>> [Inaudible] Chicano poets and writers that we've had this semester.
We had a very auspicious beginning with Sandra Cisneros back in January.
And we'll have a very auspicious end with our guest tonight, Denise Chavez.
I think you'll very much enjoy her presentation which is very, very stimulating.
Denise was born in New Mexico, in southern New Mexico in Las Cruces.
She did her BA in drama in Las Cruces at New Mexico State University.
And then, subsequently, and MA in creative writing from the University of New Mexico.
And an MFA in drama from Trinity University in San Antonio.
She's taught creative writing, playwriting, short story,
and has served on numerous humanities and arts panels.
She's read at many universities around the country and directed plays in several cities.
She's received several awards and fellowships including a Rockefeller Playwriting Grant
and an NEA grant.
Her works have appeared in many anthologies, journals, and magazines.
Her collection of short stories, "The Last
of the Menu Girls" was published in 1986 by Arte Publico Press.
And I want to mention that this, there are copies for sale after the reading.
She's currently a writer in residence at the University of Houston
where she's teaching a course on Chicano drama, working on the musical called "Play Time",
You can talk-- ask her about the subject of the play and why she chose to put it
with a musical genre after she reads a novel called, "Face of an Angel".
So, I take it that this is a very productive period for Denise, she--after many years,
I know has finally had time to devote to, large chunk of her time to writing.
Please help me in welcoming Denise to our campus.
And I think you will very much enjoy her presentation tonight.
>> Thank you.
[ Applause ]
Let me just say that this is being cosponsored by the Department of Spanish and Portuguese,
the Poetry Center, and the Southwest Center.
>> Thank you, Chuck.
I would like to thank the [? Poetry ?] center for inviting me here.
I do know that there is a bit of noise going on because of the movie, "Stand and Deliver".
So, I will stand here and deliver.
And then, I hope we can all go over and catch Eddie Olmos over there [laughter].
So, I will deliver and then, we'll move on.
It's very wonderful to be here with you.
I have so many papers spread out here, it's amazing.
I'm going to be reading a little bit of poetry for you.
I will be doing some things bilingually but, I will also explain to you, if I do read something
in Spanish, for those that do not speak, I'll translate it in a fashion.
I'll be reading some from short stories and I also do what I call performance.
I'm a performance writer.
I have a theater background so, I will be doing some of the characters that I have
in my short stories in my thing, in my book, "The Last of the Menu Girls".
I'd like to start with some poetry.
And I've been working on a book with a photographer from New Mexico, Estevan Arellano.
Do you know those, they're called descansos.
They're crosses by the side of the road where people have died.
Have you seen those crucifixes?
Sometimes bumper stickers, I mean, not bumper stickers, hoods of cars.
I've seen plastic flowers, all types of mementos from people, family members, usually,
that are honoring the people that have died by the road.
Now, I have been working on this book with a photographer from New Mexico.
We hope to have the book out soon.
It's called, "Descansos" which means a resting place.
It's called, "Descansos: An Interrupted Journey".
I have taken and looked at the photographer's photographs and gotten some images of my own.
So, it's a book mostly of photographs with text on the stories of the people
that have died by the side of the road.
And I think it is a metaphor for so many things.
So, I'd like to read a little bit from that book.
Do I have to stand back there?
Yes, why don't you because I like to dance around.
>> Sure.
>> [Laughter] I hop all over better.
And besides, if I'm back there, how can I get close to you [laughter]?
So, I need to be up here, better do that.
Too far. This is much better.
I'll just do that [inaudible].
Is that all right?
Am I plugged in?
Okay. I don't know.
Can you all hear?
Well, I will project, it's a matter of whether it's being taped or not, that's the thing.
Sure. Okay.
Put that over my shoulder.
Now, in Spanish, there is a word that is very interesting.
And that word is Y-A, ya.
For those of you that Spanish, or that don't speak Spanish, I'll describe to you this word.
Ya. There is always a powerful intensity underlying the pronouncement
of the word ya in Spanish.
Ya is a word that has many shades of being, settling time into already, presently,
immediately, and now, while not precluding another time, another occasion.
Ya, ya, yes, yes.
As people would say, yes, period.
All discussions are ended with a ya, all doubts settled.
The business is done, finished, closes with an emphatic finality.
Anyone can use this word, reprimanding parents, overtaxed listeners, prophetic analyzers
of the world's situation, choosing to end their words with a period, ya.
That's it, basta, se acabó, ya.
That's done, did, finished, ended, ya.
A word like death.
In my long years, and there have been a few, it's never been the same, the road, that is.
As familiar as it all seemed, passing through towns late at night,
lights still on, it's all business.
The seasons, the faces of the side of the road.
Inside a house, a body lives by candlelight, bends over to kiss a sleeping child.
Someone crosses a room, lovers embrace each other in the solid darkness.
Who are those people, and what sort of dreams do they have?
In the old days, a cross meant an untimely death.
Death at someone else's hand, the death of a traveler, it meant an adventure
of setting out into new land with dreams.
You could see the crosses, so many of them, for miles.
And now, death means carelessness and drugs and alcohol, it's emptiness
and tiredness, oh, and it is still violent.
But now, it is we who are responsible for our own deaths, to have been killed by the side
of the road and to forever wander that road.
That's what an old tía of mine said.
It scared me.
Oh, she has her stories.
Almost everyone has stories.
The young people, they have their stories.
The old people, they have more.
It is for the ones like me and you out there to listen, when we get this age, yes,
when we get this age and we have seen so many people go down that road and have gone
down it ourselves, it is a time of medio-snappeando [phonetic].
Someone told me, a friend, snapped, snapped snappeando.
Well, then, I think of my tío, my tía, who [inaudible] claimed,
first shall be last and the last shall be first.
With that in mind, I'd like to read a little poem about somebody that did die by the side
of the road, Pecas, they called him, Freckles.
He started doing drugs and drinking in Vietnam, y nunca se compuso, he never got well.
This poem is mostly in Spanish and it's from this book, but it's called, "Ya".
Ya [inaudible] como me acuerdo de Charlie Pecas, we called him.
He used to drink and to smoke and to do drugs.
It started in Vietnam.
Y nunca se compuso.
Ya el mundo no es lo que ha sido, me dice la comadre, tía de una vecina.
Ya no es tan bueno vivir en los Estados Unidos.
[Inaudible] Nuevo México,
it's a jungle!
Las flores encarnadas al lado del camino son las vidas de nuestros jóvenes que han muerto.
Ya, ya, no es tiempo de cesar.
Isn't it time for all of this unnecessary death to stop?
Ay!, que se ha muerto el Charlie.
Mi ahijado.
Pues ya, yo ya no tengo esperanzas.
Él tenía sus problemitas.
Eso sí comadre,
but who doesn't have their problems?
Pobrecito mihijito, qué ya, ya no era tiempo.
I remember him telling me, madrina, ya ¿para qué vivir?, why do on living?
Ya pa'qué.
Estoy cansado.
I'm tired.
Ya se ve, el que estaba en eso.
Into all of those drugs.
It started in Vietnam.
Y nunca se compuso.
Ah!, ya era tiempo comadre!
It was time.
It couldn't be helped.
Ya era tiempo.
Ande, mira la abuela está en su descanso, mira ahí está.
Que descanse en paz, comadre.
Ya, era tiempo.
[ Applause ]
Basically, what we have there is a young person from, that has been to Vietnam and has,
the comadre in the culture is somebody that usually baptizes your child.
Now, there's also the very loose comadre or compadre which is like a friend.
This thing is going to be draped all over me soon [laughter].
It's all right.
But, in that particular poem, you have the agony of this person that went to Vietnam
and died by the side of the road.
The whole book explores that theme of what, what is death?
What is life?
And so, I wanted to share that with you.
I'm going to do something very different now.
And I'd like to introduce another character.
There's so many characters around here running around.
This is, I'd like to introduce you to a gay bag lady [laughter].
She's a gay, pachuca, pinta, bag lady.
Now, I'll explain that to you to give you some character [laughter].
La Cori, Corinne Delgado [phonetic], for some of you that saw this today, she's coming back.
I did a reading today at Tucson High School and we have some of the students here.
Would you raise your hand, the students from the high school?
Thank you for coming.
I'm so glad you came back.
But I'd like to introduce you to la Cori Delgado.
She's la pinta so, she's been in prison [laughter].
She's gay because she had two men, she was in prison, she had to do something [laughter].
And she was gay bag lady and her name is Corinne, la Cori Delgado.
I've got to get into character here [laughter].
Antes me importaban las cosas.
Pero ahora,
I'll take every day as it comes.
Some good, some pretty bad, like the weather [laughter].
If it looks like it's going to rain or snow,
I go over to the Holy Bible Rescue Mission para agarrarme [inaudible].
I'll stay there over at the Good Faith Shelter, or one of my other spots.
You know, Venice La Paloma bar, by the bench.
I'll stand over the bench and it keeps me up [laughter].
Then, I'll arrive over to the interstate ese colchón viejo, that old mattress.
That's my bedroom.
No, pero no te apenes, don't sweat it, I got it covered.
La Corinne, she's got it covered, they say [laughter].
Hey, buddy, I don't like you laughing at me.
I don't need your stupid tea, you keep your shag rug and your color T.V., man.
I don't want it.
I had it once all of the time, you know, but I got into writing bad checks
because I needed money [laughter].
I needed money.
They sent me up to Santa Fe New Mexico.
Well, it happened up there.
That's when the women were up at the pinta, you know?
Once I got sent up and then, I had it all, the biggest bed, the satin sheets, you know,
but don't get me wrong, buddy, it's never as good as it looks, you know what I mean?
[Laughter] It all disappeared.
[Inaudible] went to live with his woman.
He took the kids, it all disappeared.
I tried to find him but, my family don't want him to do with me.
Well, anyway, I met this woman, Sofía.
Ah, Sofía, Sofía, corazonada, dios mío de la vida.
Anyway, we wanted to get married and we needed our cards.
But then, she started seeing another woman, you know how that happens, buddy.
Anyway, yes, I couldn't believe it.
Pues, I was about to get out anyway so, I said, okay, okay.
We know the kids in New Mexico, la jefita [inaudible], allá.
And then, you think she's going to welcome me back a la vecindad.
You know, I had my eyebrows shaved and then painted high up here, black.
The hair dyed blonde, la pinta [inaudible], Jesús y María [inaudible] [laughter].
No way [laughter].
So, anyway, nobody wanted me back the way I was so, I took to the streets.
Got some here, got some there, just a little to get enough beer, you know?
Hey, buddy, I'm not so bad, you know?
See what I mean [laughter]?
Anyway, but that was 20 years ago pero no te preocupes.
I've got it covered [laughter].
Anyway, I met this woman.
She wanted me to take care of her jefito, pobrecito, medio muerto.
He used to be a big man but, look at him now, ¡diosito!
[laughter].
Anyway, she tried to give him her dead, her dead mother's things, you know what I mean?
And I said, "You keep your clothes, dammit, I don't want your damn mother's things.
You think because you're a Mexican with money, you can treat me bad."
Chicanos are even worse to their own kin.
You know what?
You can't treat me like, I'm not your slave.
I'm going to report you to the authorities, IRA, NBC, NBC, CBS,
[laughter] you know, INS for cruelty to an old woman.
I don't need your stupid pity, buddy, your shag rug
and your color T.V. Yeah, keep on laughing [laughter].
They think that they can give you the slops once they see you in the street.
¡Qué va!, you know what we need.
Lo que necesitamos en Arizona es una gobernadora ¡como esa Madre Teresa!.
Anyway, I left that woman holding her dead woman's things.
And I walked over to the senior citizens pa' mis enchiladas.
It was Friday and they were having a baile so, I stayed,
Johnny and the Weeklys [phonetic] you know [laughter]?
So, anyway, siempre me ha gustado tirar chancla, duh, duh, duh, duh,
duh, duh, den, den, nee [laughter].
Well, anyway, you know I saw this cute viejita, and I thought,
I'm going to go over and ask her to dance [laughter].
Se puso medio weird [laughter].
And then I went over to this little viejito and he was kind of giving me the eye.
Pero, I said, I better watch his pero [inaudible] iba a bailar so, we danced.
I stayed over there till 5:30 then I thought I would go
over to the Holy Bible to see what was happening.
And then, I went to the Good Faith.
It was full, estaba lleno, [inaudible] ese colchón viejo, it was gone [laughter].
Oh, I went over, I noticed there was a lot of activity over here by the [inaudible] you know?
I hear that Eddie Olmos is over there, es que tie-- que usa tupé.
Did you hear that?
I could not believe it, pobrecito.
¡Calvo!, I couldn't believe it.
Anyway so, I came over here because I like to sleep on the portal [inaudible].
I come into this room, and I saw this woman.
She was doing a poetry reading or something so I thought I'll get in there and I'll keep warm.
So, here I am, eh, ¡bueno, pues aquí estamos!
So, anyway, I'm getting a little tired.
I'm going to say my prayers a la virgencita de Guadalupe.
And I'm going to go find Eddie [laughter].
Yeah, I sure am.
He's calvo no, he's good looking.
You know what I mean?
I've got those little [inaudible] [laughter].
Very [inaudible] [laughter] anyway.
Ay la madrecita de Guadalupe me conoce, she knows when I've got it.
And when La Cori got it, it don't matter.
Jesus and Maria and [inaudible], I got it covered [laughter].
[ Applause ]
Thank you very much.
I'd like to, gosh, I can see pretty good out of those, read something now from a novel
that I'm working on that's called, "Face of an Angel".
And I'll tell you a little bit about it.
The protagonist is a career waitress.
She has been working in a restaurant since she's about 19 and she's now into her 40s.
And I used the restaurants and idea of here being a servant to the puppets as a metaphor.
The book is about serving and being served, especially women serving and being served.
And in this scene, I'll introduce you to the manager of the restaurant, Larry Larragoite.
Now, this is the name that is very popular.
And Larry can barely say enchilada.
He's Hispanic but, he has trouble pronouncing enchiladas or salsa, you know [laughter]?
So, he is, I'll introduce you to Larry.
His mother has sent him back East to marry blonde.
But without further ado, I will introduce you to Larry Larragoite.
And this is from my novel, "Face of an Angel".
Lawrence, Larry, Lencho, Lar, L Larragoite was the owner and sole proprietor
of El Farol Restaurant and Bar, specializing in Mexican food and steaks.
The restaurant has been handed over to him lock, stock, and barrel by his mot her, Connie,
Consuelo, Larragoite La Point Bexler, after she had run it for many years
and after Larry had almost received is B.A. in business.
He was [inaudible] short.
He'd gone back East to Vermont because his mother's brother, Milo Larragoite,
or as Milo was known there, Mr. Larragoite, French [laughter].
Connie had wanted him not to marry a Mexican but, to marry blonde.
She thought that if he got away that he would marry someone nice, someone Anglo.
Connie's first marriage had been with a Mexicano, Eddie [assumed spelling] Larrogoite
but he had left her for countless other women.
She could not take it anymore.
Connie thought that, if Larry got away from the state, he'd meet someone nice.
To her, there were two main races, Anglo and Mexican.
She was a Mexican Mexican and Eddie had been a Mexican Mexican.
The combination would never work [laughter].
She knew from experience the hell that she was saving her son from,
and it was a lot different with women.
The badness was in the blood, in the genes.
Connie wanted her grandchildren to be different.
Not that she hadn't loved Eddie.
Dadgummit, she loved that man even though he had jungle rotting feet [laughter]
from the war, number two.
She knew what it was to love a man with athlete's feet [laughter].
The man was the best lover she had ever had, would ever have but, he just wasn't dependable.
With a small child and countless bills, it was either Eddie had to go or [inaudible].
She really had tried to work it out but, it just didn't work out.
It was either Eddie or her son's future.
Eddie had had his past, present, and what future was there
for an out-and-out, in-and-out [laughter]?
Larry, on the other hand, was her son, firstborn, only born.
To this day, she could not eat red chile.
The night before Larry was born, she'd eaten a plate of red enchiladas,
Dora la cocinera [inaudible] El Farol.
She was still up and around the still belief that that was what had brought on the birth.
Oh, what a labor it was [laughter].
Later the next day, the hospital crew was still cleaning up red chile from the floor [laughter].
Connie could not look at chile now red, especially without thinking of Larry
and her decision, then and there, to tie her tubes [laughter].
No man was ever going to cause her that,
especially one she loved red chile or not [laughter].
I love my baby but, I swear to you, madrecita, queen of the angels on my mother's grave
that hurt like hell and don't you tell me that the pain was worth it.
I love my baby but, goddammit, no way in hell, forgive me virgencita, any man,
especially one I love, going to do that to me ever again [laughter].
May I burn in everlasting hell full of unfaithful, lying through their teeth men,
no man is ever going to do that to me again.
Eddie Larragoite just was not husband material [laughter].
Oh gosh, Connie had fared better with husbands two and three, Willie La Point and Bexler,
each of them rich Anglos knew how to treat a woman.
And yet, there was that nagging worm in her soul whose name was Eddie Larragoite.
If she closed her eyes, she could still smell the acrid sweet wave
of yellow crusty putrefaction that the man who she loved still called his feet [laughter].
They were the feet of an old miner, a gone to sea sportsman, a prisoner of war [laughter].
They were the feet of Eddie Larragoite, the only man that she had ever loved.
The only man she swore that she never wanted to grow old with.
The only man that gave her his seed, a seed that she had allowed to remain.
Anyway, Milo would help Larry out, introduce him around.
He was part of the Eastern establishment and successful as well,
with his swimming pool equipment business in Vermont.
Milo, in Vermont, Connie, Connie, you know Nuevo Mexico.
I know Vermont.
Connie, you leave yours, you leave me mine, keep yours.
Oh, I don't know.
In her mind, there was something unrecognizable in Milo since he moved East.
But he was her brother.
Who is he now, she thought?
How does he make his money?
Larry got the bulk of his business training at his Uncle Milo's side.
And sure enough, Larry met somebody female, blonde, Anglo,
her name was Bonnie McNuth [assumed spelling].
She was a classmate of Yvette's [assumed spelling],
Milo's half-blonde daughter who was in school at Bennington.
All of the kids, Monique, Shawnee, Yvette Larragoite [laughter],
loved the French language and had studied it in school.
Bonnie met Larry through Yvette.
She thought that he was Mideastern [laughter].
It was only logical.
She knew that the French had been in Morocco [laughter] [inaudible].
Lar, as she called him, Lar was dark-haired, dark-skinned, and he had a mustache.
Bonnie, I'm Spanish.
Funny, Yvette never said that she had any [inaudible].
I don't think she knows, Bonnie.
Lar, your parents were born in Spain?
Well, no, they originally came up from, yeah but,
I was born in New Mexico and Larragoite is a name common.
You're Mexican.
No, no, Bonnie.
Bonnie, I am Spanish.
But you said, - I am Spanish, Bonnie [laughter].
You are the first Spanish Mexican that I have ever met [laughter] and known, Lar.
She called him Lar.
It rhymed with bear.
No kidding, Bonnie.
Yeah, golly, Larry.
Yeah, golly, Bonnie.
Well, there were not too many Mexicans in Vermont.
Well, Bonnie was intrigued.
She had never met an honest to goodness Spanish Mexican.
Lar was so different.
She wasn't sure what a Spanish Mexican was like but, Lar was so cute.
She was definitely interested.
He had so many adorable little ways, ways others might find annoying.
Well, they were just parcel of the man that she loved.
For example, his chronic gum chewing and bubble popping, toothpick sucking, ear cleaning,
gum wiping, nail chewing, eye cleaning, the list went on.
Oh, he was an adorable little monkey [laughter].
Her monkey.
Now, Bonnie was tall, muscular with strong, broad hairs on her legs [inaudible].
Very round and comfortable stomach that Lar liked to lay on and large, swollen breasts.
She was always in a semi-excited menstrual stage of engorged sexuality [laughter]
and she was attracted to Lar, and there were no two ways about it.
Lar, as she called him fondly, was thin, chicken-legged [laughter], ruby, hairy,
wore glasses and had always been attracted to large, swollen breasted blondes.
His heart, soul, and lips were made for swollen breasted blondes.
It was a perfect match.
Bonnie had been majoring in architecture but, after she met Lar, she switched her major
to Spanish [laughter] with a minor in Home Ec.
[laughter].
Why not? Well, it's not necessary, for Christ's sake, Bonnie,
New Mexico is part of the United States.
Well, I know that, Lar but, I need to be able to talk to your family.
Herman is Anglo and mother talks English.
What about your, the others, Lar, your tías and tíos and sobrinos and abuelitas [laughter]?
Well, Bonnie was well into Spanish now.
She got As and everything.
¡Bien hecho señores y señoritas!, Bonnie, there are no others, I'm an only child.
My father, well, let's forget him.
Mother only has Milo, well, let's forget him and his Spanish.
Well, his French is better than his Spanish.
Everybody speaks English, Bonnie, this is the U.S. for Christ's sake.
Hell, I don't speak English, Bonnie, why should you?
Well, that's not the point, Lar.
The point is, honey, you're Mex - I mean, Spanish Mexican.
I won't be a token Spanish Mexican and that's all there is to it.
Bonnie, hell, I cannot even speak Spanish.
Hell, I can't talk yet, just drop it, would you?
Now, Lar was not kidding.
This was the same Larry Larragoite who had gone to Mexico City on his 17th birthday,
where he had gone with his mother, Connie, and her then-husband, Willie La Point who,
by the way, spoke impeccable Spanish, much to his mother's chagrin.
And this was the same Larry Larragoite that, at Marcene [assumed spelling] had ordered
for dessert chocolate caca [laughter].
Oh my God, the waiter was [laughter], he really had gotten a hoot out of it.
Chocolate caca [laughter], hey.
As a result of this joke, Larry never forgave Willie his laughter,
loudmouthed, crude [inaudible].
Willie, in reality, lover of life.
And Connie was still reeling from her contact with the Great Larragoite, Eddie so,
her laughter, for the time being, was dried up.
At the time of the chocolate caca episode, she had sided with Larry
and what marriage could survive the hatred of a maligned and revengeful son?
Well, after they moved back to New Mexico, Bonnie would have it no other way.
It was really Bonnie who ran the restaurant, who fired and hired and reprimanded the staff
in Spanish and could be heard squawking jokes with Juan, Jesús, J.J. [assumed spelling],
the custodian in Spanish and who praised the staff in Spanish.
Larry still couldn't speak much.
He was, he tried but, he didn't eat the food, you know, it gave him gas [laughter].
He was a steak man and he couldn't, he barely could pronounce what was on the menu.
Enchilada, a rolled tortilla with a green salsa sauce.
Empanada, it's like a greasy Mexican [inaudible] [laughter].
Empanada, empanada, empanada.
Here, [inaudible] that little, that little guy in the kitchen,
that little prick had him calling it empanada [laughter].
No wonder the old ladies had laughed, empanada, that was like squatting
down on the enchiladas [laughter].
What do you expect from a Mexican somebody who washes dishes for a living?
The food slush was already part of his brain.
What was the guy's problem?
If it wasn't the food slush, it was more than that.
It was the floating, never-ending soggy, nauseating, smelly food slush.
Years of food slush, years of watery, soapy, congested dreams.
Whatever dreams the guy must have had, still has all of them in front of him suspended
in that filmy, greasy, reddish colored water that clogs and traps it there.
Foot to either side in a small human hell, the kitchen of El Farol Restaurant [laughter].
Well, that was Pacheco's problem.
What was his?
[ Applause ]
I'd like to read another section from the same book.
Now, I'd like to introduce you to the character, [inaudible].
Okay, this is the character from the book called,
"Face of an Angel" and she is the grandmother.
And in this scene from a chapter called "Saints",
she's telling her granddaughter why she should be considered becoming a nun.
Because women, all women at one time or another,
should think about the divine service for these reasons.
Yes, mijita [laughter].
Mija. Priests in the family, they're a dime a dozen [laughter].
Everybody knows, they're either [inaudible] or maricón [inaudible].
Mijita, what this family needs is a nun.
Women's prayers, everybody knows, are more powerful.
Any man can give up sex for four years,
especially if they get them before they know what they have between their skirts.
Catholics, that's what they call them.
After that, you know what happens when a woman gives up sex,
you know what I mean, it's final [laughter].
Try to sneak sex on a woman, four years later, there's everlasting hell to pay.
No, mija, you are the one [inaudible].
You are going to become a nun someday.
One day, may I live to see it.
And if I don't, you'll never rest, mija [laughter].
You'll never rest and I'll never rest [laughter] until it's done or you're done or I'm done.
No, I'll never rest.
Do you want me to suffer [laughter]?
Mija, no. One time or another, one place where every woman wishes that she could become a nun,
you don't know what I mean, yet, mija.
No, may the Lord spare you.
La virgencita de Guadalupe, may she spare you a drunken man late
at night smelling of chicharrones and tequila, no.
Worse yet, of frijoles and beer, no [laughter].
Or worse yet, a man in late afternoon in Agosto, in August, when you're roasting chiles
and coming in from the farm smelling of sweat and dirt and carrying on.
As if it wasn't hot enough already [laughter].
Mija, I want to spare you this [laughter].
Listen to me, listen to me, think about it.
You like to read.
Nuns, they read all the time and nobody interrupts them [laughter].
No, they can be quiet.
No one is belching, scratching, making pedos, farts.
No, on the way to the excusado, you know, the bathroom.
It sounds, that word, it sounds like an excuse, excusado.
That's what sex is, but in a different way, we won't talk about it, you know [laughter].
Once en el excusado, dios mío de la vida, the noises and, later, the smells.
I keep matches in there but, your grandfather pobrecito, he won't use them.
Men. Men cannot be trained [laughter].
They are wild foals.
They're changos, monkeys, I don't know what.
That's not it.
That's not all, mija.
They shed [laughter].
I could never clean enough to keep a clean cub.
Ay, diosito, I want to spare you the details.
Think about the divine service, mija.
I know what father Escondido says.
I know what he thinks marriage is, mija.
I let him take free rounds of my viejo [laughter].
He says those things about it, think about becoming a nun.
I want to spare you.
I mean, think about it, your mother's childhood friends, Estella Fuentes she's a nun.
And now, she's Sister Mary Margaret Maria of the Holy Magdalen [laughter].
She don't have no wrinkles.
Her face is smooth as a baby's nalgas [laughter].
Oh, look at your mama, Delores's, eyes.
It's a roadmap [inaudible].
Eduardo, my son, he did it to her, ¡ay, diosito!
with him, priesthood was out of the question from the beginning.
He was always pulling on his cositas [laughter].
There was no way he could have been constipated [inaudible].
It's as if some children are born with invisible sign on their foreheads.
Let me tell you, married men, priests, pendejos [laughter] [applause].
The man was oversexed from the day he was born.
No way he could have been ordained.
The thing, it would have stuck out from the [laughter].
Damn, he should have but, you know, he was [inaudible] in everything.
All the shame and, I know, the trouble it caused your mama,
not to mention, the others ¡ay, puta!
En el nombre del Padre, del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo, he may be your daddy but,
he's a half man and a half [inaudible].
[Inaudible] in here.
[Inaudible] como un chingo, that's what I say.
He thought with his cositas, you know?
Ah, no, look at your mama, that roadmap.
California, dios mío [laughter], all on account,
if you can imagine, she didn't have no chance.
It had a will of its own, como chile colorado.
Think about it, mija, think about the divine service.
You like to read [laughter].
[ Applause ]
I'll have time for one more, maybe.
I did this Wednesday, shall I do them again?
What do you think?
Okay. You may recognize this character.
She's from a play that I wrote called, "The Novena Narratives" and that means,
Pauline is 14 years old and she's been in the, okay,
she's been in the fifth grade for two years.
And you may recognize her.
Now, the title of this play is called, Novena Narrativa.
In the Catholic church, there's a prayer cycle of nine days
which is called a novena, or novena.
And this play is about the lives of nine women and each
of the lives of the women is like a prayer.
I gave you Corinne, La Cori Delgado, she's one of the women.
This is a 14-year-old who the teacher has stuck in the corner facing the wall
because it's too much trouble to deal with her.
And so, she's behind the screen working on her tattoos [laughter].
Some of the other characters are a young girl who has been abused and she has
to make her way through the broken beer bottles.
One of them is a spinster who is the foster mother of that particular child.
There's an old woman in a nursing home and then, there's one, this character,
there's various other characters, Pauline Mendoza [assumed spelling].
Pauline Mendoza.
Pauline Mendoza, Tucson, Menlo Park Elementary, 14 years old, fifth grade.
I'm a freak [laughter].
Boys, cars, makeup, my leather jacket, my red headband, black t-shirts, my jean jacket,
my hair cut long in the back and short on the sides and front, tattoos.
Can I sit down now, teacher?
She wants me to stand up and talk here.
I made all the tattoos myself.
I'm working on one now, hey, do you want?
Nah, you can't see it.
Can I go back to my desk now, teacher?
Okay, what do you want me to talk for anyway?
I already told you what I like.
I don't want to be nothing.
My teacher, Mrs. Espinosa [assumed spelling],
she makes me sit behind the screen in the corner facing the wall.
I'm jittery, she says [laughter].
Say, also, I work on my tattoos, nothing better to do.
I can barely read nor write.
I'm dumb. I'm a freak.
Hey, don't yell at me.
Mrs. Espinosa, she yells at me all the time.
It's embarrassing.
I've got work to do; can I go sit down?
Nine times eight, nine times eight.
[Inaudible] know neither, how the hell should I know [laughter]?
Yeah, I'll talk some more.
Yeah, I like my mom, she's pretty young for a mom.
I hate school, I hate homework.
Thinking, I hate thinking.
Well, maybe I could like it.
You want me to read that paper?
Give me the paper, all right, already.
Can't read the whole thing.
I'm dumb. I'm a freak.
The piece, piecery of a peace e oh.
I know how to spell people.
Peop. "The History of a People", this is boring.
I don't like this class.
People are boring.
I can't read, I told you, I can't.
Can I sit down now, teacher, [inaudible] [laughter]?
You still want me to talk about myself?
Mrs. Hitachi [phonetic], she never makes me talk about myself.
She lets me sit in the corner all day long and be quiet.
That's all she wants from me.
Hmm, I tried to read in church, you know, One Holy, Catholic, that's as far as I got.
I'm a freak even in church.
So, I look at the statues and the pictures and I feel better.
A freak. What's a freak?
A freak is somebody who wears a you-know-what in the fifth grade
and has already started their you-know-what in the fifth grade.
That's a freak.
That's my tattoo.
Nah, you can't look at it.
Nah, you neither.
All right since you asked, that's Our Lady of Guadalupe.
That's not a lady on fire, stupid.
Don't you know anything or nothing [laughter]?
I just started working it.
Yeah, I told you I like to go to church.
I get you, you look to me like you don't go to church, okay.
I don't talk good and I don't think good.
Something cool, a picture like a church, you know,
the history of a people, One, Holy, you know?
I'm working on my tattoos where nobody bothers me.
It's my artwork.
I'm working on my tattoos and my drawings.
I'm going to be an artist.
My girlfriend, Gloria [assumed spelling], she says that I'm changing,
that I don't want to get rowdy and drunk all the time like I used to.
She made me, you know what?
This teacher, she came to school, and she made me stand up and talk and she was
like a Chicana and a lady and an artist.
I never knew anybody like her.
Really surprised me, a Chicana and a lady and an artist.
Well, I'm changing maybe, huh?
Pauline Mendoza, I do tattoos.
Someday, I'm good at art.
[ Applause ]
For those of you that are studying drama, you'll appreciate this.
Carrie Lee [assumed spelling] they're learning a vocabulary that she learned in drama,
appreciation classes like texture and line, space, rhythm.
And the title of the story is called, "Space is a Solid" and this has to do with the idea
that when you study body and movement,
one of the systems is called the Laban Theory of Movement.
And you move your space as if it were a solid.
You cut through space.
Your body is an instrument that cuts through space,
and so that is where the title comes from, "Space is a Solid".
This little girl is learning that space has a solidity.
It's a story that deals with the dissolution of a relationship
between this young girl and her teacher.
Now, the mother has had a double mastectomy, I must tell you that.
And the protagonist is renting an apartment from Nada [assumed spelling]
and Floyd [assumed spelling] and I won't get into the scenes where the mother is,
she often reveals her double mastectomy to her tenants.
She is a nightmare of any landlady that we have all had [laughter].
But I won't get into that scene right now.
You're going to have to read the short story, but I'd like to introduce you to Carrie Lee.
And she talks about her mama just a little bit.
Now, in this drama class, there's a little boy that doesn't have any arms.
He's a Thalidomide victim and she has trouble dealing with that
because her mama says that he's a crippled boy, okay?
So, that's basically the story.
"Space is a Solid", Carrie Lee Wembly [phonetic].
Space is a solid.
Ms. Estebal [phonetic] explained this to us at the beginning of Drama Appreciation Three Class
that I'm not sure what she meant.
Ms. Estebal told all of us kids to stand in the middle of the room
like we was a molecule [laughter].
Well, I'm not sure what she meant by that but, Ms. E said, just cut it out, just cut it out.
If you want to squirm, wait till you're a worm.
Well, everybody laughed, including me, even though I'm not sure what she meant by that.
Anyway, Arlen [assumed spelling] was cutting up.
Now, that's pretty crazy because he doesn't have any arms.
All he has is little stumps which stick out like the gills of a fish, and they go up
and down, up and down like wings.
Well, maybe Anna Werner [assumed spelling] has wings but, they're on her back.
She's so skinny that, when she wears a bathing suit, her wings go up and down,
up and down [laughter] quack, quack, quack, quack, quack.
Well, Arlen doesn't care about anything but mean boy things like saying hell and damn.
He'll start squawking and a-flapping around the room, bumping into people,
and Ms. E. will say, oh good, Arlen, that is so good.
Molecules are like that, they pop and they hop and they bop [laughter].
Everybody laughs but, I think he's showing off because he doesn't have any arms.
Well, mama told me, you mean Arlen [inaudible] gills in your Drama Appreciation Class, well,
for land's sake, Carrie Lee Wembly, he's a crippled boy.
His mama was one of those that took that drug, Thalidomide, I think they call it,
causing that poor boy that horrible disfigurement for the rest of his born life.
God Almighty.
But I am so glad we ain't got no stock that, Carrie Lee Wembly.
Now, no Wembly, as far as I can recollect, had no disfigurement like that but,
your Aunt Mae Ethel [assumed spelling].
And it was because she started on some fancy prescribed drug for her sciatica.
Wouldn't you know it, she started growing hair on her face like a man [laughter].
No sir, Carrie Lee, no Wembly, as far as I know, can trace their disfigurements to drugs but,
your Aunt Mae Ethel and she was unsuspecting.
Well, she stopped those drugs right then and there.
And she endured her pain just like all of us Wemblys done.
Ain't right to pump your body with no enzodytes or mites, not thank you, ma'am.
Now, you listen to me, Carrie Lee, if God wants to send down His wrath on you,
well, that's another thing altogether.
Why, He'll just go ahead and do it.
Don't you go pushing him.
If mama stood in the middle of the room, she would be a talking molecule [laughter].
Whoo, well, I was thinking about that when Ms. E. turned to me and said,
"Carrie Lee, what are you thinking?"
Oh, I don't know, Ms. E. Come on, Carrie Lee, quick, quick,
quick, you're a molecule, remember?
"Oh, I am?"
I said. Well, what does a molecule think?
Oh, I don't know.
Well, I don't know, about other molecules, I guess.
Arlen, Arlen, don't you be quacking me with those chicken wings of yours.
I almost said but, then, I remembered he was a crippled boy.
And I said to Ms. E., "Well, Ms. E., molecules don't think at all, they just move".
"Like responding to stimuli," Arlen says.
"Oh good, Arlen.
Arlen, that is so good," Ms. E. said.
She was wearing this real nice pretty velour top and she's so nice
and so pretty, and all the kids like her.
They do, except Arlen, and he's a pill.
Mama says that sometimes people are pills and it's because they ain't normal.
They ain't got normal feelings.
They're disfigured and all.
They call attention to themselves like Arlen.
They prance and they dance around just
like little circus horses, showing how much they can do.
Mama says, "I don't know what you all must make [inaudible] deal, showing off Arlen all
over town like he's a normal boy.
No, Carrie Lee, it ain't decent.
And it's all account of that Thalidomide."
Well, me, I won't have nothing to do with Arlen Threadgill [assumed spelling].
And it's not because he's a crippled boy.
Arlen smells [laughter].
[ Applause ]
Well, I do thank you very much.
I'll be here if anybody's interested in the book.
If there's any questions, please come around.
Thank you very, very much.
[ Applause ]