Last Friday I went to Zabar’s to select boxes of assorted nuts and dried fruits for my brother who is in Afghanistan with the Navy. As the Christmas and Hanukah holidays are approaching, one family member will be missing from these festivities. I think it was important to get this package in the mail, and not to forget those who are serving our country overseas and in harm’s way.
Until last May, Oscar was the principal at Anthony High School, just outside of El Paso, Texas. He has been an educator for decades, but he has also been in the Navy Reserve for 22 years. In other ways, Oscar also breaks the stereotype many of us might have of our military servicemen and women: he is in his 40’s, has a Master’s degree, and was working on his Doctorate. Before he left for Afghanistan, Oscar was promoted to the rank of Chief Petty Officer in the Navy. Administrators, teachers, and students from Anthony High School also recently sent him a care package.
It is strange to have a brother in places you read about in the newspaper’s front pages, where sectarian violence, for example, recently killed dozens of Afghanis and Improvised Explosive Devices still kill American soldiers in Humvees. It is strange because on the one hand I know my brother well, but on the other hand he is in as remote and as foreign a place as I could imagine.
I worry about my brother, and I hope with a little luck and skill that he will return to El Paso safely. My mother couldn’t stop crying for days after Oscar told her the news of his deployment. Now she keeps a candle lit to the Virgen de Guadalupe in our living room, to ask Her to guide him home. It is what we don’t know about his deployment, what our minds imagine, and what we see as ‘news’ about Afghanistan that is this cauldron of anxiety, fear, and hope. Our family is proud of Oscar, because we know he is doing his duty for his country.
I believe many if not most Americans are smart enough to support our military, to remember and honor their sacrifices, but to judge the politicians in Washington by a different metric. These politicians create American foreign policy, while the military is one of those instruments of that policy. For example, I don’t believe we should have attacked Iraq to rid it of Saddam Hussein or the weapons of mass destruction that were never found. That war was George W. Bush’s and Condoleezza Rice’s mistake, which of course they will never admit, because they are politicians. They manipulated the fear after 9/11 to start a war that should never have happened. From the start, we should have focused on Afghanistan, where Al-Qaeda operated.
But not for one moment would I ever disparage soldiers, sailors or airmen for their service in Iraq. On the contrary, I would thank them for doing their duty. Once they are back home, I would do what I can to help them. I also believe how that war was started is one thing, but how it was carried out and how it evolved are different matters. You may start a war for the wrong reasons, but what happens during the long course of any war may have benefits. So even saying ‘Iraq was a mistake’ is too simplistic. We may not know for years what true effect we had in Iraq or Afghanistan.
Give Obama credit for winding down the Iraq war, and for beginning the process in Afghanistan. I believe the majority of Americans support this policy, in part because we see our economic problems at home as paramount, but also because the marginal benefits of what we can do in Iraq and Afghanistan decrease each year. Obama has cleaned up a lot of messes he inherited, and he has also fallen short as a leader at times, yet I give credit where credit is due.
You know, I am not a jingoistic patriot. But I am a patriot. It plays better for simplistic hurrahs, and in our TV culture with three-second attention spans, to wave the flag and spout unqualified red-white-and-blue accolades to motherhood, apple pie, and the United States of America. But I do not always agree with my mother, although I still love her. I prefer apple crisp to apple pie, and buñuelos with honey to both. I support our military and my brother in the military. But I will never stop thinking until I am dead, and that I am able to write what I think, even if it is critical of the United States, is one of the reasons why I know I am lucky to live in this country.
Before the holidays are over, and even after they are done and gone, connect with a military family, and invite them over for dinner or simply for a cup of coffee. Send a member of our armed forces a care package this week. Write him or her a letter. When we go beyond our selves, when we do something good that is not necessary or even asked for, we are all ennobled.
Monday, December 12, 2011
My brother in Afghanistan
Posted by
Sergio Troncoso
at
8:52 AM
Labels:
christmas,
family,
motherhood,
pride of work,
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ysleta
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
November Readings and Events
New Jersey, New York, Texas, New Mexico, and Illinois. Oh, only five states this month: I am glad I am slowing down. It has been an exhilarating fall, as I have read across the country and reconnected with old friends and made many new ones. That is the part I love about traveling non-stop for new books: I get to talk to readers in person. I have had 'Internet friendships' for years, but now I can meet these friends face-to-face.
My best experiences so far? Eating Alma's chocolate cake in Kingsburg, California and talking to David Dominguez's classes for four hours, until I was hoarse. Also, my book party. That was another highlight. Friends from across New York City arrived ready to party in my apartment building, and bought 55 books! I was overwhelmed, and grateful. In San Francisco, it was a treat to have a quiet dinner with my accomplished high school friend Adan Griego. Finally, my three panels at the Texas Book Festival: one for From This Wicked Patch of Dust, another for Crossing Borders: Personal Essays, and the last one for the You Don't Have A Clue anthology. Every panel was stimulating and thoughtful. I loved the audience questions, and relished the many conversations I had at the Barnes and Noble's signing tent in front of the state capitol. It was one of the best book festival experiences so far, and kudos to the organizers of Texas Book Festival for putting on such a great show and for their support of libraries. They certainly have their hearts in the right place.
A French scholar is writing a book about Latino literature and my work, among others, and so he is interviewing me in December. I had a testy, but fun interview with the prolific, quick-witted writer Roberto Ontiveros for the indy newsweekly the San Antonio Current, where I said: “I see in the United States a culture of stupidity that we have come to accept as the norm. In fact, most of us don’t know anything different, and so we even don’t have a sense of loss, how our minds have atrophied. We used to expect much from our writers and readers, in terms of patience, in terms of understanding and debating ideas, in terms of assumed knowledge. But no more. We’ve raced to the bottom.” That day I had read too much Emerson and spotted too many images of the Kardashians on the Internet, television, and even in bookstores. Am I wrong? Also, Crossing Borders is now available as an e-book. And finally, I was the featured author on The Latino Author website: The Latino Author.com. Thank you all: October was a helluva month. Here is my schedule for November:
November 1, 2011, 7 PM---New Jersey City University, Weiss Center for Children’s and Young Adult Literature, Jersey City, NJ: New Jersey City University.
November 3, 2011, 6:30 PM--Co-honoree (with Aubrey Hawes), for contributions to the Hudson Valley Writers’ Center, Benefit Gala 2011, Mark Twain-on-Hudson, Tappan Hill Mansion, Highland Avenue, Tarrytown, NY.
November 4, 2011, 7:00 PM--University of Texas at El Paso, Quinn 212, El Paso, TX.
November 5, 2011, 9 AM---Keynote Speaker, Region 19-Education Service Center’s 14th Annual Parent Engagement Conference, Canutillo High School, 6675 South Desert Blvd. (Loop 375/Trans Mountain Road exit off I-10), El Paso, TX.
November 5, 2011, 2 PM---Barnes & Noble, 705 Sunland Park Drive, El Paso, TX.
November 5, 2011, 5 PM---Barnes & Noble, 9521 Viscount Boulevard, El Paso, TX.
November 6, 2011, 3 PM---Bookworks, 4022 Rio Grande Boulevard NW, Albuquerque, NM.
November 17, 2011, 6:30-8:00 PM---Guild Literary Complex, Global Voices series at the International House, University of Chicago, Chicago, IL.
November 18, 2011, 11 AM-12:15 PM---National Council of Teachers of English, Panel with other authors of You Don’t Have a Clue: Latino Mystery Stories for Teens, Chicago, IL.
I hope to see many of you at these events. I am humbled that I am one of the two honorees at the annual gala of the Hudson Valley Writers' Center. You always wonder if anybody cares, or if anybody is reading your work, or if somebody will ask you a question based on what you actually wrote rather than on what they want you or your stories to be. It is more than enough to fight your own demons; I don't think I have the strength to fight someone else's. I am on the road again for a while, and all my wood chopping for the winter will have to wait until I get a break.
Posted by
Sergio Troncoso
at
10:40 AM
Monday, October 3, 2011
October Readings and Events
I'll be in New Jersey, Oregon, Maryland, Texas, and California in October. I am exhausted just thinking about it! I hope to see you at one of these readings or events. That is what makes these trips so worthwhile to me, when I connect with readers face-to-face. My complete schedule of readings and appearances is at: www.sergiotroncoso.com/readings/index.htm.
October 5, 2011, 5 PM---Weiss Center for Children’s and Young Adult Literature, with other authors of You Don’t Have a Clue: Latino Mystery Stories for Teens, Jersey City, NJ.
October 8, 2011, 6 PM---National Endowment for the Arts Stage, Wordstock Book and Literary Festival, Oregon Convention Center, Portland, OR.
October 16, 2011, 2 PM---The Writer’s Center, 4508 Walsh Street, Bethesda, MD.
October 18, 2011, 6:30-8:30 PM---Collegiate School, Collegiate Book Festival’s Opening Reception, 260 West 78th Street, New York, NY.
October 21, 2011, 5-7 PM---The Twig Book Shop, 200 E. Grayson, Suite 124, San Antonio, TX.
October 22-23, 2011---Texas Book Festival (Saturday: 11:30-12:30 PM, “Stories from El Paso,” and Sunday: 1:30-2:30 PM, “Latino Mystery Stories,” and 3:00-4:00, “The Art of Personal Reflection”), Texas State Capitol, Austin, TX.
October 24, 2011, 4:30 PM---San Francisco Public Library, The International Center, 100 Larkin Street, San Francisco, CA.
October 25, 2011---Reedley College, 995 North Reed Avenue, Reedley, CA.
Also, I recently posted a YouTube video of a reading and discussion of my novel, From This Wicked Patch of Dust. I hope you enjoy it: http://youtu.be/m4pwgIuGUOM.
I received a nice review of my new book of essays, Crossing Borders: Personal Essays, from the El Paso Times: "Troncoso is a complicated man trying to understand a complicated world. In his quest for understanding, he eloquently shares lessons learned in 16 provocative essays. These very personal essays cross several borders: cultural, historical, and self-imposed. For example, he contemplates writer's block in 'A Day Without Ideas,' comparing it to a deathlike existence where nothing matters and he will ‘simply be there.’ In a painful letter to his sons detailing their mother's struggle with breast cancer, Troncoso the writer reveals his true identity as Troncoso the frightened, caring, and strong father. He takes on the 9/11 attackers, in a piece called 'Terror and Humanity,' not with hatred or revenge, but with a plea for basic humanity....the collection remains timely. We owe it to ourselves to read, savor and read them again."
Finally, I am working on several projects at the same time, while reading across the country for both books, correcting one son's essay for English, reviewing Spanish grammar for a test the other son will have today, feeding my beloved cat Ocistar, buying milk, and well, you get the picture. I am not that complicated; I am just exhausted. It has been a busy time, but so far I have not dropped anything I am juggling.
I love to hear from readers. That lifts me up like nothing else. Every time readers write to me about how they enjoyed one of my stories, or identified with one of my characters, or thought about their lives differently after reading my work, that day my bones do not ache and I feel as powerful as the Housatonic River. Thank you.
October 5, 2011, 5 PM---Weiss Center for Children’s and Young Adult Literature, with other authors of You Don’t Have a Clue: Latino Mystery Stories for Teens, Jersey City, NJ.
October 8, 2011, 6 PM---National Endowment for the Arts Stage, Wordstock Book and Literary Festival, Oregon Convention Center, Portland, OR.
October 16, 2011, 2 PM---The Writer’s Center, 4508 Walsh Street, Bethesda, MD.
October 18, 2011, 6:30-8:30 PM---Collegiate School, Collegiate Book Festival’s Opening Reception, 260 West 78th Street, New York, NY.
October 21, 2011, 5-7 PM---The Twig Book Shop, 200 E. Grayson, Suite 124, San Antonio, TX.
October 22-23, 2011---Texas Book Festival (Saturday: 11:30-12:30 PM, “Stories from El Paso,” and Sunday: 1:30-2:30 PM, “Latino Mystery Stories,” and 3:00-4:00, “The Art of Personal Reflection”), Texas State Capitol, Austin, TX.
October 24, 2011, 4:30 PM---San Francisco Public Library, The International Center, 100 Larkin Street, San Francisco, CA.
October 25, 2011---Reedley College, 995 North Reed Avenue, Reedley, CA.
Also, I recently posted a YouTube video of a reading and discussion of my novel, From This Wicked Patch of Dust. I hope you enjoy it: http://youtu.be/m4pwgIuGUOM.
I received a nice review of my new book of essays, Crossing Borders: Personal Essays, from the El Paso Times: "Troncoso is a complicated man trying to understand a complicated world. In his quest for understanding, he eloquently shares lessons learned in 16 provocative essays. These very personal essays cross several borders: cultural, historical, and self-imposed. For example, he contemplates writer's block in 'A Day Without Ideas,' comparing it to a deathlike existence where nothing matters and he will ‘simply be there.’ In a painful letter to his sons detailing their mother's struggle with breast cancer, Troncoso the writer reveals his true identity as Troncoso the frightened, caring, and strong father. He takes on the 9/11 attackers, in a piece called 'Terror and Humanity,' not with hatred or revenge, but with a plea for basic humanity....the collection remains timely. We owe it to ourselves to read, savor and read them again."
Finally, I am working on several projects at the same time, while reading across the country for both books, correcting one son's essay for English, reviewing Spanish grammar for a test the other son will have today, feeding my beloved cat Ocistar, buying milk, and well, you get the picture. I am not that complicated; I am just exhausted. It has been a busy time, but so far I have not dropped anything I am juggling.
I love to hear from readers. That lifts me up like nothing else. Every time readers write to me about how they enjoyed one of my stories, or identified with one of my characters, or thought about their lives differently after reading my work, that day my bones do not ache and I feel as powerful as the Housatonic River. Thank you.
Posted by
Sergio Troncoso
at
7:50 AM
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Why I Wrote From This Wicked Patch of Dust
Two days ago at the Brooklyn Book Festival a young woman came up to me after my reading, and asked me a simple question: Why did I write my novel, From This Wicked Patch of Dust? The festival was my first big event to launch the novel, and although what she asked was straightforward, the answer is anything but. Let me give it a shot.
I wrote From This Wicked Patch of Dust, because I wanted to write about the Mexican-American border, where I grew up. I wanted to write about the poorest of the poor in a Texas colonia, or shantytown, with a dream of becoming American. Although the novel is fiction, my family was also dirt poor in Ysleta on the outskirts of El Paso, yet I loved my childhood. Any voice I have as a writer is in one way or another rooted in communicating what was good, what was struggle, and what we couldn’t answer in Ysleta.
Much of our political rhetoric only caricatures poor immigrants, documented and undocumented. There is rarely a sense of the commonality we, the more established inhabitants of these United States, share with these newcomers. I wanted to portray characters who come to life, reach out to the reader, and find a place in his or her thoughts, emotions, and even laughter. I hope you will see the Martínez family clearly, their warts as well as their merits, and believe in these characters.
I also wanted to focus on the dynamics of immigrant families. If you read From This Wicked Patch of Dust you will experience the lives of Cuauhtémoc and Pilar Martínez, the parents from the ‘old world,’ so to speak, who sometimes, and sometimes do not, see eye-to-eye on whether and how their family should become American. The children —Julia, Francisco, Marcos, and Ismael— take divergent paths to becoming American, adopt different religions or cultures, and even move to different places across the country. The siblings are in conflict with each other, they are in conflict with their parents, yet all of them still belong to and love their family. The Martinez family tries to keep it together as many things, including their own decisions, pull this family apart. How do we honor who we are, how do we break away from where we began, and what does all of this mean for our families?
Another question at the heart of my novel was: How can I portray the culture of a group, not one individual, but a related group, as in a family? That is the reason From This Wicked Patch of Dust is told, alternatively, from the six perspectives of each family member. We live in families, yet each of us experiences being part of a family in a different way. We are together, yet we are also apart, in a family. What keeps us together, and what drives us apart? That’s the drama at the heart of the novel.
How does time fragment the togetherness of a family? This is why the chapters in From This Wicked Patch of Dust are several years apart. Our common experiences are the bonds that keep us together for a while, but as we get older, as individuals and as a group, those common experiences become more experiences in the past. We start living our lives apart, yet we often yearn to come back together, as adult children, as elderly parents, to that togetherness we once had. Even though the children of Pilar and Cuauhtémoc Martínez end up in different parts of the world, so far from Ysleta in many ways beyond geography, they retain a bit of Ysleta within them.
I imagined the novel as an orchestra piece, where the different perspectives and time fragments would yield a music by the end of the novel that would give a sense to each reader of what is achieved and what is left behind after a family is gone. Some would call this micro-history, but it is a 'private history' we all experience in one way or another in our lifetime. And this experience has so much to do with what kind of selves we become. Certainly it is a different kind of storytelling than the escapism and neat ending of a typical Hollywood movie, which encourages short-term satisfaction rather than reflection. As a writer, I hope I have caused my readers to think.
Finally, the allegorical allusions in the novel are focused on this question: Why are we as a country growing further apart? Why do we have less in common with each other? Why do we see only ‘the other’ in our neighbor, or in an ethnic group not quite like us, or in a religious group not quite like us? Admittedly, a country is not a family. I know that. But there is a sense when a group feels more together, and when it has ceased to be a group at all and individuals just exist next to each other, ready to take advantage of each other at a moment’s notice.
Have we reached that point in the United States, where we have little in common with each other? Where Birmingham, New York City, and Reno are as foreign as Cairo and Tel Aviv? There is no way empirically to prove or disprove this. I can only point to our bitter political rhetoric, the media manipulation to promote narrow agendas and to divide us, and what I hear and see on the streets of El Paso, New York, Kansas City, San Francisco, and wherever else I travel.
What can bring us back together, if anything? From This Wicked Patch of Dust has a tentative answer at the end of the novel. Of course, I am always hopeful. I will always make the effort to grapple with a question even when it is one such as: Why did you write this novel? I must have said something coherent to the young woman at the Brooklyn Book Festival. After I finished talking, she bought the book and asked me to sign it to ‘Meryl.’
I wrote From This Wicked Patch of Dust, because I wanted to write about the Mexican-American border, where I grew up. I wanted to write about the poorest of the poor in a Texas colonia, or shantytown, with a dream of becoming American. Although the novel is fiction, my family was also dirt poor in Ysleta on the outskirts of El Paso, yet I loved my childhood. Any voice I have as a writer is in one way or another rooted in communicating what was good, what was struggle, and what we couldn’t answer in Ysleta.
Much of our political rhetoric only caricatures poor immigrants, documented and undocumented. There is rarely a sense of the commonality we, the more established inhabitants of these United States, share with these newcomers. I wanted to portray characters who come to life, reach out to the reader, and find a place in his or her thoughts, emotions, and even laughter. I hope you will see the Martínez family clearly, their warts as well as their merits, and believe in these characters.
I also wanted to focus on the dynamics of immigrant families. If you read From This Wicked Patch of Dust you will experience the lives of Cuauhtémoc and Pilar Martínez, the parents from the ‘old world,’ so to speak, who sometimes, and sometimes do not, see eye-to-eye on whether and how their family should become American. The children —Julia, Francisco, Marcos, and Ismael— take divergent paths to becoming American, adopt different religions or cultures, and even move to different places across the country. The siblings are in conflict with each other, they are in conflict with their parents, yet all of them still belong to and love their family. The Martinez family tries to keep it together as many things, including their own decisions, pull this family apart. How do we honor who we are, how do we break away from where we began, and what does all of this mean for our families?
Another question at the heart of my novel was: How can I portray the culture of a group, not one individual, but a related group, as in a family? That is the reason From This Wicked Patch of Dust is told, alternatively, from the six perspectives of each family member. We live in families, yet each of us experiences being part of a family in a different way. We are together, yet we are also apart, in a family. What keeps us together, and what drives us apart? That’s the drama at the heart of the novel.
How does time fragment the togetherness of a family? This is why the chapters in From This Wicked Patch of Dust are several years apart. Our common experiences are the bonds that keep us together for a while, but as we get older, as individuals and as a group, those common experiences become more experiences in the past. We start living our lives apart, yet we often yearn to come back together, as adult children, as elderly parents, to that togetherness we once had. Even though the children of Pilar and Cuauhtémoc Martínez end up in different parts of the world, so far from Ysleta in many ways beyond geography, they retain a bit of Ysleta within them.
I imagined the novel as an orchestra piece, where the different perspectives and time fragments would yield a music by the end of the novel that would give a sense to each reader of what is achieved and what is left behind after a family is gone. Some would call this micro-history, but it is a 'private history' we all experience in one way or another in our lifetime. And this experience has so much to do with what kind of selves we become. Certainly it is a different kind of storytelling than the escapism and neat ending of a typical Hollywood movie, which encourages short-term satisfaction rather than reflection. As a writer, I hope I have caused my readers to think.
Finally, the allegorical allusions in the novel are focused on this question: Why are we as a country growing further apart? Why do we have less in common with each other? Why do we see only ‘the other’ in our neighbor, or in an ethnic group not quite like us, or in a religious group not quite like us? Admittedly, a country is not a family. I know that. But there is a sense when a group feels more together, and when it has ceased to be a group at all and individuals just exist next to each other, ready to take advantage of each other at a moment’s notice.
Have we reached that point in the United States, where we have little in common with each other? Where Birmingham, New York City, and Reno are as foreign as Cairo and Tel Aviv? There is no way empirically to prove or disprove this. I can only point to our bitter political rhetoric, the media manipulation to promote narrow agendas and to divide us, and what I hear and see on the streets of El Paso, New York, Kansas City, San Francisco, and wherever else I travel.
What can bring us back together, if anything? From This Wicked Patch of Dust has a tentative answer at the end of the novel. Of course, I am always hopeful. I will always make the effort to grapple with a question even when it is one such as: Why did you write this novel? I must have said something coherent to the young woman at the Brooklyn Book Festival. After I finished talking, she bought the book and asked me to sign it to ‘Meryl.’
Friday, September 9, 2011
September Readings and Events
This is my schedule during the month of September. My new novel, From This Wicked Patch of Dust, is being distributed right now, and my book of essays, Crossing Borders: Personal Essays, should be available at the end of the month. If you are in Brooklyn, San Elizario or El Paso, please come by and say hello.
September 18, 2011, 11 AM---Brooklyn Book Festival, “The Good, the Bad, and the Family” in St. Frances McCardle Hall, 209 Joralemon, Brooklyn, NY. I will be on this panel with Tom Perrotta and Elizabeth Nunez.
From noon until 2:00 PM, I will then go to booth #125, with La Casa Azul Bookstore and Las Comadres Para Las Americas. I will be with two of my favorite people, Aurora Anaya-Cerda and Nora Comstock. They will have quite a line up of authors from noon until 5:00 PM, so please visit them and support independent bookstores and the Brooklyn Book Festival.
From noon until 2:00 PM, I will then go to booth #125, with La Casa Azul Bookstore and Las Comadres Para Las Americas. I will be with two of my favorite people, Aurora Anaya-Cerda and Nora Comstock. They will have quite a line up of authors from noon until 5:00 PM, so please visit them and support independent bookstores and the Brooklyn Book Festival.
September 23, 2011, 4-6 PM---The Bookery, 10167 Socorro Road (just past the Socorro Mission), Socorro, TX.
-->ñ ñ, whenever someone leaves them out. I know about mangled surnames, believe me.)
The third annual EPCC Literary Fiesta will be at its Administrative Services Center, Building A, 9050 Viscount in El Paso. From 10 AM to 4 PM, Sept. 24, the fiesta will feature readings, a children's corner, book sellers, food, arts and crafts, and vendors. Admission is free and open to the public.
For information: Keri Moe, 915-373-5096.
To see what I have lined up for the rest of the year, please visit my Reading Schedule at:
http://www.sergiotroncoso.com/readings/index.htm.
To see what I have lined up for the rest of the year, please visit my Reading Schedule at:
http://www.sergiotroncoso.com/readings/index.htm.
Posted by
Sergio Troncoso
at
9:47 PM
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
The Lost Border: Request for Submissions
-->
Request for Submissions
The Lost Border: Essays on how life and culture have been changed by the violence along the U.S.-Mexico border
Extended Deadline: October 15, 2011
This new anthology will focus on the unique life and culture along the U.S.-Mexico border that has been changed and even lost because of the recent drug violence. This book will feature writers from both sides of the border who explore the culture that has been changed or lost, the lives that have been split in two, and the way of life that has been interrupted, or even eradicated, by the violence along the border.
Some of the questions that might be explored are: What way of life has been lost due to the recent violence? What are the ramifications of this change for culture, politics, families, institutions, the arts, and even individual psyches? Will it be possible to regain what has been truncated? What might the border’s future be? Are there any positive side-effects?
We hope that writers will conjure the past in telling moments and reflect on the forces that have spun out of control to destroy the unique bi-national, bicultural existence of la frontera. Location is a vitally important and intrinsic element of the essays we seek, and each essay should show substantial ties to the border through the essayist’s lived experience. We anticipate that the writing will draw scholars as well as those in the general public who wish to thoughtfully negotiate the border’s current complexities.
The publisher of this project will be Arte Público Press and the anticipated publication date is in 2013.
Please read the submission guidelines and follow them. We look forward to reading your submission. We will contact you by email about acceptance or rejection of your essay.
Sarah Cortez (Cortez.Sarah@gmail.com)
Sergio Troncoso (SergioTroncoso(AT)gmail(DOT)com)
Editors
Submission Guidelines:
The extended deadline is October 15, 2011 postmark. The length of the essay should be 3,000 to 6,000 words; please title your essay. The essay should be unpublished and written in English. All contributors shall be Latino/a.
Each essay should be typed in Times Roman 12-point type with standard manuscript formatting for margins and spacing.
Include your name, snail-mail address, two contact phone numbers, two email addresses, and exact word count in the top left margin of the first page of your manuscript.
We do accept electronic submissions. Send them to: SergioTroncoso@gmail.com.
If you are sending hard copies, mail two copies of the essay and your bio to Sergio Troncoso, 2373 Broadway, Suite 1808, New York, NY 10024. No submission will be returned; please keep a copy for your records.
Please include a one-paragraph biography summarizing your publishing credits. Include a sentence or two that defines your relationship with the border (e.g. cities or towns lived in, length of residence/familiarity).
If your essay is accepted, we will need an electronic file as a Word document. We will contact you about suggested revisions.
Posted by
Sergio Troncoso
at
8:24 PM
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Economic uncertainty as a political weapon
You have to hand it to the House Republicans: they have outplayed President Obama in almost every respect on the deficit-ceiling debate, but primarily in their use of economic uncertainty as a political weapon. Republicans have set the terms of the debate, while Obama did not respond, analyze, anticipate, and attack months ago.
The president did not try to frame the debate, or lead the country to set the terms of the debate. He did not anticipate how sophisticated, yet simple, the Republican plan against him was, and he did not counteract it before it blossomed into the near-fiasco we are facing now.
Consumer confidence and business confidence are key to uplifting an economy burdened by recession and shock. This was the state of the U.S. economy at the end of 2008, when George W. Bush left an economic mess for Obama to clean up. This confidence is invisible, but if it is eroded over time, people and businesses don’t invest, don’t create jobs, and don’t take risks, even if they have the money. They hoard their cash.
After we weakly climbed out of recession with the emergency measures adopted by Obama immediately after he took office (some of these measures had been initiated by the Bush administration), I knew we were at the point where the economy would either gain momentum, or lose steam and fall back to some version of the disaster at the end of the Bush administration.
If we gained momentum, we would create more jobs, and the temporary measures which added to the deficit would be a historical footnote since the economy would grow fast enough to reduce the deficit in relation to the size of our economy. But if we didn’t, then we would be saddled with the ‘temporary deficit,’ and a lack of jobs, and a weak economy, and Obama would surely not be re-elected. Since I voted for Obama, I was rooting for the economy to improve, and expand, over the past two-three years.
During these past two-three years, however, I noticed something interesting. I’ve read the New York Times and Wall Street Journal every day for decades. I want different perspectives; I want to consider different voices. But whereas the editorial page of the Journal has always been conservative, at least fiscally, if not socially, the front page and news pages have been a mix. But in my opinion, not anymore.
With every slight uptick in the economy over the past two-three years, whether it was on jobs, or corporate profits, the front-page Journal articles were relentlessly negative. Sometimes on the same story, it seemed as if I were living in two realities: what the Journal reported —the economy is awful under Obama, we are going nowhere, these corporate profits are illusory— and what the Times reported— we may be turning the corner, banks have recapitalized, companies are flush with cash. Was the Journal being too pessimistic, or the Times too optimistic?
You could pick your facts to support either side, and that’s my point. But why would anyone want to ‘talk down’ the economy? I even imagined that perhaps the new Journal owner, Rupert Murdoch, had placed the kind of editors who would undermine confidence in the American economy under Obama. But perhaps I was being too paranoid, I thought. But I also knew such a relentlessly negative spin on anything that might improve the economy would also have an effect on whether individuals and companies spend money, even modestly, to grow us out of the deficit we incurred after we cleaned up the mess Bush left behind. Most people in business read the Journal.
You could pick your facts to support either side, and that’s my point. But why would anyone want to ‘talk down’ the economy? I even imagined that perhaps the new Journal owner, Rupert Murdoch, had placed the kind of editors who would undermine confidence in the American economy under Obama. But perhaps I was being too paranoid, I thought. But I also knew such a relentlessly negative spin on anything that might improve the economy would also have an effect on whether individuals and companies spend money, even modestly, to grow us out of the deficit we incurred after we cleaned up the mess Bush left behind. Most people in business read the Journal.
Obama didn’t help himself by focusing on healthcare reform, instead of jobs, eighteen months ago. He didn’t help himself by not recognizing that House Republicans, after last November’s election, did not trust him absolutely, assumed he was a traditional, even radical liberal, and would not work with him. They want him out. Period.
As an old friend pointed out to me this summer, perhaps Obama was too young when he became president. Too inexperienced. Too much in belief of himself, instead of recognizing what effect he had on others, particularly on a white middle-class seeing the livelihoods slip away for their children, while this country becomes more Latino, more Asian, more Muslim, while American corporations react to globalization by shipping jobs overseas, for more profits which their investors (often ourselves) demand.
If Obama had recognized the unique ways in which he would never be trusted by House Republicans, and perhaps a great swath of the American electorate, he would have ‘triangulated,’ à la Bill Clinton, before or certainly after last year’s election. That just means Obama would have acted as a fiscal conservative to counteract the (reasonable and unreasonable) prejudices of these Republicans and that part of the American electorate that would never trust him. In that way, Obama would have positioned himself for reelection, in the middle of the road, which is how you win elections in this country.
When Obama ordered our Navy Seals to kill Bin Laden, that was a perfect moment of ‘triangulation’: the quasi-Muslim American president, who may or may not have been born in Hawaii, killed one of America’s greatest enemies. You could sense when that happened that Obama’s harshest critics even tipped their hats to him, and perhaps for a moment reconsidered their zealous opposition to everything Obama. That moment put Obama in a new light. The problem is that Obama did not have, or aggressively pursue, enough of these ‘triangulation moments.’
If he had done that, if Obama had recognized that a significant portion of the American electorate and these adamant, inflexible House Republicans were already painting him as a stick-figure liberal who will only explode the deficit any chance he gets, Obama would have acted differently, and set the terms of the debate. He would have gotten out of Afghanistan and Iraq, and pointed out the huge waste of hundreds of billions of dollars on defense spending, while our allies spend so little and ride our coattails. He would have attacked government waste seriously, and closed unnecessary departments (but not the ones helping the disadvantaged or the needy). He would have repeatedly pointed out how certain American companies pay so little in taxes, because they have sweetheart tax breaks from Congress. He would have recognized that Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac played an important role in the housing bubble that led to the financial crisis at the end of the Bush administration, and how Republicans and Democrats both benefited from their political and economic ties to these companies. Everybody in Congress was greedy when it came to Fannie and Freddie.
But Obama didn’t do any of the above, relentlessly, day after day, ahead of the curve, so that he wouldn’t be boxed in later. He allowed House Republicans to set the terms of the debate, and responded only to what they wanted, and simply kept giving in to their demands. And they have just kept saying no.
What I think is rarely pointed out is this: by passing this temporary, short-term increase in the debt ceiling, with deep spending cuts and another vote in early 2012 on the debt ceiling, House Republicans are using economic uncertainty as a political weapon. The more uncertainty there is in and about the American economy, the fewer jobs will be created. The more economic uncertainty there is in and about the American economy, the more the stock market will languish, or even decline. And of course, the more the government is contracting before the election, the fewer jobs and services will exist in 2012. The fewer jobs in the American economy, and the worse off Americans feel about their economic prospects, the better the 2012 elections will be for the Republicans.
They have outplayed Obama, and now here we stand on the brink of default. We will all pay a huge price for these selfish political games. When we ‘talk down’ the economy, when we lose our AAA credit rating, and when the dollar’s role as a reserve currency erodes, we all lose. What happened to ‘us’? Why are we not a ‘we’ anymore? Who could be that transformative, adaptive figure who can still lead us to change for the better, while still making us believe we belong together as a country?
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Solve the mystery, win a free book
I am a contributor to a terrific new anthology, You Don’t Have A Clue: Latino Mystery Stories for Teens with a Teacher's Guide (Arte Público Press), which was published a month ago and has been receiving stellar reviews. From Booklist, the anthology won a starred review. Kirkus called it “a consistent, well-crafted collection.” The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books said, “The mix of realistic and fantastic mysteries guarantees broad reader appeal for this impressive collection.” Much credit should go to our editor, Sarah Cortez, whose careful guidance throughout the project was exemplary.
This anthology is chockfull of writers I admire: Mario Acevedo, Carlos Hernandez, Diana Lopez, René Saldana, Alicia Gaspar de Alba, Richie Narvaez, Gwendolyn Zepeda, Ray Villareal, Manuel Ramos, Daniel Olivas, and many others. I am proud to be included among them, writing mysteries and encouraging teens (and all of us, for that matter) to read.
So herewith is a challenge, to all intrepid readers in cyberspace and beyond: whoever can solve the mystery of my story “Nuts” in this collection, and email me what really happened to whom and why, will win a book signed by me and mailed to you. The first three individuals (teens, I hope) to send the correct answer to my email inbox at SergioTroncoso(AT)gmail(DOT)com will win a free book. Will you have a clue? Well, that is the question. Read the following paragraphs carefully.
I wrote “Nuts” because I wanted to write a story to make the reader think about what really happened in the story and to prompt the reader to figure out the puzzle. I believe in ‘close reading,’ that is, reading so that every word is weighed carefully for its meaning, so that every detail is understood for why it is there. “Nuts” is written for that careful reader who will not miss any detail, and whether a detail matches other details in the story. I also want the reader to ponder what is in between the lines of the story, to understand the relationships between the characters, and to appreciate what is left unsaid between them. I have two teenage sons, and one of them is allergic to tree nuts, so I also wanted to write about that hidden, quotidian danger he faces. By the way, my sixteen-year-old figured out what really happened in “Nuts” on his first reading!
So about those clues. First, the cookie clue. Think about the cookies, and every instance in which the cookies are mentioned. Compare these instances. What do they tell you about what really happened?
Second, have you seen the movie “Juno”? You better run to Netflix, if you haven’t. Remember the relationships between Juno, Bleeker, and Katrina de Voort? How is a scene in that movie and what is meant (but not said) about these relationships important to understanding what Zendon is feeling about his friend Ethan? Are there any other clues to indicate what Zendon is thinking, but not saying, to his friend Ethan?
Third, sometimes we hear names incorrectly, especially during an emotionally charged moment. Does 'Sookie' sound like 'Soupy'?
Third, sometimes we hear names incorrectly, especially during an emotionally charged moment. Does 'Sookie' sound like 'Soupy'?
Fourth, isn't that a strange name for the person who writes Ethan that email at the end, ‘Doable HePrey’? Did you know that ‘Sergio Troncoso’ can also be ‘Cooing Roosters’ or ‘Scrooges Riot On’? I love anagrams, don’t you?
Finally, once you decipher the meaning behind the above clues, what can you tell me about Ethan’s moment of decision in the email, the response he almost sends, versus the response he actually sends at the end? That is the coup de grâce to understanding the meaning of this mystery.
For the prize, I will give the three winners a signed copy of You Don’t Have A Clue. You can give your friends your unsigned copy, challenge them to solve and understand the mystery, and you can keep your prize book. We need to encourage everybody to read. I hope if I see you at a reading you will say hello, and tell me how you solved the mystery and how you can’t wait to get into another story to solve the puzzle, to explore a new world, to gain a new perspective, to relish that shiver scurrying up your spine when you say to yourself, 'Aha! Now I know!'
Posted by
Sergio Troncoso
at
4:00 PM
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Obama's Focus
I like the photo released from the Situation Room, with President Barack Obama, Hilary Clinton, Robert Gates, Joe Biden and others riveted by the live screen as our Navy commandos enter Osama Bin Laden’s compound in Pakistan and put a bullet in the terrorist’s head. President Obama looked apprehensive, serious, and tough. But above all, focused. He took a gamble to get Bin Laden with commandos, rather than deciding to bomb the hell out of the compound. The man from Chicago would either win big or lose big.
But the gamble was a good one. The risk was commensurate with the reward: it was high risk to have our military men in harm’s way, to risk a fiasco where they get killed, but it was also high reward to identify Osama Bin Laden, to kill him, and to prove to the world that the deed was truly done. What mattered was not only that our commandos were terrific, and that they completed their work without U.S. casualties. What mattered most of all was this focus from President Obama and why we were there. What 9/11 was originally about, and why we should ever risk putting our military in harm’s way.
Too often, in the aftermath of 9/11, fear and paranoia were manipulated to focus on targets having little to do with what happened on that awful Tuesday in Manhattan, Washington, D.C., and Pennsylvania. I experienced that day as a New Yorker, and it is the day I became in my heart a New Yorker. But it is also the day I began to see this country twisted by opportunists and demagogues to focus not on Al Qaeda primarily, not on Bin Laden, but on agendas having little to do with what and who wounded us so profoundly.
Why did we start a war in Iraq? For weapons of mass destruction? But they weren’t there. For vague Al Qaeda connections? But the terrorists who harmed us were principally in Afghanistan, and later we now know, Pakistan. My opinion is that President Bush started the war in Iraq to finish his daddy’s work, to pay back Saddam Hussein for targeting his daddy, to prosecute a personalized, blustery foreign policy that put our military in harm’s way. For the wrong reasons. For the wrong target.
Hussein was a creep and a dictator, but that isn’t a national security reason necessary to commit to a war. And of course, once you start a war, as Eisenhower warned us, the military-industrial complex, from generals to lobbyists to anyone else who profits from wars, will make sure the ill-begotten war continues for years, with thousands of people dead, with hundreds of billions of dollars wasted. Attempt to stop a war we should have never started in the first place, and how many right-wingers will smear you as soft on ‘defense’? How many in the public will believe them? How stupidly can we keep going round and round without the right purpose?
Here was another wrong target and wrong focus. How did we allow what happened on 9/11 to be twisted first into fear about security within our borders, then into paranoia about border security, and finally into attacks against undocumented workers? We allowed idiots like Lou Dobbs to manipulate our fears into a full-throated xenophobia against anyone dark-skinned, anyone ‘not like us,’ anyone whom we could easily blame, anyone weak and close at hand.
We couldn’t get to Bin Laden, but we could kick these Mexicans pouring concrete on our sidewalks and slaving away for pennies, yes we could kick them in the ass and feel good about ourselves. It might have been false, this feel-good kick, but it was something, and it was what we had. How many of us stepped up, said no, and yelled at the xenophobes, to tell them they had the wrong target? How many pointed out that our lack of work ethic, and our lack of focus on educating our kids, and our adoration of a superficial, materialistic culture were primarily to blame for our not competing effectively against nations like China? Believe me, right now dying Detroit could be revived if civic leaders just rolled out the red carpet for one million, hard-working, undocumented Mexicans.
Obama, in that picture from the Situation Room, was focused. He was focused on the right target. He was focused on what should have been the target all along. Al Qaeda, and all it represents. Period. Now that this commando mission has been completed successfully, perhaps we in the United States can start focusing on our problems straight on. Our real problems. Not our prejudices. Not our fantasies. Not our petty vendettas. But the problems that matter, to solve them and to make us a better country. To overcome even the worst of our days.
Posted by
Sergio Troncoso
at
6:39 AM
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Work@Character
Yesterday Laura and I had our last face-to-face teacher conference of the academic year for our younger son Isaac. Next year he will join his older brother at one of the best high schools in New York City, and this conference was bittersweet for us.
Both our children attended the Bank Street School for Children starting as three-year-olds. Aaron graduated two years ago, and I’m on the parents’ committee for Isaac’s graduation in two months. Bank Street has been a remarkable school for both our children, and it will be hard to leave it.
But what struck me was how Laura and I reached this point, with two similar, yet also different kids, both who work hard and possess unique abilities, but who also needed to overcome specific challenges. My kids are excellent students at their schools; they have scored at the highest levels in standardized tests to reach their goals. Both are avid readers of very different books, yet Aaron and Isaac share a sense of humor that is light years beyond mine. Do I even have a sense of humor? I am their strict, mercurial father.
What is obscured by this bit of bragging about my kids —who are not kids anymore but young adults— is the years of hard work of parenting to help Aaron and Isaac become the best version of themselves. I believe in learning by doing, Bank Street’s philosophy, but also Aristotle’s. I never did my children’s homework. On the contrary, in recent years, I have hardly seen what they have worked on after coming home from school. But when they have a question or a problem, I teach them how to find the answer for themselves. When they are stuck, I prompt them with questions to guide them to their own revelations.
We provide the space and time to focus quietly on their schoolwork. Friends who are wild or rude, I tell my kids, are not welcomed in our home. When Aaron and Isaac start wavering on the good habits we have encouraged, when they watch too much TV, or have not chosen the next book to read in bed, then yes, I am the heavy. I draw the bright line too many parents fail to draw: to turn off the TV, or to make finding a new book a priority, or to rewrite what they thought was ‘good enough.’ Real pride in your work is when you learn to do it yourself —not when somebody else does it for you— and when you know the work you accomplished was excellent. But often children have to be guided to get there.
Case in point. A few weeks ago, Isaac had brought home two short papers in which the teachers had given him only average marks. Isaac knew it wasn’t very good work, and he showed me the papers with what seemed a mix of fear and shame in his eyes. I read the papers, and yes, they were lightly researched, and his arguments were unsupported and often unclear. I remembered when he had worked on these papers, and I knew he had not given them the time they required, or the focus. Isaac is a bright kid and a good writer, but perhaps that week he had worried too much about succeeding at Oblivion on the Xbox, and too little about the failures of Reconstruction after the Civil War.
We talked about it, and we decided he would ask his teachers if he could rewrite both papers over the following two weeks of Spring Break. I told him it didn’t matter if his teachers didn’t give him different grades, but what did matter was that he should do his best work. And this wasn’t his best work, was it? No, he said, it wasn’t. Yes, I was a bit the heavy. I also told Isaac he wouldn’t play the Xbox over Spring Break, nor watch any TV, until those papers were rewritten, and well.
Isaac asked his teachers about rewriting the essays on the Friday before Spring Break, and they agreed. The teachers also decided to extend that offer to all the kids in the class: if anybody else wanted to rewrite their papers, they could. But, as far as I know, only Isaac would rewrite his papers during this vacation.
Now let me tell you about what happened over Spring Break. Isaac worked from morning until afternoon, for five days straight, rereading and expanding his source material, outlining his arguments, and reconstructing his essays. Sometimes he would ask questions. Occasionally he showed me what he had written, and I gave him my honest opinion. He rewrote page after page.
Whether he was motivated by his desire to get to Oblivion before his vacation ended, to please his mean old father, to show the teachers what he could do, or a combination of these, I don’t know. But Isaac worked independently, and ferociously. I was in awe, and prouder than any father could be.
Weeks later, at the conference, Isaac’s teachers noted how remarkably better the second go-around of his Civil War papers had been. They had given Isaac the highest marks for his rewrites. That was the work they had been accustomed to seeing from Isaac. Moreover, the teachers happily noted that on an in-class essay after Spring Break Isaac had again written a beautifully coherent essay on the Civil Rights movement.
Perhaps the teachers suspected that I, the writer-father, had ‘helped’ him on the rewrites during Spring Break, but the in-class essay confirmed it was Isaac who had done the work on the rewrites. And indeed it was. I just set the bar high. I did not allow him to lower it because I knew he could reach it. I gave my son advice to prompt him to think for himself when he needed it. Isaac learned by doing it, the hard way, the only way. The way toward good character.
Both our children attended the Bank Street School for Children starting as three-year-olds. Aaron graduated two years ago, and I’m on the parents’ committee for Isaac’s graduation in two months. Bank Street has been a remarkable school for both our children, and it will be hard to leave it.
But what struck me was how Laura and I reached this point, with two similar, yet also different kids, both who work hard and possess unique abilities, but who also needed to overcome specific challenges. My kids are excellent students at their schools; they have scored at the highest levels in standardized tests to reach their goals. Both are avid readers of very different books, yet Aaron and Isaac share a sense of humor that is light years beyond mine. Do I even have a sense of humor? I am their strict, mercurial father.
What is obscured by this bit of bragging about my kids —who are not kids anymore but young adults— is the years of hard work of parenting to help Aaron and Isaac become the best version of themselves. I believe in learning by doing, Bank Street’s philosophy, but also Aristotle’s. I never did my children’s homework. On the contrary, in recent years, I have hardly seen what they have worked on after coming home from school. But when they have a question or a problem, I teach them how to find the answer for themselves. When they are stuck, I prompt them with questions to guide them to their own revelations.
We provide the space and time to focus quietly on their schoolwork. Friends who are wild or rude, I tell my kids, are not welcomed in our home. When Aaron and Isaac start wavering on the good habits we have encouraged, when they watch too much TV, or have not chosen the next book to read in bed, then yes, I am the heavy. I draw the bright line too many parents fail to draw: to turn off the TV, or to make finding a new book a priority, or to rewrite what they thought was ‘good enough.’ Real pride in your work is when you learn to do it yourself —not when somebody else does it for you— and when you know the work you accomplished was excellent. But often children have to be guided to get there.
Case in point. A few weeks ago, Isaac had brought home two short papers in which the teachers had given him only average marks. Isaac knew it wasn’t very good work, and he showed me the papers with what seemed a mix of fear and shame in his eyes. I read the papers, and yes, they were lightly researched, and his arguments were unsupported and often unclear. I remembered when he had worked on these papers, and I knew he had not given them the time they required, or the focus. Isaac is a bright kid and a good writer, but perhaps that week he had worried too much about succeeding at Oblivion on the Xbox, and too little about the failures of Reconstruction after the Civil War.
We talked about it, and we decided he would ask his teachers if he could rewrite both papers over the following two weeks of Spring Break. I told him it didn’t matter if his teachers didn’t give him different grades, but what did matter was that he should do his best work. And this wasn’t his best work, was it? No, he said, it wasn’t. Yes, I was a bit the heavy. I also told Isaac he wouldn’t play the Xbox over Spring Break, nor watch any TV, until those papers were rewritten, and well.
Isaac asked his teachers about rewriting the essays on the Friday before Spring Break, and they agreed. The teachers also decided to extend that offer to all the kids in the class: if anybody else wanted to rewrite their papers, they could. But, as far as I know, only Isaac would rewrite his papers during this vacation.
Now let me tell you about what happened over Spring Break. Isaac worked from morning until afternoon, for five days straight, rereading and expanding his source material, outlining his arguments, and reconstructing his essays. Sometimes he would ask questions. Occasionally he showed me what he had written, and I gave him my honest opinion. He rewrote page after page.
Whether he was motivated by his desire to get to Oblivion before his vacation ended, to please his mean old father, to show the teachers what he could do, or a combination of these, I don’t know. But Isaac worked independently, and ferociously. I was in awe, and prouder than any father could be.
Weeks later, at the conference, Isaac’s teachers noted how remarkably better the second go-around of his Civil War papers had been. They had given Isaac the highest marks for his rewrites. That was the work they had been accustomed to seeing from Isaac. Moreover, the teachers happily noted that on an in-class essay after Spring Break Isaac had again written a beautifully coherent essay on the Civil Rights movement.
Perhaps the teachers suspected that I, the writer-father, had ‘helped’ him on the rewrites during Spring Break, but the in-class essay confirmed it was Isaac who had done the work on the rewrites. And indeed it was. I just set the bar high. I did not allow him to lower it because I knew he could reach it. I gave my son advice to prompt him to think for himself when he needed it. Isaac learned by doing it, the hard way, the only way. The way toward good character.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Packinghouse Poet
I have spent the last week delightfully immersed in the poetry of David Dominguez, who wrote The Ghost of César Chávez and Work Done Right. David is also co-founder and poetry editor of The Packinghouse Review from California’s San Joaquin Valley. You should read this poet.
Too often this country has turned its back on the working class and the working poor, not to mention the undocumented workers who harvest the food for American tables and build our houses. We idolize Warren Buffett and the culture of wealth. However, we don’t realize the meaning of the most radical recommendations for profitable companies and the ideal business climate: monopolistic or oligopolistic pricing power and predatory practices against hapless, powerless consumers.
His narrative poetry struck multiple chords with me. His images were evocative, from working at Galdini Sausage grinding pork, to driving his red pickup across the California desert, to setting the tile floor for his new house. These images reminded me of growing up in Ysleta and working on Texas farms as a child. I hated the poverty of this existence, yet it also defined who I was. There is a certain pride in work and in your body throbbing beyond any boundaries you imagined you could endure. You identify with those who come home with pieces of pork fat wedged into their boots, with gashes on their arms and legs from their tools and machines, and with black grime etched into the folds of their dark skin.
Too often this country has turned its back on the working class and the working poor, not to mention the undocumented workers who harvest the food for American tables and build our houses. We idolize Warren Buffett and the culture of wealth. However, we don’t realize the meaning of the most radical recommendations for profitable companies and the ideal business climate: monopolistic or oligopolistic pricing power and predatory practices against hapless, powerless consumers.
What is best is a balance, between making money for entrepreneurs and their companies, and providing beneficial products and services for consumers, with protections against abuses. I think we have lost that balance in this country. The richest of the rich have dramatically increased their share of the nation’s income, while the bottom sixty percent of this country —yes the majority of the people— have seen their share of income shrink in the past thirty years. Worse yet, multitudes have been convinced we need even less protection from the abuses of Wall Street, that we need to give more tax breaks to businesses and the super-wealthy, and that somehow these policies will rain money on the plebes below and return the United States to an idealized past glory. Good luck with that.
But I digress, yet only slightly. David Dominguez’s poetry brings us back to a focus on the working man, the pride and heartache of work, and the heritage of our families, Chicano and Mexicano. This is what I think good literature should be: expertly crafted lines, unique images that spur thinking, and…and…a focus against the grain and against what society stupidly values, a view that unsettles our comfortable perspectives. This kind of good literature fights against our über-focus on ‘material success equals what is worthy.’ This pernicious focus infected the literary world long ago, and transformed ‘what is good’ in books into only ‘what is entertaining,’ escapism for the masses.
What I believe propels David Dominguez’s poetry even a step further is his introspection. He wrestles with how his success as a writer and teacher has left him in an ambiguous place beyond obreros, beyond his father and grandfather, yet not quite an Americano:
At the register, the cashier glanced at my blazer.
“This it?” she asked, not “Hola, señor.”
Once, after weeding and hoeing my flower beds all day,
I came here to buy insecticide and Roundup,
and the same cashier asked me, “Cómo le va, señor?”
Like many, I prefer Macy’s over the swap meet
and would rather play a round of golf
alongside the wet eucalyptus clinging to the riverbank
than rise every morning to mow lawns
or gather with others on street corners,
praying for the chance to hop into trucks as underpaid
construction workers building housing tracts.
I’m spoken to informally in English if I’m clean
but in Spanish if I’m sweaty and dirty.
It happens all the time; I could bet on it:
the odds are as reliable as rope.
This strange, in-between existence has certainly been central to my life. To succeed in the American literary world, you must write in English, perfectly and singularly. You must appeal to what most literary buyers want to read (or at least a significant number of readers). This 'market appeal' often has nothing to do with obreros, or Chicanos, or issues that criticize the mainstream. You must appeal to the lowest common denominator in this culture, and that is ‘entertainment that transports you somewhere, without making you think too much, without being too complex.’ As you, the writer, push forward into American culture (should you?), are you leaving more of yourself behind? Who were you anyway? Who should you be? These questions have no easy answers.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Moral luck
This week something strange happened to me. I was in an elevator in my co-op, and I got stuck. All four elevators in my 23-story building were replaced last year, at a significant cost to shareholders. Yet the expense was necessary, because the old ones had begun to fail too often. The new elevators were speedy, and after a few kinks had been worked out last year, they were running smoothly. Until I stepped into elevator No. 3.
I got into the elevator on my floor, and was headed toward the lobby. I pressed L, and the doors closed, but the elevator did not move. The doors opened again on my floor. I pressed L again, and the doors closed, but the elevator did not move. One more time. Of course, this should have been my clue to take another elevator, but I am a stubborn human being. This time it cost me.
On the third try, the L button remained lit, and the elevator started to descend. At about the fifteenth floor, it stopped. The doors did not open, the L button was still lit, and I was stuck. I pressed the button for the third floor, to see if that would prompt the elevator to move. It did not. I pressed the phone button on the elevator panel, but no one picked up at the front desk, and now I was peeved. I wasn’t nervous. I just thought, “This stupid contraption is wasting my time. How much did we pay for this thing?”
I called our concierge on my cell phone, and Vinnie picked up immediately. He said the mechanic had been working on elevator No. 3 and was about to leave. Vinnie grumbled something about the need for better elevator mechanics. He told me not to worry, that they would get me out in a few minutes.
I stepped away from the elevator panel, and reclined against a corner. I was alone, but perhaps I could check my email, I thought. I did notice the four shiny wooden walls around me, the painfully bright miniature elevator lights above my head, and a rising tension in my throat, but I quelled my own imminent claustrophobia by scrolling through my email on my beloved iPhone. After about ten or fifteen minutes, my forehead was damp, but I was still okay. Vaguely I could hear the mechanic on the other side of the door, perhaps a floor above or below me. I didn’t even know on what floor I was stuck.
Suddenly the elevator moved. It descended I would guess about two floors, and then braked hard to a stop. I was getting angry. Again it moved, and again it stopped abruptly, as if the emergency brakes had been automatically applied. On the third time the elevator moved and stopped without rhyme or reason, the doors popped open on the third floor, and I jumped out, relieved.
A handyman from our building asked me if I was okay, and I said that I was, although I felt dizzy. As I walked from the lobby onto Broadway, my head didn’t feel right. I had errands to do, groceries to buy, manuscripts to send out, and I did all those things, but within an hour after my elevator incident I felt as if someone had kicked me in the head twice. Perhaps those jolts in the elevator had been more severe than I had imagined. I wondered how my brain had sloshed inside my head as the elevator dropped and jolted to a stop twice.
After two hours, I had to lie down. It took about half a day to get my bearings again, to rid myself of being lightheaded.
Days later, I am fine. Don’t worry, dear reader. I’ll imagine you worried, even though you didn’t. It just makes me feel better to think that, and sometimes you need to do whatever gets you back on track, even if it is only within your imagination.
Today, as I was walking home with my son after his tennis lesson, a woman who was texting as she drove a shiny SUV, narrowly missed us on a crosswalk on Broadway. Well, narrowly missed my son. I put my hand to his chest and stopped him, having eyed the driver and her fingers furiously working her little gadget over the steering wheel. How do we ever survive in this world? With a little luck, and sometimes a little help.
I called our concierge on my cell phone, and Vinnie picked up immediately. He said the mechanic had been working on elevator No. 3 and was about to leave. Vinnie grumbled something about the need for better elevator mechanics. He told me not to worry, that they would get me out in a few minutes.
I stepped away from the elevator panel, and reclined against a corner. I was alone, but perhaps I could check my email, I thought. I did notice the four shiny wooden walls around me, the painfully bright miniature elevator lights above my head, and a rising tension in my throat, but I quelled my own imminent claustrophobia by scrolling through my email on my beloved iPhone. After about ten or fifteen minutes, my forehead was damp, but I was still okay. Vaguely I could hear the mechanic on the other side of the door, perhaps a floor above or below me. I didn’t even know on what floor I was stuck.
Suddenly the elevator moved. It descended I would guess about two floors, and then braked hard to a stop. I was getting angry. Again it moved, and again it stopped abruptly, as if the emergency brakes had been automatically applied. On the third time the elevator moved and stopped without rhyme or reason, the doors popped open on the third floor, and I jumped out, relieved.
A handyman from our building asked me if I was okay, and I said that I was, although I felt dizzy. As I walked from the lobby onto Broadway, my head didn’t feel right. I had errands to do, groceries to buy, manuscripts to send out, and I did all those things, but within an hour after my elevator incident I felt as if someone had kicked me in the head twice. Perhaps those jolts in the elevator had been more severe than I had imagined. I wondered how my brain had sloshed inside my head as the elevator dropped and jolted to a stop twice.
After two hours, I had to lie down. It took about half a day to get my bearings again, to rid myself of being lightheaded.
Days later, I am fine. Don’t worry, dear reader. I’ll imagine you worried, even though you didn’t. It just makes me feel better to think that, and sometimes you need to do whatever gets you back on track, even if it is only within your imagination.
Today, as I was walking home with my son after his tennis lesson, a woman who was texting as she drove a shiny SUV, narrowly missed us on a crosswalk on Broadway. Well, narrowly missed my son. I put my hand to his chest and stopped him, having eyed the driver and her fingers furiously working her little gadget over the steering wheel. How do we ever survive in this world? With a little luck, and sometimes a little help.
Posted by
Sergio Troncoso
at
9:20 PM
Labels:
moral luck,
new york city
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