Jonathan Garcia and Dr. Susan Howe, Department of English

When we studied modern American poets in Dr. Howe’s Poetry 319 class, I wondered if there were also Salvadoran-American poets out there, as both my parents immigrated to the U.S. from El Salvador in the 1980s, fleeing a bloody civil war. At the same time I had also started writing a few family-themed poems. Finding William Archila, Leticia Hernandez-Linares, and Jorge Argueta’s work online, I felt an immediate kinship. Their works inspired much of my final where I submitted a chapbook as well as an essay exploring my place in the contemporary American scene. Dr. Howe saw me beginning to catch on fire and told me to keep researching.

Prior to finding these poets, I wrote off my “Salvadoraness” as culturally inferior to my “Americaness.” Like I had to apologize for where my parents came from, and by extension, who I was. To smother the shame, I absorbed everything American—hence my American Studies major—because it was ubiquitous and real. Because who’s ever even heard of a Salvadoran poet, much less a Salvadoran-American poet? In his poem “Roque”, Archila says El Salvador is “small as a paper cut, that tiny republic tattooed on your body.” By reading these poems I found paper cuts all over my body. And discovered tattoos I never knew I had.

I saw the ORCA posters all around campus and asked Professor Howe if she could help me apply. I got bold and proposed to travel to Los Angeles and San Francisco to interview the poets. I wanted to ask them how they negotiated their cultural dualities, developed their styles, and overcame their literary challenges. Working with Professor Howe, I would infuse the transcriptions with research and then publish the piece in academic journals. And, of course, finish my chapbook. My proposal was accepted.

When I told Dr. Howe, she emailed back saying, “HOORAY!! Not that I’m surprised; your project is significant and has great potential.” Her enthusiasm bolstered my desire to see it through. Thereafter we crafted an email to send out to the poets, requesting the interviews. Nearing the end of the semester, we agreed to keep updated through email.

I did not know what to expect. Some poets are intensely private individuals. I agonized over sending the email, fearing rejection. Surprisingly, all three poets responded positively, two even saying they would be honored to be interviewed by another “Salvy.” Especially rewarding was William’s reciprocity. Originally, I had emailed a PDF of my chapbook, Isaiah Chapter 2, and he was interested in my family, my religious beliefs, and the genesis of the project. We finally settled on meeting July 14 in Pasadena. With the interview dates set, I informed Dr. Howe and she gave me invaluable advice: 1) purchase a digital recorder, 2) ask open-ended questions, and 3) refer specifically to their work. I have room to tell you about two interviews.

I invited William to lunch and we ate at a Japanese restaurant on Colorado Street. He wore shorts and tennis shoes. He asked me about my trip and in no time we started talking about his own journey. He spoke about immigrating to the United States and the inevitable culture shock. He related how in 1992, at the signing of the Salvadoran civil war armistice, he traveled back and felt alienated in his homeland. And how upon returning to the United States he experienced the same thing. This alienation brought him to write. His first book, published in 2009, was titled The Art of Exile.

I never lived the civil war, but my parent’s stories left deep enough impressions on me to know that Salvadorans, if anything, are people who suffer–long and hard. Yet catharsis came in openly talking about things that mattered so deeply to the both of us. Afterwards, we went across the street to the Zona Rosa Caffé and I pulled out the recorder. Now I was able to plumb deeper. William kindly left the door open for me to ask any follow-up questions. The next day William and his wife, Lory Bedikian, 2012 winner of the Philip Levine Poetry Prize, invited me to a small reading in Tarzana. There, I firsthand savored the poetry of these two exceptional writers. Undermining my prior prejudices of poets as aloof, persnickety, and obtuse, both William and Lory invited me to come visit them whenever in Los Angeles. They wished me luck on my next two interviews.

I had never traveled to San Francisco. A couple of days later, I hopped into my silver 2003 Toyota Tacoma and headed north on I-5. The city isn’t honored with enough poems. The beauty of the bay, the Golden Gate Bridge, the sheer city poised on a candlestick. It’s a miracle I didn’t drive off the Oakland Bridge because I kept gawking out the window. As I exited off Cesar Chavez Boulevard, and into the Mission neighborhood, it reminded me of Latin American. The small, claustrophobic streets, the colorful wall murals of brown women with water jars balanced on their shoulders, the fruit stands and the taco carts and the laundromats. People walking everywhere.

I walked into La Victoria Café and took a seat, waiting a few minutes for Leticia. She is a small woman, and she had pulled her hair back into a pony tail. She ordered a coffee and welcomed me to San Francisco. As soon as she spoke, however, I realized that whatever she lacks in stature, she makes up for in pizzazz. Transcribing the interview later on, I needed to lower the speed 60% to catch everything she said.

Having one interview under my belt, I once again got bold. I knew that Leticia could take the heat. Her chapbook Razor Edges of My Tongue, which she has recently rewritten and released as Mucha Muchacha–Too Much Girl, includes a line that implies that Salvadorans—notorious for being small but wonderfully fertile people—are like a “cucka people,” a.k.a. “cockroach people.” They keep multiplying, no matter how much you kill them. And considering the Salvadoran oligarchy is infamously known for its historic killings of the campesinos, or peasants, I asked her to explain how she could, frankly, write something so politically loaded. She laughed her raucous laugh, saying no one had ever asked her that.

I offered to walk Leticia to her car so she could give me a copy of Mucha Muchacha–Too Much Girl. She asked me who had accompanied me, who I was staying with, if I had ever been to San Francisco. I didn’t know my plans yet (I was still waiting to hear from Jorge), and I told her I had come alone. She said, “You’re so brave; and that is so Salvy.” People who believe in you endow your life with bursts of confidence and visions of light. Now I count Dr. Howe, William, and Leticia as friends. This is not a project anymore, nor an assignment, nor a summer adventure. I still have work to do. But my project has spring boarded me into asking questions about myself, my countries, and the people who people them–without fear or shame.