-How
do you feel about winning The Paz Poetry Prize with your book “2001-2011
Colaterales”?
I
find it very significant that a new literary award is given to a poetry book
written by a resident, not only for citizens of the United States. I am referring to The Paz Poetry Prize. It helps me to feel as part
of the current movement of literary production in Spanish within the US. It means for me that
living in this country and to go about everyday speaking Spanish is growing, in
part because Spanish is spreading and becoming more and more
important throughout the world. I was
telling a friend the other day that sending my book for a competition, not
coming from the mainstream and without losing, for that matter, my optimism,
was really a search for a sign that my poetry had something to say to people. I
wanted to know if the work of this older person with a peripheral vision that
I’ve become, involuntarily but without losing a certain bit of happiness, can
still manage to have something to say. What I wanted to avert and
ward off was to not see my writing as a result of a compulsive scribomania, who
is unable to help herself from just keep writing for the sake of it.
-You
have won many literary prizes and awards before, what is so special about this
one?
I´ve never handled my writings
efficiently, in the sense of sending them to be considered for publication or
to competitions. In such endeavors, to pass the first round and get a judge to
read your work is important. I did not win as many awards as I would have liked
to but with the ones I have won they became a platform for me to touch base
with reality, make new friends and enjoy the moment.
-Is
this a book of poems or a narrative? What is “2001-2011 Colaterales” about?
The “texts” (as I refer to them) in 2001-2011 Colaterales are poems which were produced during the period I was involved as a doctoral student in the Hispanic Studies Program at the City University of New York since 2000. Pressured to maintain a legal status in the US, I was leading a student life. A similar thing happened while I was learning English in Texas; rather than being immersed on the subject matter of the course I was taking, a book was fashioned along the way that seemed more like a repository of ideas and impressions. Every day after class I would shut myself in a huge library in Texas which was empty because in Texas serious students owned their own books and read them where they liked. In that immense desolate place surrounded only by a wealth of resources I was fascinated to discover the latest literary trends and publications from all over the world, and read, in the beginning, almost without stopping or distraction, something I was not able to do in Venezuela in a long time. But I was also expected to do school work. So I only took marginal notes of what I was reading which in time were shaped into a book of poems; the poems in that book are really a farewell to my life in Venezuela and the beginning of a new life in Texas surrounded by solitude and silence. Once the book was completed, I was ready to move on to the next stage of my life. In a similar fashion, 2001-2011 Colaterales reflects the last ten years of my life in New York City. It is in fact a synthesis of various manuscripts, the first of the lot being La Sorda which was edited by a friend in Venezuela in 2011.
-How
did the moving episode “Sargento Jossana Jeffrey” come about in this book of
poems? Did it take you long to write?
Jossana Jeffrey was written in one seating
as a result of an atrocious story I heard from a female soldier who had just
returned from Iraq. She got wounded in the front lines. She had her kidneys
severely damaged; she looked like an old lady. However, she revealed to us in
class that the worst obstacle was not the battle wounds she suffered in combat
but the challenges she faced in trying to prevent the numerous rape attempts
and assaults that came from the members of her own unit.
-In
your publication of the poem in Escritoras Unidas, you refer to it as “This
text...” Why is this text and not a poem?
In the beginning I had some
difficulties categorizing my writing. This is because I was always obsessed
with the form, the type of supporting structure each book requires. There was
an undefined element in my writing with a tendency to linger on; I usually
interpret this in my literary practice as a lack of directiveness. And
to some extent I agree. Due to this I needed a clear input from an outside
reader but obviously that receptor wouldn’t be able to see as plainly as myself
what I am looking for. I understand that now. This is the reason why among
poets I am not considered a poet and among storytellers, I am not completely
regarded as a storyteller. I think it is important to feel, especially in the
beginning that you fit in or identify with a particular literary group. I am
not looking to experiment all the time; not at all. The search in my writing is
a world of voices in me that are seeking a form. In order to feel free, I try
not to think about other people’s opinion. Not so much out of disrespect but
because I needed to focus on my writing. Because of this ambiguity within, I
started to call my writing just “texts.” Nowadays I refer to them as “texts”
out of habit.
-This
seems to be a good year for you, because the lesbian anthology “Voces para
Lilith,” in which you appear along with Cristina Peri Rossi, was just launched
in Buenos Aires and the newspaper Página 12 wrote a really nice review of your
work there.
I am finally
catching up with the wonders of the digital world. Thanks to the web I was able
to get in touch with Escritoras Unidas
and lately my writing has been finding its way to a range of anthologies in
paperback editions and in literary blogs; all thanks to the internet, including
writings posted in internet sites without my knowing. In Voces para Lilith the most interesting thing was to have appeared
next to women writers ranging from low to high notoriety whose literary works
reflect women’s experiences that are talked about only in low voices in
Latin-America. I feel fortunate to be among such female authors because they
produce excellent literary work.
-From
here on, how do you envisage your next literary project?
You know, just like everyone else, I try
to manage my life the best way I can and make some accomplishments. However, I
find, especially as an author, the only thing I can really look for is to find
that focus when writing, and more than anything attempt to fulfill the various
writing projects I promised myself.
-Are you writing right now?
Yes. I am always engaged in some form of
writing: notes, observations, and meditations.
-What does
writing mean for you?
I feel
connected to myself when I write. I write for a number of reasons but mostly to
organize my thoughts. Writing helps me to connect, not only with myself but, as
any author, with other people. For me it bridges the gap between people of
different epochs under the rubric of humanity. This is actually a hope I have,
to understand life fixating on a particular version, in a concrete expository
form like in a literary narration or fiction because what takes flight in
imagination can end up with multiple versions which are not possible in reality.
-Why
do you write?
As a spiritual
reflection, for entertainment, as an escape from desperation; writing also
calms me but it also shakes me; it makes me stay alert about life.
-Do you
consider it worthwhile?
For me, it is worthwhile as much as being
aware of life.
-If you could
alter the past, would you still become a writer?
I am not so
sure if I chose to be a writer. I think it just happened. It was very physical.
As a child I was always listening and watching everything around me as if I was
a sort of rolling camera with sound. Perhaps I would like to leave myself and
live another person’s life; not as a consequence of death but really being in
another person’s shoes.
-Do you consider yourself a poet, a prose
writer or a story teller?
I consider myself just a writer; this
can be contrasted with a professional writer, someone who makes a living out of
writing. I would have also loved that though I never learned the process to
become one, I would have really enjoyed writing for living, writing and reading
other people’s works as part of an editorial commission. I owe everything to other people’s books.
-When did you
first begin to write? and Why?
First I heard
voices. I heard words that fascinated me; they captivated me. Soon I began to
tell stories and to draw. I think I became more serious about writing at the
age of eight. To a certain extent I owe to art the fact that I did not become
completely insane.
-Are
you a person who leaves places behind after a certain period open and ready for
the next destination: Ciudad Bolívar, Caracas, Paris... Why did you leave each
of these places? What were you doing in each place?
I always leave a place motivated by my
imagination that I would find a freer and more peaceful spot somewhere else. I
was born in a small town that; by the time I was growing up, it had lost
interest and appreciation for art. Then art was a risky business and to be
sexually open was considered an ailment. I never had enough courage to be in
Bolivar and exercise myself as a female artist who is sufficiently shrewd to
negotiate my way to stay and bring influence to the place I grew up. I left
Paris because I fell in love with a person that did not want to settle in
Paris. That person wanted to return to Venezuela to help shape culture as a
form of retribution to the State. I knew well where that person was coming
from, a revolutionary environment where such intellectuals were brought up. I
left Caracas also because I did not know how to manage my daily life which was
divided between my work and the hours stuck in traffic. On the other hand, I
left the heavenly Cumaná because I got sick and I realized that I was only
going to get worse. At that time the university where I worked for helped me to
get away. I consider myself very fortunate to have been able to go places I
wanted to go.
-The
Uruguayan writer Onetti once said that writing for him was not like a wife but
like a lover: he used to write only when he felt like it and never under any
obligation.
I am a
constant explorer: A traveler with a suitcase and a destination. But more
precisely it should be defined as a space of transit.
-How long
have you been in New York? What do you do there?
I’ve been
living in New York since 1999. In general, I lead almost an idyllic life, too
good to be true: I walk about my neighborhood near the Hudson River, I read, I
write, I visit museums and I listen to music, as well as exchange
correspondence with friends; I also teach Spanish and French to pay the bills.
I don’t live in a house boat in Seattle or Venice, but I feel like I do; since
childhood I wanted sense a calm motion over the water.
-Your
poems and “texts” are bold but you say that you are shy, what does a timid
female like yourself has to do in order to dare write on the subject of sex and
partake in an anthology of lesbian writers?
Well, I am not
so sure if the majority of the writers in the anthology would accept the
nowadays label “lesbian writers.” In a way we generally agree that such an
attachment says little about the individual writer; rather it reveals more
about the period that perceives and defines us as such. As for me, I never
impose in my writings any boundaries on lesbian themes; indeed, my obstacle was
always to surpass my limitations as a writer. When I had to identify myself as
a lesbian, as part of a political classification, I did it without hesitation.
But that was easier than to overcome all the internalized homophobia inculcated
through tradition. When I had to declare myself as a lesbian I had done so. My
shyness is part of my intimate personality. I consider myself fortunate that I
am not a public figure with an interest in portraying a favorable self image. I
agreed to be part of this and other anthologies with lesbian themes because
most of my writings revolve and evolve on the subject matter of love and
loathing among women but most of all because I realized that literary works
should circulate in good company.
-What
project do you have next? Do you have any immediate future projects?
I have some unfinished research,
another book of poems and short stories. I also need to take care of finding a
way to publish some scattered texts and to publish new editions of all those
that have disappeared for lack of proper distribution.
-What
would you like happen to you as a writer?
To be able to write books that I have
been thinking a lot about lately.
-Do
you miss Venezuela? Are you going to return some day?
I long for Venezuela with the same
enthusiasm as the books that are published over there from new and already known
Venezuelan authors. But I would not be able to manage to live in Venezuela,
primarily due to health issues. I miss my family and friends. It has become
already customary to quote the nostalgic foliage and the Guyanese evenings.
November 3rd 2012
City Bell,
Argentina
Translated by© Hyon K. Kim
Hyon K. Kim was born in South Korea,
raised in Paraguay and resided in England before coming to New York in 1989. He
holds a Ph.D. in Hispanic and Luso-Brazilian Literatures and Languages from the
Graduate Center, City University of New York. He currently teaches Spanish at
John Jay College.
