"I see a mosaic pattern (Aztec-like) emerging, a weaving pattern, thin here, thick there . . . This almost finished product seems an assemblage, a montage...now appearing, now disappearing in a crazy dance. The whole thing has a mind of its own, escaping me and insisting on putting together the pieces of its own puzzle with minimal direction from my will." – Gloria Anzaldua.
CHICAN@ LITERATURE: A MOSAIC, A WEAVING, A PUZZLE
English 380A, Winter 2011
Professor Deborah Miranda

Sunday, March 6, 2011

By the People and for the People: An Analysis of José Montoya’s “El Louie” and its Significance in the Chicano Movement

LATINOPIA WORD JOSÉ MONTOYA "EL LOUIE" from Latinopia.com on Vimeo.




The heroes of the western world are almost always unique. Their accomplishments are rare and therefore praiseworthy; they do something no one else could have. Everyday people, on the other hand, receive no praise. They aren’t heroes; they just do what everyone else does. Chicano poet José Montoya objects to that belief. According to Chicano scholar Guillermo E. Hernández, the elevation of marginal characters to the position of hero is a common theme in Montoya’s poetry. It is his way of subverting the Western culture which has put down Chicanos for centuries (52-53). Montoya’s poem “El Louie” is an elegy for Louie Rodriguez, an everyday man whom is worthy of praise nonetheless. In “El Louie” Montoya uses Mexican slang and the elegy form to create a unique cultural identity for Chicanos which only they can participate in, understand, and appreciate.

Although “El Louie” is a fairly straightforward poem plot-wise, it can be an overwhelming poem to read because of its constant switching between English and Spanish. Although many Chicano authors and poets incorporate Spanish into their works, a style called code-switching, Montoya is somewhat innovative for his time because of his use of slang words and unique Chicano words. Hernández claims that Montoya latched on to this form of code switching while studying at the California College of Arts and Sciences in Oakland. According to Hernández, “The novice writer also noted that literary texts that included foreign words or phrases were readily accepted by his teachers, yet strident objections were raised about his own work because it included Chicano colloquialisms” (52).

In “El Louie,” Montoya incorporates these code switches early and often. He starts the poem in proper Spanish, telling readers “Hoy enterraron al Louie,” which means, “Today they buried Louie.” After switching back to English, he ends the second stanza with his first use of slang. He calls Louie “un vato de atolle,” a cool dude. Neither “vato” nor “atolle” appear in any online Spanish-English dictionaries. It’s a Chicano phrase which can only be translated by one who already understands the phrase or is invested in doing research. This is the first indicator in the poem that Montoya is writing to a specific audience. He is writing for his people, not for the world as a whole. Chicanos will understand the meaning of the poem. Other readers may be completely lost simply because they can’t translate the words, let alone understand their significance.

*Don't believe me? Check it out

Montoya’s use of code-switching and slang continues throughout the poem. The section describing Louie’s position as trendsetter and leader in the community is almost unintelligible to anyone without a Chicano background. Montoya mentions Louie’s “buenas garras” and his familiarity with “rucas.” According to Hernández, these words translate to “good rags” and “old ladies,” colloquial terms for fancy cars and clothes and fine women. Montoya also includes a reference to La Palma, a Mexican ballad that Chicano readers would recognize but others would not. When Louie is leading his friends to a fight, he avoids the “jura” and everyone is asked if they have their “fileros.” These words are used to mean police and knife, although those are not the traditional Spanish words. Once again, Montoya is using unique Chicano words to signify who his intended audience is.

There are other instances of both slang code-switching and proper Spanish in the second half of the poem. This repeated use and insistence on writing to a specific audience raises the question: why is it so important to Montoya that the Chicano people know this poem is intended for them? The answer lies in the poem’s content and theme. As mentioned at the beginning of the paper, Montoya often elevates marginal figures to the position of hero in his poetry. “El Louie” is a prime example of that pattern.

From the start of the poem, it’s clear that Louie Rodriguez is an influential, powerful man. Montoya writes of his death, “And San Pedro o sanpinche are in for it,” which means “And Saint Peter or Saint Devil are in for it” (Hernández 79). Louie is such a force that whether he winds up in Heaven or Hell, they are going to know he’s there. With this set-up, readers are led to believe that we are about to hear about a great figure who moved mountains and changed the world. But that’s not really what happens: Louie Rodriguez is a normal guy. Montoya describes him as a man “sporting a topcoat/ playing in his fantasy/ the role of Bogart, Cagney or Raft.” Just like any other young man, he aspired to be like the movie stars and sometimes pretended he was one. Later Montoya describes Louie as the ringleader of his group of friends. He brought zoot suits to the area which was a “unique idea – porque/ Fowler no era como/ Los, o’l E.P.T. Fresno’s/ westside was as close as we ever got to the big time.” Louie and his friends don’t live in the big city and do big things. He’s a big fish in a small pond.*

Get to know the city of Fowler!

Despite the meager size of his domain, Louie is still king. After Montoya describes Louie’s semi-posh lifestyle (his “good rags” and “old ladies”) and his innovative fashion choices (zoot suits), he describes the mentality when a fight is about to break out. While the women all worry, the men look for their knives and for Louie. In little snippets of dialogue, several characters call for Louie. “Get Louise,” says one, and later, “Hórale, Louie” (which loosely translates to “Now, Louie”). When Louie does arrive to help in the fight, it’s like a scene from a movie. “And Louie would come through-/ melodramatic music, like in the/ mono – tan tan trán!” Louie comes to save the day, entering dramatically like one of the movies stars he adores. But he is not one of those stars. He’s just a normal guy in a normal town.

Louie’s normal heroism is part of the reason why Montoya is so intent on writing directly to Chicanos. He was educated in the San Francisco Bay area during the hay day of the counterculture, the 1960s. This social scene undoubtedly made him question the constructs of the Western world, especially regarding conceptions of success and heroism. Furthermore, he’s part of a Chicano culture that has been repressed for centuries. In a poem like “El Louie,” he’s able to show the members of this culture that they do not need to strive to live like the members of mainstream culture to be considered worth remembering.

Even in the second half of the poem, when Louie falls down a few pegs, he is still a man to be praised and remembered. When Louie fights in Korea, the community’s respect only grows. He returns in his shiny fancy uniform and the locals are in awe. “Wow, is that ‘ol Louie?” they say, and “Mira, comadre, ahí va el hijo de Lola!” (“Look, friend, there goes Lola’s son.”) Yet despite the increased admiration of the community, Louie is still an average man with his own faults and failures. He and one of his army buddies “hock their Bronze Stars” to buy liquor. He goes to barber college and graduates with honors, a commentary on the different social standards of the Chicano community. An affluent white community of the 1960’s would have little respect for a man who learned to cut hair well, but it is another badge of honor for Louie. Still, just as with his Bronze Stars, he sells the symbol of his success to get money to play poker and other games of chance. He is not a great noble war hero; he is a veteran down on his luck with a weakness for booze and gambling. Louie does whatever he can to get by.

Montoya and the other members of the community respect Louie nonetheless. When he dies, Montoya regrets the way he died:

His death was an insult

porque no murió en acción –

no lo matron los vatos,

ni los gooks en Korea.

He died alone in a rented

room – perhaps like a

Bogart movie.

The Spanish in this stanza means, “…because he wasn’t killed in action, not murdered by the dudes or those gooks in Korea.” Montoya makes several key arguments in this stanza. The first line reinforces the great reputation of Louie. He deserved a better death because he was such an important man, and it’s an insult that he died so sadly. The last line connects him once again to the heroes of Hollywood films. Even though his death was an insult, there may be some redemption in that he still managed to resemble one of those film icons in death.

The middle section of that stanza reflects Montoya’s critical view of the experience of Mexicans who fought for the United States. Montoya, a Korean War veteran, is extremely critical of Chicano participation in American wars. According to Hernández, Montoya felt that the superior officers were abusive and inadequate as leaders. He also believed that American conflicts had nothing to do with Chicanos (he didn’t have any problems with Koreans) and he and his countrymen should be fighting for their own nation, not their oppressor (62-63). Many of these ideas appear in “El Louie,” both in the passage quoted above and an earlier passage which talks about the paradoxes Louie faced while fighting in Korea: “heroism and the stockade.” Louie is heroic and respected for his contributions to the war effort, but his disrespect for his commanding officers and the purpose of the war lead to him being reprimanded and disciplined. Furthermore, because he is not killed in action, readers can assume that he got the same poor post-war treatment as many other Chicano veterans, like the father in Sandra Cisneros’s Caramelo. Montoya seems to identify with that belief: if a Chicano solider was not killed in action, he would never get any real reward for his service. He would be disciplined while at war and forgotten about when he returned home, left to die alone in a rented room.

The contributions of Chicanos to U.S. wars, though unappreciated in their hometowns, were sometimes recognized by the U.S. Government.

Yet despite all Louie’s post-military problems, his penchant to drink and gamble and pawn his prized possessions, and the ill-fitting manner of his death, Montoya can never lose respect for his hero. “The end was a cruel hoax/ but his life had been/ remarkable!” writes Montoya at the poem’s conclusion. He will not take anything away from Louie Rodriguez just because things didn’t go so well in the end.

In “El Louie,” Montoya creates a new type of hero for the Chicano people, one who lives up to their standards alone and who can only be understand by their culture. Montoya started writing in the late 1960’s, making him one of the pioneers of the movement. He used his poetry to establish the parameters of what a Chicano identity should be. In Montoya’s view, the Chicano people can and should have their own language, their own standards, and their own heroes. And El Louie Rodriquez, “vato de atolle,” should be one of them.


Montoya's Other Work

Montoya is also a musician, a member of the band Trío Casindio. He is also a painter, and a founding member of the RCAF (the Rebel Chicano Art Front, OR Royal Chicano Air Force). Learn more about it in this video (embedding disabled) and this one:




Works Cited

Hernandez, Guillermo E. "José Montoya: From the RCAF to the Trio Casindio." Chicano Satire: A Study in Literary Culture. Austin: University of Texas, 1991. 52-84. Print.

Montoya, José. “El Louie.”


Sunday, February 27, 2011

SPOTLIGHT ON CHICAN@ POETS

Here is our list:

Luis Rodriguez - Rachel
Gary Soto - Henry
Demetria Martinez - Emily
Ana Castillo - Ryeigh
Jimmy Santiago Baca - Ken
Sandra Cisneros - Alexandra
Lorna Dee Cervantes - Morgan
Juan Felipe Herrera - Max
Jose Montoya - Eleanor
Gloria Anzaldua - Meg

For those of you who have not done close readings on poetry for awhile, I'll put up 'refresher' handouts on Sakai under resources. 

Professor Miranda

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Comadres- Journal #4

I absolutely loved Norma Cantu's section entitled "Comadres." This story, focusing on three women, had an almost romantic, poetic feel to it and I felt completely submerged in these women's lives. The overwhelming sense of sisterhood that this passage invoked is what I believe to be symbolic of the entire Chicana movement. Each woman is different with her own unique struggles to worry about, yet they connect on a much deeper level. After they do their daily chores and perform stereotypical women's roles, they share with one another "chismes, dreams, gossip, advising each other," suggesting a powerful bond that they can confide in each other over anyone else (35). I got the notion that these women care about one another more than they do themselves, "pain forming bonds stronger than blood makes them more sisters to each other than to their own sisters" (36). Turning to one another in the face of all the oppression and restrictions, especially as women, was their survival mechanism. Deriving strength from one another, they learned to live.

I also think this passage was particularly powerful because it's told through the voice of a young girl. Nena sees her mother and her friends, and this is what she remembers. It's not the daily chores or the work or the religion that typically gets associated with women. It's the sisterhood that carried them forward. Vecinas. Comadres. Mujeres.

Clothing in Norma Elia Cantu’s Canicula

This story titles itself a collection of “snapshots” and in doing so emphasizes moments frozen in time. The reader is less drawn into plot, character development, and other long-term structural devices of the novel and is more captivated by imagery and more aware of nuanced details.

One genre of such detail, especially as it relates to the visual imagery built into the structure of the stories, is the clothing worn by the characters in the pictures. Indeed, dresses or lack thereof, the type of fabric and the utility of the clothes are all of extreme importance to Cantu. This is a theme much less emphasized in the other books we have read and perhaps it speaks of a certain feminine quality inherent to this story.

The clothing of women is often a reflection of personality or character. Mamagrande, always working even during a life of hardship, has her, “… handkerchief a la mano in her apron pocket ever ready for the tears of joy or pain” (17). Nena’s proud mother “…holds her skirt and points her foot as instructed; on the wide-brimmed charro hat the embroidery screams, Viva Mexico!” (42) Even the men’s clothing seems important, denoting their status, as Cantu here describes her father’s young adulthood as a wild rancher, “He wears a hat that cast a shadow over his face, but I can tell he’s smiling his ‘I’m so proud smile’” (15).

Nena’s clothing is of particular importance; the white dresses she wears as a baby highlight her innocence, in Polka Dots, her and her sister’s similar, but not identical, dresses seem to have meaning. One of my favorite pictures, a “sexy photo” of Elisa, Nena, and her father, shows off a sleeveless blouse. Though it is not expressly mentioned this is one of the less traditional outfits Nena wears in the story, it seems to imitate the rebellious and glamorous feeling Nena gets from Elisa at a young age. The blouse, however, was still made by Nena’s mom.

Journal #4: Colored Memories in Canicula

One of the most interesting elements of Canicula is the incorporation of photographs into the vignettes. These photos give the stories a very real feel for the reader, and also seem to inspire more detailed memories for the narrator. One photo/story combination that particularly caught my interest is the Rocking Horse section.

While describing herself as a child on a rocking horse, the narrator vividly describes the colors in the scene; the horse is "the color of the red coyoles," her feet are in "brown huarache...with tiny green nopales," a "white ribbon" is in her "black curls," her dress is "blue like the sky," and there are "tiny pink rosebuds." All these vivid colored images are particularly interesting because the photo shown is black and white.

What could the use of color be saying about the relationship between image and memory? What about between the person whom the memory belongs to and the person they are telling? One might assume that the narrator is actually looking at a color photograph but knows that the reader will see a black and white one. The colors are such a strong part of the memory for her that she feels the reader must know them to understand the story. Maybe it is a commentary on the vibrancy of youth, reflected in the "seriousness" of her rocking horse riding.

Journal #4 Physical Moments

Many of the moments described from the snapshots in Canicula hold the tone of pictures that one reviews after the passing of a loved one. They are incredibly intimate encounters that allow the reader to almost shuffle through this box of photographs along with the narrator. As the title implies, these scenes inflict a sense of “dog days” both within the scenes and the imagined scenario where the narrator views these images. Unlike the other books in this course, Canicula does not operate under the pretense of action in the present moment. These moments are all in the past, and in a way the author seems to morn their passing.

The use of images to compliment, or aid in the recall, of distant memories lends weight to her recollections. In Pocho, the reader gets the sense that many of the thoughts and positions held by the narrator are reflections made later in life. The concepts, such as doubt in religion and uncertainty of cultural heritage, may have begun in that stage of the narrator’s life, but are far too complex for the reader to trust in a youthful narrator. Cantu, on the other hand, does not claim complete accuracy, and indeed uses many mental “snapshots” when tangible ones have been lost. When she thinks about her Mami the narrator says, “There is no photo to remind me, but in my mind’s eye I see her in the early morning darkness” (Cantu 43). In many ways these images without pictures tell more about the narrator than the descriptions of the photos because they lack the technical precision and rely more heavily on internal workings. The physical photographs set the stage by creating a backdrop based in the irrefutable past, while the pictures that exist only in her memory demonstrate the process of change over time.

CARAMELO

Sandra Cisneros, Macondo Writing Workshop 2007.  San Antonio, Texas.
View this discussion by Cisneros about the influence of her parents. languages, and family stories, on the writing of Caramelo.  The website provides the transcript of the talk, which is useful, because her comments help open up the book for us as readers.

As a quick context for the story, check out the newspaper story below.


Author traces the many paths of her father's story /  
Sandra Cisneros' "Caramelo" a nine-year project

October 25, 2002|By Heidi Benson, Chronicle Staff Writer
It started as a story told to friends over lunch. And dinner. And late into the night.

By then, Sandra Cisneros knew that her tale of a rollicking family road trip from Chicago to Acapulco was more than a raconteur's yarn.

"I knew it was my father's story," she says. "But it kept getting bigger and bigger. I realized it wasn't a short story, and I saved it for a novel."

That novel, "Caramelo" -- an energetic, multigenerational epic-- took her nine years to write and has just been published by Knopf. During those nine years, Cisneros' life took extreme turns: She lost her father to cancer and was awarded a MacArthur Fellowship.

The book starts with that road trip and branches out once the family pulls up to the green iron gates of the ancestral home in Mexico City, the house itself teeming with stories. Written from the point of view of a young Chicana named Lala whose father resembles Cisneros' own (" 'I was the favorite child of a favorite child,' " says Lala), its episodic chapters jump through time, with historical asides and whimsical footnotes.

Born in Chicago in 1954, Cisneros is the only daughter of a Mexican father and Mexican American mother. Her father came from a middle-class family in Mexico City. His old-country elegance served him well in the States, though his business wasn't always stable. The family moved from one fixer-upper flat in Chicago's "Pilsner barrio" to another, and spent summers in Mexico City with relatives.

Privacy was hard to come by for a young girl with six brothers, so reading and writing became Cisneros' escape. But it wasn't until she was a graduate student at the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop that she found her subject -- and her voice.

Her career took off with the 1984 publication of her first book of stories, "The House on Mango Street." Cisneros called it "anti-academic." Critics called it "a literary masterpiece" and dubbed Cisneros "the representative Chicana in the reconstruction of the canon." When her second collection came out, the New York Times called her "an educator, unerring and relentless . . . not only a gifted writer but an absolutely essential one."

It's a mantle she carries with grace. Committed to community work, she continues to give readings and workshops in her hometown of San Antonio and beyond.

In her teaching, as well as in her poetry and essays, she engages the question of fiction and autobiography -- a prickly topic at best.

In "Caramelo," Cisneros was driven to connect the dots. "The people are based on real people, but I invent things because I don't know what really happened." Family stories are lovingly gathered -- she calls them "bits of string" -- and pieced into a new puzzle, one she can resolve. A disclaimer at the front of the book announces: "If, in the course of my inventing, I have inadvertently stumbled on the truth, perdonenme."

Though the book was inspired by a real journey, she says, "I kept getting sidetracked."

Believing that "detours are destiny," she explored every one, plumbing the histories of the people in her father's life -- his brothers, his parents, his grandparents, the aunts, the uncles. In one end-of-chapter aside, she writes: ". . . a life contains a multitude of stories and not a single strand explains precisely the who of who one is."

"My book is very Buddhist in its concept," she says. "I'm a Buddhist now, so I tried to look deeply at how my father became who he is." (Cisneros became a Buddhist while teaching for a semester at UC Berkeley, when a friend gave her a copy of "Being Peace" by Thich Nhat Hanh.)

Winning the MacArthur Foundation Fellowship in 1995 helped her look deeply. "The grant allowed me five extra years to work on the novel to make the book take off."

More important? "I was able to take a year off to vigil my father -- to stop everything for a year -- when he was dying of cancer. That was a great, lasting gift."

Writing the novel "was like painting the Sistine Chapel when you're used to painting miniatures," she says. "What came before were all small projects. This was a big book."

The big book has an additional purpose: It is her response to the xenophobia and violence she sees in American culture. With that in mind, she recently sent a copy to Laura Bush, suggesting that she read it to the president.

"Maybe this is my own peace protest," says Cisneros. "I thought Bush needed to look at borders and immigrants -- to help to mend the relationship between the U.S. and Mexico, but also to look at America's relationship with immigrants, since global immigration is our future."

The Art of Declamacion

In the story title “Declamacion” in Canicula, Cantu describes a scene during class where Nena, in the teacher’s opinion, over-dramatizes the reading and is consequently forced “to imitate the bland reading” (62) of her other classmates. Cantu describes the extra gestures she accompanies with the recitation as “the art of ‘declamacion’” (63).

Since I had no clue what Cantu was referring to, I turned to Wikipedia to give me a basic definition. By translating the Spanish page for “declamacion,” it is describe as a form of recitation that “seeks to captivate the viewer... with the sound and meaning of words, accentuated by the gesture and movement [of the performer].” Interestingly enough, all the definitions of the English equivalent, “declamation,” do not included the use of gestures/visual aid from the performer.

In this story, Cantu relates a concept that loses something vital in the meaning during translation from Spanish to English. Declamacion, by engaging another sense besides hearing, is a form of storytelling that engrosses the reader in a more engaging manner so that the emotion of the text can be relayed.

On a more subtle note, Norma Cantu fleshes this concept out throughout the entire book of Canicula with her choice of structure. Not only does she limit herself mere words on a page, but she brings in pictures from her and her family’s past to more fully engage the reader. Cantu brings the concept of declamacion to life through the written word and not just the spoken word. The reader is engaged visually, and as Cantu unfolds a story around each visual, I was reminded of a person sitting next to me, showing me pictures, and orally describing each one and the accompanying story. This effect ultimately makes the book so powerful. The characters become three-dimensional, their struggles and lives become real, and no matter who you are as a reader, you feel like an old friend sitting with the narrator looking at her photographers.

Photographs and Memories in Canicula


Throughout Canicula, Norma Cantu inserts photographs to serve as visual representations of the memories she wishes to convey. At times, the stories behind the photographs are straightforward. On page 21 of the text is a copy of the author’s United States immigration papers, with a photograph of her at one year old stapled to the documents. She writes, “In the photo stapled to my official U.S. immigration papers, I am a one year old baldy...,” an obvious enough assertion (21). However, she quickly jumps from the immigration represented by the picture to another immigration, one when she is twelve years old that “will allow [her] to travel into Mexico without [her] parents” (21). The same eyes stare back at her at ages one and twelve, as she traverses the boundary between the United States and Mexico, and suddenly her story is no longer about immigration, but about shared experiences of puberty and her maturation process. In another instance, Cantu uses photos of her brother, Tino, as a child, pointing his fingers like a gun as a sort of foreshadowing to his eventual death in Vietnam. Other times, Cantu writes as if in reference to some sort of photograph not actually in the text, one the reader must imagine herself.


This leads me to my main question: what purpose do these photographs serve? Cantu does not present them chronologically. Instead, it almost feels as if you (as the reader) are perched on her shoulder as she sorts through a disorganized drawer of old pictures, sometimes pausing to talk about the happier times before death, sometimes to remember the sensory memories a photo evokes, and sometimes just to talk about the specifics of a special garment lost in the wear and tear of time. The photos are interspersed throughout the text like memories appearing in the mind’s eye, often incomplete and wandering, but descriptive of times past and captured forever.

Monday, February 7, 2011

CANICULA & Norma Cantu

Norma Cantú (second from left) and Norma Alarcon (third from left) with their 2009 Macondo Writer's Workshop group.
View the interview with Norma Cantú as part of your preparation for this book (it's about 30 minutes in length, and we'll review parts of it in class).  Norma also reads at the 2010 CantoMundo (WorldSong), a Latin@ writer's gathering (at about the 5 minute mark) from her work in progress.  Finally, as part of our continuing conversation about La Virgen de Guadalupe, see Norma's interview about her relationship with this embodiment of Chican@ identity and culture in "The Road to Guadalupe."  (Notice the comment on this site!  Cantu discusses the Chicana re-representations of La Virgen, and a few pictures of artwork are shown, to which one viewer writes, "Dear Sir or ma'am  I am very offended at your depiction of our Blessed mother.  I ask of you to plese remove it at once. I will use means of principled and non violent online protesting to have you remove this if this is not removed soon. And if I don't someone might take my place. So I ask you to plese remove that evil depection of our Lady of Guadalupe at once. Thank You").

Norma Elia Cantú (born January 3, 1947) is a Chicana postmodernist writer and a professor of English at the University of Texas at San Antonio. She was born in Nuevo Laredo, Tamaulipas, Mexico to Florentino Cantú Vargas and Virginia Ramón Becerra. She was reared in Laredo, Texas, the seat of Webb County, and attended public schools there. Prior to her UTSA professorship, Cantu taught in Laredo at Texas A&M International University.

Cantú received her A.A. degree from Laredo Community College in 1970. She received her bachelor of science degree in English and political science from Texas A&M International University in Laredo, from which she graduated summa cum laude in 1973. She received her master of science degree in English with a minor in political science from Texas A&I University‑Kingsville in 1976 and her Ph.D. in English from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln in 1982.

 

Publications

Books

  • Forthcoming: Soldiers of the Cross: Los matachines de la Santa Cruz. Texas A&M University Press
  • Co-editor with Inés Hernández Ávila, Entre Malinche y Guadalupe: Tejanas in Literature and Art. 2002
  • Editor. Flor y Ciencia: Chicanas in Mathematics, Science and Engineering. AAAS Adelante Project. 2006
  • Co-editor with Olga Najera Ramírez. Changing Chicana Traditions, University of Illinois Press. 2001
  • Telling to Live: Latina Feminist Testimonios. Co-editor with the Latina Feminst Group. Individual pieces included: "Getting there cuando no hay camino," "A Working Class Brujas Fears," and two poems: "Migraine" and "Reading the Body." Duke University Press.*Santuarios: Program Essay. The Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center Rockefeller Gateways Program Performance. 2000
  • Canícula: Snapshots of a Girlhood en la frontera. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Winner, 1995 Premio Aztlán Literary Prize 
  • Canícula: Imágenes de una niñez fronteriza. Houghton Mifflin Co. 1999

Further reading