This is a follow-up to my original post on Gelacio Guillermo’s response to Eugene Gloria’s poem, “To Gellacio Guillermo in Iowa City.”
A fellow Filipina writer has brought up some very good points in an email discussion elsewhere, reminding me that the poem in question is an old poem, probably written in the 1990’s or so. And this is something I was just saying yesterday evening: to be fair, the poem was written a long time ago and that after reading Hoodlum Birds, I consider Eugene Gloria a virtuoso. The only reason why I am reading and responding to this older poem now is because Guillermo has just found the poem and has just written and published a response to the poem.
This fellow Filipina writer also reminds me that the poet’s audience and readership must be considered. How do Filipino American writers and other “ethnic” writers portray our cultural and historical artifacts, i.e. “foreign” words and “foreign” objects, to mainstream American literary institutions.
I am also conscious that I have asked some critical questions of a fellow Filipino American poet’s work, and that can be construed as anti-community. I certainly don’t intend this at all. I am trying to understand how we have grown or changed or evolved as a literary community.
Nick Carbó’s anthology Returning a Borrowed Tongue (Coffeehouse Press, 1995) contains a rather comprehensive introduction on English language Filipino poetry (both Philippines-based and Filipino American), and he discusses nostalgia for the Philippines as a prevalent theme in contemporary Filipino poets’ works. I think the poem in question fits neatly in this category.
Still, even in poems of nostalgia, I think the question of to whom we are writing about ourselves is important. I believe that as readers, figuring out who the poetic speaker is, and who poet and the poetic speaker are addressing is important in understanding the poem. That said, I still question why the speaker in this poem is an unnamed Filipina daughter of a colonel, and why she is addressing Guillermo. I question whether her language and how she treats the historical events she cites are consistent with how a Filipino would address a fellow Filipino, how a Filipino would discuss certain Filipino issues with another Filipino.
Carbó’s introduction also discusses the politicized/activist Bay Area 1960’s-1970’s Flips scene of which, despite my post-1965 immigrant status, I think of myself as a descendant — Liwanag, Kearny Street Workshop, the Bay Area Pilipino American Writers (BAPAW). He names Jaime Jacinto, Virginia Cerenio, Serafin Syquia, Jessica Hagedorn, and Al Robles as some of the key figures, who concerned themselves with grassroots, community-based workshops. Carbó states that these folks never reached any levels of national success, “however intensely felt and well-organized this assertion of Filipino writing was in the Bay Area.”
[Interesting that he includes Hagedorn in this part of the discussion, given that no other Filipino American writer's achievements equals hers.]
I bring up Carbó’s discussion of the Bay Area Flips to address the issue of poetic addressee. My longtime experiential knowledge of these Bay Area Flip poets tells me that they/we were/are addressing one another, transcribing what we otherwise always relied upon oral tradition to keep alive — old and ongoing stories of our communities and families. So then these Flips prioritized the vernacular, the local, or the locale, the farms where asparagus and broccoli were harvested, the crab fisheries of Naknek, Alaska, the Pajaro River Valley, the Richmond District, the Fillmore, SoMa.
I am wondering if in “talking to ourselves,” in using insider/familiar language/vernacular, we necessarily sacrifice “national renown” by lessening the numbers of readers who would be able to understand this language and these reference points. I am wondering then, if this is the opposite of what I read in Eugene’s poem, for in writing as the other and addressing the mainstream institution, our familiar artifacts invariably come to be handled as foreign objects, and that there is no place for familiar (never mind “intimate” at this point) language in these poems.
I refer to Carbó’s introduction, which was published in 1995, because I feel like Eugene Gloria’s poem belongs in that context. And both I see as rather outdated.
But I was mentored by Filipino poets of national, international, as well as local renown, and so I grew up in poetry not subscribing to the belief that (inter)national and local, elevated poetic diction and vernacular cannot coexist, or that they must negate one another.
To which I have responded:
I would like to clarify my position on poets participating in the production and propagation of state sanctioned ideology, and poets existing and participating in a/the/our capitalist system: We do.
The romanticism I describe above, of poets and artists as the “soul” of a society does not preclude our participation in mainstream culture and economy, if only as consumers in our everyday lives, payers of mortgages and taxes. Our participation in this economy does not/should not negate our ability to be thinking people, critical of this economy, nor to live mindfully and to enact sustainability within it.
More pointedly, so many of us poets are invested in publication, in manuscript submissions to contests and awards (i.e. mediation and approval of/by editorial bodies). Many of us participate in the machine called the MFA, with no guarantees on our investment’s return. Many of us poets participate in this English and Western-centric system, knowledgeable and reminded constantly that we and our both radical and nuanced differences are unwelcome here. Even when we are directing our work towards independent publishers and DIY projects, we are acknowledging literary institution by positioning ourselves in relation to it. It is this totality I think of when I think of “Official Verse Culture.”
While I agree with François, I also believe that if I were to operate wholly on theory, then futility at any attempts to eschew “Official Verse Culture,” would set in, and I would do nothing. It is not even that I would take it “underground” to my “peeps”; I just wouldn’t seek publication, and more so, I wouldn’t write. And then I would have nothing to share with a community. Ultimately, I wouldn’t be a poet. I’d go live in the suburbs, drive a massive gasoline uber-consuming vehicle, and do something societally and gender respectable, like have no opinion.
So, does our nomination of Juan Felipe Herrera for California Poet Laureate mean anything within “Official Verse Culture”? I believe that it does. Similarly, [unnamed important literary person] has just told me s/he has nominated Al Robles for San Francisco Poet Laureate, and it’s clear to me this unnamed person also believes the visibility of this poet activist advocate is meaningful. It is not because we demand these figures to speak for us, but because they have enacted and continue to enact their poetics and politics. In doing so, they have provided us with very concrete blueprints for our own actions and activisms as poets with political consciousness. If we keep relying on poet activists like Herrera and Robles to be our “voice,” then we have missed the point entirely.
I am reminded of Nikki Giovanni’s recent Oakland Museum event. She read poetry and spoke much about her mother and sister, Sarah Vaughn, Rosa Parks, and what these women meant to her, to her community, to American history. During the Q&A, a young man asked her if she had any advice on how a young brother could address women’s issues and feminism not just in his poetic work, but in his life. Ms. Giovanni responded firmly: haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve been talking about for the past couple of hours?