NP Blog
Inspired by the Words of Others by Loida Casares
by Tony Diaz on 07/08/14
I was working at the Houston Chronicle in 1998, and I heard about the great things going on at Chapultepec Mexican Restaurant with a group called Nuestra Palabra: Latinos Having Their Say. I was intrigued, but it wasn’t until much later after I met Tony Diaz through my job at the Chronicle that I got up the courage to tell him that I was an aspiring writer. He asked me if I had written anything, and I told him that I had been working on a novel. He invited me to read at one of the next events.
By then it was 2002, and he was holding the monthly showcase at Talento Bilingue on Jensen and Navigation. I remember being so nervous that night when I got up in front of the audience to read the words I had written, but I did it somehow, and it felt good. It felt so good I wanted to do it again.
Something else that I remember about that important first time are the women who took the stage with me: Maria Palacios reading from “The Female King,” Diana Lopez reading from her new book “Sofia’s Saints,” and Carolina Monsivais reading from “Somewhere Between Houston and El Paso.” I was in awe of these Latina women who had actually published books.
Over the years that followed I read with NP again, and I was interviewed on the radio show a few times. It was at one of those shows that I met the amazing writer Stephanie Elizondo Griest who had just written “Around the Bloc: My Life in Moscow, Beijing, and Havana.”
One of the last times I read at a Nuestra Palabra showcase was at MECA: Multicultural Education and Counseling through the Arts in March of 2004. I remember because I was 8 months pregnant. By that time I had written several chapters of my novel, but they were all in bits and pieces without any real structure. It wasn’t until that reading and when I started my blog in November of 2004 that I was able to get myself organized enough to form a structured outline and to put all the chapters together to form a real novel.
Yes, it’s been twelve years since I first read on a Nuestra Palabra stage, and since I’ve been working on the same novel, but it’s because of Nuestra Palabra that I continued on this journey at all. In those twelve years I started my own blog that I still publish, I blogged for a women’s magazine for quite a few years, and I got the courage to submit my writing to Glimmer Train Press.
Imagine my surprise when my story “The Canal” was a finalist, but I remember it was Tony Diaz who was so excited for me, and he made me feel that it was a really big deal. He has always encouraged me to keep writing with his words and with his invitations to read with NP. His crew, especially Liana Lopez, have also been so encouraging over the years, inviting me to read on the radio program.
Nuestra Palabra has also inspired me in more ways than they can imagine by inviting so much great talent to the stage and to their radio show over the years. I’ll never forget when I heard Victor Villaseñor read at Barnes and Noble in 2004. That was the same year I met Robyn Moreno and Michelle Herrera Mulligan and fell in love with their collection of awesome writing by women, “Border-line Personalities: A New Generation of Latinas Dish on Sex, Sass, & Cultural Shifting.” Where else would I be exposed to such awesome talent?
That’s why twelve years later I’m still plugging away, writing my words, editing my now infamous novel and working on the outline to a second novel. Thank you Tony Diaz and thank you Nuestra Palabra for your words of encouragement and for doing what you do year in and year out for our city, our state and now even for our nation. You will go down in history.
Loida Casares was born and raised in Houston, Texas. She has an MA in Communication and a BA in Journalism, with a minor in English, from the University of Houston. She is a writer and blogger at shoegirlcorner.com and has read at Nuestra Palabra, Latinos Having Their Say. She has also appeared on their radio program on KTRU, Radio Pacifica. Her essay was featured on KUHF, Houston Public Radio's "This I Believe" series. She has had an essay published on LiteraryMama.com and her short story "The Canal" was a Glimmer Train Press finalist.
The Second Generation of NP by Libroraficante Lips Mendez aka Lupe Mendez
by Tony Diaz on 07/01/14
Alvaro, Stephanie, Tonzi, Radames, Eliza Garza and I were constantly getting booked at one place or another. One of the first times Tony had us together as a troupe was the Texas Book Festival, in the poetry tent, run by Tammy Gomez. We did that for two or three years in April between 2001 - 2003.
So the questions came in from first the moderator and then from select press members and one questions posed to Sandra got a reaction that I never forgot. Someone asked her "How do you feel being named as an important "Hispanic' writer?"
Sandra's response caught everyone's attention, not only because it was a smart response, but because, she was putting people on notice. She made people uncomfortable, "why do you and the rest of the press have to keep labeling me, labeling US as just 'Hispanic' writers?!?! Why can't we just be the best damn writers you know? I am not just Hispanic. I am Mexican American AND a writer. You end up putting limits on who reads my work and how people view what I do. You sir, you have it all wrong!"
She got the whole crowd mumbling in the stands, and Jimmy nodded and agreed saying "yep," and Raul, that cool cat, he just smiled at her and at the crowd and said "she's right, she's right."
Slowly, an applause resonated across the chamber. It was then, at that moment, that I finally realized, having had the chance to meet them all individually, and then seeing them as a whole group, speaking about the craft and the energy that writing requires, that I was part of something great. I was a part of a "scene". I was a part of a greater movement - the world of a writer, and I had some of the best in my very corner. I had a goal after that day. I would make my writing tell a story as a part of the writers of the southwest.
After a few years, I had the honor of reading one last time with Raul Salinas (que en pas descanse). It would be his last reading- at the University of Houston, Central Campus. I had the opportunity to open for him at a conference for culture and education. We had words and he was impressed with my work "keep that fuerza, muchacho". One of the best blessing yet.
Had it not been for NP, I don't know if I would have the life I have now - it allowed me to spread my wings as a writer, as an actor, and hell, in a round about way, it put in contact to the very way I ended up meeting my wife. A writer's life indeed. Que sigue la lucha!
On Finding the Courage to Use my Voice
by Tony Diaz on 06/26/14
On
Finding the Courage to Use my Voice
When I found my very young self confronting some rather difficult childhood issues, reading and writing became my refuge. I really cannot remember a time I was not lugging books around and filling notebooks with my thoughts. That voice, the writer’s voice, came early and carried me across the decades. Reading and sharing my work aloud, however, was an entirely different matter. Although I did pursue an undergraduate degree in writing, I really did not plan to do much else but write-perhaps amass notebooks to fill closets and collect folded stacks of dot matrix printed poems, without or without the side edges. It was the late 1990s after all and my dot matrix still worked. My writing would have remained put away if not for teachers, professors, and friends that pushed me to do something, anything with my poems and stories.
One professor in particular, Dr. Maria González at the University of Houston pushed me the furthest. For those who know me now, it might be difficult to imagine that I used to have an extremely debilitating fear of public speaking. Maria believed in my writing, more than I did, and found a way to help me face this fear, one she had witnessed. She handed me a flier for the next Nuestra Palabra event, the third I believe, scheduled for June 1998, and told me she would not give me my final grade, for the absolute last class I needed to finally complete my B.A. that Summer unless I read at Nuestra Palabra. Extra credit is how we would refer to it. “Extortion” is how I remember it. I strongly considered calling her on her bluff, but then thought it might be time to get over this fear. She called Tony Diaz as soon as I agreed. In the days that followed I hoped that Tony would forget about me and Maria’s request. But then I received a call from Alvaro Saar Rios who was completing the line-up and I knew that short of a typical Houston monsoon, which I prayed for, there would be no getting out of it.
I remember clearly how my legs trembled and my hands shook especially when I realized how packed the restaurant was that night. When my name was called, I took a deep breath and forced myself to push the words out. Nuestra Palabra is not where I found my voice it was where I found the courage to use it. Tony provided a stage for us and a safe environment for many Chicana/os and Latina/os to find, cultivate, and learn to use their writing in very transformative ways. This was important to my writing since I tend to tackle issues most would rather forget. Lasting connections, friendships, and collaborations were forged that night and in the many years that followed. Perhaps none of us imagined then all that would come from NP, the readings, the radio show, and the activism. None of us are surprised. NP was and remains a significant force on of behalf our literary community mainly due to Tony’s vision and the many volunteers who have worked to bring it forth. I remain in awe of the work NP has done and in how we have all developed our own lives as writers, artists, and activists. Challengers to Mexican American Studies do not have a chance.
That night my life was changed dramatically. More readings and even publications followed. Including my first book of poetry published in 2000. Pushing myself on stage, even gave me the courage at that time to take on the job of the schools’ educator at the Houston Area Women’s Center that included giving speeches on domestic violence and sexual assault often to large audiences. Whenever I feel my courage falter I think back on that moment, how difficult it was for me to step on that stage, and it helps me take on whatever I feel is the next challenge. It has certainly helped me as I complete a doctorate in Borderlands History at the University of Texas at El Paso, almost an entirely new field for me that required a different way of thinking and writing. It is also what propelled me to finally complete my third collection of poetry Descent (Mouthfeel Press), which will be out this coming fall. Whenever I feel my courage falter I think of Tony who took a chance on a political Chicana poet, and all who have since. Whenever I feel my courage falter, I remember all the friends who came with me, Maria included, and everyone who became my friend after. I am not alone. Our literary family has expanded. Whenever I feel my courage falter, I take a deep breath, steady my hands, and step out on stage.
Carolina Monsiváis is the author of Somewhere Between Houston and El Paso and Elisa’s Hunger. Her work is anthologized in Wind Shifts: New Latino Poetry, Literary El Paso, A Face to Meet the Faces: An Anthology of Contemporary Persona Poetry, and U.S. Latino Literature Today. A dedicated advocate/activist in the field of domestic violence and sexual assault, she has worked with survivors in Texas, New Mexico and Juárez. She earned degrees from the University of Houston (B.A) and New Mexico State University (M.F.A.). Monsiváis has taught Literature and Creative Writing at New Mexico State University and at El Paso Community College. She is currently in the Doctoral program in Borderlands History at the University of Texas at El Paso, located in her hometown where she is raising her son.
Where I'm From
by Tony Diaz on 06/18/14
Where I'm From by Carina Quevedo
Where I'm from there is a lot of art, family is important, and children
play outside.
Now, although I've never visited nor do I remember what
the Mercado looks like , it's also part of where I'm from. I
do, however, have a picture of my "bautizo" where
you can see part of the inside of a church named El Sagrado Corazón.
I also found another picture where I'm surrounded by "pichones" outside my father’s home. I was born in Iguala Guerrero, Mexico on a holiday that only Mexicans celebrate with pride, well at least that's what I'm told; my parents say it is kind of like the Fourth of July only better. Because of this my grandparents and even my parents often called me their "banderita".
To my parents Iguala was their homeland-the place they both grew up in and were raised to be amazing human beings. It is also the place where they learned the importance of the word "familia." To me, however, Iguala is just another place on the map. Iguala Guerrero is a small city not too far from "El DF," or, if we want to be more specific, "El Distrito Federal," and it is about an hour or two from one of the most beautiful places that tourists like visit: Acapulco, Guerrero.
I'm proud of my
roots, but I grew up in Houston, Texas where my parents reunited
after being a part for year. They traveled
miles to reunited at "la frontera."
My
mother didn’t quite have it easy because not only did she have to worry
about making it herself, but she also needed her child to make it.
She was only 17, with a middle school education and a 7-month old child. Thankfully, my mother did not travel alone. My father’s cousins traveled along and really helped her get through the days and nights it took us to get to the "frontera."
My mother doesn't like to talk about those nights. She says it was
the hardest and scariest time she went through. We had to constantly keep moving, and she had to carry
a crying baby.
It was hard to carry her child in her
harms for miles with only 15-minute breaks in between. When we finally
made it to the "frontera," she realized we had to cross the river;
she didn’t know how to swim, but what she feared the most was that her
child would drown.
My cousins were very helpful. They carried me across. Yes, we are what people often refer to as "wetbacks" or "mojados." Only, I guess you can literally say that about me because I did get my back wet.
My parents met at a very young age. My mother was 13 and my father was 17. They often reminisce and ramble on about how great and beautiful Iguala was. They tell us stories of the places they often visited such the famous "discotec." It was very hard on both of my parents to leave their life, parents, and their home to move to a whole different country.
The first couple of years were the hardest for all of us. We lived in
a one bedroom apartment with ten other people. My
parents bedroom was a closet room where the only thing that fit was a twin-sized mattress.
All the clothes I owned were given to me by people who met my parents and knew about our situation.
Things were hard, but today I can say that we have been very blessed and have met so many people who have helped us get where we are. My parents traveled miles, made many sacrifices to travel to a country where they believed that their children would have better opportunities and an education. Therefore, we make sure we make them proud everyday with every decision we make.
The Importance of Banging on Doors.
by Tony Diaz on 06/11/14
"The Importance of Banging on Doors" by Russell Contreras, NP Founding Member; Reporter, Associated Press.
When I found myself thrown into a small backroom of a Houston night club -- packed with menacing men and stacks of cash on the table -- I knew Nuestra Palabra was family.
It was October 1998, and my fellow Nuestra Palabra pal, the short story writer Alvaro Saar Rios, was banging on the door for bouncers to free me. For all he knew, I was being beaten.
‘Who are you?’ a man in front of dollar bills asked me.
‘I’m a reporter, and I'm here doing a story on the women dancing here,’ I said. ‘Do you know some of them are girls?’
‘You’re lying,” the man said. ‘My places are family places.’
I was on assignment to investigate allegations two clubs were allowing girls, some as young as 12, to taxi dance-an old ritual where men paid dancers to sway together (sometimes closely) per song. Innocent as it seemed, advocates told me they believed it was a path to prostitution. Many of the young taxi dancing girls and women were poor Mexican Americans or immigrants.
I had visited the club a couple of times by myself, but needed to get more dancers to talk. Each time I went, I felt I was being more closely watched. So this last time, I asked Alvaro if he wanted to tag along.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Let’s do this.’
Alvaro and I recently had become friends through this new reading series called Nuestra Palabra. An U.S. Army veteran, he had a talent for crafting (and performing) humorous short stories about life in Houston’s largely Mexican-American Cottage Grove neighborhood. But underneath those stories simmered the pain of poverty, coming of age, and making farfetched wishes.
I, on the other hand, wrote memoir pieces about growing up Mexican American in the largely black neighborhood of Houston’s Greenfield Village. I also was deciding whether to finish my Master’s Degree in History or take up a life of a journalist/nonfiction writer.
Hosted by novelist Tony Diaz, Nuestra Palabra forced closeted Latino writers to jump on stage and read whatever they had in their notebook, be it poetry, a short story, a piece of a novel, a dramatic piece, and in one case, a mariachi ballad. Its popularity grew from a small gathering in the back of a Mexican restaurant to a standing-room only event that would eventually lead to a radio show, and later, a sister group on the campus of Columbia University in New York.
But on that night in the fall of 1998, I wasn’t thinking about some broad legacy. I was just hoping the vet I met was documenting what might happen to me while I was locked in this smoke-filled room.
Another bang on the door.
‘Here’s what I think,’ the club owner said. ‘I think you were sent by some other club to shut me down.’
‘No, I’m a reporter,’ I said. ‘I just write for a living--‘
‘No, you are some sort of spy,’ he said. ‘I know all the reporters, and I’ve never heard of you.’ (But he would, eventually).
This back and forth game went on as I tried to get as much as I could on the record without a notepad, working to store what I could through memory. I had been trying to get the owner on the phone for weeks, but he had failed to return my calls.
‘What do you want me to do with him, boss?’ a bouncer asked.
‘There’s nothing you can do with me,’ I answered for him. ‘I’m a reporter.’
The bouncer shoved me against the wall. ‘What do you want me to do with him, boss?’ bouncer asked again.
‘Throw him out.’
The door opened and I saw Alvaro at a pay phone. He was leaving a message on his machine to let people know where we were in case we were never heard from again.
‘What? You calling a taxi and abandoning me?’ I joked.
‘Nah, dog, I was leaving a message. Just in case,’ Alvaro said. ‘Hey, some dancers think were La Migra, and they're running out of here.’
A crowd followed us to my car, and we sped away.
Then, we got tacos.
From that night, I wrote a piece that appeared in the Houston Press. The story eventually led to the city adopting an ordinance banning taxi dancing for underage girls and later appeared in Latina Magazine, my first national piece. I would submit that piece with my package to the creative writing program at Columbia University, where I would go in fall 2000.
A year later, Alvaro visited me in New York City. I insisted we go to the Brooklyn side of Brooklyn Bridge to snap some photos. I got one of him with the bridge fading into Manhattan and the towers waving ‘hi’ in the background.
That image wouldn’t have existed had Tony Diaz not come up with Nuestra Palabra. Hell, I probably would have never made it to New York. Likely, I would have been forgotten, even to myself.
I’d like to think I could have escaped the backroom of that club, run out to my car and wrote the story. But I would have never known about the stage, and what that meant. Every story needs a stage.
And Nuestra Palabra taught me the importance of banging on doors.
Russell Contreras, reporter, Associated Press
twitter: @russcontreras
