… where ever “there” may be (and here, I don’t mean Oakland, which because of Gertrude Stein, is known as “there.”). For the purposes of this here blog post, “there” means not the West Coast.
When Luis Francia came to town last month, one thing he marveled about was the deep sense of history our local Filipino American community not only honors, but also carries in our collective memories/consciousness and our bodies. Certainly, our community’s ancestors brought with them here that connection to the land as rural folk and farmers who’ve poured so much of themselves into this earth, and who’ve formed kinships and communities for material and spiritual survival. Hence, a deep connection to this place. Don’t you feel it, when you are driving through the state? Not only the Steinbeck Monterey, Salinas, and Watsonville, but the Bulosan, the Philip Vera Cruz Monterey and Salinas, the Jeff Tagami Watsonville. Not only the Jack London Oakland, the Gertrude Stein Oakland, but the Vangie Buell Oakland (and hell yeah, Black Panther Oakland). Not only the Beat Poetry San Francisco, but the Al Robles San Francisco, the Jessica Hagedorn San Francisco.
I am not saying these things to again adulate the Manongs, but to underscore the presence of Filipinos not as faceless and anonymous figures on someone else’s representation of the landscape, but the doers and workers and political activists and political movement birthers and growers. Their politics were not only progressive, but radical, and necessarily so, in the face of white supremacist policy, institutional violence, and the very American imperialism which brought Americans to the Philippines (via San Francisco) and thus Filipinos to the USA.
This radicalism has evolved and grown over time, and it’s germinated in their descendants, in the TWLF and Ethnic Studies which were born of this radicalism. I come from that, both the grassroots and the cultural studies of Ethnic Studies at UC Berkeley in the 1990’s. It’s strange to think of myself as a descendant of the Manongs, as my personal background is not of the workers but of the post-1965 professionals. But I am the poet family of Al Robles, of Oscar Peñaranda, of Jeff Tagami, of Shirley Ancheta, of Catalina Cariaga, of Jean Vengua, of Vangie Buell, of Tony Robles, of Jaime Jacinto, of Jessica Hagedorn. And from here, it’s easy to see why I find kinship with such politicized California writers of color as Juan Felipe Herrera and Alejandro Murguía.
What I am saying here is retreading what I have written and presented about Filipino American literature in San Francisco, what I have written in Poeta en San Francisco, but it’s so important to articulate that my position is not one of mere advocacy and celebration of multiculturalism and diversity, but to challenge the whiteness and conservatism of American literary institutions constantly perpetuating themselves. If this is radicalism, then so be it. These beliefs are what I take with me into the institutional spaces into which I have gained entrance. It’s in my poet blood, and it’s in all the work I have consistently done as a poet, literary critic, community leader, and educator.
At last night’s SPUR San Francisco Literature panel, we were asked what that literature of San Francisco is. City Lights Books editor Elaine Katzenberger and I agreed that San Francisco literature is a literature of resistance. Whereas it used to nag at me, the inevitable comparisons between my poetry and Beat Poetry, I get it now, resistance against complacency and conservatism. The building of formidable institutions based upon an alternative vision, not simply replicating the existing institutions. Who’s with me?
11 November 2009 at 12:39 pm |
i can dig it.
11 November 2009 at 7:21 pm |
How’s this:
Way before I thought I might ever try and write, my passion in grade school was basketball. And in 5th grade, my basketball coach was Oscar Peñaranda.
His son was a classmate of mine, and I was befriended by their family and hung out with the Peñarandas quite a lot. And here’s what I remember (aside from the basketball): that Oscar taught at San Francisco State, that even in my fifth grade eyes, he seemed a man of letters and an intellectual, and it was, in a subtle way, making an impression on me. I remember Oscar always subtly, playfully…encouraging us to question accepted authority and accepted views on this and that. In other words, he was probably the first adult who was indirectly exposing me to progressive thinking.
And then July 19, 1979 happened.
And my consciousness, at the tender age of 12 or 13, of being of Nicaraguan descent, of being “Nica” began to fully flower. And I began to read the work, in translation, of Ernesto Cardenal (because I was illiterate in Spanish at that time). And all this laid the groundwork for the Anti-Reaganism that would grip me in the early 80s because of our criminal policy in Central America.
And it was around this time that I discovered City Lights and their wonderful anthology of of poetry in translation from Central America, that included the work of Roque Dalton. And it was around this time, in the early 80s, that I went to an event at the Women’s Building on 16th St. in San Francisco and heard, for the very first time, a young Francisco X. Alarcón, probably in his 20s, read a poem from anthology of San Francisco poets.
So, yeah, San Francisco as a city of resistance? I’m with you.
13 November 2009 at 9:32 am |
Thanks for this comment, Francisco. I’d forgotten you knew the Peñarandas growing up! Small world. So yes on SF landmarks such as City Lights, KSW (and also UC Berkeley, at least its radical elements) contributing to our political awakening, and possibilities of activism in art and literature. I’ve also seen some amazing performance at the Women’s Building in the Mission.
Also I just realized recently that when it’s mainly perceived that the heart and soul of my work is fostering multiculturalism or celebrating diversity that makes me bristle because there’s no political and historical analysis there. It defangs the resistance.
11 November 2009 at 9:06 pm |
word. great post.
12 November 2009 at 2:35 pm |
It’s a continuing challenge for me.
I’ve been considering: Even when my work gets accepted by mainstream institutions and systems, the radical response must also be to create alternate agencies of expression that allow, promote and accelerate risk. But do we only engage with the radical agencies, or can we maintain healthy passage between all of these institutions.
There’s an element of a poet’s life which says: if you can get paid for it, take that pay IF it doesn’t require a mercenary compromise of your work to prop up odious institutions of oppression.
That said, I honestly don’t think I can radicalize to the point where someone says: ‘All acceptance of US cash is collusion with a mechanism for suppressing legitimate cultural expression.’ Idealism is one thing, impracticality is another.
I wonder for example, when submitting manuscripts, is it better to submit work to a mainstream press or to give first option preference to a ‘press of color’, and one that only engages in oppression-free, progressive and environmentally, ecologically and economically-sound practices?
I don’t want to engage in internalized oppression and say such presses can’t meet my needs as an artist and a human being, but by the same token, the mere organization as such a press would, in my mind, require a concrete effort to engage in equitable treatment of the artists. It’s got to work for everyone.
I find myself thinking exploitation is exploitation, whether it’s by our own community or by others, and writers and artists must stand for neither.
The point for poets, is to get work out there and to change lives. We apparently don’t get to make the megamillions. Should we? To hit that point runs a high risk we’ve compromised somewhere along the line.
When opportunity permits, we should make institutions that improve conditions and opportunities for all poets, including ourselves, and hopefully become a model that creates ’successful’ poets that mainstream institutions and others study for emulation.
12 November 2009 at 3:05 pm |
Hey Bryan, thanks for your comment. Two things:
(1) It need not come to “publisher of color” versus “publisher not of color.” My experience has been that politicized publishers and editors pushing the dialogue are oftentimes not people of color, for various reasons.
(2) I also do not think it is a matter of funding/honoraria versus working for free because it’s good for the community. Artists should be valued for their work, and funding/honoraria is a part of this (we need to eat, pay for gas, etc). As well, as a community org leader, I hate the idea of not being able to afford to ever pay artists, pay for a venue, publish anthologies. In other words, not having resources to get work done. Certainly, we do a lot with gift economy, with no one getting wealthy here, but even gift economy requires some amount of capital (whether it’s a particular skill/talent, volunteer work, or $$ to name a few).
12 November 2009 at 3:28 pm
For me, I consider part of my community work is helping the community to re-imagine the role and value writers and artists play within the generation of culture, and to demonstrate that the creation of written work is as meaningful for maintaining cultural cohesion and development as, at the very least, education and entrepreneurial economics.
One of our big challenges in the Lao community has been overcoming perceptions of artists’ charity work as ’self-serving’ because ‘oh, we gave you a chance to promote your work and help our cause du jour,’ when in fact, many of those events don’t actually translate into sales, into paying gigs, or even into opportunities that allow us to push ourselves artistically.
‘We gave you time onstage’ CAN be meaningful and could build community, but all too often it’s just seconds later the writers in particular get shoved off with shouts of ‘bring on the dancin’ girls! bring on the sexy singer!’ or something like that.
It was a little irritating this year when, given a chance, certain festival organizers chose to pay the white practitioner of a khaeng, fly him in, pay for his hotel and meals, and on the other hand, I and other writers and artists had to pay our own tickets, hotels and meals and didn’t even get an honorarium. There’s just something wrong with that.
But, it’s an amazing world.
13 November 2009 at 9:52 am |
Bryan, re: “For me, I consider part of my community work is helping the community to re-imagine the role and value writers and artists play within the generation of culture, and to demonstrate that the creation of written work is as meaningful for maintaining cultural cohesion and development …”
Yes. I’ve said in the past, and I continue to believe this very much; the work we do as artists is crucial to the community. But there has to be a way to communicate this value to the community in its various aspects. It’s no good to chide or scold or take a position of righteousness or superiority about it. NOT SAYING YOU DO THIS! This is just some current conversations I’ve been having with other artists and community arts org leaders in my community about how to bridge.
It’s challenging work. Your last example of that double standard – that totally sucks. That’s the kind of stuff we need to be calling our communities out on. Again, it’s a matter of how we say it.
13 November 2009 at 10:07 am |
At the end of the day, I feel like this is the good work. I’m tired of being made to feel like poetry and literature is the broccoli and brussels sprouts of the arts scene and culture, especially revolutionary work. Sheesh, people. Have you checked out Marilyn Chin’s new novel, by the way? Interesting stuff.