Monday, June 30, 2014

An Interview with Joaquin Zihuatanejo


"Will Write for Soul Food" is proud to present, an interview with Award Winning Slam Poet and English Teacher Joaquín Zihuatenjo.




Joaquín, among other things, inspired me to write when I took his creative writing class in high school. Little did I know that this titan of a writer and poet possessed deep humility.

In 2005, Joaquin was featured on season five of Russell Simmons Presents Def Poetry for HBO, in which he received a standing ovation for his performance. He has shared the stage with  Billy Collins, Saul Williams, E. Lynn Harris, Alicia Keys, and Maya Angelou among others. 

Joaquín recently won the 2008 Individual World Poetry Slam Championship besting 77 poets representing cities all over North America, France and Australia. Due in part to this victory, Joaquín received a book deal with Wordsmith Press, to be published in the fall of 2010. Also, because of this victory Joaquín was the poet chosen to represent the U.S. at the 2009 World Cup of Poetry Slam in Paris, France, a competition that he won besting 13 poets from 13 different nations making him the number one ranked slam poet in the world on both sides of the Atlantic. (For full bio, click here). 

In order to continue to teach other writers, Joaquín took some time out from his busy schedule to answer a few questions about writing and inspiration.


What incidents in your life that made you want to write?  

All of them.  I'm amazed how most of my inspiration for writing short fiction or poetry comes from airports, or park benches, or church ceremonies.  The people, the sights, the sounds of my life.  These are where I get ideas for poems.  My last book, Family Tree happened because I kept having conversations with students and people after I would do a reading about the word "family," what that word means to them, what it means to me.  So it was natural that I write a collection of poems entirely about that word, as that word kept popping up in my life time and time again.


What is the best advice you've ever received on how to be more creative?  

To read.  I once read that a great writer reads more than they write. And these words are so true.  If surround yourself with words you will become inspired to write them.  And what a wonderful time to be a reader, especially of poetry when we have so many great writers and poets writing today, people like Jimmy Santiago Baca and Sherman Alexie and Naomi Shihab Nye.  It truly is an inspirational time to be a reader and writer.

What about writing poetry can make you a better short story writer?  

I think when you write a great deal of poetry, which is all about economy of words, it is very liberating, you know freeing, to then say to yourself, now instead of half a page, let's see what I can do in 15 or 20.  And one must remember that the first rule of poetry is to tell a truth, usually an awful truth in a beautiful way.  With short fiction the first rule is to not tell the truth, to make it up.  And that's also a very liberating experience, to break free from the shackle sod truth and make up entire families, towns, worlds.

As a poet/writer, what is your measure of success?  

At a reading if one person comes up to me and says that one of my poems shook them, or made them laugh, or made them cry, or reminded them of their grandfather, or some such, then it was a successful experience.  You can't measure your success by book sales, because then you come to care more about the sale than the book.  But you can measure success by a heartfelt email, or a thank you at a reading, and that's how I measure it.

After experiencing recognition and success as a slam poet and writer, how do you maintain originality with your writing without “doing what you know will get people’s approval”? 

I never write for judges, whether they are slam judges or a publication panel.  I write for me, and the voiceless people of my youth and the voiceless of today.  I've always thought that if I start to write to give the people what they want, rather than what they need, it might be time for me to stop writing.  I haven't reached that point yet.  I pray I never will.

Has there ever been a poem you’ve written that has surprised you (with where it went) when you’ve finished?  

"Elephant" it's one of the few poems that happened organically, almost magically, like something else larger than me was working through me.  It's also the poem that has a subject matter that is farther from me than any other I have ever written, the children of Africa, but it's also one of the poems I'm most connected to, which makes me feel that it connects all humanity together, and isn't that the ultimate goal of any poem?
   
I’ve often heard you say that Sliding Doors, Frogs, and How We Love Each Other is a love poem. Because writing about love is so hard, what advice would you give to writers wanting to write about it without sounding cheesy?  

In my new book I have a love poem entitled, "The Bride Sister from Sixteen Candles".  It's another one of those Joaquin Zihuatanejo love poems that don't sound like a love poem.  And those are my favorite.  That subject, love, is so large, has been written about for so long, that we have to find a way to step back from the poem and make sure that we are creating something that is odd, and twisted, and resplendent, and heartbreaking, and heart-mending.  You know something like...love. 


What’s the greatest compliment you’ve ever received for your writing?  

I recently had brunch with my hero, the greatest living Chicano writer and author of Bless Me, Ultina, Rudolfo Anaya.  When I first met him years ago, he was so kind and selfless and giving that not long after that when I asked him to write the introduction to my second collection of poems, Of Fire and Rain, he agreed.  He concluded with this sentence, "I felt freedom and justice ringing in your poems, and I trust many readers will feel the same sense of liberation." To this day the greatest literary honor I have ever received was the "yes" when my good friend and mentor, Rudolfo Anaya agreed to write that introduction to my work.

What advice do you have for aspiring writers?  

Read voraciously.  Write everyday.  Do not smoke cigarettes or wear too much black.  Travel.  When you do take a journal with you.  Talk to people, listen to their stories, reflect about your stories, and then stir it all together and see what happens.

Thursday, June 26, 2014

What I Told the Court...


So this one time I was walking down the street and this guy with a huge red beard, a blue robe, and a bald head ambled up to me. He introduced himself as “Lloyd”. He went on to say that his occupation was “wizard” and that he had “chosen me” to be his “magical apprentice” with no ironic tone implied. While I told him that I am a missionary type and wizardry counts as “witchcraft”, I told him he looked cool enough to hang out with. He agreed to hear about Jesus after our hang out.


            We went downtown, had a beer together, and started to tell each other stories of our misspent youth. All of a sudden, this big dude with bigger muscles came up to me and said, “HEY! YOU’RE IN MY SEAT!”


            Seeing as the guy had three feet on me, and that was just in the size of his Adam’s apple, I started to get up. However, Lloyd placed the butt of his staff on the big man’s nose and shouted, “NONE SHALL PASS! Leaveth my homie alone.”


            Perhaps it was the preposterousness of an old man defending a bald looking missionary, or the fact that someone over 100 just used the word “homie”, but the big man looked befuddled. The tattooed biker staggered back and flexed his throbbing muscles in confusion. Just as he swung his drunken fist, a flash flew from his wooden staff and punched the man right in the nose. A blue liquid spewed from his nostrils and landed on the bar beside him. The lummox fell, and the liquid on the bar turned into doves and flew out of the window.


            “Great magic trick,” I said to Lloyd and we left. On our way back to the apartment, we sat down on a curb and talked about our travels in life. He talked about the time he met his wife. The two were at a D and D convention as real wizards. (They both found it “relaxing”). They got into a friendly argument over what made the best love potion and ended up drinking each other’s and fell madly in love. The two ran off to Vegas and were married by an Elvis impersonator named Conan and a Conan impersonator named Elvis. Afterward, the two moved into a quaint bungalow, bought furniture out of multiple aisles in IKEA, and had two kids: one goat kid, and one human kid named Hoboken. They were so happy, until one day, while talking about what color to paint their cheaply made cabinets, their love potions wore off. However, because they had spent so much of their lives together, the two had great affection for one another and stayed married in spite of the “spark” being gone (which, one could argue, is what real love is).


            They were married for 231 years until his wife caught a cold. Tragically, she went for a walk, sneezed, and fell off of a cliff to her demise. Seeing that his kids had grown up and moved out, all his possessions reminded him of his wife. So he sold them all and gave the money to a camp that trains kids to be ambidextrous. Well, all except for his last bag of fairy dust that reminded him of his wife’s twinkling eyes. He handed it to me and I’ll never forget what he said.


            He said: “Here,” and, before I could talk to him about Jesus, he disappeared.


            So officer, that’s how I ended up here in the middle of the street. That’s why my breath smells like really cheap drink specials. That’s why I am holding an unmarked bag of white powder. As for the beaten up guy at the bar, you gotta ask Lloyd how that happened… for I am no wizard.


            Oh man… You mean I get to look inside your squad car… I’ve never been inside a police car before… and in the back seat… you’re so nice and… WHATDA?


*SLAM*

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

One to Forget, One to Remember

I don’t remember my dad being at work for half of my childhood.
But I’ll never forget nights yelling for the smell of his nightshirt until manhood crept up and swallowed a part of my innocence. Sometimes, when I amble down supermarket aisles or return home for Christmas, I’ll steal a whiff to remember when I didn’t know much. 

I don’t remember the first time I got drunk
But I’ll never forget laughing like an idiot at dumb jokes until my face literally turned blue. I woke up an hour later, for the first time, not really caring that people laughed at me rather than my jokes. Maybe we should drink more.

I don’t remember feeling weird asking my sister to sleep in her bed when I was young
But I’ll never forget how many bullies cowered in fear when my sister to “kick their asses” with the strange power of estrogen. Maybe I secretly hoped it worked on closet monsters and the fear of being the smallest in my family

I don’t remember the day we stopped friends
But I’ll never forget waiting by the phone all Saturday, ready to relive our old dreams of video game stardom, mountain biking to the next dimension, and wondering if women would ever get less strange.
            Some days, I am still waiting.

 I don’t remember praying the first day I dropped a full-blown shit in my pants as an adult
But I’ll never forget praising God days afterward for that travel doctor who made me purchase stomach meds. If I ever become Catholic, I will nominate her as the patron saint of missionaries.

I don’t remember the day we officially broke up
            But I’ll never forget hanging up the phone wondering who I had become the past
Four and a half years. Don’t get me wrong: We needed part. She found her path. I found mine. But really, it took four years to mourn and one more to move on before I realized she wasn’t calling back.

I don’t remember the first time You saw me grieve
            But whenever I worship, I can’t fully open my heart without bloodshot eyes.
There’s too much death
                                                too much death
too much death in this life to forget that before Lazarus
            You knew me, and I knew You


So public, and yet, so intimately.

Monday, June 23, 2014

Visit to the Punctuation Hospital

I just got back from a punctuation hospital. As I dashed in, I took a long pause because my friend was in a comma. Then the doctor had to explain further that my friend might have to be put into braces, or even brackets. That disturbed me so much I tried a door to get some fresh air. Instead, I stumbled upon this weird ward that they only use for people who dress in Santa outfits. All the patients worked as freelance Saint Nicks, but all suffered from Santa related injuries. Their rooms were connected by semi-colons, because semi-colons connect independent clauses.

I went back to my car to find a ticket on my car. While they wanted me to immediately pay the fine, the police really wanted to de-emphasize their reasons for fining me. That's right.... I got a parenthetical citation.


                             

Be careful... THEY'RE EVERYWHERE!

Saturday, June 21, 2014

Midnight Talks that Redefine


Maybe it was because I had never seen that much liquid spewing out of my face, but afterward, I felt invincible. Bulletproof. Like Super fucking Mario had eaten a sparkling star, ready to go tame Yoshi and make baby Italian plumbers with the Princess behind the castle. 
After scaling two wooden fences, drop kicking two yapping poodles and a furry creature that looked like a fox had shagged one of those bicycling Mormons, I threw handfuls of gravel at her window for what seemed like hours. 
“She’s asleep,” I thought, still chucking rocks, “This was stupid… I’m…” 
My thoughts were interrupted by a loud “OUCH!” 
A perfect face peaked out of the window. Even though I had dreamed of this moment since I was ten, I didn’t dream beaning her nose. Somehow, it made it more beautiful. 
“Who’s there?” she called out, sounding more scared than I planned in my dreams.
I wrote an epic speech confessing my love, using Shakespeare and video game metaphors, but I threw up on it on the way over. So I stood there in my plastic knight helmet, staring at her serious, but soft, brown eyes. 
After a silence that I’m sure was heard from Jupiter, I found my balls and my voice, “Oh… um… hey Sam…”
Her voice wavered, “Who’s…?”
“IT IS I!” I blurted, trying to ignore the slurring in my speech.
“What?” she asked, sounding more scared than impressed.
“Um… it… it’s Pablo.”
“Who… What? Look, I don’t know who you are, but if you don’t get out of here, I’m going to call the cops… or worse…”
“No… look Sam…”
“I have them on speed dial…”
“No,” I protested, “Seriously, Sam…”
“I’m going to call them right…”
“Sam, seriously… please don’t,” I stammered.
“Sam,” she said to the night, “Sam… no one has called me that since… since…”
“I know, you prefer Samantha now. But I… I remember you as Sam. ‘Member, you and I used to cross the highway we weren’t supposed to and play pinball and drink Slurpees until our brains froze? ‘Member have burping contests in the back parking lot of Food Lion? ‘Member when you called me ‘Gordito’ and I’d get pissed off and you’d say sorry and offer me those crappy ice popsicles? Don’t you remember in high school when your dad died and you started to get boyfriends and you told me about how they’d go into your bedroom and…”
“Oh… Pablo…heeeey…” her voice dropped, “What…what the hell are you doin’ here?”
“I just… was… in the neighborhood and…”
“Your mom moved eight miles away... and your dad is still in jail…”
“Yeah… um… shoot…”
“Well… what do you want? And why the hell are you wearing a plastic knight helmet?”
Feeling like a total douche, I ripped off my plastic helmet and chucked it on the wet lawn, “Look, I was playing D and D, and some chick was there. We never get girls to play, so everyone was flirting and making up stuff to impress her. And she reminded me of you. ‘Cept she was fat… and had a unibrow… anyway, I was getting ready to smote her and win for the night when she offered me some beer. As much as I hate getting out of character, I’ve never had a girl offer me anything like that. We drank one, and then two… and that’s when it got all fuzzy. Next thing I remember, she was smacking me with her bag of dice and yelling, ‘Just do it! Just do it already!’ 
I was like, ‘do what?’ and she kept pulling my hands over her… and I just... started laughing and…” my voice trailed off.
“You what?”
“I just… I guess realized that I didn’t want to be another guy. Another chump who wanted to get laid, yanno? Then I remembered all the nights in middle school laying on my driveway staring at the stars telling me how your dad used to... and…I just… I just wanted to say that I… I l-like y-you.”
“You LIKE me?” she snorted.
“Yeah…” I said, “I like you. You’ve always been the coolest girl I’ve known. Even after you got popular, I still knew you are a punk rocker at heart… even when they teased you… and I just…” my head dropped even lower, “…Yeah… I like you Samantha Cooper. I like you a lot. I always have.” 
When I finished, all the air fell out of my lungs. I looked up again and I saw her better in the light. Her face was smeared with green avocado scrub, her long wet hair tied up in a towel, and her fuzzy blue bathrobe made her look so vulnerable. 
“You look adorable,” I said, feeling pathetic.
“You’re kidding right?” she said staring down at me with those perfect brown eyes, “Look… you’re real sweet… and I do remember… really, I do. Those were some good times…” she said, looking off into the distance. She sighed, “You want to come up?”
My eyes got bigger than ever before, “You’re serious?”
“I ain’ gonna ask twice,” she said disappearing and returning to throw her bed sheet out of the window. 

Using the sheet to climb up the wall was harder than it looks in the movies. I tore all the Virginia creeper off the wall, maneuvered around some windows, and finally placed one foot on the ledge. However, while I tried to get both my legs over, I slipped and landed balls first on the balcony. After placing an icepack on my crotch for an hour (and a few giggles), we laid out on the on her floor talking about old times, air guitared to the Clash, and looked at each other face-to-face, remembering what it’s like to feel understood.

Friday, June 20, 2014

1Up: A Story of Espionage

Every time I look at you I think, “Man, was I ever that good looking?”

To which you will say, “Why, you had to be. You’re my father.”

To which I will reply, “THAT’S WHAT YOU THINK! You were adopted.”

To which you will reply, “THAT’S WHAT YOU THINK! I was an adoption cover up so that way you’d accept responsibility for your own son.”

To which I will say, “THAT’S WHAT YOU THINK! I worked in counter intelligence! The information you received about your adoption was FAKED!”

To which you will reply, “THAT’S WHAT YOU THINK! I worked in counter-counter intelligence! That fake adoption was FAKED!”

To which I will say, “BLIMEY! I have a double double agent in my midst.”



To which you will say, “I AM VICTORIOUS! Now wipe my bottom, Father.



I know Jackie... it hurts me too...

Thursday, June 19, 2014

Writing is like Controlled Schizophrenia


Someone asked me why I write fiction. I think I tried to say something cool like, “It connects people” or “I like to create worlds” or “Chicks dig it”. But really, I think it’s because I've been crazy lonely.



           
           When I was taught how to write short stories, I was told to know the characters so intimately, you can carry on a conversation with them. To me, this sounded like controlled schizophrenia, complete with a permanent residency at the Bates’ Motel. 



However, the more I got into the lives of the characters I created, the more fun I had with it. My first character was a womanizing, smokin’, black party guy from the Bronx. Coming from me who was (at the time) a goodie-two-shoes white boy from Texas who greatly respected women (and still do), it shocked me. I got an A on the assignment and my teacher wrote: “I don’t want Sean [my character] to live on my street, but I do want to go bowling with him!”

  I remember staring at the assignment in shock afterwards thinking:


Where the heck did that come from?


For some reason, being able to write/think/speak new ideas from another person's perspective gave me permission to feel thing that I once thought was my “weird”. Don’t get me wrong: I still feel insecure at times. Even though I have many friends that are girls, I still silently freak out when I have feelings for them. And while I don’t claim to understand all the things in my life, sometimes life is just easier to understand when it happens to other people (even if some of those people are made up in your head).


When I create characters to write about, I am free to discover and confront pockets of emotions that I’m uncomfortable with: like the fact that I don’t have a working plan with my life right now, that I don’t really have a place to call “home” yet, and even though I genuinely endorse my beliefs, there are times where I am tempted to say “@#$% it” and go live in a trailer with all of my imaginary friends.

Well, they said we could have it...

But by some miracle, writing this way makes me appreciate the quirks of the people around me. People in my life usually morph their way into the characters of my writing and I am forced to see where they fit in the story of my life. I have to see where there good and dark spots are, and empathize with their stories as well.

In short, writing fiction allows me to appreciate people for all that they are, and therefore allows me to love my neighbor. 

What do you think? Why do you write?