Ok…this week’s post is a little on the long side, but not a word of waste awaits you. At the end of May, I’ll be hosting the second Latino-themed PANIC! reading, HISPANIC PANIC! and the following poets will be among the six featured writers for that. One of the great things about living in New York is all the diversity within our numerous subcategories of social groups. The two poets I interviewed for this week’s post both live in New York, are of Nicaraguan heritage (or half) and have been performing spoken word poetry for a number of years. Ladies and gentleman, meet Karen Jaime and Cristina Izaguirre…(clap!)
KAREN JAIME
So tell us where you’re from, and why you became a poet and performer.
I am a Dominican-Nicaraguan poet/performance artist originally from Long Island and currently living in Washington Heights, since 1997. I was initially inspired to write by a class I took entitled “Poetry and Politics in the Americas”, as an undergrad at Cornell. The work we read in that class—Aloud!, Willie Perdomo, Sandre Dee Cervantes, Cristina Garcia, raulsalinas—made sense and helped me to understand a bit more about what it meant to be Latin@ in Ithaca, NY. I found myself in an environment that was very suffocating and not necessarily accepting of difference. In general, as students of color, we were constantly protesting one thing or another: for a Latino Living Center, against people defacing the work of Latino artists, against students writing stuff like “Niggers Go Home” on the side of the students of color office. That environment, that dynamic fed me as an artist and gave me wonderful material to draw from. I grew up very protected and insulated by my mom and Cornell just opened that up, I found a strong community there. I look back and realize that I was blessed to be surrounded by amazing artists—Junot Diaz, James De La Vega, Yasmin Hernandez, the Welfare Poets. It felt like we were constantly producing one artist or another and feeding off of that energy in order to create our work. It was us against THEM and our work reflected that.
How does your work fit into and/or defy the style that has come to be known as “Nuyorican”? Do you find this tag limiting and what do you see in the future for New York-based queer-oriented Latino poetry and performance?
Ah. THAT question, ha ha ha. Bueno, I see “Nuyorican” operating on more than one level. I think we, Latin@s, need to respect the particularity of that term and whom it refers to. It is an umbrella term and a specific term and I like to be really careful when using it—it’s important to remember not only its history and function, but the struggles of the people to whom the term originally referred to and to those it continues to refer to, ethnic Puerto Ricans and their descendants. I function as a “Nuyorican” artist in that my experience as a Latin@ is tied into the aesthetic and brand of the Nuyorican Poets Café. It’s my home in a lot of ways. It’s where I learned how to perform and it provided me with a venue where I could present my work and find folks that were not only willing to listen, but also to help me grow and become a better, more efficacious artist. I am also “Nuyorican” in terms of aesthetic practice—I perform with a recognizable style and cadence, although I work hard to not fall into the cliché of “Nuyorican” performance with gesticulations, planned pauses, affect for affect’s sake. It’s all premeditated and doesn’t leave room for the dialectic relationship between the performer and the audience. The sing-songy stuff wears on me and unfortunately it becomes synonymous with spoken word and slam poetry in ways that are really unfair, but I digress. I am also “Nuyorican” in the way in which it is a term currently used for performers with a political message, those who create a type of “outsider” art/poetry that now has become so co-modified, it’s mainstream so…pero bueno, I hope that answers this question. As for whether I find the term limiting, I think it could be, but I look at it, analyze and write about it in so many different ways, that it’s not. I work against the stereotype and the clichés—it provides me with a useful point of departure, although I can see how it could seem limiting.
In terms of the future of Latino-oriented, queer-based poetry and performance, I think it’s growing and definitely increasing in terms of visibility. It’s difficult for me to answer these types of questions since the poetry/performance circles I run in have always been very diverse in terms of homo-, hetero-, an “anything goes” type vibe. I can honestly say that I see tremendous creative growth coming out of the West Coast. One of my favorite artists, and a dear friend, Marga Gomez moved back to San Francisco a couple of years ago and deprived NYC of her presence and amazing work. We still have Carmelita Tropicana which makes me incredibly happy. I think we as Latin@s need to work together a bit more, increase our networking and support one another, which is why I’m really looking forward to this upcoming Hispanic PANIC! 2—it’s just great to connect with other Latin@s, queer ones at that, in a great space.
What drives you to write and perform?
I used to be driven by anger—if you questioned my ethnic authenticity, I wrote a poem, you annoyed me at work, I wrote a poem, and my work was ultimately a great deal more personal because of this. Now, I tend to write more from the perspective of political critique and commentary. It’s channeled anger to a certain extent and less personal. I enjoy performing and always have in different ways. Before I performed spoken word, I was a classical cellist from the age of twelve until my freshmyn year of college. I enjoy being on stage, I enjoy hosting—I hosted at the Nuyorican for three years and at other events at different colleges and universities. For me it’s a lot more than some self-indulgent, narcissistic endeavor, although it could easily be that. I feel as if I have a responsibility to increase the number of queer brown bodies on stage, any stage. It is important for our presence to be felt, for us to be there, in the mix. The more of us that people engage and interact with, the less people can say, “Oh, I have never been around anyone who’s gay or is that some gay shit?” Well, I am doing spoken word poetry for gays, straights, browns and even whites. I might piss people off, or I might have them nodding in agreement, but ultimately, they are all listening.
The Latino experience in the USA is often a marginalized one, and being queer within that marginalization is often yet another degree of removal from mainstream values. Do you find this to be an advantage, burden or both/neither and how does this inform your work?
Well, I see my identity as intersectional. I place my ethnicity and my sexuality and gender identity side by side and have them dance a little together without touching, so no one ends up leading. This is both an advantage—in that I’m able to look at the world from a very particular perspective, and a disadvantage—in that certain things are expected and assumed. In terms of my work, no, I’m not always going to read/perform an LGBT piece, or a Latin@ piece. That for me is not interesting. I hate being limited by identitarian politics. I have my ethnic pieces, my sexuality pieces, but most of my work includes these elements of me as very matter-of-fact, not as a constant performance of self. Ultimately, I’m a firm believer in what José E. Muñoz defines as “disidentification”: I do not completely remove myself from the mainstream and reject it, nor do I assimilate or take it all in, I take what is useful and necessary for survival.
Will you share a short piece with us?
“A Letter to Keith”*
Dear Keith:
I wanna be a slam poet. I wanna get-up on a Friday night and set people’s minds ablaze. Get them so fucked up they’ll think they just smoked some ‘dro mixed with ecstasy ’cause I am taking them to places only visited by those on transcendental, chemical trips.
You see, I wanna be a slam poet so I am trying to work on writing something that I can read really, really fast.
ThisWayNooneWillUnderstandItAndItsGottaBeGoodIfItsFast right? Only if its anything like sex, fast is not always better its just faster and usually only one person gets off while the others left there waiting for the real ride to begin.
So maybe I should re-think that and just start getting up here and start talking REALLY, REALLY LOUD so people will think I am really into it, when like an orgasm I could be faking it, so loud is not always good either.
So tell me Keith, what makes a slam poet?
A headwrap worn for effect?
An “ashe” at the end of my performance?
A cry for audience participation?
A soliloquy on police brutality?
or better yet a sex poem that talks about 1,001
to continue to perpetuate the objectification of a womyn’s body….
Let me know, ’cause I stand here
my journal in my hand
trying to write something
that will get me a “10″
that will make me a crowd pleaser as I do my jig up here
as I tap, tap, tap
to the tune of someone else’s idea of what a slam poet should be.
I don’t know Keith, tell me
’cause I am ready.
I wanna be a slam poet,
I got my dance shoes on,
my pen and paper in hand
and I’m ready to jig.
CRISTINA IZAGUIRRE
So tell us who you are, where you’re from, and why you became a poet and performer.
I was born in Managua, Nicaragua and immigrated with my parents to New York City when I was about six years old. Poetry has always been in my life. My mother says that when I was about three years old, I would sit by a window in our home in Nicaragua and spontaneously come up with poetry to the moon. I was lucky enough to go to a very progressive high school (Urban Academy) which offered a poetry class. So my first “performance” was for my peers in high school. I stopped writing for a long time, but after going through some difficult times in my life I realized that I needed to find an outlet. I needed to let go of all the “-isms” that are imposed on me and people like me. I found that poetry for me did not limit any of my multiple identities of Latina/immigrant/queer/woman/sister/daughter, etc. I began not only to write, but to speak and share my experience with others in my community. Poetry is a way to heal, not just for me, but to also bridge and build community with others who are having similar experiences.
How does your work fit into and/or defy the style that has come to be known as “Nuyorican”? Do you find this tag limiting and what do you see in the future for New York-based queer-oriented Latino poetry and performance?
I’m not sure that my style either “defies” or “fits” into the “Nuyorican” style. I can only say that I don’t consider myself a “slam poet” and although I admire the form, it isn’t what I do. I see myself somewhere in between performance poet and written word poet. I find it to be a hard balance sometimes. I am conscious of the fact that I will change my written word to sound better when it’s spoken. I often wonder if I am taking away from the written word because of this, at the same time I want people to connect and understand me when I perform a piece, so I’ll tailor it for that purpose.
What drives you to write and perform?
Survival. (and see answer to first question)
The Latino experience in the USA is often a marginalized one, and being queer within that marginalization is often yet another degree of removal from mainstream values. Do you find this to be an advantage, burden or both/neither and how does this inform your work?
My experience totally informs my work. I write about being teased in school for my accent, I write about seventeen-year-old Latino boys being stabbed on street corners, and I write about making love to women. Like I said before, poetry enables me to reflect outside what I feel inside, no one gives me voice, I give myself my own voice and this is empowering. I don’t have to be limited to just writing about being “Latino” or just being “queer” because I am all those things and much more. I think that’s the wonderful thing about art/poetry: you color and shape it the way you want.
Will you share a short piece with us?
We Leave the World Outside
Beneath my red, pink, yellow stripped sheets
trace your flushed
cheeks with my thumb
kiss the corners of your mouth
Leave the world outside
See outside in the world
our kind of love
is met with purple bruises
crimson splatter concrete, fists and broken teeth
bones split so easily
words shatter sternum
“Bitch! Dyke! Faggot!
You wanna be a man?
I’ll show you what a man is”
Inside, we mend love
suture muscle and flesh
using lips and tongue
“Saturate me” you say
I let the tears fall
heavy as sin
onto your collarbone
Leave the world outside
Lover, I fear
my skin and bones
aren’t steel
aren’t enough
to protect you
To risk a kiss on the Q train
to risk touching your face
on Ocean Avenue
before the change of a traffic light
to hold your lifeline in mine
At night I dream
the world is trying to get inside
underneath our sheets
onto our bodies
I wake up gasping for air
You pull me by my chin
Pull the red, pink, yellow stripped sheets
Over our heads
“Leave the world outside.”
-C. Izaguirre 2009
Cristina’s MySpace page can be viewed at: www.myspace.com/poetryarrived
See you all next week!
HISPANIC PANIC! 2 strikes on Wednesday, May 27–more on that soon.
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“Fresh, Fresh Y’all” photo by AB Lugo, April 2009
NY Latino Journal
CV: So tell us a little about how these unusual stories came to be—they’re very different from one another and capture different moods, locations, obsessions, etc. Some, such as “Love is Intergalactic”, flirt with science-fiction and fantasy while others, such as “De un pájaro las dos alas” read as documentaries on personal experience. There is also some poetry.
“De un pájaro las dos alas,” on the other hand, was my reaction to a trip to Cuba in May of 1998. I came back pretty shell-shocked—Cuba was nothing like what I expected. Everyone thought I was there for sex tourism. I was a broke grad student attending a theater conference! And American credit cards were no good! And there were no ATMs! I wanted to learn about gay life and socialist utopias and they wanted me to pay their neighbors and brothers and friends to go to bed. Talk about bursting my bubble… The rest of the stories are mostly set in NY/NJ and in Puerto Rico, which were my usual haunts back then, before I moved to Michigan.
