Achy Obejas’s Proud and Defiant Bilingual Verse—National Poetry Month 2022

                            Achy Obejas--Cuban and American, refugee, feminist and lesbian, Catholic and Sephardic Jew.

Achy Obejas is an example of the wide diversity of voices and perspectives that often get lumped together as Latinx. I first took note of her as a contributor to the local Logan Square community weekly newspaper.  I was active in the Logan Square Neighborhood Association in the early ‘80’s and her journalism was an important contribution to the community.  Later I watched as her star rose as a writer for the Chicago Tribune and as a literary figure.

Achy Obejas with her Cuban refugee family in Chicago.

Obejas was born in Cuba in 1956 into a family with Sephardic Jewish roots..  In ’63 her family became part of the mass exodus of anti-Castro dissidents and middle class citizens to the United States.  Unlike most exiles who settled in Miami and became a dominant force in that city, her family moved to the much smaller Chicago community which, living cheek-to-jowls with the much larger Puerto Rican community, often felt isolated.  Cubans were often mistrusted for their largely middle class origins and for the sometimes rabid anti-Communism.

Obejas honored and celebrated her Cuban heritage and culture.  On the other hand, she chaffed at the political expectations of her community as she became, as others in the second generation, increasingly politically progressive.  She also had to deal with her sexual identity. She became an outspoken feminist and open lesbian incorporating all of these experiences into an increasingly rich body of work as a journalist, memoirist, novelist, and poet with an international reputation.

Obejas's most widely read novel, Days of Awe, is semi-autobiographical and deals with a young Exile woman returning to Havana as a translator and discovering a family secret--the are descendants of Sephardic Jews forced to convert to Catholicism during the Spanish Inquisition.

She has written three novels, Memory Mambo in 1996, Days of Awe in 2001, and Ruins in 2009; the story collection We Came All the Way from Cuba So You Could Dress Like This?; and the poetry collection This is What Happened in Our Other Life.  All of this in addition to a prolific career as a journalist and magazine writer.  

Obejas now lives in San Francisco.

Boomerang/Bumerán, her latest book published by Beacon Books in 2021, confronts questions of immigration, love and liberation. Like a boomerang, these ideas return throughout the collection, even as its three sections each focus on a major theme.

Every poem features an English and Spanish version, although the versions do not perfectly mirror one another, reflecting the nuances of both of her languages.  Bilingualism stakes out her own personal and political space.  Regardless of language, Obejas keeps the writing mostly gender-free.

Recuento

Now the beat
(there is always a beat).
Now the drums
and the darkness within.
Now the dance.
The standoff.

Now the story about the jailer
who frees the future dictator out of pity.
Now his lover (the invisible ink).
Now the reports from the front.
Now the betrayal which becomes myth,
the homemade bomb that doesn’t go off,
the priest that intervenes (to his regret).

Now the carnival
that yields the (unexpected) victory.
And the sick.
And the wounded.
The triumphant speech before the multitude.

Now the same horizon
as yesterday,
orange instead of blue.

The damned circumstance.

Now the fleets.
Bactris cubensis, pinus cubensis, the strangler fig.

Repeat, repeat, ad infinitum.

Now the old man on the precipice.
Now the holy burden of being the last one standing.
Now the chess game in the afternoon.
And the milk rice pudding.
And the walk in the garden.
And the toenails that need to be clipped.

This is not History.

Pages marked with highlights.
The story reenacted for posterity.
Photos retouched for accuracy.
Events (an ordering).

This is how it was and it wasn’t
and how it really was.

Repeat, repeat, ad infinitum.

Now the clearing.
Now the bones along the ocean floor.

—Achy Obejas

Recuento

Ahora la clave
(siempre hay una clave).
Ahora los tambores
y la íntima oscuridad.
Ahora el baile.
La pausa.

Ahora la historia sobre el carcelero
que por piedad libera al futuro dictador.
Ahora su amante y la tinta invisible.
Ahora los informes desde el frente.
Ahora la traición que se convierte en mito,
la bomba casera que no explota,
el sacerdote que interviene (a su pesar).

Ahora el carnaval,
grito de victoria (inesperada).
Y los enfermos.
Y los heridos.
El discurso triunfal ante la multitud.

Ahora el horizonte (el mismo)
como ayer,
naranja en vez de azul.

La maldita circunstancia.

Ahora las flotas.
Bactris cubensis, pinus cubensis, higo estrangulador.

Repetir, repetir, ad infinitum.

Ahora el anciano en el precipicio.
Ahora el bendito compromiso de ser último en pie.
Ahora el juego de ajedrez por la tarde.
Arroz con leche.
Paseo por el jardín.
Las uñas de los pies que necesitan ser recortadas.

Esto no es historia.

Página marcada y subrayada.
La historia re-presentada para la posteridad.
Foto retocada con precisión.
Eventos (ordenados).

Así es como fue y no fue
y fue de verdad.

Ahora el claro.
Ahora los huesos a lo largo del piso del mar.

—Achy Obejas

National Poetry Month—Chicago’s Latino Voices

A couple of days ago, I posted from Carl Sandburg’s Chicago Poems.  What Sandburg wrote nearly a hundred years ago now is still fresh and pertinent.  But he was mostly writing about a city of immigrants and the off-spring of immigrants, like himself, originally from Europe.  Since then Chicago has become an even more diverse city.  And those folk have found their own poetic expressions of their experience.

Take the city’s Latinos.  It is a mistake to regard them as one undifferentiated mass, as the media often assumes.  They are amazingly diverse from the old, well established Mexican communities in Pilsen, to the vibrant Puerto Rican areas on the West and North sides, and pockets of Central Americans, Columbians, Cubans, and about every other Latin nationality.  Each boasts a distinct culture, history, and cuisine.  And these communities are often as not at odds with one another, sometimes in fierce competition for jobs, political clout, and street turf.

Today let’s hear from two very different voices.

I first met Carlos  Cumpián in the early ‘70’s when I was staying with the late Carlos Cortez, the long-time editor of the Industrial Worker, painter, printmaker, poet, and raconteur.  Cortez and his wife Mariana lived in an old mid-block store font with a large apartment in the rear.  The large store was converted into a virtual gallery with walls covered in Cortez’s many prints and vivid paintings.  There was comfortable, if beat-up furniture, and large tables ready for entertaining or projects.  Into that inviting space came a parade of interesting people and admirers.  One of them was Cumpián, a thin, intense young man.

Like Cortez, who was born in Milwaukee to an Indio Mexicano IWW organizer father and a German socialist mother, Cumpián was a Chicano—an American born decedent of Mexican origin.  This was a distinct culture from even immigrant Mexicanos.  Cumpián was born in San Antonio, Texas and his father was college educated. 

Together the two Carlos were the driving force behind MARCH (Movemento Artistico Chicano), the hugely influential incubator of Chicano and Mexican art of all kinds in Chicago.  Perhaps best known to the public for its contributions to reviving public muralism in the Pilsen neighborhood and the mentoring of a generation of fine and graphic artists, MARCH also encouraged the literary arts.   

Cumpián was and is a fine poet with an original voice.  He became a mentor to many young writers and as the longtime editor of March Abrazo Press has given exposure to much Latino and Native American poetry.  While working as a teacher in Chicago Public Schools and as a writing instructor at Columbia College he has published several collections of his own work—including Coyote Sun (1990), Armadillo Charm (1996), and 14 Abriles (2010)—as well as editing notable anthologies.  The Chicago Public Library has listed him as among the top ten most requested poets.

Comfortable & Politically Correct

What to wear, what to wear—
now let’s see what’s in the closet.
Bring down all the hangers,
pull off the scratchy labels,
Made or assembled in:
South Korea, Taiwan, Haiti,
Portugal, Philippines, Peru,
Macao, Mexico, Singapore,
Brazil, Bangladesh,
Ecuador—
boots from billion-dollar
debtor nations,
belts from military
dictatorships,
gloves (and baseballs) from
ungovernable tropics,
shirts from storehouses
of starvation wages,
coats from decomposing
Asian and African colonies,
pants from pauper
brown-lung ports,
socks from places where
it’s rare to own a pair
much less shoes—
hell, I think I’ll go
naked today.

—Carlos  Cumpián
(from Coyote Sun)

Achy Obejas is a very different writer and an example of the wide diversity that often gets lumped together as Latino.  Like Cumpián, I feel a connection to her, although not so personal.  I first took note of her as a contributor to the local Logan Square community weekly newspaper.  I was active in the Logan Square Neighborhood Association in the early ‘80’s and her journalism was an important contribution to the community.  Later I would watch as her star rose as a writer for the Chicago Tribune and as a rising literary star.

Obejas was born in Cuba in 1956.  In ’63 her family became part of the mass exodus of anti-Castro dissidents and middle class families.  Unlike most exiles who settled in Miami and became a dominant force in the city, her family moved to the much smaller Chicago community which, despite living cheek-to-jowls with the much larger Puerto Rican community, often felt isolated.  Cubans were often mistrusted for their largely middle class origins and for the sometimes rabid anti-Communism.

Obejas honored and celebrated her Cuban heritage and culture.  On the other hand, she chaffed at the political expectations of her community as she became, as others in the second generation did, increasingly politically progressive.  She also had to deal with her sexual identity. She became an outspoken feminist and open lesbian incorporating all of these experiences into an increasingly rich body of work as a journalist, memoirist, and poet with an international reputation.

She has written three novels, Memory Mambo (1996), Days of Awe (2001),   Ruins (2009); the story collection We Came All the Way from Cuba So You Could Dress Like This?; and a poetry This is What Happened in Our Other Life.  All of this in addition to a prolific career as a journalist and magazine writer.  

Sugarcane

I saw it
saw black a-frica
down in the city
walking in chicago y
la cuba cuba
gritando en el solar
I saw it
saw quisqueya
brown
uptown in the city
crin’ in chicago
y borinquen
bro’
sin un
chavo igual but
you can’t can’t cut
cut the water
bro’
from the flow and
you can’t can’t cut
cut the blood
lines from this island
train one by one throwing off
the chains siguaraya
no no
no se pue’e cortar
pan con ajo quisqueya
cuba y borinquen no
se pue’en parar

¡azuca’!

—Achy Obejas