Poetry Connection: Connecting with Young People

Melinda Palacio, Santa Barbara Poet Laureate

Last week, I had the pleasure of being the Emcee for the Poetry Out Loud competition. Most of the students were from Righetti High School and the program was held at the Santa Maria County building. Teacher Krissy Kurth does a wonderful job preparing the students for the competition. Although I am often called on judge poetry contests, I was glad I wasn’t a judge this time; the competition was tough. Poetry Out Loud is different because the students recite a well-known poem. Student Kohen Ross was the runner up for her recitation of Love Song by Dorothy Parker. Three of Santa Barbara’s past Poet Laureates: David Starkey, Chryss Yost, and Perie Longo served as judges and named Alicia Blanco, who recited From the Sky by Sara Abou Rashed, the winner. All three judges felt that Alicia Blanco truly understood the poem and assignment. 

 

Poetry Out Loud helps high school students learn about poetry through memorization and performance. It was nice to see the camaraderie between the participants. Hannah Rubalcava served as prompter, someone who is at ready to give the students the next line in case they forget. Recitation from memory is such a brave act. I was pulling for every student. The county winners will compete virtually at the California Poetry Out Loud State Finals and have a chance to compete in the national competition. The state champion receives a $200 cash prize and all-expense-paid trip to Washington, D.C., $500 for their school to purchase literary materials, and an opportunity to compete at National Finals for college scholarship funds. 

 

Young creatives also showed their talents at the 2024 Annual Teen Arts Mentorship Exhibition. I was pleased to see poetry represented as an art medium. Two categories were represented: Expressive Figure Drawing with mentors Austin Raymond and Chiara Corbo and Creative Expression with Typewriters with mentor Simon Kiefer. All Santa Barbara County high school students ages 13-18 are eligible to apply to one or more mentorships in their area.

 

If you’ve been to the farmers market or First Thursdays downtown, you’ve probably seen Simon Kiefer offering impromptu on-demand poetry. Simon has spent the last ten years using typewriters to facilitate creative self-expression and community building. In the South County Mentorship with Simon, students used vintage typewriters to express themselves with poetry and creative writing and added a visual element to their words. Student participants included Alex Ortiz, Heidi Sanchez Marquez, and 16-year-old Elsie Sneddon. 

 

Elsie Sneddon happens to be my neighbor and the daughter of City Councilmember Kristen Sneddon. Thanks to the Arts Fund and their Teen Arts Mentorship Exhibition at the Community Gallery in La Cumbre Plaza, I was able to see her poems transposed into works of art. This week’s poetry connection features three new poems by Elsie Sneddon. 

 

 

Garden Song

Elsie Sneddon

 

The great wide sidewise seam

like the split of a melon

The boys I love will smash them against the edge of the sink

and picture the flesh that stumbles from them to the floor is caked with the stink and the bees that all live in their abdomens

People think they don't live in me too

but they don't know that I have to be quiet because of the deafening buzz

 

I stay hungry;

imagine my stomach all scooped out,

feel the knocking of my gut-bell hard against the rind

 

Peel

Elsie Sneddon

 

I peel the skin back and find tiny cities there-

the places where you brushed against my temple all have hardened

What does it take to discover you 

over and over and over

and to feel the pins of all your tiny lights? 

 

Your dead end honey

touch me lovely

put my face plate in its place

This drawer

the milk you bound

it doesn't burn me now

The debt of pleasure

next endeavor

finding something new to sever

come on cry

releasing something shy and

dirty

I am hurting

I still never

feel enough to feel

half of the things 

I have the power to.

Road Dream

Elsie Sneddon

 

I kept trying to sleep but heat lightning danced behind my eyes 

and then I fell:

in my dream I was almost windblown enough to be a shell

a hull of some great ship

blown by electricity

and then I was a husk

of corn

and all my kernels rotted 

and my precious teeth fell out

and the inbred dogs ate them,

my pearly whites down their gullets

 

Creaking down the steps inside a house where no one lives

I etch my face into the countryside and I don't know just how to move

 

And sometimes nothing's right 

and always so much is missing

but sometimes I look into the grass and I don't say a thing and so I looked into the grass and smiled and I just sat there thinking

that if I called this place home

I'd find it hard not to believe in something

Elsie Sneddon is a musician and artist who enjoys learning new things and experimenting with different creative outlets. She especially loves writing, singing, playing, and recording music under the name "Golden Teeth." She is new to sharing her poetry, and her poetic work is currently being showcased for the first time at the Arts Fund Community Gallery.

*an earlier version of this column appears in the Santa Barbara Independent 

Say "Katowiche" in Spanish

                                                                                        

     It's our last day in Amsterdam, an okay city, clean streets, nice people, sights to see, etc. etc. Oh, then there are the marijuana cafes, everywhere, blending in among the other shops. My wife and I want to visit one, just to see. We walk inside. It’s 1:00 P.M., the people inside are cool, a few blonde Rastas, men in business suits, a pretty normal crowd, all sitting around in chairs and couches, talking, and toking up, suave, como sin nada, just another day in the Netherlands.

     It’s the early 2000s. Back in California, sick people hadn’t yet started turning to medical marijuana, Amsterdam is way ahead of its time, all these people getting loaded, legally. My wife wants a souvenir, to try later, so she buys a marijuana cookie, a big ass cookie, chocolate chip. Neither of us had done “yesca” in years, a cookie, I think, lightweight, not like smoking herb.

     That evening, about 6:00 P.M., we catch the train to Poland, our destination Krakow. We have to travel across Germany to get there, about an eight-hour train ride. It’s winter, January and cold, like Arctic cold. A few hours later, we’re out of the Netherlands and cross into Deutschland, and those images of my dad’s generation, at war, come flooding to me. It’s dark outside. I try to get some sleep, and, in no time, I’m out.

     I am awakened by my wife shaking me. She wants soup, and to stretch a little, so she says she’s heading to the dining car. She didn’t want me to wake up and find her gone, the stuff of an Agatha Christie novel, a boomer Chicana disappears on the train to Krakow, not a bad plotline. I don’t’ know, maybe a half-hour later, I hear a conductor coming down the aisle, saying, “Passports,” in a weird English-Deutch accent.

     A disconcerting idea comes to me -- the cookie! Is pot legal in Germany? I don’t think so. What do I know about it? What if he asks to check our bags and finds the dope? Panic! Without giving it much thought, I reach into my wife’s travel bag, take out the cookie (it’s bigger than I remember), and shove it into my mouth, taking hefty bites, at the same time, imagining my wife and me in a German jail. I swallow, hard, and, with my tongue, clear chocolate chips, and any green remnants of “mota” off my teeth. The conductor enters our cabin.

     “Gute Nacht,” he says, which sounds like, “Goot Nihten,” and he asks for the passports. I tell him my wife is in the dining car. I hand him both passports. He checks them and gives something like a friendly salute, and he walks away. I sit back, my heart pumping, but relieved.

     When my wife returns, I tell her what happened. I thought she’d be impressed by my quick thinking, smart, and, maybe, heroic, saving us from years in a Nazi prison camp. She says, in a questioning tone, “You’re kidding. You ate the whole thing?”  

     “Yeah, right, all of it. I had to.”

     “You didn’t save me half, at least?”

     “Save you half? That half could get us time in jail. I don’t know if ‘weed’ is legal in Germany. We’d be transporting illegal drugs across international borders. How do I know. I couldn’t take a chance.”

     “I'm sure, so, you ate it all. Come on.”

     “It’s just a cookie. You aren’t missing much. How strong can it be?”

     A couple of hours later, she asks, “Anything?”

     “Naw. I told you. It’s just a cookie, probably weak homegrown, anyway.”

     As we enter the train station in Berlin, she says she’s going to the bathroom. It seems like no more than a few minutes. I hear a mechanical voice make the announcement, “Berlin.” My head feels really light, but kind of panicky, you know, how marijuana plays with your head during “blastoff.” I know we don’t have to get down from the train, so I sit tight. I hear loud voices, like echoing in my brain. Uh-oh. Coming up the aisle are two big German cops, blonde, of course blonde, in uniforms, Gestapo style. Anyway, that’s how they look in my fizzling mind. They open the cabin doors and look inside. It’s 1944, at least, that’s how I’m feeling. No, no. I’m cool. “Orale,” I don’t say it, but I think it, to calm myself. 

     One cop smiles and says, “Gute Nacht.” Did I say these dudes were big. I hear World War II raging outside, the sounds of those Nazi police sirens coming to get you. One guy holds the leash to an enormous German shepherd. I respond, my voice quaking, “Hello, good night.” The dog sticks his massive head into the cabin and sniffs. Stay away from my lips, dog. One guy looks around, surveying our bags. He nods, smiles, and continues up the aisle.

     My wife returns. I describe the scene, the Nazis and all. It isn’t coming out right. She laughs. “You’re stoned.”  She tells me to sit back and rest. In my head, every sound reverberates and echoes. More time passes. I can’t keep my conversation straight. I laugh a lot. My wife shakes her head. Finally, somebody says we’re nearing Katowiche, where we’ll take a short break. “Katowiche,” I ask my wife? “Is that Polish for Krakow, sure sounds it?”

     “I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe you should go outside and ask.”

     All these thoughts go through my head, like are we on the right train. She points to a kiosk and says I should ask there. I put on my jacket. It’s a gale outside. My North Face won’t protect me from the blast of frost outside. It’s like stepping into an ice box. It’s late. When I reach it, the kiosk is closed. People gather around, also wondering if they’re in the right place. It's like the Tower of Babel, everyone speaking different languages. We all stare up at the large train schedules hanging from the ceilings. I check to see our train number and destination. It's in Polish. I don't know Polish.

     After a while, mesmerized by the exotic names. I turn, once again, to look at station name. Katowice. My wife comes up next to me. “What happened to you? You’ve been out here twenty-minutes. Is everything okay?”

     “Yeah,” I answer. “Say Katowiche, but pronounce it, Katoweeche, like Spanish, melodic. It’s a cool name, right, Katoweeche. Sounds Indian.”

     “You’re stoned.”

     “No, really.” I tell her to say it. “It’s got a soothing sound, Katoweeche.”

      She shakes her head, but says, “Katoweeche. Yes, it is kind of nice. Now, come on.”

     “I told you, see.”

     “Well, are we okay, on the right train?”

     “I don’t know. Look at that sign. It’s all in polish.” The more I look at it, the more the big sign looks like a mural. I think it's beautiful lettering, a masterpiece, a Posada, except no calaveras.

     She looks up at the sign. In a minute she finds our train number, destination, Krakow, and estimated time of arrival. “We’re fine,” she says, takes me by the arm and leads me back towards the train. “Come on. Let’s get inside before we freeze.”

     “Yeah, that chocolate chip cookie was strong, man.”

     The rest of our trip is uneventful. We pull into the Krakow train station. It’s old, stained white tiles on the walls exiting the station tunnel. It’s like we’re in East L.A, grungy but with style. Our driver doesn’t speak English. We don’t speak Polish. We point to the name of our hotel from a card. He doesn’t read English, either. It works out. He finds a taxi driver who reads English.

     Oh, a couple of days later, my wife got caught in a snowstorm coming from the only Mexican restaurant in the Krakow, the only place she would eat dinner, each night. She isn’t a sausage fan. This night, I passed. The snow fell, burying the signs she followed back to the hotel. She walked in circles, and in her panic, she forgot the name of our hotel. Long story short, eventually, somehow, she found her way back, shivering, standing at the door to our hotel room, trying to explain what happened, looking disheveled, like she’d gotten the worst of the cold drift, like she’d just had a hit of a chocolate chip cookie. "Welcome home," was all I said.

RACING AT DEVIL’S BRIDGE AND OTHER STORIES / CARRERAS EN EL PUENTE DE DIABLO Y OTROS CUENTOS

 

By Xavier Garza

Spanish translation by Alaíde Ventura Medina

 

ISBN: 979-8-89375-003-4

Format: Trade Paperback

Pages: 129

Imprint: Piñata Books

Ages: 8-12

 

Spooky creatures from Latin American lore lurk in these entertaining stories for young people.

 

In the title story, a boy breaks his mom’s rule against staying out after dark because he is intent on training for the big state track meet. When his younger sister turns up and challenges him to a race across Devil’s Bridge, he taunts her—but is ultimately stunned when she beats him. But more shocking is the sudden appearance of a terrifying figure sporting a goat’s head and wielding a rusty ax!

 

The stories in Xavier Garza’s new collection feature creepy creatures from Latin American lore with a contemporary twist. There’s Christina, who the bullies dub “Donkey Lady” because of her odd-sounding laughter, but who later terrifies her abusers—and gets the last laugh! Joaquín’s grandfather has been told to vacate his property so the border wall can be built across it, but an Aztec eagle refuses to let the authorities kick the old man off his land. Vince and Marina find an old Ouija board under their dead grandmother’s bed and when a malevolent spirit springs from the game, the old woman’s infamous flying chancla appears to send the demon packing!

 

Accompanied by the author’s striking illustrations of chupacabras and other monsters, the blood-curdling stories in this bilingual collection for kids ages 8-12 are sure to lure even the most reluctant readers into its pages.

 

 

Other Books in the Series

 

THE DONKEY LADY FIGHTS LA LLORONA AND OTHER STORIES / LA SEÑORA ASNO SE ENFRENTA A LA LLORONA Y OTROS CUENTOS

 

Margarito is eleven years old now and he’s way past believing in Grandpa Ventura’s ghost stories, but he loves listening to them anyway. One evening on his way home from his grandfather’s, Margarito finds himself alone in the gathering dusk, crossing a narrow bridge. Suddenly, a woman in white floats towards him and calls, “Come to me, child … come to me!” He frantically hides in the shallow river, but soon sees a pair of yellow, glowing eyes swimming towards him. Before long, the Donkey Lady and La Llorona are circling each other, fighting to claim poor Margarito as their next victim!

 

Popular storyteller Xavier Garza returns with another collection of eerie tales full of creepy creatures from Mexican-American lore. There are duendes, bald, green-skinned brutes with sharp teeth; thunderbirds, giant, pterodactyl-like things that discharge electricity from their wings during thunderstorms; and blood-sucking beasts that drain every single drop of blood from their victims’ bodies!

 

Set in contemporary times, Garza’s young protagonists deal with much more than just the supernatural: there are chupacabras and drug dealers, witches and bullies, a jealous cousin and the devil. Accompanied by the author’s dramatic black and white illustrations, the short, blood-curdling stories in this bilingual collection for ages 8 – 12 are sure to bewitch a whole new generation of young people.

 

 

KID CYCLONE FIGHTS THE DEVIL AND OTHER STORIES / KID CICLÓN SE ENFRENTA A EL DIABLO Y OTROS CUENTOS

 

Cousins Maya and Vincent are thrilled to be ring side at a lucha libre match. Kid Cyclone, the wrestling world’s favorite hero who also happens to be the kids’ beloved uncle, is facing off against a devil-masked opponent, El Diablo. “No masked devil can beat my uncle. Not even the real devil himself,” declares Maya. But the real devil doesn’t take kindly to such disrespect, and soon Kid Cyclone finds himself fighting the most hellish challenger of all!

 

Popular kids’ book author Xavier Garza returns with another collection of stories featuring spooky characters from Mexican-American folklore. There’s a witch that takes the shape of a snake in order to poison and punish those who disregard her warnings; green-skinned, red-eyed creatures called chupacabras that suck the blood from wild pigs, but would just as soon suck the blood from a human who has lost his way in the night; a young girl disfigured in a fire set by a scorned lover who gets her revenge as the Donkey Lady; and the Elmendorf Beast, said to have the head of a wolf with skin so thick it’s impervious to shotgun blasts.

 

Accompanied by the author’s striking illustrations of the creepy creatures, the hair-raising stories in this bilingual collection for kids ages 8 – 12 are sure to lure even the most reluctant readers into its pages.

 

 

XAVIER GARZA is the author of numerous books for young people, including The Donkey Lady Fights La Llorona and Other Stories / La señora Asno se enfrenta a La Llorona y otros cuentos (Piñata Books, 2015) and six volumes in the Monster Fighter Mystery series / Serie Exterminador de monstruos. He lives with his family in San Antonio, Texas.

Guest Review: Earth, Breath, Light, Corazon Emplumado

Guest Reviewer:  Lisbeth Coiman. Earth, Breath, Light, Corazon Emplumado Healing Ancient Wounds, by Jorge Montaño. La Raiz Magazine, October 15, 2024.

Reading Earth, Breath, Light, Corazon Emplumado by Jorge Montaño turned to be an immersion course in Aztec culture. Part Nahuatl, part Spanish, mostly in English, Jorge Montaño’s most recent poetry collection will take the reader through a spiritual journey across urban Los Angeles into the ancestral lands of the Aztecs.

Jorge Montaño is a Chicano poet from Pacoima, CA. As the byline of his Instagram account indicates, “Le canto a lo que florece,” Montaño is inspired by the concept of xochitl and cuicatl, flor y canto, which is Nahuatl for artistic expression. In 2022, he received La Raiz Poetry Prize for his poem “Sangre Indígena.” 

La Raiz Magazine is a community-based, literary journal located in San Jose, CA. It publishes multilingual poetry and visual art. Under Elizabeth Montelongo’s leadership, La Raiz Press chose Earth, Breath, Light, Corazon Emplumado as their debut poetry collection. It was the perfect choice. In Earth, Breath, Light …, Jorge Montaño brings gorgeous visual imagery of Aztec culture to life in poems that are both healing and defiant, magical and funny, all wrapped in exquisite cover art, now a signature of La Raiz publications.

With the willowing smoke of copalero the speaker invokes the gods: Huehuetotl, Coatlicue, Cuetzpalin, Chalchiutlicue. When the feathered serpent “calls upon the west,” the speaker shows how to keep going one day at the time until the last dance with Ozomatli. Earth, Breath, and Light is where urban Chicanism meets Aztec cosmology, where the dignity of the Pachuco is proclaimed in Nahuatl.

Earth, Breath and Light requires active reading to decode both the ancient and colonizer’s vocabulary: xochitl, huitzitl, coatl, miquiztli, mazatl, tonalli, tochtli, ozomatli, copalero, chavalitos, justicia, antepasados. Once the reader steps into the fascinating ancient symbols they become participants in the spiritual experience and the subtle humor. 

Poems become revelations and at times a joke on the reader. Montaño plays with language in a way that he makes the reader believe the poem will lead to a spiritual revelation, when in fact it leads right to a rock band. 

Jorge Montaño’s wisdom shows in Earth, Breath and Light like divine dust: ”love consults not with fear but flirts with the sacrifice of self.” The woman is at the center of this wisdom, whether in the ancestral Aztec symbols “rooted deep inside her precious garden of Huitzlampa” sprinkled in Nahuatl throughout the collection or in the urban references of Chicanism, “La Catrina gazing out the windows of metallic fire,” “the fragrance of earth mother,” in Van Nuys. This woman is sensual and loving but can lure into death. She “calls us to resurrect.” She is flower and hummingbird, a warrior goddess, healing ancient wounds. 

That’s the power of this brief collection. It educates us in Mesoamerican Ancestry while it stands against colonialism,

“And we too rise.

We have remembered our names. 

We have heard the wind. 

It says to resist.”

I hope you love Earth, Breath, Light Corazon Emplumado as much as I do. 

Link to publisher: https://rootsartistregistry.com/laraiz.html

About the Guest Reviewer:

Lisbeth Coiman is a Southern California poet and a valued panelist in the notable Writing from Our Immigrant Hearts (link) touring venues across California. La Bloga will share the panel's upcoming readings, venues, and dates.

_La mariposa de Jackeline_ en Venecia por Xánath Caraza

_La mariposa de Jackeline_ en Venecia por Xánath Caraza

 Los siguientes poemas y su traducción al italiano fueron presentados en Venecia, Italia, el 2 de noviembre de este año para la celebración y conmemoración de Día de muertos que organiza la artista, y traductora de estos dos poemas al italiano, Concepción García Sánchez.

La mariposa de Jackeline (FlowerSong Press, 2022) de Xánath Caraza celebra y conmemora la vida de Jackeline Caal, la niña guatemalteca de siete años que murió cuando estaba bajo la custodia de US Customs and Border Protection (CBP) el 8 de diciembre de 2018. Jackeline y su padre, Nery Caal, eran parte de un grupo de 163 buscadores de asilo que cruzaron la frontera de Nuevo México el día anterior.  Se entregaron a las autoridades alrededor de las 10 p.m. pero cuando Jackeline comenzó a vomitar y a tener convulsiones, pasaron noventa minutos antes de que ella recibiera ayuda médica profesional.  Los doctores registraron una temperatura corporal de 40.9° C.  Jackeline fue trasladada al hospital infantil en El Paso, Texas, pero ya era demasiado tarde para salvarla.  La presidenta de la Academia Americana de Pediatría dijo que está trágica muerte era “prevenible”.

 A continuación, los poemas y algunas fotos del evento.

 

Jackeline Caal

 

La niñez perdida y la angustia

corren entre los árboles

para escapar por las

vías que conducen

a otra realidad.

 

Perseguidas por los perros

sueltos en este bosque

de niebla, el sol se filtra

para evaporar las pesadillas.

 

Tu cuerpecito en un ataúd,

pequeña niña.

 

Con tan sólo siete años

cruzaste fronteras,

niña maya.

 

Tus ojos cerrados llevan

las flores sagradas.

 

Tus manitas ya no piden maíz.

 

Nadie escuchó tu llanto.

 

Nadie sació tu sed.

 

La mariposa de Jackeline

 

Soñaste con campos abiertos

y el calor de un hogar

en las montañas de niebla.

 

Brazos tejidos te esperan

para envolverte de felicidad.

 

Vas llena de poesía, niña maya.

Tu huipil bordado de mariposas azules.

Tus manitas quietas cargadas de dorados recuerdos.

Tus ojitos cerrados todavía tienen frío.

 

Flor y canto eres, niña hermosa.

 

En estas páginas

una mariposa

con alas de seda

no deja de revolotear.

 

La farfalla di Jackeline di Xánath Caraza (FlowerSong Press, 2022) celebra e ricorda la vita di Jackeline Caal, la bambina di 7 anni originaria del Guatemala, morta quando era sotto la custodia del US Customs and Border Protection (CBP) l8 di dicembre 2018. Jackeline e suo padre Nery Caal, formavano parte di un grupo di richiedenti di asilo che hanno attraversato la frontiera di Nuovo Messico il giorno prima. Si sono consegnati alle autorità attorno alle ore 22, ma quando Jackeline ha cominciato ad stare male, a vomitare e ad avere convulsioni, sono passati ben 90 minuti prima che lei avesse atenzione medica. I dottori hanno registrato una temperatura corporale di 40.9° C. Jackelin é stata portata all'ospedale infantile di El Paso, Texas, ma ormai era troppo tardi. La presidenta dell'accademia americana di pediatria ha confermato che questo decesso era prevedibile.

 

Jackeline Caal

L'infanzia perduta e la angoscia

corrono tra gli alberi

per scapare per le vie che conducono

ad un'altra realtà.

 

Perseguitati da cani

lasciati liberi nel bosco

di nebbia, il sole si filtra

per evaporare gli incubi.

 

Il tuo piccolo corpo dentro una cassa,

piccola bambina.

 

Avevi soltanto 7 anni e hai attraversato le frontiere,

bambina maya.

I tuoi occhi chiusi portano

i sacri fiori.

 

Le tue manine non chiedono più il pane.

 

Nessuno ha dato ascolto al tuo pianto.

 

Nessuno ti ha dissetata.

 

 

La farfalla di Jackeline

 

Sognasti con aperti prati

e una casa calda

nelle montagne di nebbia.

 

Braccia intrecciate ti aspettano

per avvolgerti di felicità.

 

Vai, piena di poesia, bambina maya,

tu huipil ricamato di farfalle blu

le tue manine tranquile, piene di ricordi dorati.

i tuoi occhi chiusi, hanno ancora freddo.

 

Fiori e canto sei, bambina bella.

 

In queste pagine

una farfalla

con le ali di seta

non smette di volare.

 

 

 

The Relevance (?) of Crime Fiction Escapist Literature in Twenty-first Century USA

The following was presented by me at the 8th annual Conferencia Internacional de Literatura Detectivesca en Español (CILDE), also known as the International Hispanic Crime Fiction Conference, on September 22, 2018, on the campus of Texas Tech University in Lubbock, Texas.  It was published on La Bloga on October 26, 2018.  Much has happened since 2018.  The world is not the same, some would say it's much worse and on its last legs.  Nevertheless, I present it here again for what I consider obvious reasons.

____________________________________

THE RELEVANCE (?) OF CRIME FICTION ESCAPIST LITERATURE IN 21ST CENTURY USA

©Manuel Ramos

I thought that today I would offer my views on the relevance, and the possibility of the lack of relevance of genre fiction in today’s chaotic world. Or, as Edmund Wilson said in his infamous essay, “Who cares who killed Roger Ackroyd?”

More specifically, the genre I’m speaking about is crime fiction, and even more specific than that, I’m focusing on Latinx crime fiction: mystery or detective fiction centered in the North American communities of Latino culture.

Not that my opinions are any more legitimate than anyone else. But I do have history with the crime fiction genre: I’ve published in this genre since 1993 -- numerous short stories, ten crime novels, several presentations, panels, Q&A’s, and a lifetime of reading mysteries, detective stories, noir novels, thrillers, and almost every other category of genre fiction that ends up on the book shelves. My comments are rooted in that history.

Brutal, violent crime, unfortunately, is as old as the human race. And so is mystery storytelling. The first murder, the killing of Abel by his brother Cain, was quickly investigated by an amateur detective who tried to solve the mystery. According to the Book of Genesis, God questioned Cain about his missing sibling. He was suspicious from the get-go. After all, at that time in Earth’s history, there was a limited number of potential victims and likely suspects. Apparently, the interview, the original third degree, was so intense that the killer was reduced to whimpering, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” As if to say, “Why is everybody looking at me?”

The story of the Cain and Abel fratricide contains several constructs that a good reader of mysteries should recognize.

For example, jealousy provides the deadly motive. Envy can cause brotherly love to turn into brotherly hate, with bloody consequences.

Or, how about the act itself? Uncontrolled rage results in a cruel death. The killer tries to cover up his sin by acting as though all is calm and peaceful, and feigning ignorance of anything out-of-the ordinary.

The tough-talking detective solves the crime from scarce but important clues, a keen knowledge of human psychology, and the killer’s own mistakes. Punishment is administered, and justice prevails.

So, we could say that not only has crime existed since the human race began. The mystery story itself is just as old. And, of course, the major theme of all crime fiction was there at the beginning: good vs. evil.

Edgar Allan Poe is often credited with inventing the modern detective in his short story, The Murders in the Rue Morgue (1841.) He created Aguste Dupin, a professional detective who uses deductive reasoning to solve a particularly horrific crime, the gruesome murder of a mother and her daughter in a locked upstairs room. According to Ross Macdonald, the North American crime writer who adroitly explored the conflicts and contradictions of middle-class Southern California in the first half and middle decades of the Twentieth Century, Poe devised his detective story as “a means of exorcising or controlling guilt and horror.” Dupin solves the crime with logical reasoning, which seems out of place against the terror and fear generated by the murders of the women. But because he does solve the crime, the balance between good and evil is restored. In a way, civilization triumphs over primitive savagery. The chaos of evil is conquered by rational thought and ingenuity.

Crime fiction can do that.

I think we can agree on some of the other reasons why we read and enjoy crime fiction.

For one, our sense of justice is appeased if the bad man or woman pays for his or her crimes at the end of the book. A satisfying ending gives us closure, resolution, finality. These concepts often are missing in our day-to-day lives of repetitive appointments, missed deadlines, and ever-changing, ever-expanding schedules.

Also, we can easily see ourselves in the starring role of detective as we go from page to page, clue to clue, chapter to chapter, with the secret desire, maybe not so secret, that eventually we ourselves will resolve the mystery and beat the fictional detective to the punch. Identifying the killer before the final paragraph is a reward for careful crime fiction readers. Just as long as the puzzle is not solved too quickly, or too obviously.

And there is the thrill of danger and risk that crime fiction often provides, even if these insecurities exist only in our imaginations, spurred on by the author’s skill. But who doesn’t like a little paranoia at midnight? Who can resist the sense of foreboding brought about by a well-written crime story, the kind of foreboding that has a reader checking the doors and windows, and jumping at every unknown sound or unusual rattle? We like to be anxious, for a few minutes. We even appreciate fear, as long as we know we can close the book, take a deep breath, and make ourselves a drink.

Franz Kafka is not known as a crime fiction writer, but his thoughts on reading and books were certainly hard-boiled. He wrote:

I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow to the head, what are we reading for? So that it will make us happy …? But we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.

That's dark!

Raymond Chandler wrote about another reason we like crime fiction, although his observation went beyond the mystery story.

I’ll quote from his famous essay, The Simple Art of Murder.

All … who read escape from something else into what lies behind the printed page; the quality of the dream may be argued, but its release has become a functional reality. … [People] must escape at times from the deadly rhythm of their private thoughts. It is part of the process of life among thinking beings. It is one of the things that distinguish them from the three-toed sloth …. I hold no particular brief for the detective story as the ideal escape. I merely say that all reading for pleasure is escape …. To say otherwise is to be an intellectual snob, and a juvenile at the art of living.

But here is where the contradictions inherent in my role as a writer of escapist fiction become most apparent, which results, for me, in an inner struggle about my role as a writer, and a measurement of the value of what I create as a writer.

Let me be frank about the context from which I speak. Just for a few minutes I’ll talk about the political situation and the danger that threatens some of our basic assumptions about the United States.

I believe that in the Twenty-first Century, the United States faces a serious and perhaps existential threat from radical political groups and individuals that have marshalled their forces and are engaged in a dismantling of many of the institutions, principals, and beliefs that this country has long supported and promoted. Freedom of speech, religion, and of the press are under unrelenting attack. Racism, in all its various ugly formats, literally parades across the landscape, and in more sinister, subversive acts by powerful men and women. Decades of progress on issues such as gender equality, environmental protection, educational reform, and international relationships have been abandoned, ignored, or reversed. The government has turned its official back on the concept of providing for the general welfare of its citizens, and instead is focused on meeting the needs and desires of the financial elite and the corporate power structure. Lies have become the truth, and facts are irrelevant. Perception controls the stage. Too many of our neighbors, the people next door, hear only what they want to hear. They are too eager to buy into the latest outlandish appeal to the lowest common denominator because such appeals are easier to accept than the painful realization of the phoniness and dishonesty, and threat, of the current reality.

When I sit at my computer, and I try to imagine the next story line, or the latest twist for one of my characters, or the conflict that will move the plot forward, it can be too easy to come to a sudden stop.

It can be too easy to say, “What’s the use, why bother?”

Or, I can tell myself, “These are only stories, fictional creations that mean nothing in the bigger scheme of things.”

Or, “How can I spend my time working on a new book, when there’s so much else to do? I should be organizing on the streets, teaching in the schools, speaking up at meetings, volunteering for actions against the repressive forces that line up against everything I believe in.”

I remind myself that even the mighty Chandler thought crime fiction was merely escapist literature, without any “higher purpose,” and no one was more critical of his art than Chandler himself. He wrote in a letter, “How could I possibly care a button about the detective story as form. All I’m looking for is an excuse for certain experiments in dramatic dialogue.” Talk about being cynical.

On the other hand, I’m also reminded that great art, including literature, has been created in other times of crisis, such as the Great Depression, World War II, the presidency of Richard Nixon.

I also know that Chandler wrote until his death. He drank himself into a fairly early grave, but he didn’t give up the idea of creating, as he said, “emotion through dialogue.” Despite his cynicism, he needed to create.

And so, I often find myself, in the late night, the only light in the house radiating from my computer screen. Earlier, I listened to yet another day’s news of the latest crime against decency committed by the president of the United States and his following of parasites, sycophants, and demagogues. I am, again, tired, frustrated, and insecure. But I tell myself that I need to write a story, maybe a chapter.

Where do I find it, and how do I justify the effort?

One place to start might be in the conclusion of Ralph Rodriguez’s seminal study of Chicana/Chicano detective fiction entitled Brown Gumshoes: Detective Fiction and the Search for Chicana/o Identity. Professor Rodriguez says the following:

There can be no doubt that one reads detective novels, in part, for pleasure. These novels also serve, however, as a significant index of the social, political, and historical features of a culture.

Rodriguez adds to and explains his statement with the rather broad conclusion that “detective novels are about discerning the mysteries of identity. At the heart of their narrative … is the quest to reveal who the criminal is. In a diverse array of mystery novels, however, time and again the detective also unravels a mystery about him- or herself. The novel is as much his or her story as it is the story of the crime.”

And I would add that the best crime fiction is not about crime, but about the people touched by the crime, whether it be the detective, the criminal, or the victim.

Ultimately, my decision to write or read crime fiction must rest on a personal set of values. As a writer, I believe I am obligated to write the stories churning in my head. Fundamentally, I have no choice, and these stories must be honest and real. They must create the emotion that Chandler talked about.

One motive is selfish. I derive satisfaction from creating characters, settings, and story lines that readers will spend time on. Writing satisfies one of my creative urges.

On a bigger scale, away from the personal, crime fiction can reveal the truth, at least as the author understands that truth. One book or one writer cannot express the complete story. We must tell our immigrant stories and our coming-of-age metaphors. We have to write the histories of our communities, praise the unknown heroes, and document the universal and singular passions that are undervalued, or ignored, in today’s United States.

But, sabes qué, ultimately, it doesn’t matter what form the writing takes. We just need to ensure that the writing continues. Our story is too big, too important to be limited to one form. That’s why it is so important for Latinx writers to produce all manner of literature. From children’s’ books to multi-volume memoirs to gritty noir tales from the underground of existence.

Creative energy in the form of writing, including popular culture and genre fiction, can oppose the dark forces loose in the world -- wars, oppression, racism, hatred. The old good vs evil.

Crime fiction can be a form of resistance. In an indirect way, the author can expose social issues confronting the characters. The characters can directly oppose the current situation. A clever writer can blend plot and characters into a view of America that is not the view espoused by the hacks and flim-flam artists who think that America needs to be made “great again.” The writer’s fiction can be part of the resistance.

On a subtler level, crime fiction is inherently revolutionary. The detective, whether a police officer, private investigator, or accidental sleuth, battles against the status quo simply by trying to solve the mystery. In the classic crime fiction manner, the detective knows something is not right and it must be corrected.

In the noir variation of the classic form, the decision to change the situation usually results in serious, and sometimes deadly consequences for the detective, or the anti-hero. Still, he or she plods forward, sometimes aware of the encircling doom, sometimes caught off-guard.

And so, I too will continue to plod forward, struggling with my conflicting emotions, searching for the right character, the best plot, the ultimate caper.

It’s what I do.

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Manuel Ramos writes crime fiction.