Poetry News and Videos

Back in November 2009, I, along with L.A. poet Rafael Alvarado, started a reading series at the Arroyo Seco Central Library in Highland Park with help from our library contact and librarian, Erika Montenegro. Our inaugural reading was a huge hit with readings from PEN Emerging Poet, Erika Ayon, myself, and famous L.A. writer, editor, and community activist Luis Rodriguez, author of Always Running: La Vida Loca: Gang Days in L.A.

The event was covered by a local L.A. public access station. You can check out excerpts from our readings and interviews from the story below.




And for a little inspiration, check out this video of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez singing, "Deportee 1976." Thank you Christina for passing this on to me.

Enjoy! And let's remember that poetry, politics, and the people are rarely exclusive of each other.

Peace, Love, and Community.

Lito Aquino Part II: American Life and Philippine Memories

Lito Aquino, first-cousin of Pilipino politician and activist Ninoy Aquino, is kind in opening up his home to me on a sunny Los Angeles afternoon in September. Him, his wife Coy, and preteen son, treat myself and their other guests (his adult daughter and son-in-law) to a large spread of of homemade Pilipino cuisine before we head into the living room to conduct our interview around a coffee table.

Left to right: Coy Aquino (wife), Andrew Aquino (son), Elizabeth Myers (daughter from previous marriage), and Lito Aquino

After speaking for nearly a half-an-hour, Coy surprises us with the traditional Pilipino desert, Halo-halo. Lito explains that Halo-halo means "mix" and that the dessert is a mix of shaved ice, ice cream, banana, jack fruit, and beans. The lavender taro ice cream is smooth and rich on my tongue, and the bits of bean and fruit make for lovely chewable surprises between crunching ice shavings. Everyone takes a break to scoop out mouth fulls. I wonder how Lito has been able to mix his Pilipino self with his American self. I wonder if this glass of swirling flavors is not unlike his journey to life in America. Or do the tastes of taro and jack fruit simply remind him of life in his home country? This is what mixes in my mind as we continue.

Immigration Project: Do you ever think about going back?

Lito Aquino: I would have to say I am too Americanized. I’ve told everybody—including Coy—her mom (gesturing to his daughter) was a great influence on me. We were married for ten years, we never quarreled. We talked civilly, and well, that is Pilipino culture too. But American culture is good because here, if you work hard, you do your job, you do good to people, you mind your own business, usually they don’t mind you. In the Philippines, when you are doing good all the necks are up—they are like this (he raises his hand to his chin and stretches his neck up and shifts his eyes like someone peering over a fence)—to find out what you are doing. They try to tell people about you. The good things about you, the bad things about you, and if they envy you, they mostly tell the bad things about you. And if they want favors from you, you really don’t know who they are. They may seem like your friends, like they would give their life for you, but you turn your back and there is a snake biting you. That’s what I didn’t like.

If I went home and they knew I was the first cousin of Ninoy, people would start asking me for favors, and maybe one day I would say yes, and then people will be coming to me expecting me to help them because I am an Aquino. I don’t want to be in that position, and that is one of the things that I learned from my family. We don’t give favors, especially to family. We were taught to help people in a [privileged] position is not right because you are taking advantage of your powers. That’s why the Philippines are always corrupt because of [favors], the old system. But in our family, and in Ninoy’s family— The Aquinos are never like that.

IP: What were some fond memories of life in the Philippines?

LA: The memories that really speak to me were how we were raised. On Saturdays and Sundays, instead of living the life a rich boy, [my father] would bring us to the hacienda and let us work the farm. At that time we didn’t have trucks, we had water buffalo that plowed the field. We had to do what the farmers were doing: ride the [water buffalo], plow the field, take out the grass. Just like the farmers. No special treatment because [my father] wanted us to know where the harvest was coming from. And he was always telling us, “Respect the farmers. Respect the farmers because what is coming to you is coming from their sweat. So respect them.” That’s how we were treated.

IP: Knowing you lived a privileged life in Philippines, would you go back to it if you could?

LA: Here it was hard at first. If someone saw me now living in this dump, they won’t believe it. They would never expect that I would live in this kind of dump and do the work that I do for [my wife], and my son.

But I cannot handle [the Philippines] anymore, especially now. People are going hungry left and right. If I go there I would want to help, but I can’t afford to help. I would rather live like this.

And you know what? I am very happy in this kind of life. I never have to think how much I will have tomorrow. How much money will I have to spend on other people? I don’t have those problems. In the Philippines, I think the richer you are the more problems you have because of the culture, and the situation there. And in the present condition, nah, I don’t think so. I think I’ll die here. I’ll die here.

IP: You mentioned that your second wife—your daughter’s mother—helped you become more Americanized? How do you mean? Can you give me an example?

LA: Like being prompt. In the Philippines if someone asks you what time you are coming for dinner, you say, “maybe seven o’clock.” When you say seven o’clock you show up around 9 or ten. That’s Pilipino time. [Coy] hates me for this because I stick to the rule that you are either 15 minutes early or 15 minutes late. So whenever I make an appointment, I’m there. I am never late. That’s Americanized.

(Coy walks into the room from the kitchen and Lito asks if she can pick out a way he is Americanized. Right away she says, “Time. He can never be late. Even for parties, we have to be early.” They joke about a party they arrived for a half-an-hour early and won a trip to Catalina for being prompt.)

IP: What were the hardest things to get used to when you first came to the U.S.?

LA: Finding a job. First of all, I was not a yet a permanent resident, I was a tourist when I came here, and people told me, “you’ll have trouble.” The hardest thing was finding a job when you don’t know how. I found a lot of tricks.

Do you want to know what they are?

IP: Sure, I need a job.

LA: When I came here I had a very high resume. I thought putting my resume for an application would do me good. Later, I found out I was rejected because—you see some high executive at Jack in the Box where I worked told me this—it’s wrong for you to tell the resume you have to the vice president because they will be afraid of you taking their place. They told me, “Say you are high school graduate.” So I said it, and I got a job.

IP: What was your first job when got here?

LA: Assistant manager for Jack in the Box (he shows a wide smile).

Lito in Los Angeles circa 1978

Oh, it was hard. You see, in the Philippines when they say “manager” you are somebody. When I saw the listing for “assistant manager” I said, “Manager, aha!”

So I interviewed and I passed the interview because I said I was a high school graduate. And I got the job as assistant manager, and low and behold, I found out that an assistant manager working with Jack in the Box at that time was just a name. The manager would assign me to the graveyard shift. But when you close they tell you a lot of things you should do because you are assistant manager. And there were always cuts I had to make by the end of the day. I had to meet the [ordered cuts], or I get fired. So I would cut the schedule for the grill person and do the grill at closing time. I cut the schedule for the maintenance person to save time and labor, and I would do the maintenance. I was cleaning everything, even the toilets and garbages, and I would get home at one and your mom (speaking to his daughter) would be so upset with me: “Why do you have to do this thing?” I said, “Because we have to have money. I have to give you something.”

Valentine's Day Contest

Last month I entered my poem, "Quinceañera Serenata," (inspired by photos and interviews from Chavez Ravine by Don Normack) to Trellis Magazine's Valentine's Day poetry contest. Trellis Magazine is a great source for new as well as experienced poets for publishing, inspiration, and knowledge. They always have fun contests and great informative links.

I am excited to announce that my poem was selected to be part of their current Inspired Poetry: for Valentine's Day issue. The contest took 12 classic love poems (Shakespeare, Lord Byron, Liz Bar Browning) and asked participants to write a new poem inspired by the form, imagery, theme, etc of one of the originals.

Click here to see the current issue in PDF form. Poem is on 26 with notes on 27.

I hope everyone finds love and inspiration this Valentine's Day!

For My Grandmother: An L.A. Story

From left to right: my father, grandmother, mother, and me

In my search and thirst for the past, for the faces of our history, I have forgotten the faces that brought me to the subject of immigration in the first place. I have forgotten that the story isn’t always something out there in the world, but something right here inside my own home, inside my own family.

This past Saturday my family decided to have a Catholic mass in my grandmother’s (my father’s mother) honor. In December my grandmother was in the hospital after she suffered an episode, which many of us feared was a stroke, and that our worst fear––the inevitable truth of her passing––was upon us. Watching her, my tiny grandmother, skin as delicate as tissue paper, struggling and crumpled in her hospital bed, I tried to hold back tears, as I suspect we all did, in what seemed like an attempt to keep this fragile creature from dissolving.

Thankfully, it wasn’t a stroke, and she was back in her Boyle Heights home by Christmas Eve. To celebrate, we had a mass said in her honor this past weekend in a small Catholic church, Mission San Conrado, up above Solano Avenue, in the shadow of Chavez Ravine and Dodger Stadium.

Yesterday, once again looking through Don Normark’s photos from the book, Chavez Ravine, 1949: A Los Angeles Story, I came across a black and white landscape shot of Solano Avenue and the north slope of La Loma. The homes of La Loma are gone now, but the church, the site of my grandmother’s mass, stands at the foot of that hill, and it is still green, still looking untouched. After the mass, my brother Andres took his son Armando and our nephew Gabrielito up the steps behind the church, past the ceramic alter to the Virgin Mary, to explore this greenery. I wasn’t up there with them, but I’m sure the boys played pirate, adventurer, conqueror, as I’m sure the boys of La Loma did 60-70 years earlier.

Inside the church, during the homily, the priest (speaking only in Spanish) addressed my grandmother, who with the help of her youngest daughter slowly rose to her feet. He asked her, are all your children here? She nodded. And are these young people your grandchildren and great-grandchildren? She smiled and nodded.

Some of the great-grandchildren attempting to sing for their great-grandmother

And señora, he asked, where are you from in Mexico? Teocaltiche (a small pueblo in Jalisco, Mexico), someone in the aisles assisted. Is anyone else here from Teocaltiche? My father raised his hand high up and let a proud grin spread wide over his face. And señora, how long have you been here? My grandmother laughed, shyly keeping her glance low in what seemed like an old school sign of respect for clergy, Cincuenta años. Fifty years, she told him.

And here I was trying to find an L.A. story, lamenting the loss of the culture and people of Chavez Ravine, not realizing that culture still lived in here. Normark’s photos illustrate a lost town, but the hills are still here, the Spanish is still here, and family is still here.

In 1949, Normark stumbled into Chavez Ravine. In 1949 my grandmother was raising three young children in a poor pueblo in Jalisco, Mexico (my father once told me how they didn’t have electricity in Teocaltiche, and that the children waited for full moons to play out in the streets at night). In 1949, the inhabitants of Ravine's La Loma, Bishop, and Palo Verde communities grew their own vegetables and milked their own goats that grazed along the green hills all around their homes. In 1949, my father scaled the hills surrounding his town with his grandmother to collect nopales (cactus) to accompany the simple meal of frijoles, chile, and tortillas that his mother was preparing back home for dinner.

My father, first on the left, with his siblings, cousins, and grandfather in Teocaltiche, Mexico

And now in 2010, sixty-one years later, the houses on the hill of La Loma are gone, but my family thrives. And my small, unassuming grandmother stands in a church beaming with pride to be surrounded by her still growing family of seven children, nineteen grandchildren, and twenty great-grandchildren. And in an hour two of those great-grandchildren, Armando and Gabrielito, will be conquering the hill just outside. And somehow, there is comfort in knowing nothing is ever completely gone.

Chavez Ravine: A Los Angeles Story

Before Lasorda and Valenzuela, before we bled blue, before Dodger Stadium Chavez Ravine was a collection of three sleepy communities–La Loma, Bishop, and Palo Verde–existing in the hills sandwiched between downtown and Elysian Park. There, poor, mostly Mexican-American families made their homes out of shacks and makeshift dwellings, but when a young photographer, Don Normark, stumbled upon the inhabitants of Chavez Ravine, he felt he "had found a poor man's Shangri-la." He had found three communities full of life, pride, and strength. Of course, most know that the homes that once scattered across the hillsides where vacated and bulldozed, at first for a public housing project, but later the public land was sold to private investor, Walter O'Malley for Dodger Stadium. So what was once a vibrant Mexican-American enclave hidden in the hills of Los Angeles became the site of the major Los Angeles professional sport institution known as The Dodgers.

What is especially astounding to me is that Normark accidentally stumbled on to La Loma, Bishop, and Palo Verde, when he was searching for a wide shot of downtown, but was so inspired by the place that he came back more than a dozen times with his camera in hand. Little did he know, nor the subjects of his photographs know, that the place he was capturing would soon no longer exist.

And now because of the work of a young, novice, but inspired photographer, we have a look back at a time and a way of life that has become obsolete in wide-spread industrialized Los Angeles.This is one of my favorite photos. He is demanding his own poem.

The book, Chavez Ravine, 1949: A Los Angeles Story, is full of Normark's black and white photos and is accompanied by interviews with the people who once lived there. It is an amazing source, and a reminder of a simpler time when neighbors knew one another, and L.A. was green and untouched.

Here is a portion of a poem inspired by Normack's photographs and one woman's memories of life in the ravine:

Quinceañera Serenata

“And what was really, really special was that on Saturday, five o’ clock in the morning when the sun was coming out, the boys used to play the guitar and serenade everybody, and it was so beautiful to hear the music in Spanish.” ––Carmen Torres Roldan

Mi quinceañera, en tela blanca,
como linda flor de la mañana,
blushes before an open window’s light.
A virgin veil sweeps black coquettish eyes,
and hands hold prayers like fiery drama.

Dawn calls me to sing my serenata
for this child-bride, this niña querida,
versus for young apricot cheeks. Ayay,
mi quinceañera.


Poem Notes:

The form of this poem is a rondeau. It is missing the final stanza for publication purposes.

A quinceañera is the celebration of a girl turning 15 years-old. It can also refer to a girl who is turning 15. This Mexican tradition is still very prevalent among Mexican-Americans.

Publishing News

This month, I am excited to share the unbelievable news that I have poems published in the fall issues of two fantastic journals:

The Los Angeles Review Issue 6-"Photograph of a Secret"

PALABRA Issue 5-"El Capitan of Isla Negra"

Both of these poems are examples of my attempts at magical realism, and are inspired by South American writers Luis Borges, Pablo Neruda, and the colors, language, and images of that rich continent.

Now back to my other work. This week I am conducting an interview with Kaliso Mwanza, an immigrant from Zambia. His story of struggle and triumph is incredibly inspiring considering he escaped a life-threatening situation in Zambia only to find himself in an impossible one, nameless and without representation inside U.S. detention centers.

More on Kaliso and Lito Aquino: Part II, to come soon.

Lito Aquino Interview Part I: Escaping Marcos, Martial Law, and Possible Death

Julio “Lito” Aquino, Pilipino immigrant and first cousin of Benigno "Ninoy" Aquino, sat down to talk with me in his modest home in central Los Angeles. Sitting in a cramped kitchen elbow to elbow with Lito, his 11-year-old son, adult daughter from his second wife, and son-in-law we begin to dig into a heaping pile of pancit (Pilipino noodles) and a large pot of chicken stew prepared by his third (and current) wife, who sits close by in case any of their guests need anything. As we eat, Lito coaches me on how to season my pancit with fish sauce and Pilipino limes that look like miniture round oranges. Barely touching his plate, he excitedly shares a memory from childhood; a memory it is clear his children have heard many time before.

"We Aquino's were society, but we weren't treated like rich kids. No way," he tells me. Though they lived a hacienda livelihood, his father demanded the children spoke to everyone, especially the servants, with respect. "We had to call them sir or ma'am. And if we didn't," he shakes his hand and scrunches up his face as if to say it meant trouble.

“’Julio!’ my father yelled. I knew I was in trouble when he called me Julio. ‘Bring the barracuda.’” He informs me that his father kept a stuffed barracuda tail above the doorframe of his office that was used for punishing major infractions. This time, it was a maid who accused Lito of not speaking to her with respect. “I don’t know if I did, but he took that barracuda in his hands” he pantomimes stretching a long object between his hands and bringing it down, “Kha! Kha! With the barracuda, and woo, it hurt.” He laughs and pretends to rub his bottom as he might have as a small child.

Lito in September 2009 holding a childhood picture of himself

Memories like these bring joy to Lito. These are the stories he tells his children over and over again in hopes to instill some of sense old country respect in American children, but not all memories are so warm.

We move from the kitchen to living room, where a popular Pilipino talk show, hosted by Kris Aquino--daughter of Ninoy and Corazon Aquino--plays on a large T.V. that takes up most of north wall of the room. He points out that the host is his niece, and this is the gateway needed for Lito to begin a story where the villains are much more dangerous than a stuffed barracuda.

IP: Why did you leave the Philippines in April 1977?

Lito Aquino: I had a warrant of arrest. Being the first cousin of Benigno Aquino during Marcos' martial law [was dangerous]. Marcos was looking for close relatives of Ninoy because at that time they accused him of being a Communist. And when they imprisoned him they wanted a close relative associated with him [to find] reasons to keep him there.

I was working at the Philippine National Bank [at the time]. I was one of the top executives, but because of intrigues, because people wanted my position, because I was the first cousin of Ninoy Aquino they started putting out news and gossips about me that I am trying to sabotage a program of Marcos. I had the privilege [in my state position] to run three provinces—[The government program] subsidized farmers and the land, and the government would buy fertilizer and things like that for the farmers. People who were trying to bring me down started telling that I was trying to sabotage that program. But because I’m an extrovert people would tell me things, even those who were in the opposite camp. They would say, “you better be careful. There are people who want your position. Anything can happen.”

This photo captures Lito receiving an award from the National Bank in 1971

Then a connected friend in the government told me that I have to be aware because a warrant was being issued on my name. Then a runner came to my house to tell me the warrant was issued and said, “If you want to leave or hide, you should do it.” But by that time, I was already prepared. I was ready to leave, and I had a visa because my mom and my grandma were already gone.

I was [snuck] out of the airport because a General in charge of the airport was a friend of mine. He let me sit in his office, and when the plane was about to take off they brought me to the plane.
[By the time they] sent the warrant of arrest, I was not at home. I was already on my way out. And all my clearances were Okayed because I had friends [in government] who got clearances for me. That was the only way you could get out. All I had to do was board the plane.

IP: This was during Marcos’ martial law?

LA: You know, the first year, people like me, and people in society appreciated martial law because it turned out that martial law educated and disciplined the waywards. People would rather not commit corruption because they would be jailed. But then after the first year, when relatives and friends of the First Lady, Imelda Marcos, started wanting to eat a part of the pie that’s when corruption started again. And the poor got poorer, and the sick— You know. And we were back at the same ol’ thing. And there was no democracy, no liberty now. They were free to get you, pick you up, put you in jail, kill you, or what they called—we have a term—salvaged.

IP: They would salvage people? What does that mean?

LA: You’re salvaged. You’re cut. They kill you. They bring you somewhere in a remote area, and no one finds you anymore. You’re dead. You are disappeared and no one knows where to find you, so they said you were salvaged. Gone.

The worst part is that they would go to your house, and they would do anything. Threaten your whole family. And if you didn’t go with them, they would shoot you. Literally shoot you, take you, or torture you. Before you get salvaged they want to get any information. They torture you to the max, and then after getting the information, if they think you need to be salvaged, they salvage you.

IP: And no one knows what happens to you?

LA: Sometimes there are graves, but even now, they don’t know where they are. They are still missing. But some were not salvaged, but kept as prisoners. They were kept in prisons for a long time.

IP: Might this have happened to you, had you stayed?

LA: I would have been [interrogated] to make a case against Ninoy. Maybe, if I was tortured that much— I really don’t know. It only takes so much, as much as you can handle. But if maybe—God—maybe I would have said anything they wanted just to get them off me, and they would have used it. And then, maybe, I would be salvaged.

IP: Knowing all this, what was it like when you left?

LA: When the plane took off [that day] I was still in Philippine territory. If they find out that I am on that plane they could have told the pilot, “Bring it back.” So until I left the Philippine territory my heart was like this (Lito pounds his hand against his heart). Because as soon as they find out that I disappeared—

It was only two/three hour difference from when they went to my house, and maybe the people who went to my house thought I went into hiding. They didn’t know I was leaving. So instead of going to the airport they sent people out to look for me. As a matter of fact, two days after I left I was in the newspaper. It said, “Julio Aquino in Canada.” They didn’t know I was here.