Spanish presidios, who preferred outlawry to life under Spanish rule." -- Americo Paredes, With Pistol in his Hand

The fragmented jawbones
and comblike teeth of seagulls
sometimes wash up from the gulf
to the levee of the river
and gather straited along the berms
where my grandfather irrigated sugarcane.

My mother, returned after forty years
working away from Calaboz,
walks there often now,
hassled by INS agents
when she jogs by the river
where her ancestors planted, hunted,
prayed and resisted invasions.

The INS think she runs away from them,
that she is an 'illegal', a 'savage'
'trespassing' from Mexico.

Used to the invasion,
she asks them how they assume,
how exactly do they know
if she came from here, or there?
When she tells me this story
she exaggeratedly points to the spot
she stands on (here) and the land
I stand on (there) which means:
you idiot...we indigenous don't recognize
your violent settler borders

I am an an indigenous woman,
born in El Calaboz, you understand?
she says loudly, in mixed Spanish and Lipan-Nahuatl,
and they tear out,
the truck wheels spinning furiously,
sand sprayed into the humid air.

When I was a girl walking on the levee with my grandfather,
I thought I saw gull teeth
chomping at the soil wall.
The air was dank steam,
the scent of sand, roots,
and something alive beneath the soil,
deeper and older than memory.
when I immersed my hand inside
the cloudy water,
it became a fluid form,
soft, something becoming,
something ancient.

The air is still heavy with heat and damp,
and smells like diesel and herbicides.
the scent reminds me of failed gestations.
My reproduction, the plants', and the water's,
each struggling in the same web of resistance
and survival.

When I was a girl, my grandfather taught me
to put a small clump of soil in my mouth,
and to swallow it. I watched him.
Then I did.
I used to watch the gliding and swerves
of uprooted reeds in the river's unhurried flow
to the Gulf.
I reached with all my body,
stomach on the bank of the levee,
hands and arms stretched out like an acrobat
to touch and grasp their slender stems.
Once, my feet pressed into the soupy bog,
and stepping up was heavy, yet with the sound of gurgles,
puckering, a mouth opening,
like seaweed and millennium of soil, my ancestors and water breathing.

Now, I think I'd like to be,
that I will be
running with my mother
when she tells of la migra.
Listen to the bubbling duet of water and plant life,
listen to the sound of grandmothers and grandfathers
closely.
Again and again.

This is a visceral longing for home, for groundedness in the deepest and most literal sense. It reflects an abiding love for la tierra, but not the convenient, fantasy laden Southwest. It is a personal, damaged homeland, smelling of chemicals, shot through with run-off that is still somehow, unquestionably sacred. Tamez writes of border dwellers unbowed, unabsorbed, defiant, and ultimately triumphant---not noble, but stubbornly flawed and human.


In her second collection, Raven Eye, Tamez explores desire and the construction of indigenous identity, while imploring readers to unite against oppression in all its forms.

Written from thirteen years of journals, psychic and earthly, this poetry maps an uprising of a borderland indigenous woman battling forces of racism and sexual violence against Native women and children. This lyric collection breaks new ground, skillfully revealing an unseen narrative of resistance on the Mexico–U.S. border. A powerful blend of the oral and long poem, and speaking into the realm of global movements, these poems explore environmental injustice, sexualized violence, and indigenous women’s lives.


Ceremony of Peyote

A snakebird sinuous dim form silhouetted
On the porchroof of the hogan--

Comes out of a monsoon sky
Banded thickly red and flint

Snakebird in me curves slowly
Over my bed

the sinew of what can't be said

Nine months full of ocean and yolk
Scents of beautifully made starmatter

A smell of tongue and lip
Of moisture a scent of Snaketown's Gila clay

I'm a brown and black puddle a scent I know

____

You spent hours in the heat of midday fidgeting with rage
I'm unpredictable not the kind of Indian you can present to

Men all wrapped up behind panIndian shawls eagle fans
Who never bring their women to pray
Whose diabetic eyes devour
My pregnant belly
Full of a bird boy raven boy
Ripe with beautiful worlds

Corn meat and berries
You say the order
Morning food for the relatives always like that you say
The look in your eyes don't mess up don't embarrass me
don't talk too long when you pray for the water

Can't risk my prayers to the morning star
Risk what I can say about
This medicine a Mexican Indian woman brought
North got Christianized by subjugated men

My morning prayers only suitable
For waterbirds
Anhingas and herons
Not men or women
In shawls
Fanning and chanting
In chorus of what they deny

My body
The yolks of my body
Stories we must tell to undo
What has been done

There is no easy, pro forma way to reconnect, no perfect prayer that can be prayed. Colonialism and racism have taken their tolls both in daily life and spiritual practice. But this poem reclaims and reframes ritual with a frank, and unvarnished fervor. Tamez refuses to shirk from the distorted in herself, or in her people. But in the boldest move, Tamez' poetry reveals that Spirit still lives, lives deeply for her in the body, in the process of birth and renewal and in the threads of communion that emerge despite everything.

Naked Wanting ISBN-10: 0816522480
Raven Eye ISBN-10: 081652565X

My own words feel pale as I try to end this piece. Let me use last words of her interview last week -- gonya'a' golkizhzhi' (it has come a colorful place)

Margo, For truth's sake, in Her Name, thank you.


Lisa Alvarado

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Jambalaya
Luisah Teish
Harper/Collins, 1991
ISBN13: 9780062508591
ISBN10: 0062508598

Spiritually, emotionally and physically, it's time for me to clear out the cobwebs, shake loose from the ennui of winter and that long cold sleep. To that end, I'd like to offer a recommendation, Jambalaya. It grabbed my attention after just reading the first few pages. But to do this touchstone of a book justice, let's have Teish captivate you herself.

"Somehow I knew that there was much more going on than was apparent on the surface. My existence and that of the things going on around me caused me to question everything, always looking for the deeper meanings."New Orleans-like the San Francisco Bay Area, where I now live-is a psychic seaport. The psychic energies of many people living and dead hovers over the city of New Orleans, possibly because of the water. Visitors to the city become "tipsy" after being there only a short time. "Tipsy" is the name given to that state of mind that precedes possession. (It is also used to mean slightly drunk.) I grew up tipsy. Due to the limited perceptions of a child and the nature of memory, I can only describe it vaguely. I remember a big, too soft, and bulky double bed in the middle room. This is the place where my cousin Frank Jr., took refuge from the whippings he seems always to have earned. He used to hide under this bed to smoke cigarettes; but for me smoke and Frank were not the only things hiding under that bed.

Perhaps I had eaten too many pickles that night and overindulged in the delicious teacakes and sweet potato turnovers my Maw-Maw used to bake in the woodstove. Whatever the external cause, when I laid my head on the duck-down pillow covered with an immaculate muslin pillowcase, I just couldn't sleep. Everything was so still and quiet that I could not tell whether the numerous and barely distinguishable adult relatives of mine were asleep in the front room or out for a night of church. I could have been there alone without concern because everybody on the block was somehow kin to me and would have come running at the slightest disturbance.

But tonight as Wind slipped slowly through the cracks in the wooden fence that enclosed the backyard, no one seemed to be afoot. At least, no one human. I could hear only the wind and the irregular tapping of Maw-Maw's white dog, who was born with only three legs. I was always afraid of that dog and kept a safe distance between us, not because he was in any ways vicious but because his eyes were always red and I had been told that he knew when somebody was going to die.Was it Frank? Had he crawled under it to avoid a whipping and fallen asleep? Had Maw-Maw's creepy dog gotten under the house and situated himself directly beneath the bed? When I asked myself these questions, Wind told me, "No, "Cher."" As my fear mounted, I became aware of a sensation of lifting subtly. My back seemed not to touch the buttons of the mattress. I kept rising and rising until I seemed to be five feet above the bed. I remember thinking that if I kept rising like this I was going to bump into the ceiling and smash my already flat nose. "I wanna go down," I said nervously inside my head, and at that moment my face seemed to sink through the back of my head so that my chest and feet were still facing the ceiling but my face was looking down at the bed. And what a sight it saw!

There under the bed was an undulating, sinewy, mass of matter as brown as the waters of the muddy Mississippi River. It was squeezing out from under the bed on all sides like a toothpaste tube with pin holes in it. The brown was taking forms, humanoid but undistinguishable by gender. They were getting higher, showing heads with eyes, bellies, legs, outstretched arms, and I was getting closer to the bed. My face, now only a few inches from the sheet returned to the other side of my head, and as my body descended I looked at these brown humanoids towering over me. I seemed to shake uncontrollably, my muscles moved about as if I had no bones. I opened my mouth, screamed but the sound was made only inside my head. The brown-folk seemed to take a deep breath as my body settled on the mattress. They touched me and their matter slipped into my muscles and ran through my veins. The floodgates opened and as a warm astringent liquid sank into the mattress, I sank into sleep.This happened when I was about five years old. Twenty-three years later I got a piece of an explanation of its meaning. A Puerto Rican woman water-gazed for me, and-without knowing my story--told me to make two dolls for my unknown ancestors and keep them under my bed." (from Chapter 1 -- Growing Up Tipsy)

Luisah Teish is a priestess in the Yoruba tradition, healer, dancer and artist. She was raised in New Orleans by her family whose own members were "root women" and devout Christians, who practiced a familiar (to me) amalgam similar to Santeria and voudou. While Luisah was exposed to this kind of religious expression throughout her childhood, it did not become part of her conscious life until adulthood. A crisis or 'nervous breakdown,' precipitated a years long process of searching for her roots, reconstructing her past and embracing its traditions. Where it finally led her was to a new identity as priestess and woman-centered artist.

This is a highly readable, engaging account of not just her journey, but the Yoruba world view, the pantheon of gods and goddesses that populate its universe, and the individual's relationship to them. Striking to me are the contrasts between that world view and the Christian belief that attempted to supplant it.

For example: Teish contrasts the quintessential Christian belief in 'original sin' and the Yoruba principal of 'ache,' the divine force present in all things, existing in humans from the moment of their birth. There is no word for 'sin' in the Yoruba lexicon; there is foolishness, faithlessness and error, but all human beings are considered endowed with a piece of the sacred animating force of the universe.

In order for the reader to fully appreciate this complicated universe and the depth and importance of the daily practice, Teish lovingly describes the Seven African Powers and their attributes, their significance, their domains and their roles in people's daily lives.

(The Seven African Powers are central to Yoruba beliefs, and also form the core pantheon in the Afro-diasporic beliefs of Santeria, Voudou, Macumba, etc.) I loved her description of Oya Yansa, who I discovered in my own odyssey about ten years ago.

She is the warrior queen, the whirlwind, the catalyst for upheaval, cleansing and change on the deepest levels. She is constantly associated with imagery of keeping things clean, of sweeping things away--one of her talismans is the whiskbroom. (To put an Alvarado spin on it, she is the Ultimate Badass Housekeeper.) And she always hides her true face, presenting the one that is necessary for the work at hand.

On the most profound levels, Teish reveals to us Oya as harbinger of cosmic displacement and reconstruction, Creator/Slayer of Worlds, the one who while disguised, removes the stagnant and moribund: She is the girl who cleans up. Very different from the pale Virgin of my youth, asexual, whose chief attributes were endurance and the absorption of pain. Oya fights, takes lovers, reinvents herself to meet the occasion, revealing part, but never the whole of who she truly is.

I think here about my own disguises, my own decisions to hide or reveal in daily life, as well as writing and performance. I come back to Jambalaya time and time again to find imagery and meaning, to be strengthened, to deepen my connection with Oya and the warrior spirit. Teish's book is a completely accessible guidebook as to how to begin to touch the hem of Her skirts.

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Confessions of Berlitz Tape Chicana
by Demetria Martínez
University of Oklahoma Press, 2005
ISBN: 978-0-8061-3722-3
ISBN(10): 0-8061-3722-3

“We’re everywhere, and it’s time to come out of the closet: I speak of the tongue-tied generation, buyers of books with titles like Master Spanish in Ten Minutes a Day while You Nap. . . . We grew up listening to the language—usually in the kitchens of extended family—but we answered back mostly in English.”

Demetria Martínez wields her trademark blend of humor and irony to give voice to her own “tongue-tied generation” in this notable series of essays, revealing her deeply personal views of the world. Martínez breaks down the barriers between prayer and action, between the border denizen and the citizen of the world, and between patriarchal religion and the Divine Mother. She explores her identity as a woman who has within her the “blood of the conquered and the conqueror,” and who must daily contend with yet a third world—white America. (from the publisher)

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This is a deceptively thin volume, but don't let the size mislead you. Martínez demonstrates both a depth of feeling and a fine mind at work. Why I mention this at all is that very often, women's writing is described as 'heart-felt,' ignoring the intellectual foundation at work. Confessions demonstrates how the two are meshed together to produce a must-read social commentary and memoir.

In Confessions, Martínez offers laser beam observations on a variety of topics: identity, female beauty, the fear of violence, the need for spirituality, with a clarity, directness, and a sense of groundedness that is compelling and intimate.

Early in the book, in an essay entitled, Lines in the Sand, on the real meaning of never finding the right shade of makeup, Martínez deftly lays bare the insidious everyday way in which Latinas find themselves forced to look in a distorted mirror; how much the world needs us to embrace the beauty already there, to shift our energy away from the beauty trap in order to remake the world.

In A Call To Arms, Martínez writes about the fantasy of owning a gun, of knowing and agreeing with all the anti-gun politics, but owning that deep and naked need to feel impervious in a world where women's physical safety is always in question.

Martinez speaks truth to power, and her essay, Night, shows us the inner workings of her psyche and spirit, as she challenges the reader to take a long, raw look at the Iraqi invasion, and the cost of silence in the face of the war.

In Birth Day, Martínez also is forthcoming about her manic depression, about its tolls on her life, but also its blessings. In a critique of the 'romance' of mental illness, she writes that she takes her meds, choosing a place of more balance, instead of dis-ease. But she also has this to say:

"...I realize that my calling--the human calling, is to embody the light in my life, especially when I cannot see it. And to to try to embody it my my writing as well."

Such light, such light indeed.

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Demetria Martinez is an author, activist, lecturer and columnist. Her autobiographical essays, Confessions of a Berlitz-Tape Chicana (Univ. of Oklahoma Press), winner of the 2006 International Latino Book Award in the category of Best Biography, is now out. Her books include the widely translated novel, Mother Tongue (Ballantine), winner of a Western States Book Award for Fiction, and two books of poetry, Breathing Between the Lines and The Devil’s Workshop (Univ. of Arizona Press). (Martinez reads a sampling of poems from Breathing Between the Lines on her new CD, with music by Devon Hall.) She writes a column for the National Catholic Reporter, an independent progressive newsweekly. She currently resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

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