Chicanonautica: The Father of Chicano Science Fiction Gets Older

by Ernest Hogan

One of the advantages of being the Father of Chicano Science Fiction is that I'm still seen as a young troublemaker. It kind of goes with the territory. Mixing rasquache and sci-fi tends to result in things that send shockwaves into polite society.

Or maybe they’re waves of disgust? No matter. 

The transformative effects are what I’m after.

Maybe that’s why New York is afraid of me.

You’d think that now that I’m 64 I wouldn’t be a threat, but I still have weird shit growing my brain. It keeps me dangerous.

I never considered myself a cyberpunk, but my age and the times have stuck the label on me. People have asked me about the Chicano cyberpunk movement. At the time I wasn’t aware of any.

Some revolutions happen in retrospect.

It would be nice to be some kind of literary elder statesman, but that just doesn’t seem to be in the cards. Maybe it’s all for the best. I seem to be a universal outsider (even among Chicanos). I’ll always be a Chicimec, a barbarian, and alien invader sneaking across borders.

If I had a dime for every time I was only brown face in the room . . .

I actually feel comfortable in this role. I’ve accomplished a few things. My books have been praised, and written up. I keep getting called a genius, which keeps my ego afloat.

If for some reason, I couldn’t publish any more, I’d feel like done something significant with my life.

But then, people keep wanting to publish me.

And I keep getting these weird ideas.

One thing I wanted to do was to finish my novel Zyx; Or, Bring Me the Brain of Victor Theremin--which is about a Chicano science fiction who has lost track of where his life ends and science fiction begins--by the end of the year. I’m steaming ahead on it, but I don’t think I’ll finish it by New Years Day 2020. I write more and more, and the end gets farther away. It’s what get for being so creative.

I’m sure to have a big, hulking chunk done, though, and I’ll keep going, finish is, even if it is a little late.

I have to do it. It’s one of the novels I want to write. Years ago, I gave up on trying to write what the publishers are supposed to want, what the so-called experts say will sell. My experiments in trying to go commercial all go terribly wrong, so I’ll write what’s chewing away at my brain.

If I can finish these books before I croak (don’t worry, I’m in great health, but who knows how many decades I have left), I’ll be happy.

Maybe when I’m gone, they’ll cause trouble from beyond the grave.

A good attitude to have while going into a new decade while the world is looking so apocalyptic it’s not funny.

Ernest Hogan knows where his life ends and the science fiction begins. At least that’s what he says.