Familia

Hello gente- thank you for stopping by. I’ve been away somewhere in corporate hell, inflation, and the thought of Greta Thunberg being forced to kiss the Israeli flag while allegedly being roughed up.

I think it’s safe to say that it was likely true and the hate machine is fed up with peaceful protests along with humanitarian aid.

I could go on but something happened recently where I was reminded, at age 45 how destructive and ridiculous my family can be. For those who have followed my writing career know that it’s heavy poetry/memoir. I mention relatives names often and have these conversations with their spirits. I know some people roll their eyes and wish I’d write haiku’s about tacos, Texas border, Tacoland, and 80’s gangland in LA. Also Chicano sci/fi, which I have written about all of these subjects. I’ve published some but it’s not just not me.

I’m a huge fan of the Gen X saying “ I was there, man.” For the most part, I wasn’t there. I was born too late and missed out on the core of that era. I don’t like feeling like a poser. I’d rather write about my lived experiences. When you read my work you’ll notice a Ray-Liotta-Goodfellas type narration. It absolutely is.

What’s so special about my family that I have to write 3 books and 2 plays about?

A few years ago, I came to terms with the fact that my catalog would be the story of my family in the forms of poetic memoir, vignettes and stage play. That’s it. If I write love poems for my wife or the planets and decid to publish it then that would be new and different. I’ve stated before that I’m retired from the poetry game and recently a publisher friend mocked it.

I’m not interested in publishing poetry about my myself in such a time where genocides and the demise of America are in every sip of coffee. I’m sure people feel that this is the time to write. I’m not into quantity over quality either. There’s a lot of writers putting books out randomly and poems making their CV’s several pages long.

Look, if that’s your bag then cool. More power to you. I know what I’m doing here with just a few books.

So what happened? My family was on local news again for a murder. My cousins daughter’s vato was killed recently. I’ve never met the guy. I remember that cousin in diapers but haven’t seen her since she was on the news the other day crying over her husband.

And in my family, this was the biggest news since the last time my other cousins were on the news for murdering someone.

My mother would rather focus on this. The relatives that are still alive focus solely on this type of negativity. It’s never about anything good. We’re just one poor family that destroyed each other’s lives and other family’s lives with drugs and guns.

I’m obsessed with wanting to change this narrative or show a positive side of the relatives that absolutely deserve it. Why? The desire to look good on local news? It’s far more than that. It’s a legacy.

Who else cares? No one. I believe I’m the only one who can find the good in my relatives and write stories or poems about laborers, musicians, artists and writers.

Recently, there was a community gathering about putting a statue or object at Cassiano Park in a renovation project. I was unable to attend but my wife and mother did.

Cassiano Park is off Laredo and Zarzamora, in the Westside of San Antonio. My family lived on Potosi and Zarzamora across the street from the park since the 1920’s. If my family’s name is not on that project, I’ll be furious and the City of San Antonio is gonna get hell from me. I’ve made it a point to have the names Rivas/Valdez in this somehow.

Why?

I remember meeting my family in 1983. Call me old fashioned but I fucking loved these shirtless, bronze skinned, tattooed men and women whom I called my tio’s, tia’s, primos and primas. I was hooked with their smiles, singing in Spanish, joke telling and story telling. It was magic for me. I saw no fault in them. I think they knew that they were heroes to me and tried not to disappoint me with the reality of who they were.

When two of my uncles died in the late 80’s and early 90’s, I started writing about them. It might seem a bit over the top that I could be so affected by them and their deaths that it lead a pre-teen to start writing poetry and stories, but it did. In time, you or someone can dissect the weirdness of Vincent Cooper, a poet who tried to have his family remembered forever.

I wrote about the experiences I had with them which weren’t many but I had a very detailed memory. A simple conversation with an uncle buying heroin and shooting up near skid row LA became a 10 page story about confronting my fears and having no desire to live a life like that while still loving such a person.

You would think that this would be something my living relatives would admire but no. They actually don’t like my books nor want anything to do with what I’m writing. It’s almost like I should be ashamed. One relative was upset that my uncles being referred to as junkies was such an insult and sign of the cross. Others dismiss me as “ you weren’t there man.”

When I’m asked to read from my books, people who’ve heard me in the past seem to be disappointed or hoped I’d read something new about something else. I rarely do that.

My family was on the news again for murder and it’s all that matters apparently.

Not my great grandparents who built their shotgun house on Potosi, the cotton pickers, strawberries, cherries, Korea war vets, Vietnam vets, the activists, the stand up men like my Uncle Mike, like my brother who was the first to graduate from college, cousins who have made their lives in peace…and me.

There’s a lot of good and great to talk about when it comes to my family. I will write it down because no one else will. It will be poems and it’ll be my life’s work.

I hope you understand.

Chicano 101 starts at home.