When Pablo Met Gary: Sociopoliticism and Love in Contemporary Chicano Poetry

Pablo eyed the young man coming down the street at him. There is something about that particular stride of certain people that informs a person that they are being approached. The poet adjusted his bulk in his seat, feeling the strain of his sixty and some odd years. The Nobel Prize committee had been in deliberations for some weeks, and every day brought new letters in the mail that were either guarantees of acceptance or cautious condolences from his friends and even a few enemies. At last he'd been forced into the streets just to avoid the mass of congratulatory and apologetic letters and calls flooding his temporary apartment.

His fingers fumbled, found the fluted stem of the colored glass and took a sip of the wine. It was a French burgundy, and it had taken the cafe's owner ten minutes of scrambling about to find a suitable vessel with which to serve the illustrious author. There was no doubt now that this young man with a cheap Kodak around his neck was stalking Neruda, his face wreathed in a smile that the distinguished visitor had seen many times before.

Gary was drenched with sweat, trying to control his shaking as he grew nearer and nearer the renowned author. What fate! He'd just received his bachelor's degree from UC-Fresno not two weeks ago, and had just been accepted to UC Irvine to begin his Master's program. A friend of his, also studying poetry, had invited him on a short one-week trip to Paris as part of an international poetry exchange program. The young man had slipped out of their motel room for a short walk around the streets of Paris when he'd spotted a face that was almost as familiar to him as his own. More importantly, it was the poet behind that face he knew.

"Perdoname, Mr. Neruda?" Gary was fairly shaking, but he relaxed as Pablo smiled up at him. "Soy estudiante del America. Me llamo es Gary, Gary Soto. Encantado, senor," he said, stumbling a bit over the broken Spanish he'd not used in almost four years. He extended a hand, which Pablo took and shook firmly.

"Ah, welcome, welcome," the elder fellow said politely. "Is there something I can help you with? Something autographed, I imagine," he said, fishing around in his pocket for a pen. He was brought up short, however, by a neat stack of poems that the young fellow had produced and was crinkling in nervous hands. Pablo glanced up at Gary, then at the papers and back again. "I'm sorry, what...?" he trailed off, gesturing at the sheaf.

Gary sat down quickly, holding the papers out in front of him before setting them on the tabletop. "Mr. Neruda," he began, a bit nervously. "These are some poems I've been working on and a few that I think I might publish someday. I was wondering if...if you could take a look at them for me?" he asked, holding them aloft.

Pablo lifted an eyebrow, but took the papers, going through the half-dozen odd poems. He sat in contemplative silence, riffling through the papers before settling on one to read. "Ah! Here's on I rather like. 'Saturday at the Canal.'" He cleared his throat and read the poem aloud, Gary leaning eagerly with both elbows on the table until the great author was done.

Pablo sat quietly for a few moments, then reached into his vest and produced a small chapbook. In his sixty years there were a few poems above all others he treasured, and he thumbed through them until he found the one he was looking for. "The Weary One". He passed the text to Gary, who read the selected poem quietly.

"That's the one," Gary remarked, handing the book back to Pablo. "That's the one that was part of my inspiration for the one I handed you. I remember writing a paper on it for a class I took recently. What really took me with this poem was the way you contrasted the third line, 'the crushed one, the one made of concrete'. It's a stunning sort of contrast just off the cuff, comparing something as solid and durable as concrete to the dust even might concrete can be pounded into. But when I thought about it, I realized that it was only the finest of crushed powders- a rock obliterated into dust- that was used to make the tallest of buildings. I knew right away that there was a lot going on with this poem, and it captivated me and made me want to read on. And then the way in the following lines you had this sort of Orwellian 'double-think' and the preponderance of double-negatives, " 'He didn't know what to do there, whether he wanted / or didn't want to leave or stay behind.' It wasn't a puzzle, per se, but it was encouraged me to really think on the lines and I think in doing so really captured the essence of my struggles as a young man while I was trying to reconcile the two distinct cultural identities that I was being forced to confront- that of a young Hispanic American citizen, and that of a writer working in a post-secondary educational system. In one of my other poems, 'Mexicans Begin Jogging', I make another more lighthearted reference to this quandary by remarking on the total absurdity of the entire situation- 'And became the wag on a short tail of Mexicans'- and, I think a bit more critically, my own juxtaposition in this social circle. Even as a full-fledged American citizen, I'm part of two cultures, both of which seem to often reject the other half even as they battle for dominance over me. How did you reconcile the two?" he asked Neruda.

The great poet shrugged eloquently, spreading his hands. "I was never really able to," he says. "I wrote this poem in response to some conflict I was experiencing a few years ago. As you know, I spent most of my adult life in staunch support of Stalinesque dictatorships and politics. I believed in the ideal of Communism, even as the Communist system itself began to break down and then fall apart entirely. You see the first lines there? 'The weary one, orphan / of the masses, the self,'. After all the years I spent in support of the idea of Communism, her ideals, the totality of the philosophy and all the work I did in trying to make the Communist ideal practical and successful, I felt as though they- the people- turned their backs upon me. It was especially bad in 1945, after Videla came out against Communism in Chile, even after I'd been his campaign manager for months. The blow came very hard while I was hiding in the basement of willing friends and even family members. I had to question what Communism had become instead of what it was meant to be, and I believe here I began to see how the system was failing despite all of our work. Though I would never give up on Communism's philosophy and would champion her cause for the rest of my life, I still have to admit to these feelings of nagging darkness as I watched the system apparently fail when a Democratic president took over. I did feel some measure of vindication, later, when Vidala was finally ousted years later and I was re-invited into the country as a supporter of a new Communist system."

"Of which your friend Salvadore Allende was the Socialist party's nomination, and to whom you would cede your candidacy in the 1970 elections and would go on to be the first democratically elected Socialist president of Chile." Gary nodded agreement.

"So tell me, young man," Pablo said, clearly impressed by Gary's acumen when it came to political affairs. "How is it that you've come to regard your connection to your Hispanic cultural roots and your ties to the bourgeoisie-led culture that is the American society?"

Gary grinned once. "Well, one thing I've come to appreciate about America is that it really isn't a society broken down into the 'haves' and the 'have-nots'. As a young man growing up, we weren't especially poor- compared to some families- but we were by no means very wealthy. My father died when I was very young. I had to work to put my way through college, and one of the things I've always appreciated is how the American educational system puts such a strong emphasis on post-secondary education and how anyone who has the will and drive can make it to college. It's a truly capitalistic society that rewards the intellectual elite and the dedicated quite generously. But I haven't forgotten the poetry I've written as an undergrad and even before that, as a high school student. One in particular comes to mind- I titled it 'A Red Palm'." He handed the sheet to Pablo. "This really captures what it was like to be a member of the working class that many have described as the 'backbone of America'. It's a simple work, to be certain- the 'rhythm of the hoe', the breath, the sweat down your back...and it's wonderful that way. There's a certain solemn pride in being a farm laborer, being someone who does the hard work that really drives a country, and it's the reason that I think, as I grow older, I'll avoid political entanglements. They don't concern the 'working man' as much as they should."

Pablo read the poem and nodded slowly. "I see what you mean. I'm reminded of a Frost poem, 'Two Tramps In Mudtime'. Frost espouses in this poem how excellent manual, simple labor can be- the joy in the resounding crack of axe on wood, the pleasure a man can take from having done a hard day's honest work without cheapening his integrity or compromising his morals. There's a certain excellence to being a laborer," Pablo nods. "I feel as if America may forget that on occasion, but I can't help but admit a degree of truth in what you say. Your country really does run on the backs of her workers, but rewards them as well. You take excellent care of your poor and disenfranchised, and perhaps better than Communism does- though not as well as it could. In fact, there's a poem here," he said, digging around in his book, "that I wrote in tribute to America herself. You see here, 'Tower of Light'," he said, offering the page to Gary. "It really focuses on the image of the Statue of Liberty as the Tower, 'sad beauty / that magnified necklaces', by which I mean the chains of light that string across the New York skyline, and 'statues in the sea' being an obvious reference. I remember seeing it for the first time when I was invited to the PEN symposium under a special visa that Arthur Miller arranged for me. America struck me as a lonesome God who'd aspired for and reached such lofty ideals that she had no idea what to do with them once they were in hand, like a man who captures a bird of paradise only to discover the creature withering in her cage. Afraid to let them go, afraid to hang on too long, I see America caught in this vast and impersonal turmoil that her greedy capitalistic nature has provided."

"But to be fair," Gary countered, "Chile is in far worse state than America is. After decades of failed elections and corrupt scandals, you finally elect a promising social leader- but the odds seem good that Allende will be overthrown by his new General Pinochet as part of a military coup, and the autocratic junta will likely be the subject of much protest and scrutiny for the next decade."

"Fair enough. But I'm curious as to what you make of yourself. You seem to have joined this interesting synthesis of proletariat professionalism and the intellectualist elite of the bourgeoisie. How do you reconcile the two?"

Gary reached into his sheaf, producing a newer looking poem and handing it to Pablo. "You see, I wrote this poem only a year ago," he says, the words 'Mission Tire Factory, 1969' scrawled across the header. "In a poem- among the most intellectual of exercises- I celebrate the fundamental greatness of the working class. The common man, the crude jokes, the lack of manners- all are captured here. All are made to work. And most importantly, I try to capture how great -men- can be in 'Buy some sandwiches. You guys saved my life." Gary smiled at Pablo. "You see, I believe it is the People that make a country great. These are men for whom a few dollars represented a great wage, especially among the immigrants who were still sending money back home to support wives and kids and families over the border. And how we can only really give each other our time, represented in these crumpled bills that we save in our meager pockets- a few dollars here and there we might save for a beer at the end of the week, and Manny gave them up without hesitation to his friends for something that anyone would have done."

"And which is something my flight through Chile taught me," Pablo concedes. "I belive that the fundamental rightness of man is our one great redeeming value. How by and large, people will try to help rather than hinder one another. I think that one of the worst things with this world is that no-one stops to help each other anymore. What I've always tried to do with my poetry- the part of it I write for the world audience," he added with a small smile, "is to speak on the behalf of those who cannot speak for themselves. For instance, in 'Canto XII From the Heights of Macchu Piccu', I am speaking directly to the dead spirits who occupy those abandoned steppes. And most of them were not unlike you, I think. They were farmers and laborers, for the most part. Herders of sheep and cattle, with a few intellectual elites who wrote religious works and ministered to the masses. I think the greatest difference is that in our respective societies, the loss of one man is no great thing- but in a village or town, the loss of a sheepherder and his flock could devastate a winter's clothing supply and meat for the town. But, I think that this could be a positive thing, especially for young men like you who, I think, aspire to something more than a life in a tire factory and can indeed be 'sacrificed' from the working class to follow your dreams. This may be one of the great weaknesses of Socialism- it puts the people before the person."

"And in America, we put the person before the people," Gary replied with a nod. "And I think that's really the fundamental difference between America and the rest of the world. Personally, I wouldn't have it any other way. It's allowed me to flourish intellectually in a country that relies so heavily upon her working class that it only halfheartedly regulates her immigrant influx. I feel as if much American poetry represents this example- you quoted Frost, for one. In a Socialist setting, he would have given those men the work of cutting wood because in the pursuit of ultimate equality, that would have been the right thing to do. But we place a higher emphasis upon self exploration and satisfaction, and therefore give people more ability to fail, but also, to rise above."

"You have a point. But, by the same token, one could argue the inherent selfishness of Frost's actions- which I believe is the most self-gratifying feature of America," Pablo countered. "The fact that the poet/character refused to help those men in their need purely to increase his own self-gratification is a trait endemic to American culture."

"Again, a point," Soto admitted with a wry chuckle. The young man sat back and shook his head, then looked to Neruda again. "Perhaps a different change of topic. How has your family been?" he asks the great author.

"Matilde?" Pablo replied with pleasant surprise on his voice. "She is quite well. In fact, I have just remembered a poem about her. I call it 'The Queen', I wrote it some thirty years ago while we were still courting one another." He handed the poem to Gary, and the young student quickly devoured it.

"I see," Gary said. "You must have been very much in love with her when you wrote it. I especially enjoy how it works with 'Lovely One' and 'September 8th'. The way that all three poems begin in a similar fashion, or the way 'Love' in 'The Furies' does as well. That repetition of the first words in the first few lines. 'There are, there are, there are...' 'what, what'....and you do the same thing 'Letter on the Road', where you repeat the lines 'look at me,... / look at me,... / look at me,...' It creates an excellent sort of redundant rhythm without being really rhythmic, it drives those first lines into your brain quite firmly. And the striking visual imagry you use! In 'The Queen', for instance: 'No one sees your crystal crown, no one looks / at the carpet of red gold,'. The contrast of crystal and red-gold is brilliantly enticing. It seems as if you're almost experimenting with a wholly new style of poetry, with those drumming, repetitious beats that I see in many of the poems in 'The Captain's Verses'. In some of them it seems a bit un-necessary, but by the same token, I think you were indeed experimenting with the form and the habit. But I'm curious as to why I don't see these sort of poems in most of your earlier work, and why your earlier wives didn't merit a book of love poetry."

Pablo nodded. "Well, it's a fair question," he admitted, looking over as a mime wandered past, obnoxiously battling with an invisible elephant or spaceman or somesuch. "When I was a young man I wrote a book of poetry called 'Veinte poemas de amor y una cancin desesperada', after a young woman who I was seeing at the time. I remember recieving a great deal of contention about these poems, mostly because people didn't understand how a man so young could write such eroticisms. I believe it was mostly because, at the time, I was charged with the heady passions of youth- mostly lust and rapture, infatuation with this lovely young woman. Some of them," he said with a grin, "like 'So that You will Hear Me', have some rather trite lines in them. 'I am making them into an endless necklace / for your white hands, smooth as grapes'. As Richard Hugo once told Robert Wrigley, a young student of his- and I paraphrase- 'Don't promise to be with someone forever. What happens when it comes time to use the bathroom?'"

Both men laughed at that, before Pablo went on. "I think that with Matilde, I found in her the wild stimulation of a young man falling in love for the first time, again. But it was tempered by years of experience...a lost child, two failed marriages...in fact, my second wife left me because of the affair I had with Matilde. Many poets fall into the trap of loving too much, I think, and confusing those kinds of love for true love. I had also spent much of the previous two decades fighting the battles for Communism in Chile and our relationship was further strained by our flight from Chilean authorities in 1949."

"Which I am certain influenced your writing and relationships tremendously," Gary agreed quickly.

Pablo tilted his head at Gary. "I'm curious why I forsee you staying far divorced from political causes in your future," he said, looking at the younger man. "I have a feeling that down the road, various groups will find fault with such a distinct young Chicano poet who does not feel a need to invest himself heavily in being a vocal activist for immigrant rights, as I did during my lifetime."

"To be honest, I don't believe that it is the rights of groups we should be protecting," Gary admitted. "It is the rights and welfare of families and people that we should be cautious of overrunning. In the poem I mentioned before, 'Mexicans Begin Jogging', I think I really captured the contrast between the individual and the group, and the group and the race.

"Over the fence, Soto," he shouted,

And I shouted that I was an American. "No time for lies," he said.

"But in my other poetry," Soto explains, "Such as 'Mission Tire Factory, 1969', I show how it's possible to relate to and even be a part of these social group- in my case, the many illegal immigrants of the barrio in which I grew up- and at the same time, not be, if that makes any sense. While many came to America seeking the 'American Dream', there were some who refused to embrace American culture while doing so. I don't like to think of myself as a steward of the Immigrant culture but rather part of the Chicano vanguard, those people whom welcome their Hispanic heritage whilst embracing that part of Americanism that makes us so great- the integration of all cultures into one and a universal acceptance of those things which are the greatest parts of all of us, without the exclusion of the other."

What could I do but yell vivas

To baseball, milkshakes, and those sociologists

Who would clock me

As I jog into the next century

On the power of a great, silly grin.

"Too true," Pablo said, and Gary stood as the legendary poet got to his feet. "It's been a pleasure, Senor Soto," Pablo said, shaking Gary's hand firmly. "You seem to be ushering in a new era of peace and, dare I say it, tolerant co-existence. Perhaps where I was among the Old Guard, you will indeed find yourself among the forefront of a social revolution that has nothing to do with class and everything to do with the promotion of the human spirit. I hope to hear great things from you. Perhaps I'll be asking for your autograph, someday," he added with a grin before taking his leave.

"Farewell, Senor Neruda!" Gary called, waving the great poet off. He watched Pablo ease around a corner, unaware that in the next week Neruda would be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for his efforts towards the pursuit of freedom and equality, and that in a few short years he would die and his funeral would be part of the protests against Pinochet's junta. Gary turned and walked the other way, towards his own destiny and the growing legend that would become one of the great Chicano poets of the 20th century as his literature both defied the socially charged issuances of his contemporaries as well as ushered in the beginning of a new area of person-cultural awareness and the undoing of the hybridization of one man.

Works

Cited

Frost, Robert. "Two Tramps in Mud Time". Etymonline.com

http://www.etymonline.com/poems/tramps.htm

Neruda, Pablo. "The Weary One." Poemhunter.com

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-weary-one/

Neruda, Pablo. "Tower of Light." Poemhunter.com

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tower-of-light/

Neruda, Pablo. "The Poetry of Pablo Neruda." Trans. Migeul Aguara, et. al. New

York: FSG books, 2003.

Soto, Gary. "Saturday at the Canal". poemhunter.com http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/saturday-at-the-canal/

Soto, Gary. "Mexicans Begin Jogging". wpunj.edu

http://www.wpunj.edu/courses/eng150/ho6.htm#15

Soto, Gary. "A Red Palm". poemhunter.com

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-red-palm/

Soto, Gary. "New and Selected Poems." San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1995