Writing, Culture, and the Vagaries of Life

In The Things We Do Not Talk About, an anthology exploring Latino/a literature through essays and interviews, Daniel A. Olivas lays out for readers an interesting dichotomy of perspectives about the things we do not talk about—namely writing—first with a series of personal essays reflecting his evolution from Mexican American lawyer to Mexican American writer; next (second) he mines for intellectual gold with a string of interviews with Latino/a writers, most of them of considerable renown. Olivas is no contender as a writer—he’s already there with seven works including three collections of stories, two anthologies, a novel, a novella, and one children’s picture book. He also “shares blogging duties” on La Bloga, dedicated to Chican@ and Latin@ writing.

In the Introduction to the anthology, Olivas preps the reader that perhaps “from this book” the reader “will get a glimpse into the manner by which [he approaches] writing, culture, and the vagaries of life.” The book indeed fulfills that promise—and more. In a dozen essays, Olivas strides through a gallery of Proustian characters who populated his past. The essays are drawn from deep à la the recherche du temps perdu, drawn with a poignant regard for the sensibilities of life taken for granted.

In the essay “Documenting Hate” Olivas shares with us the anguish of waiting for hours to learn if his 9-year old son Benjamin had been the victim of Buford Furrow’s vicious attack at the North Valley Jewish Community Center on August 10, 1999. Olivas is a Jewish convert. Three children were shot and wounded in that attack. The anguish pierced Olivas like an assegai ripping into his body when he heard that one of the boys who had been shot was named Benjamin—the agony ended only when, eventually, Olivas and his wife were reunited with their son. That incident engendered in Olivas a strong sense of moral responsibility to speak out about hate crimes against Jews. This is the moral responsibility Pastor Niemo-ller abjured about the Nazis.

In another essay, “Moving from Tight Little Machines to the Novel,” Olivas explains why he writes. “Because it gives me joy, not because it’ll put food on the table.” For the longest time he was stuck with those tight little machines called “the short story.” Novels seemed too long, but he finally broke out of the corral with the award-winning novel The Book of Want (University of Arizona Press) in 2011, a novel he “had a damn fun time writing.”

But all is not “hunky dory” beyond the confines of Aztlan. In the American hinterlands beyond Aztlan, Americans know little about Chicanos despite their 162 year history with the United States. In “Still—Foreign Correspondent,” Olivas asks: “How can Chicano characters in fiction be so unfamiliar to some?” Adding, “Are adults who, when exposed to Chicano culture, feel as though they’re watching a National Geographic special on a newly-discovered tribe?” That’s the $64,000 dollar question. And the answer is “Yes.” By and large Americans do see Chicanos as a “newly-discovered tribe.” 

In that same essay, Olivas offers a two-pronged solution to bring the invisible Chicano to the attention of the American public: (1) honest media representation “free of ugly and deceitful stereotypes” and (2) “Chicanos need to start magazines, newspapers, publishing houses, production companies and the like.” Truer words were never spoken. In 1972 Dan Valdes, others and I created La Luz Magazine in Denver, the first national Hispanic public affairs magazine in English which survived until 1990.  Dan was the Publisher and I Was Associate Publisher. La Luz was ahead of the curve. Chicanos definitely need more magazines like La Luz.

And they definitely need more English language newspapers. In 1983 I organized The National Hispanic Reporter in Washington DC, the first national public affairs newspaper in English. I was the Publisher and Editor-in-Chief. The newspaper folded in 1992. The country was not ready for these bold Chicano initiatives of Chicanos telling the country who they were instead of the country telling Chicanos who they were.  Both La Luz Magazine and The National Hispanic Reporter represented Chicano culture more honestly and accurate than what was presented in Mainstream American media.

Further along, in “Exploring the Mexican American Experience,” Olivas comments on his decidedly immersive mainstream American education, pointing out that despite the fact that he grew up in a predominantly Mexican American neighborhood that did not prevent him from being immersed in the dominant society. Unlike Richard Rodriguez—the new American scholarship boy (author of Hunger of Memory: The Education of Richard Rodriguez—an Autobiography, Godine, 1982) who—after being immersed in the dominant society—renounces being Mexican American, Olivas’ ethnic identity is reinforced, just as my identity was reinforced studying the same British renaissance literature Rodriguez studied. I emphasized this point in a rebuttal to Richard Rodriguez which was published in The American Scholar (Summer 1981).

In a powerful essay “Exploring the Mexican American Experience,” Olivas cites Nick Vaca’s injunction “Writers write. In other words, do not call yourself a writer if you do not write on a daily basis.” This injunction reinforces the power of the word and its utility as a scalpel in excising stereotypes.

 The most touching Olivas’ essays is “A Pocho in West Hills” with its dichos(proverbs) and poem “Hidden in Abuelita’s Soft Arms” which smell “like perfume and frijoles and coffee and candy.” I say “flowers” for Algernon, the Pocho in West Hills.

 An essay that implores us to “boycott hate” is about Petr the “Czechano” boy artist whose words put a face on the holocaust for Olivas who grew up, fell in love with a Jewish woman, married in a temple, converted to Judaism, and sent his son to a Jewish day school for eight years. Petr’s message: that even in the squalor and deprivation of a concentration camp, creativity can survive.  Nevertheless: Never Again!

The last three essays deal with Olivas’ travails and authenticity of writing in his “other life” as a writer, not as a lawyer. Thanks for the God Blog! The imploration at the end of the section of essays sounds  a bit like the ending of Robert Anderson’s 1953 stage play Tea and Sympathy  about homosexuality and marital infidelity when in the movie version actress Deborah Kerr tells actor John Kerr: Years from now when you speak of this—and you will—be kind.

In the section on Interviews, Olivas does yeoman’s service in getting the words of Chican@/Latin@ writers on writing in print, reminiscent of Juan Bruce-Novoa’s Chicano Autors: Inquiry by Interview of 14 leading Chicano authors(University of Texas Press, 1980). The lineup of Latin@ writers in Olivas’ anthology (28 writers) is impressive and worthy of  an encyclopedia project of interviews on Chican@/Latin@ writers. Inter alia the list includes Urrea, Viramontes, Troncoso, Stavans, and Cisneros.

Here, for me the sentiment may be the sentiment of a passing generation seeing the baton in other hands—extraordinarily capable hands, I must say. The scaffold I built in Backgrounds of Mexican American Literature (first study in the field, 1971) has become a fleshed-out edifice rich in the chorus of historic Mexican American and contemporary Latin@ American writers like Daniel Olivas.

Daniel Olivas’ book Things We Do Not Talk About is an important read about “the word” and “identity”— Whorf and Sapir had it right: Language not only shapes our view of the world but also who we are. Unfortunately these are the things we do not talk about—but should!

Felipe Ortego y Gasca