La guerra de los poetas:
National Poetry Month in Laredo

Friday, April 5, 2002
Laredo Center for the Arts
7:00 p.m.

The middle-aged man wearing large glasses and a tan shirt with blue oval patches on the elbows, has never -- as far as I can recall -- read at any of the local open-mic readings over the past four years. Then, suddenly tonight he appeared and requested that he be introduced as Poet Laureate of Laredo and be allowed to read first. I had heard that such a person existed, that several years ago he was granted the title by City Hall, and that he hands out business cards on which he identifies himself as "Poeta Laureado" and "Autor" of two books, which he lists by title. When he asked to read before everyone else, organizers Lucinda Farrokh and Carol Brochin graciously assented even though his request intruded on the scheduled program. The event was intended to feature area students and teachers who had written work for the Border Voices radio program, which was being produced by National Public Radio and sponsored by the National Writing Project and our local South Texas Writing Project site.
With the Channel 55 cameras humming, Carol and Lucinda welcomed everyone, explained the significance of what the students had written, and described the Border Voices program. Then, Lucinda read the proclamation from City Hall, declaring -- in the mayor's absence -- that April is National Poetry Month in Laredo, and introduced the unexpected guest. When he came to the mic, he emphasized in all seriousness, "I am the poet laureate of Laredo," and pointed out that some of the "200 poems" he had written have "profound meaning." As he stood at the podium looking down at the fourth and fifth graders from San Ygnacio and Laredo, he explained that he chose "an easier poem that can be understood by the children," one about San Agustin Plaza. He pointed over his shoulder toward the plaza, read, and sat down.
Then, one by one the student writers came to the podium. The small ones stood on a box so they could reach the microphone, like Elsa Torres in a Tweety Bird tee shirt, who read "Mariposas:" "Quisiera ser el agua falling in a waterfall or / pajaros singing in the trees.../ I am not a tadpole ready to turn into a rana. / I live on the border still learning to swim." And later, Theresa Moss, with long brown hair and a black top, stood beside the podium to read from her piece "San Ygnacio, San Ignacio." Her voice was clear and melodic as she described nature's relationship with the border: "The catfish that feast on sardines in the dark green waters of the Río Grande aren't aware of the barriers the border represents." And others followed, reading in strong voices about the good and the bad of la frontera, their home, and then strode back to their chairs, smiling broadly and holding their words in their hands, unconcerned about the cameras, the poet laureate, or anything else.

Saturday, April 13, 2002
El Café del Barrio
9:30 p.m.
The woman who lives on the south side of Matamoros across from El Café del Barrio sat in her Explorer and blew the horn for five or ten seconds, intermittently so it sounded like a car alarm, then paused briefly before blasting it for another ten or 15 seconds. Again she paused -- to rest her arm, I suppose -- and then lit into it with new determination, the horn blaring non-stop for a half minute and filling the neighborhood with echoes. On this Saturday night -- the stars just beginning to peek out, a soft breeze blowing out of the northwest, and the sweet smell of night jasmine washing across the lawn -- she sat there in the driver's seat parked behind a van in front of her house and leaned on her horn. The dogs in the dirt yards of the neighboring houses broke into a chorus of barks, and the distant train whistle which was audible a few minutes earlier was buried under the racket.
Carlos Flores stood behind the microphone before about 20 people seated on folding chairs on the east lawn of the Café; he glanced up from the book from which he had been reading, shrugged his shoulders, and looked toward the street, wondering like all of us when the noise would stop. Raquel Valle Sentíes, who owns El Café del Barrio, got up, strode through the screened-in porch, and disappeared inside. I watched her go, and when I turned back to the street filled with the shifting shadows of trees and the white glare of the street light on the corner, a young woman stood looking toward us from the other side of the fence, her arms crossed and a lost look on her face. She seemed to want something, so I got up and walked over to her.
"Do you know who that belongs to?" she asked and glanced back at the van parked in front of the Explorer. Her straight, brown hair framed her face and fell over her shoulders. "My mom doesn't like it when people park there," she said.
"That's why she's blowing the horn?" I asked.
She nodded, her face draped in embarrassment.
I looked at the van again. "It's not even blocking the driveway," I said.
The horn continued to blare though the dogs were getting hoarse now.
She nodded. "I know," she said.
"Well, let me see if I can find out who it belongs to," I said and was about to turn to the people in the chairs when a man came up beside me. He was a large man, and I recognized him and the woman standing behind him from the last row of chairs on the lawn. He had come for the reading but now seemed determined to go.
"We were just leaving," he said and tipped his head toward the van as he looked at me.
I suspected he was making a polite excuse so that he could help make the noise stop. I started to suggest, "You might just move it and--"
"No, that's alright," he said. "It's getting late anyway."
It was about 9:30. I tried to get him and his wife to stay, but they had made up their minds. We shook hands, and they went to the van. As his headlights came on and they pulled away from the curb, the horn stopped and the dogs' voices died away.
A few minutes later a city police car with flashing blue lights parked in the street between the Café and the neighbor's house. The officer got out and walked through Raquel's gate. As he listened to her explain what had happened, Norma and Terry Hannigan hooked arms with the people sitting next to them on the folding chairs, swayed left and right, laughed, and led the small band of poets and poetry lovers in a tongue-in-cheek rendition of "We Shall Overcome." The officer eventually agreed to talk to the horn-blowing woman, but the look on his face suggested that there was little he was willing or able to do.
Poetry has always faced opposition, but the obstacles in Laredo, if not particularly creative, are certainly interesting. The neighbor blowing her horn is a regular occurrence when we hold readings at El Café del Barrio. On Matamoros Street near the Río Grande and just a couple of blocks from a fire station and the railroad tracks, readers often find themselves also competing with train whistles, the roar and thump of helicopters, blaring sirens, and barking dogs. Always there are dogs.
Opposition to poetry usually results from listening to it or reading it and reacting negatively as many did to Allen Ginsberg's "Howl" or to some of Anne Sexton's sexually explicit work. The problem here, however, is quite different (as it was in the small Minnesota town where I grew up) in that people don't try to censor poetry but simply don't listen to it in the first place. I'd have very few complaints if the woman had blown her horn because she disagreed with or disliked what people read -- Norma's poem in which she criticizes local use of the term "Anglo," or Dora Flores' "Fear in Five Stanzas," or Terry's examination of haiku, or Raquel's "Fall from Grace," or Toni Howell's poem "Little Red and Goldie," which points out the sexism in nursery rhymes, or any of the original work by Olga Valle-Herr, Lee Howell, and others. At least she'd be responding to the words and ideas. As it was, however, her priorities were on parking, not poetry.

Wednesday, April 17 2002
LCC's Adkins Building, Room 256
10:51 a.m.
Last Friday night Rafael, a student in one of my English classes at LCC, came to the reading at El Café del Barrio. This morning he handed me a sheet of notebook paper on which he described his reaction to what he saw and heard. Here's part of what he wrote: "I liked all the poems I heard, but I did not understan some word. I did not catch up some poems. One of the poems made me laugh was 'Why do men wear a earing in one ear'. It made me laugh, becaus it was mixed in two languages, Spanish and English. What it really supprissed me was the woman who was theft [deaf], and her mother comunicated all the conversation by hands. I noticed that she was interested to participate and tell us a poem, and it came to my mind, that there's no obtacles to express or comunicate our feelings."
I couldn't have said it better myself. In spite of the obstacles that Rafael himself faces as a non-native speaker of English, he perfectly conveyed what many of us experienced Friday night -- we heard the poems and then saw them fly on the fingertips and hands of Corina and her translator (who is not her mother), and we not only heard and felt the poems inside but we saw them, a visual dimension of poetry that people rarely experience.

Wednesday, April 17, 2002
LCC's Yeary Library, Room 146
7:00 p.m.
Bill Wisner, LCC's lanky reference librarian who organized this open-mic event as part of National Library Week festivities, stood outside the door of room 146 when I arrived. With his eyebrows hoisted and his eyes peering over the top of his glasses, he seemed in a steady state of expectation. He looked like he had been at work all day -- less dapper than usual, wearing a short-sleeved shirt without his sport coat and slightly rumpled gray slacks. The room behind him was half lit; a small boy ran between two rows of empty chairs, and a woman, one leg crossed over the other, sat near the wall and watched him. Bill and I talked about the prospect of anyone else showing up and then about the Greek poet whose work he intended to read since this event was designated International Poetry Night.
Gradually more people arrived, mostly students with backpacks slung over a shoulder or books cradled in an arm. Several young women from one of Lucinda Farrokh's composition classes sat in the two front rows. In the back around a table sat a young man with blond dreadlocks and various parts of his face pierced, a young woman with short, dark hair, and another teenage guy who slouched across the table with his head braced against one hand. By quarter after seven, 15 or 20 people sat in the room, and Bill ambled to the front, welcomed us, and introduced the woman near the wall, who read a poem by an Armenian writer about women being forced to dance before being burned to death.
The program then bucked and veered from one reluctant reader to another, with Bill filling time in between by reading from the work of the Greek poet or by relating things he had heard on Seinfeld. "According to a poll," he explained, "people's greatest fear is speaking in public, followed by fear of death. Think of that -- people are more afraid of public speaking than they are of dying." And we sat, smiling, silent, as Bill looked around the room, hoping that someone, anyone, would rise from the dead and face that fear.
With some cajoling from Lucinda and a reminder of the extra credit they'd receive if only they'd read, several of her students did. Two poems struck me as most symbolic of the evening and of so much that happens in Laredo. The first was read by a young man from the back of the room -- Taylor, I think -- called "Biting My Tongue;" the other, by a young woman who read a little later, stopped me with the description of her grandmother's parrot that mimicked the hissing of the gas tank for the stove in her house. I suspect our fear of speaking in public is not so much the fear of saying something as it is of the reaction that comes during or after, worried that we'll appear contrary, foolish, or difficult. Consequently, we bite our tongues, or if we're able to speak, we can only imitate the sound of something explosive if it's bottled up to keep it under control.
Bill ended the program with his poem "Sonia's Excellent Adventure," the last two lines still ringing in my ears: "'We all got along, didn't we? / We was good slave owners.'"

Friday, April 19, 2002
B. Dalton in Mall del Norte
7:00-9:00 p.m.
For the fourth year in a row, Mary Benavides, manager of B. Dalton, opened her store to poets and musicians for an open-mic reading. The good thing about the mall is that it's easy to find, comfortable, and familiar, and holding a reading there brings poetry to the people rather than hoping people will come to the poetry.
Three TAMIU students led off the program: Claudia Rodriguez read Poe's "Annabel Lee," and Celina Arreguin and Ed Garza each recited an original poem. Emily Wiseman, from United High, followed with a powerful interpretative reading from Sophie's Choice, and Elizabeth Wiseman, from Alexander High, performed a musical selection on clarinet. Next, TAMIU senior Ram Martinez recited two poems of his own, and Toni Howell raised some laughter with her "Deep Discount Blues." TAMIU professor Allen Wiseman's moving performance of Taylor Molley's poem (from HBO's Def Poets) about what teachers make ended with a challenge for everyone: "Teachers make a difference. / Now, what about you?" Another local poet, UHS student Tammy Solis, read one of her own works, followed by Lucinda Farrokh's personal narrative called "Under a Glass Eye," which described a discovery she made about poetry, a professor, and herself when she was an undergraduate. After Elizabeth Wiseman returned to sing a selection a cappella, Raquel Valle Sentíes read three poems from her book including the title work, "Soy Como Soy y Qué," and B. Dalton employee Hector Rodriguez offered a favorite poem. The program moved along quickly, people laughing, listening attentively, wandering into the store to browse through books, and then returning for some more poetry. The talent of the readers and performers was matched only by the enthusiasm of the audience.
When jesse g. herrera came to the mic, I stood behind the people sitting on the blue mall benches arranged in a cluster at the entrance to the store. Behind me people strode through the mall -- a teenage couple joined at the hip, a small girl crying as her mother dragged her along by one hand, two elderly women with paper shopping bags dangling by the handles threaded over their arms, and a gangly group of high school boys laughing and pushing at each other. Inside B. Dalton jesse moved the mic forward so it stood in the middle of the floor, smiled at the people seated in front of the book racks, and dug in the back pocket of his jeans. He wore a black beret with a red United Farm Workers pin on the front, a dark shirt, and lace-up boots. He pulled a harmonica out of his back pocket, cupped it in both hands like a man trying to light a cigarette in a stiff wind, and brought it to his mouth. When a blues rhythm wailed out and the amp rattled with sound, three young men watching from near the counter smiled and looked at one another, surprised, I suppose, that this could happen at a poetry reading. Jesse's cheeks sank in, then ballooned out as he filled the store with sound from the small harmonica, his face growing red as he held the last full, long note, and smiling as the people clapped and whooped when he stepped back from the mic.
He reached into the backpack lying nearby on the floor and pulled out several sheets of paper. He stepped up to the mic, and in a huge voice that filled the store and carried out into the mall, a voice most people don't expect to be used for poetry, he read four or five poems, one about Cesar Chavez, another called "Why Do I Write?" and the last a sonnet -- "Welcome to McDonald's." I've seen people respond to this poem before and sometimes even request it by name as they would a song at a wedding dance. He explained that the title comes from the sign at the drive-thru, and then he started to read, "In her big ol' white Suburban, huercos / brinque y brinque --" people laughed, glanced at one another, and then turned quickly back to jesse -- "a curly-haired señora / studies the drive-thru menu. My gosh! / She thinks she's in a French restaurant, Ooh, la la." Again, people cracked up, and jesse laughed with them before going on; the poem then described the woman placing an order: "Super size it twenty nuggets a Big Mac, in one breath. / Turning red, she said,"-- and here jesse's voice got small and people leaned forward, some knowing what's coming, others waiting for another poetic punchline -- 'Don't forget my small Diet Coke.'" And again the audience broke into laughter.
This is the common reaction to many of jesse's poems at readings, and while I know people are surprised at his work and delivery, I also suspect they're even more surprised at their own reaction and that they could laugh and listen with such intense interest and enjoyment to poetry, which -- more often than not -- is serious, sentimental, and about people and subjects far removed from their own experiences here in Laredo. Jesse changes that for somebody every time he reads.

National Poetry Month in Laredo showed me again how much people want their voices to be heard -- some wedging themselves onto a program or using a car horn instead of simply signing up to read, but most waiting quietly and sometimes shyly for their turn at the mic because, as Rafael said, there are no obstacles to express or communicate our feelings. The war of the poets is not a conflict between poets but within the poets themselves as they try to write what they think and feel and then gather the courage to give their words back to Laredo.

Local Writers at Work

Terence P. Hannigan, Ph.D., Director of Student Counseling Services and Disability Services for Students at Texas A&M International University, recently had two articles published: "The Effect of Work- Abroad Experiences on Career Development of U.S. Undergraduates" appeared in Frontiers, the Interdisciplinary Journal of Study Abroad, Fall 2001, and "Reaction of an American Mental Health Care Provider to the Incidents of September 11, 2001" in Eisteach, A Quarterly Journal of Counseling and Therapy (Irish Association of Counseling and Therapy), Spring 2002.
The IXHUA REVIEW 2001 reading on May 17 at Resistencia Bookstore in Austin, featured two Laredo writers -- Dora María Vergara, who was accompanied on mandolin by Florinda Flores, and Raquel Valle-Sentíes -- in addition to writers from Austin, Dallas, and San Antonio.
At a reception held on May 3 in LCC's Arena Theater at which the spring 2002 issue of La Frontera was presented, three students were recognized for the fine work they contributed to the magazine. Each of the Student Award winners received a certificate and a small cash prize; they included Carlos Alderete for prose, Abraham Gaytan for poetry, and Patty Flores for art.