Silvio Sirias

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2010-04-25T08:13:00.001-05:00

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Building Bridges to Survival: Reflections on this Writer’s Ethnic Identity

2010-04-23T11:58:00.003-05:00

Writing is a form of personal freedom. It frees us from the mass identity we see in the making all around us. In the end, writers will write not to be outlaw heroes of some underculture, but mainly to save themselves, to survive as individuals.
Dom Delillio

But writing allows us inside . . . others and knits us together as a human species.
Julia Alvarez

The question of how I identify myself—ethnically-speaking—is a persistent one. Readers often bring up the topic. I believe this is because every booklover understands that a writer’s ethnic and national identity helps to shape the lens through which he or she views the world. Moreover, readers are acutely aware that a writer’s self-perception plays a vital role in his or her literary obsessions.

In my case, these things are absolutely true.

When it comes to the way I’ve identified myself ethnically, I’ve swung from a pendulum. I’ve changed the cultures, and drastically, with which I identify at given moments of my life. During my first eleven years, spent in Los Angeles, I was an “American”—without question or apology. My upbringing in the United States, as well as with my being a product of the public school system, heavily filtered the way I viewed and interpreted the world. Although I was aware that my parents’ roots made me unique, Nicaragua was a part of their world, not mine. My blood—the blood of a native Californian—ran red, white, and blue. And although I was of Latino descent, I considered myself part of mainstream “America.” As a result, I saw the world the way most “Americans” did.

Then my family moved to Nicaragua.

Because my parents couldn’t afford to enroll me in that country’s only U.S.-accredited school, they placed me in an all-boys, Spanish-speaking, Catholic school. But what at first seemed a tragedy—to not to be able to continue my education in the American way—turned out to be a blessing, a stroke of great fortune. If I had attended the U.S. school, I would have remained an “American,” and I would have never become acculturated into the world of my ancestors.

In my new school I was the only English-speaking person (and this includes my English teachers.) While growing up in the States I had only spoken Spanish with relatives; because of this my skills in the language were childlike: my vocabulary was limited and my knowledge of Spanish grammar non-existent. During my first months in Nicaragua my conjugation of verbs, in tenses and forms yet to be invented, elicited howls of laughter, particularly from my new classmates. The dread of being teased forced me to adapt, otherwise I would live the life of an isolated cultural freak.

Thankfully, within six months (Oh, the prowess of childhood to adjust to new circumstances!), I had embraced the language, the culture, the history, and the people of my heritage. And after only a couple of years, I had, for the purpose of self-identification, become fully Nicaraguan.

A Nicaraguan: this was how I would identify myself for decades to come. It wasn’t until I was in my late-thirties, nearly twenty years after I had returned to the States, that I started to acknowledge that an “American” also dwelled within me. Although in retrospect it seems logical, as well as inevitable, that the hyphenated designator of Nicaraguan-American would become my identifier, the Nicaraguan within me, the Latin American who was proud of his heritage, fought against sharing this hallowed inner space. That part of me feared, I believe, that the totally acculturated “American” I had been in childhood would take over, and completely. Of course it didn’t, but the “American” side of me has certainly become increasingly assertive as the years advance. Still, the benefits of accepting my hyphenated identity have far outweighed any losses: it is as a Nicaraguan-American that I started to believe that, as a writer, I had stories to share through this new lens with which I viewed the world.

But another shift has taken place in my self-identification, a slight yet significant change. I will soon celebrate my eighth year anniversary of living in Panama. While I could never consider myself Panamanian (not because I don’t wish to, but at my age the honor eludes me), I am once again embracing another culture, another history, another people. Both my wife and I are happy to call this nation our home, and our stay here seems permanent. Perhaps I will never see as clearly through my Panamanian lens as I do through the American and Nicaraguan ones, but I now understand Panamanians. (And isn’t this what a writer of fiction does, inhabit the identities of his or her characters’ so their actions are utterly believable within a determined cultural context?)

So, where am I now regarding my ethnic identity?

I’m honest when I reply that I am not entirely sure. At this point in my life, pinpointing the manner in which I categorize myself is no longer of great importance to me, (although the question does seem to matter to some readers). What I do know is that when I visit California, I no longer feel Californian; when I visit Nicaragua, I no longer feel Nicaraguan; and when I walk the streets of Panama, I'm certain I'm not Panamanian. It seems then that, today, I’m an outsider wherever I am.

But this tribal limbo is not altogether unpleasant. In fact, I quite enjoy the distance I’ve acquired through the years regarding my need to subscribe to a particular culture. It appears that in the process of becoming a writer, I’ve freed myself of the call to blend into a mass identity. I’m now treasure being an individual,an cultural free-agent. And through my writings, my ethnic self-perception—as well as my ability to understand others—has evolved. I’ve inched closer to a sort of human nirvana—writing has become a bridge, essential to my survival, which is leading me to try to develop a genuine kinship with every human being I encounter.

The Crowd at the Door: Memories of the Early Days of Television in Nicaragua

2010-04-12T11:40:00.003-05:00

Television's perfect. You turn a few knobs, a few of those mechanical adjustments at which the higher apes are so proficient, and lean back and drain your mind of all thought. And there you are watching the bubbles in the primeval ooze. You don't have to concentrate. You don't have to react. You don't have to remember. You don't miss your brain because you don't need it. Your heart and liver and lungs continue to function normally. Apart from that, all is peace and quiet. You are in nirvana. And if some poor nasty minded person comes along and says you look like a fly on a can of garbage, pay him no mind. He probably hasn't got the price of a television set.
Raymond Chandler

I’m a child of the television era. Although television was still in its infancy, the year of my birth—1954—coincides with the advent of the set into every American household. In Los Angeles, then the capital of television programming, there were seven stations: the three networks—ABC, CBS, and NBC—and four local ones. Black and white images of the world now invaded our homes, for color television was barely imaginable.

Primitive by today’s standards, the moving pictures on the screen still managed to mesmerize household audiences. A leap beyond the world of radio that had held sway over the previous generation, television opened a window, and the universe entered like a bright ray of sunlight. It has become a light we now take for granted.

Programs of that era—Bonanza, Leave it to Beaver, The Beverly Hillbillies, The Lone Ranger, and the list goes on—have become essential American cultural markers, often referenced, nearly fifty years after their demise, in films and television programs being produced today.

For baby-boomers, like me, television was a live display of sorrow, as evidenced by the coverage of the assassination of John F. Kennedy; a dosage of shock so perverse we still find it difficult to believe: the live execution of Lee Harvey Oswald; and an inspiring glimpse into the creation of a myth when The Beatles appeared on Ed Sullivan.

Television made the world spin faster than my peers and I could keep up.

And then, my parents returned to Nicaragua, their homeland.

Time retreated, in my eyes, about a century. But the experience wasn’t completely disagreeable. Before long I was enjoying the giddy sensation that progress had come to a standstill. In Nicaragua, everything around me was steeped in history and tradition, beginning with the walls of my new home—a vast colonial dwelling that was at least 120 years old at the time, and continues to stand today.

I admit that at the beginning I missed the excitement of American television. But the tranquility of the house and the liveliness of the streets gave me two alternatives regarding how to spend my time: in familial conversations or quiet reflection, or wandering the streets as an eager observer of life in my new country.

Television hadn’t entirely disappeared from my life, however. The technology arrived about the same time my family moved there. An uncle, married to my mother’s sister and whose family also lived in the vast colonial compound, had brought back a large-screen set from the United States (back then anything larger than 19” was considered enormous) and placed it in the living-room.

Doors in colonial Granada open directly to the sidewalks, and when they’re open—to allow the air of the cooling tropical evening to flow through the house—anyone from the street could easily stroll in. But the doorframe was a respected cultural threshold, and every person in the city knew not to cross the invisible line unless invited.

In my home, as was the custom throughout Granada, the doors opened at four in the afternoon. And in those days, the nation’s sole television station, owned by the Somoza family, began transmitting cartoons at that hour as well. As soon as our doors opened, a crowd of children assembled at the entrance, ready to watch.

Before long, a working-class crowd of Granadinos of all ages had formed a human wall—sometimes three or four rows deep—across the five-foot wide entry. My family, out of politeness, left a gap in the middle so that those gathered at the entrance could also watch. For two hours my home became a theater, of sorts, where children and grown-ups laughed at the antics of Felix the Cat and other “muñequitos” (little play figures) dubbed into Spanish.

Then, promptly at six, the traditional hour for Granadinos to have dinner, my great-aunts would rise from their seats—a signal the crowd soon learned to recognize—and the gathering dispersed as the set was turned off, the doors were closed, and my family proceeded to the dining room. Afterward, the doors would be opened again and another cluster of viewers would congregate, but the numbers never matched those of the late afternoons.

I recall that I could only endure a couple of such events. I couldn’t tolerate the amateurish breakdowns in programming (the station technicians were learning on the job, I am sure), nor could I stand my once favorite shows dubbed into Spanish. But, most of all, the human barrier at the door brought out the claustrophobic in me. Instead, then, I’d usually beg the pardon of the wall, which would slowly part to let me out—not a single member missing a second of what was taking place on the screen—and I’d take to the streets to find something more interesting to observe.

As I look back upon those first days of television in Nicaragua, the experience has acquired a metaphoric quality: as the privileged sat comfortably in their homes to watch the rapidly changing world, the poor stood outside, looking in. And then, within a few years, an angry revolution replaced the gentle and centuries-long separation of the social classes. A new leadership would urge the working-class to claim—and in many cases, expropriate—what belonged to those of greater means.

These changes, I believe, where inevitable, given Nicaragua’s social conditions, but did the advent of television accelerate the process?

Over the years, this is a question I’ve often asked myself. Did programs imported from the United States, programs that portrayed characters who lived in a far more comfortable and contented world, create a groundswell of dissatisfaction among the Nicaraguan poor? Did the illusion of a world in which people’s basic needs are easily met undermine centuries-worth of tradition?

Before long the crowds at the doors disappeared. Sets became affordable and every household, even families who lived in shacks, had an antenna on the roof. And it was also around this time—when the world entered every Nicaraguan home—that the status quo started to crumble.

Sorting Out Contradictions and Lies: The Playing Field of Essays and Fiction

2010-03-31T11:47:00.005-05:00

Like the novel, the essay is a literary device for saying almost everything about almost anything.
Aldous Huxley

Do what you will, this world's a fiction and is made up of contradictions.
William Blake

Fiction is the truth inside the lie.
Stephen King

What is the difference between writing fiction and writing essays?

Lourdes Navarro, owner of the Pisti-Totol ~ Black Bird blog, recently asked me this question. At the moment—I was in the midst of a virtual book tour promoting Meet Me under the Ceiba—I had little time to reflect on the answer. As a result, my reply clumsily danced around the issues of conducting research and the outlining process—both of which seem to play a greater role when I write fiction. In the end, I concluded that writing an essay was a less arduous task than writing fiction—an assertion I no longer hold to, for both genres are equally challenging.

Having carefully considered the question for several days now, I’ve discovered that, in my case, the difference between writing fiction and writing essays is far from being subtle, yet bewilderingly so. It is the difference between weightlessness and gravity: between working among the clouds, or with my feet firmly planted on the ground.

The pleasure of writing fiction, at least for me, resides in the license I have to create and inhabit a parallel universe. Since my novels are based on actual events, however, I have to be diligent in trying to replicate the “real world.” That is, as a writer of fiction, my wish is for readers to experience what my characters experience—to see events, circumstances, and the world from their perspective. I write, as the author Julia Alvarez once shared with me about her own fiction, “The truth according to my characters.” Nevertheless, in spite of having the responsibility to keep the narrative within the sphere of the plausible, I am at liberty—as well as obliged, if I am to keep the readers’ interest—to be hyperbolic; and, needless to say, I am most comfortable in the realm of exaggerations.

When I write fiction, I approach the task as if I were writing a fully detailed play or movie script—I want the plot to move as quickly and entertainingly as possible. The broad canvas of the novel, however, a sublimely panoramic scope in which I can lose myself, makes the fictional world more real to me than our world, than the world I am attempting to clone. In interviews and essays, novelists often refer to the intimate bonds they develop with their characters. The words, concerns, feelings, actions, and situations of our creations become our own. And although these beings are the products of our imaginations, we soon begin to see life as they do. Because of this, the act of writing fiction, an act performed in absolute solitude, is far from being a lonely enterprise. Novelists are constantly—in our subconscious minds—in the company of the characters we happen to be writing about: we become obssesively preoccupied with their exaggerations, their dilemmas, and their flaws. This is why, once a full day of writing has reached its conclusion, I often feel as if I am walking on clouds; and it takes large dosages of everyday life—in the form of bills, chores, picking up the car from the mechanic’s, and so forth—to bring me back down to earth.

* * * *

Writing essays, on the other hand, is a grounding experience. By definition, in the essay I am obliged to align my thoughts within the rigid framework of what I hold to be the truth. If I fail to adhere to this principle, to strictest facsimile of reality—be it social, political, artistic, or personal—I would have, as a writer, lost all credibility. The voice of my conscience, which is the part of me that speaks in an essay, would lose all validity—a death knoll for any essayist.

The borderlines of essays, then, with regards to adhering to the precepts of “reality,” are far more restrictive. Yet, in spite of this limitation, the imagination of the writer plays as significant a role as when writing fiction, particularly if we want readers to accompany us on a journey that, for many, may seem to lead into arid terrains when compared to the fanciful flights of fiction. As an indication of the importance a writer’s creativity has in the production of essays: my best ones are those where the conclusions are unforeseen. I then must allow my imagination, coupled with my reasoning, to sort out the inconsistencies of an issue in order to arrive at a resolution that seems the likeliest of truths—and if in the end, as also happens in fiction, the outcome surprises me, then I know that I have a good chance of surprising the reader. And this is a writer’s greatest payoff.

Aldous Huxley was correct in his assertion that fiction and the essay share common ground. In either genre the writer can say virtually everything about almost everything. And in both mediums, we find ourselves straddling contradictions and sorting out lies in an attempt to reach what often end up being surprising and astonishing truths: the truth of the characters, or the truth of a writer’s vision of the world.

Leisure Time and Reading in a Shrinking—Yet Colorful—World

2010-03-19T21:01:00.002-05:00

Develop an interest in life as you see it: the people, things, literature, music—the world is so rich, simply throbbing with rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting people. Forget yourself.
Henry Miller

Desocupado lector, . . . .

These are the first words in Don Quixote de la Mancha. They open the Prologue and have been usually translated as “Idle reader.” I believe, however, that the translation that would best capture Miguel de Cervantes’s meaning is: “Reader at leisure, . . . .” Such an interpretation highlights the Spaniard’s genius at maneuvering within the slippery interstices of definitions, a practice that renders him a master in the art of literary ambiguity.

Yet, regardless of the translation, Cervantes’s salutation, as innocuous it may seem on the surface, indicates that the author of the first modern novel was acutely aware that the act of reading, above all other “leisurely” pursuits, involves an infinity of choices—all of them beginning with the books we elect to read.

A worthwhile novel can change the way we see the world. The stories that touch our souls can transform us—and almost always into better persons. I believe this with all of my heart. And because of this alteration to our beings, which also impacts the way we understand and deal with others, reading is a political act.

* * * *

I’ve written this piece at the behest of Eva, at A Striped Armchair, who, in her posting “Reading in Colour,” made a heartfelt call for her fellow readers to be mindful of broadening their cultural and ethnic horizons when selecting novels to read. In her essay, Eva shares that she decided that half of her future readings would be of works by writers of color—that is, authors outside of the realm of white, western-European ancestry. What’s more, she urged other readers in the blogosphere to join her.

Eva’s piece discusses the delicate topic of race relations, as well as the concept of white privilege. These notions elicit heated discussions wherever they arise, and Eva’s words generated over ninety passionate responses (not including Eva’s sublimely diplomatic commentary). Her readers’ viewpoints, although varied, fit into three general categories: 1. those who cheer and support Eva’s stance; 2. those who find her sentiments admirable, but see no need to become selective about an author’s ethnicity as they are drawn to a novel by its quality; and, 3. those who feel that Eva is advocating reverse discrimination.

Regardless of which category the responses fall into, they illustrate that, indeed, reading is an act that can have a profound social impact. As the Peruvian Mario Vargas Llosa once noted in an essay, “La literatura es fuego” (Literature is fire): referring the ability of the written word—even when the aim is artistic—to create impassioned responses and calls to action.

But the question of reading and an author’s ethnicity has long been polemical. Henry Louis Gates, the noted Harvard literature professor—who became front page news in the United States last July when he was arrested while trying to enter his Cambridge, Massachusetts home—has long been an apostle for greater openness toward and inclusion of texts by African-American writers (and by extension all writers of color) in the literary canon. In an essay published in The New York Times Book Review, Gates writes: “Every black American text must confess to a complex ancestry, one high and low (that is, literary and vernacular) but also one white and black. There can be no doubt that white texts inform and influence black texts (and vice versa), so that a thoroughly integrated canon of American literature is not only politically sound, it is intellectually sound as well.”

Taking into account Gates’s position—that of a scholar who has devoted an entire lifetime to contemplating the very issue Eva’s essay brought up—one can see that the problem is extremely complex. What’s more, since discussing the matter falls within the awkward, guilt-ridden, and angering terrain of race relations, the strong reactions become easy to understand. In fact, many African-American scholars who believe that the literature of blacks in the United States merits a separate viewing lens consider Gates’s inclusive stance indefensibly weak.

When debating this problem, then, to arrive at a consensus that pleases every reader is, tragically, impossible. Eva’s call for greater inclusion of writers of color on the reading lists of booklovers sheds some light into the great ethnic chasm that separates people throughout the globe. And, ultimately, the choice to diversify one’s readings may seem a lonely enterprise: in the end each individual is left to follow the dictates of her or his conscience regarding whether the diversification of literature is worthwhile—personally as well as to society.

* * * *

Coincidentally, at the same time the passionate exchanges were taking place at A Striped Armchair, I was a guest at Farm Lane Books Blog as part of a virtual book tour to promote my second novel, Meet Me under the Ceiba. A reader of Eva’s entry visited the site and asked if I, as a writer of color, would be offended if someone chose to read my work solely because of my ethnicity.

I responded that I wouldn’t be offended in the least—and that response still stands.

My answer, in fact, would’ve gone on to state that my ethnicity and my bi-cultural identity as a Nicaraguan-American reside at the heart of my fiction. Upon a brief examination of purchasing habits on Amazon, it’s obvious that most readers who purchase Meet Me under the Ceiba, as well as my first novel, Bernardo and the Virgin, are drawn to my fiction precisely because they are interested in reading about Nicaragua—about its people and its history. The passion that fuels my writing resides at the core of my color, of my family’s heritage. (My viewpoint, however, may well be in the minority when compared to other Latino and Latina writers in the United States who would prefer to be considered “American” authors.)

Still, first and foremost, as a writer who has devoted decades to learning the craft, I’m aware, as Cervantes was, that a reader who chooses to spend her or his precious leisure time with one of my novels hopes—and deserves!—to be rewarded with a luminous experience; that is, a reading that will help him or her see the world in a different light. Writers who strive to be taken seriously owe their readers that much, at least.

* * * *

I tell my writing students that to become a good writer one first needs to be a voracious reader. Most writers worthy of our interest have expansive horizons as readers, having traveled far and wide—at least with regard to nationality and ethnicity—to seek the best in the trade. Reading the works of innovative authors, regardless of race, creed, or national origins, is the most effective way for writers to learn. And if we observe the literary world carefully, white authors are often the ones to first call our attention to noteworthy writers of color.

I, for one, do care about the background of every author I read—including his or her ethnicity. That’s because my leisure time is so scarce that I research a novel and its creator prior to deciding whether or not to take the plunge into the depths of their creation. This helps me anticipate the reading experience that awaits me. Moreover, I always say a quick prayer before opening the cover in the hope that at the end of the reading my life will be somewhat transformed.

I don’t keep count of the books I read. But as I prepare to invest my precious leisure time, before I take the leap I look to those who’ve explored the outer fringes before me, like Eva, to serve as my guides.

And as an author from the periphery, I’m deeply indebted to the brave souls who have ventured the world in armchairs. They are agents of inclusion: to paraphrase Henry Miller, they are bold readers who have been able to forget their selves, to move outside of their comfort zones in the pursuit of those rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting writers who are out there, at present, producing works worthy of our time.

This posting first appeared, in a slightly different version, in A Striped Armchair.

Translating a People

2010-03-06T14:42:00.002-05:00

Translation is at best an echo.
George Borrow

A great age of literature is perhaps always a great age of translation.
Ezra Pound

One of the best things that happened to me upon my parents moving back to Nicaragua—when I was eleven years old—was that I ceased being the translator. My mother's English-language skills were limited. Because of this, whenever we'd brave the streets of Los Angeles without my bilingual father, the moment my mother encountered a linguistic puzzle beyond her capacity to solve, she'd gently nudge me before the interlocutor to act as her interpreter. Although I found the experience interesting at first, after a few years stuck at the job, translating became a chore.

Thus, once we moved to her homeland, where she didn't require my services any longer, the freedom was exhilarating.

Yet, ironically, today, as a novelist—and I suspect it's also the case with other Latino and Latina writers—I'm once again fully engaged in a variant of the act of translation.

From the moment I took my first trip to my parents' homeland—at the age of seven—I became acutely aware that Nicaragua and Nicaraguans were a land and a people vastly different from the United States and its populace. I found the landscape of Nicaragua—physical and human—mesmerizing. Nicaraguans were open to an extent I'd never experience, and their joy toward life was contagious. But at the same time there was an underlying sadness—manifested in an acceptance of their lot that to this day I find baffling—brought on by poverty and by centuries of never-ending political turmoil.

During my Nicaraguan adolescence, I grew to adore the country and its people. I gladly shed my American skin and embraced a new identity as a full-fledged Nicaraguan. I fit in perfectly, and loved almost every minute of the seven years I lived in my ancestral homeland.

When I returned to Los Angeles, at age eighteen, to attend college, I soon learned what I wanted to do, more than anything: it was to explain the sights, sounds, tastes, relationships, and experiences I had in Nicaragua to anyone who was willing to listen. Of course, conveying these things over lunch was impossible—I could only produce the distant echo George Borrow spoke of when referring to everything that is lost in translation.

Yet I always knew, instinctively, that the best way to inform Americans about their Nicaraguan brethren—we do share a continent, after all—would be through the written word. The problem was that I had no idea what I needed to do to become a writer. Blindly, I plunged into the study of literature—in Spanish—and eventually earned a doctorate. But that was of little help at the time in bringing the Nicaraguan experience to an American audience.

The turning point, though, was waiting for me right around the corner: I was introduced to US Latino and Latina literature—a literature written primarily in English by authors with backgrounds similar to mine. Their work struck me like a bolt of lightning, and I started to read their production voraciously.

The climax of this odyssey, the moment where a light descended upon my thirsty soul to reveal the key to rendering my love for Nicaragua onto the blank page, came after I read Julia Alvarez's In the Time of the Butterflies. Through that example, as well as others penned by equally talented Latino and Latina writers, I learned how to retrieve stories from my parents' homeland—originally experienced in Spanish—and reinterpret them for an English-language readership.

This is what I did in my first novel, Bernardo and the Virgin, and I've done it again in Meet Me under the Ceiba. I lifted events and wrote them in a manner that English-speaking readers can hopefully make their own.

Now the circle feels complete. I am back where I started: translating other people's experiences. Admittedly, it's a different type of translation than what I did for my mother. But it's a kind of interpreting I truly love.

This piece was originally posted in The National Examiner as part of the Meet Me under the Ceiba virtual book tour.

Pacifying the Gatekeepers: Or, as a Writer, Nothing Less than Your Best

2010-02-02T15:17:00.003-05:00

That’s very nice if they want to publish you, but don’t pay too much attention to it. It will toss you away. Just continue to write.
Natalie Goldman

It takes a long time to publish a book.
Kenneth Koch

I am blessed that publishers in the United States are interested in my work.

And I am acutely aware of this blessing.

I add the qualifier “in the United States” because both in Panama and in Nicaragua—the countries where I’ve lived the past ten years—the overwhelming majority of writers are obliged to self-publish. Only a handful of novelists from the region manage to break out of the mold to secure a contract with a publisher—mostly Alfaguara, who seems to have a monopoly in this part of the world—that will finance the venture and help their authors gain an international audience. But these writers are the lucky exceptions and, in all honesty, they’ve toiled for decades to earn their success. The cruel reality is that for most Nicaraguan and Panamanian authors the road to publication is a solitary one.

The reason I mention the nature of publishing in Central America is that my observations of the scene taught me something that has helped me become a published novelist with Arte Público Press and Northwestern University Press: a writer should never submit his or her work until it is absolutely ready, until it is as interesting and flawless as humanly possible. The mistake most young writers in the isthmus commit is that the accomplishment of completing their manuscript so exhilarates them that, since they are virtually assured of self-publishing anyway, they rush their novel to the print shop. As a result of this impatience, every year the literary market of these nations—in the absence of publishing industry gatekeepers—is flooded with work that isn’t yet ready to see the light of print.

I could’ve made the same mistake, but the gatekeepers in the U.S. prevented it, fortunately. At the age of thirty-four, I completed a first novel titled Seeds by the Wayside. In this work I sought to tell the story of Nicaragua through the game of baseball. I sent the manuscript off to publishers, ready for the acclaim and fortune that was sure to follow. But after the third rejection letter, I started to look closely at what they were saying between the lines: that as a writer I wasn’t yet at the point where they’d want to publish my work. I was discouraged, but I continued writing for a couple of years, producing two more manuscripts before I decided to devote myself again to writing literary criticism, exclusively.

The years passed, and the thought of ever becoming a novelist was discarded. But then events in my life aligned themselves where I had found a terrific story based on actual incidents, I had plenty of time to write, and I had matured in the craft to the extent where I knew when something was off and, perhaps of greater significance, how to fix the problem.

When I finished Bernardo and the Virgin I sent the manuscript off to Northwestern University Press and my “first” novel was published in 2005, when I was fifty-one. By then I had learned most of what I needed to know about crafting a novel, and the experience paid off again with the recent publication of Meet Me under the Ceiba, with Arte Público Press.

More importantly, though, I was far more mature, no longer enamored with acclaim and fortune, but more interested in leaving a legacy, in trying to write novels that stand the test of time.

What have I learned about the road to publication through the years?

Two things: one, a writer takes the first step when he or she commits to the hard yet rewarding work of learning the craft and, two, a writer is ready for publication when he or she can identify what is wrong with any passage and how to fix it.

In the interim, a writer should continue writing—and reading, absolutely—until he or she is ready to step into the literary world with work they are sure to be proud of in years to come.

Although the picture I have painted might seem daunting, let me assure everyone that I’d do it all over again, for every step has enriched my life.*

* This essay was written at the request of Carolina, at Book-lover Carol, as part of the recent virtual book tour for Meet Me under the Ceiba. The piece has been slightly revised for preservation in this blog. To read the original, click here.

Meet Me under the Ceiba: The Virtual Book Tour

2010-01-11T12:40:00.002-05:00

"When are you going on a book tour?" is a question authors are frequently asked. But the sad truth is that the glamour--although I've heard a few writers say that it's really drudgery--of a tour is only reserved for the stars of large publishing houses. The rest of us have to pay tour expenses out of our pocket. Thus, as much as I love meeting anyone that has read one of my novels, economics forces me to remain home-bound.

But in today's world, thanks to the internet, there are Virtual Book Tours.

Please join me as we parade Meet Me under the Ceiba through the blogsphere over the next two weeks.

Here are the dates and the locations, and please leave a comment so that that blog host will know that you were there.

Monday, January 11 @ Book-Lover Carol
Tuesday, January 12 @ Brown Girl Speaks
Wednesday, January 13 @ Regular Ruminations
Thursday, January 14 with my good friend and fellow Nicaphile, Joshua Berman @ The Tranquilo Traveler
Friday, January 15 @ Pisti Totol
Monday, January 18 @ Mama XXI
Tuesday, January 19 @ Farm Lane Books
Wednesday, January 20 @ Sandra's Book Club
Thursday, January 21, with an internet acquaintance I'm very fond of, Mayra Calvani @ Latino Books Examiner
Friday, January 22 @ Una in a Million

What's wonderful about this is that everyone can join me for every stop of the tour. Hope to see you there.

Taking the Walk

2010-01-05T14:47:00.003-05:00

It is no use walking anywhere to preach unless our walking is our preaching.
St. Francis of Assis

For the past four years, my wife and I have traveled to the United States during the Christmas holidays to visit our families. We spend about a week in Nashville, North Carolina, and the same amount of time in Fresno, California. These gatherings are a time of reaffirmation, of reestablishing ties that acknowledge and nourish our roots.

During these visits, I try to walk an hour a day—the goal being to cover four miles. As anyone can guess, a writer’s life is sedentary—long stretches of time spent before a computer screen, hunched over notebooks, notepads, books, or stacks of papers that make up a draft in progress. Getting exercise, then, becomes imperative, especially if a writer wishes to live a long, healthy life. When I am in the States, walking is, by far, my favorite form of exercise. (In Panama, where sidewalks as they are known in the United States don’t exist, I exercise on my beloved elliptical trainer.)

Although I love walking through the well-tended US neighborhoods, I must confess that to overcome the boredom I associate with trying to be fit, I always take headphones and music along. Their company helps me look forward to the brisk walks.

But, in addition to the health benefits, I’ve also discovered that a short walk, in silence, can be a writer’s best friend. Whenever I am stuck, when my thoughts become logged-jammed to the point that words cease to flow harmoniously, or when a poorly-written sentence becomes unyielding, as if etched in granite, and I can’t find the right combination to free the flow, a short walk—even if it’s only to the refrigerator to pour myself a glass of water—allows me, as if by magic, to solve the quagmire.

Because of these almost miraculous properties of a stroll, I always encourage students in my writing class to “Take the Walk”—particularly when they are having trouble coming up with the concluding statement to an essay they have spent considerable time crafting.

Yet only a few days ago, I realized that I was guilty of not practicing what I preach. Over the past few months, I've been experiencing bouts of what is commonly known as “writer’s block.” I do not, however, find this a terrifying condition. I consider this phenomenon to be little more than the inability of unearth new ideas, a condition stemming primarily from a lack of quiet and solitary reflection.

The mental block had, nevertheless, reached a critical point, and I began to believe that my well of creativity was running dry—at least when it came to writing brief essays, such as this one. To try to summon the muses, over the holidays I sat in silence in my in-law’s living-room, devoted to becoming a vessel for new ideas. Still, after nearly an hour dedicated to this task, I had failed to conceive of a single idea. Frustrated, and at the verge of surrendering, it occurred to me, as a last, desperate measure, to “Take the Walk.”

I had already taken my daily stroll that morning, but it had been for exercise, not for the purpose of replenishing my dwindling supply of ideas. On that afternoon, I grabbed my coat, gloves, and hat, informed my father-in-law that I’d be stepping out for a while, picked up a notebook, rolled it up, and stuffed it in my pocket. I did, though, make the painful decision to leave my music behind, needing to be absolutely alone with my thoughts.

Shortly after leaving the house, as the wind that swept through the tree-lined streets bit my face, I almost turned back, nostalgic for the warmth of the fireplace. But I decided to brave the unusually cold North Carolina winter until I had at least tried to conjure up a few topics.

I admit that at the onset my choice to take a walk on that icy afternoon seemed foolish, but after that first mile subjects to write about started descending upon me in swift flurries, and I hurriedly jotted them down in the notebook as I continued walking.

By the time I returned to the comfort of my in-laws’ home, I had a healthy list of future writings. After several months distressed over the thought of being unable to continue producing these essays, I learned that all I needed to do, all along, was to take the walk.

A Loss among the Blessings: On the Death of a Great Teacher

2009-12-24T11:55:00.005-05:00

Without passion man is a mere latent force of possibility, like the flint which awaits the shock of the iron before it can give forth its spark.
Henry Frederic Amiel

When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.
Buddhist proverb

I intended to return to this blog after a long hiatus—much needed to restore my energies and to replenish my supply of ideas—with a piece that explores the blessings I’ve received the past couple of months. But on the eve of composing that entry, an email from my sister Sandy—who is news director for the Fresno Univisiόn station—caught my full attention. In the inbox’s subject column, it stated, simply: “José Elgorriaga.” I didn’t need to read my sister’s message to know that it contained news of the death of a gifted teacher.

The article "Ex-'Dogs soccer coach, 82, dies: Elgorriaga a beloved, accomplished mentor" tells Dr. Elgorriaga’s life story more completely than I could in this posting. A couple of years ago, in the essay, “Crόnica de una muerte anunciada and a Debt to a Great Teacher,” I attempted, in the best words and images I could summon at the time, to pay homage to a person for whom I felt the highest admiration and respect possible—for Dr. José Elgorriaga, as only the best teachers can, changed my life, without question, for the better.

When I met Dr. Elgorriaga I was an aimless twenty-eight year old college graduate, toiling at a desk-job that had scant room for creativity. Feeling restless and desperately in search of new horizons, at the moment of our first encounter, as the Buddhist proverb states, I was the student who was ready, and he was the teacher that appeared. After a brief conversation about Latin American literature, Dr. Elgorriaga suggested that I enroll in the masters program in Spanish at California State University, in Fresno, where he was the chair of the Foreign Languages Department as well as the coach of the men’s soccer team. I soon learned to take his every word to heart, and thanks to his influence I started treading the road where my life would eventually find its true purpose.

José Elgorriaga was the best teacher I’ve ever had. He pushed me, a student hungry for knowledge, to my limits, and then a little beyond, always obligating me to reach for the best within me. And I, seeking to impress this teacher who so inspired me, learned to live a life passionately devoted to literature.

I can’t fully credit Dr. Elgorriaga with making me a writer, but he certainly taught me that teachers need to be devoted their calling, giving students their top effort every day. And he did indeed share his knowledge and passion for literature to the fullest measure in every class session. I recall that on one occasion I was the only student who showed up for class, and I assumed that without an audience, he would cancel for the day. But he went on to give one of the more commanding lectures I’ve ever witnessed, communicating his love for Octavio Paz’s El laberinto de la soledad as if the classroom were full of attentive students. To this day, that incident exemplifies, in my mind, unbridled devotion to teaching.

Although I came across Dr. Elgorriaga a few years before I started to dream about becoming a novelist, he did play a pivotal role in the success I’ve enjoyed in this venture so far: he taught me how to read with every single one of my senses engaged, and as I have learned since, good writers must first become great readers—for this is the fountain that nourishes our proficiency in the craft.

Ultimately, then, Dr. Elgorriaga deserves significant credit for helping me become a fulfilled person and a contented professional—both as a teacher and as a writer.

His death, in my universe, is a daunting loss. As long as he was alive I was certain there was someone still on this earth capable of touching lives and of inspiring students to search without fear for their true calling. Now that he has gone, the torch he handed me—among many other pupils—remains lit, but to pass it on has, in Professor Elgorriaga's absence, become an intimidating task.

Ghost in the Maze: On Werner Herzog’s "Grizzly Man."

2009-10-17T14:05:00.004-05:00

An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself.
Charles Dickens

Knowledge is awareness, and to it are many paths, not all of them paved with logic. But sometimes one is guided through the maze by intuition. One is led by something felt on the wind, something seen in the stars, something that calls from the wastelands to the spirit.
Louis L'Amour

On October 5, 2003, the self-proclaimed “eco-warrior” and filmmaker Timothy Treadwell and his girlfriend Amie Huguenard were mauled to death and then devoured by a grizzly bear near Hallo Bay, in Katmai National Park, Alaska.

Treadwell devoted the last thirteen summers of his life to communing with grizzlies in the Alaskan wilderness. In addition to educating the public about the challenges bears face with regard to human encroachment upon their habitat, the filmmaker also claimed that he protected them from poachers. (After Treadwell’s death, however, a spokesperson for the National Park Service stated that bear-poaching is a negligible problem.)

During his last five Alaskan summers, Treadwell filmed the grizzlies of Katmai National Park, and in doing so he left behind more than a hundred hours of footage as his most impacting legacy.

Treadwell’s life—and the circumstances surrounding his death—caught the attention of German filmmaker Werner Herzog, whose early works, such as Aguirre, the Wrath of God and Fitzcarraldo, earned him the reputation of being a maverick director whose work is chaotic, daring, and frequently over-the-top. With full access to Treadwell’s film archives, Herzog created Grizzly Man—a thoughtful, mesmerizing, and often poetic account of Treadwell’s existence and demise among these majestic, formidable, and extremely dangerous bears.

The first time I viewed Grizzly Man—the dvd a gift from my good friend, Dr. Benjamin Murphy—I cringed at times, feeling that I was on the verge of witnessing a gruesome mauling scene. But viewers are spared of any sights and sounds of violence against humans; and although an audio recording of Treadwell and Huguenard’s final moments does exist, Herzog does not include this in the documentary, and wisely so.

Instead, in addition to expertly weaving together breathtaking shots of grizzlies and foxes—another animal for which Treadwell exhibited a unique affinity—the German director focuses on painting the portrait of a man who through his obsessive relationship with bears struggles to keep his powerful personal demons at bay.

Treadwell’s detractors, who are numerous, are quick to point out that he was far from being a naturalist in the great American tradition of Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, and John Muir—all men who devoted their lives to a particular geography, and not only to one species. What Timothy Treadwell was, some argue, was an opportunist who used the grizzlies to further his quest for fame and fortune. (Although one can counter that after thirteen summers in the wild, Treadwell’s bank account had little to show for his considerable sacrifices). And yet others claim that Treadwell used the grizzlies as therapy to soothe his severely fractured psyche.

It is precisely this aspect of Treadwell’s life that Grizzly Man explores best—and stunningly so. As Herzog develops the story of the self-proclaimed “eco-warrior,” through the subject’s own footage, as well as through interviews with those close to Treadwell’s work, the viewer observes—in addition to a handful of hair-raising scenes of the ultimately self-destructive manner in which Treadwell approached the bears—moments that would have been best left to the confines of a Catholic confessional.

A recovering alcoholic, who in addition once had a serious problem with substance abuse—the turning point in Treadwell’s life, after which he took to the Alaskan wild, occurred when he nearly died from a heroin overdose—the “bear whisperer,” as he sometimes also referred to himself, found his life’s meaning in the grizzly community of Katmai National Park. These creatures helped him expel the tormenting spirits that had been after him most of his life. The grizzlies’ inscrutable gazes and impenetrable ways, plus the constant threat of death, kept Treadwell supplied with sufficient stimulation to live the remainder of his days without the need to turn again to alcohol or drugs.

The documentary Grizzly Man contains one episode where a bear stands with his back to a tree, rubbing against it to scratch. Treadwell approaches the creature and the animal moves aggressively toward the eco-warrior. Although it is obvious that Treadwell is terrified, he holds his ground and scolds the bear. The grizzly stops in his tracks, stares at the human for a moment, and then turns and leaves. Treadwell walks to the spot where the bear was scratching himself and realizes that the imposing being must have been at least ten feet tall. When he fully realizes the mortal danger he had been in, a rush of adrenaline, its effects plain to observe, makes him speak louder and faster than usual, in a forceful rush of words directed to the camera to which he repeats, over and over, his amazement at the grizzly’s size.

What remains certain after watching Grizzly Man is that Timothy Treadwell needed the bears far more than they needed him. Throughout the documentary he keeps referring to the maze—a terrain where several streams converge and as a result it constitutes an important ground for grizzlies to catch salmon. Several times Treadwell states that the maze is a dangerous place, and it was here where he and Amie Huguenard encounter their deaths. But Herzog’s documentary, in capturing Treadwell’s spirit—with its severe flaws—eerily renders him immortal. And although from the onset the viewer knows that the eco-warrior will be killed and devoured by the very beings he loved so profoundly, in the final scene of the German filmmaker’s visual narrative the tall grasses move untouched, as if stirred by the continued wanderings of a ghost caught in the maze.

A Slight Delay and the First Review

2009-10-04T16:33:00.003-05:00

Grant us a brief delay; impulse in everything is but a worthless servant.
Caecilius Statius

Critics are sentinels in the grand army of letters, stationed at the corners of newspapers and reviews, to challenge every new author.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Publishers, like the rest of us, are subject to timetable shifts due to circumstances beyond their control. Meet Me Under the Ceiba was scheduled for release on September 30, but for various reasons—none of which are really important—the printer will deliver the copies of the book in mid-October. From that point it will take a couple of weeks for Arte Público Press to enter the book into inventory and then mail out review copies and back orders. As a result, Meet Me Under the Ceiba will become available to the reading public at the beginning of November.

Is such a delay frustrating for an author? In this case, not at all. The manuscript of Meet Me Under the Ceiba has undergone a seven-year odyssey that perhaps someday will be worth of a long essay. During that journey, the novel took a side-trip, entering the University of California, Irvine’s Chicano/Latino Literary Contest and winning First Place. More importantly, I’m very proud of the result, and I’m confident that this work will garner a nice measure of positive attention.

The first review that confirms my faith in the quality of Meet Me Under the Ceiba recently appeared in Booklist. The New York Times calls Booklist "an acquisitions bible for public and school librarians nationwide." Booklist is the review journal of the American Library Association. It recommends works of fiction, nonfiction, children's books, reference books, and media to its 30,000 institutional and personal subscribers. In-house editors and contributing reviewers from around the country review more than 7,500 books each year, most before publication.

And the review reads as follows:

BOOKLIST
Advanced Review – Uncorrected Proof
Issue: September 1, 2009

Meet Me under the Ceiba.
Sirias, Silvio (Author)
Sep 2009. 232 p. Arte Publico, paperback, $15.95. (9781558855922).

Sirias brings to life a small Nicaraguan town as it reacts to the brutal murder of Adela, a beautiful young lesbian who made the mistake of challenging a wealthy landowner by luring away his mistress. The novel is based on a true story, which Sirias researched while visiting Nicaragua. He is personified as a professor spending the summer near his parents’ birthplace, where he hears the story of the lesbian lovers, and attempts to reconstruct the days before and after Adela’s demise. By means of his interviews, the reader comes to know Adela’s family, her former lover (who feared for Adela’s safety), Adela’s former husband (who never dreamed that being a lesbian would get her killed), and Adela’s magnetic and stunningly beautiful lover Ixelia, who was prostituted by her mother at age 11. The problems faced by homosexuals in Nicaragua are encapsulated in this one case: Adela’s murder is deemed a minor offense because she was a lesbian. A provocative novel that opens up a little-known world to its readers.
— Deborah Donovan

Of course, the final sentence of the review is what tugs at the heart of this proud novelist. The first sentinel—to borrow Longfellow’s term—has approved of the work.

A delay of a month, then, for something worthwhile, means little. Still, in the meantime Amazon is offering a 22% discount for anyone pre-ordering Meet Me Under the Ceiba. Be the first on your block to own a copy.

‘Bupkun’: Outsiders Among the Wounaan

2009-09-27T12:40:00.007-05:00

Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand
W. B. Yeats, “The Stolen Child”

Although we are still well within the boundaries of the province of Panama, it feels as if we are in Darien, one of the few remaining tropical jungles on the planet. The moment we enter the mouth of the Rio Hondo—earlier this year, in April, during a school field trip—massive walls of mangroves reach out from the river beds, as if in greeting. The scenery is stunning—every possible shade of green has taken hold of the world. The landscape our eyes devour is worthy of being on the cover of National Geographic.

Our trip has two purposes: one, to deliver school supplies for the children of the village of Rio Hondo and, two, for seventeen students and three teachers from Balboa Academy to learn more about the Wounaan. Our members represent Ecuador, the British Virgin Islands, Jamaica, the United States and Panama (including a few descendants of Zonians).

On the afternoon of our first day in Rio Hondo we are welcomed into the nicest home of this impoverished village: a two-story hexagonal wood building, the only two-story edifice in the area. A community leader, Narcilo, lives there with his family. He escorts us upstairs. In the exact center of the room hangs a long canoe, carved out of a tree trunk. When asked why a wood boat dangles from his ceiling, Narcilo replies: “That’s not a canoe. It’s a Cuchuil.” (A word that sounds similar to ‘cook-wheel’.)

While the students are engaged in the ritual of Kipar—the culture of body painting, which Narcilo's wife performs on the students—the elder explains the legend of the Cuihuil to me.

“For many centuries the Wounaan competed against the Bupkún—the outsiders. In the end, as everyone knows, the Bupkún won. But to reward our loyalty, God gave the Wounaan a great gift: the Cuchuil. This gift has given us considerable control over the fate of the world.

“This room, although it is in my house, is a ceremonial center. Young men can come anytime between 8 in the morning and 2 in the afternoon to play the Cuchuil, which we bang like a drum. Playing it pleases God and this helps bring peace to the world. When conflicts between humans reach a critical level, we play the Cuchuil more frequently. It has a beautiful deep wood tone that’s pleasant and soothing.”

Narcilo pauses for a moment, looks at me, shrugs, and then says: “I’d play it for you now, but if the Cuchuil is played after 2 in the afternoon it pleases the devil, not God.”

* * * *

The following morning—on our first full day there—after breakfast, the top item on our agenda is a long hike through the rainforest. As we travel through the Wounaan trails that allow the residents of Rio Hondo to harvest the palms used for weaving baskets and to get to the small plantations of corn and plantains they’ve carved out of the jungle, it’s easy to imagine how difficult it must have been for Vasco Núñez de Balboa and the Spaniards accompanying him to cross the isthmus through terrain far more entangled than this to become the first Europeans to set eyes on the Pacific.

A dozen or so Wounaan children follow our group. Along the way the boys imitate the sounds of howler-monkeys and birds, and these imitations are uncannily authentic. But the indigenous youths are separate from us, although they had played games the previous evening for several hours with our students. A social barrier still exists—a five-century buffer of mistrust that has evolved into a cultural shyness that keeps these children wary of outsiders and preferring to communicate in the primal language of jungle inhabitants.

Even so, when we arrive at a swimming hole the thin walls of our segregation begin to crumble. Sweaty and hot from the hike, we, the city dwellers, jump into the brown stagnant water—a river will overcome it at high tide—to cool off. Since the shower of our rustic quarters seldom has water, the women in our group take advantage of the opportunity to shampoo their hair. The Wounaan children observe them in silence, seated on the rocks alongside the dry riverbank. But the temptation to join us proves too strong to resist and before long they jump in the water, playing, shampooing their hair, laughing and splashing around with the rest of us.

For the time being the gap between our cultures, languages, and origins ceases to exist. Water, that which cleanses, nourishes, and sustains life, has united us, making all of us embrace our common humanity. And although in a couple of days the students and teachers will return to the entirely different ways of city life, for the moment water equalizes us, and for the remainder of our time in Rio Hondo we will be at ease with our new identity as Bupkúns, outsiders among the Wounaan.

All in a Day’s Work

2009-09-20T13:04:00.000-05:00

Teaching should be such that what is offered is perceived as a valuable gift and not as a hard duty.
Albert Einstein

When Alexander the Great visited Diogenes and asked whether he could do anything for the famed teacher, Diogenes replied: “Only stand out of my light.” Perhaps someday we shall know how to heighten creativity. Until then, one of the best things we can do for creative men and women is to stand out of their light.
John W. Gardner

Good teaching is one-fourth preparation and three-fourths theater.
Gail Godwin

Teaching, as any member of the profession will attest, has its rough moments. There are days when little of what a teacher has prepared works well. And, to make the tale more heartrending, the days when an educator presses the right buttons and the love of learning takes hold of every person in the room, the days when every student ravenously consumes the items on a lesson plan—resulting in an adrenaline rush that leaves everyone flushed and energized—are, indeed, rare. Yet the memories of these magical class periods are what sustain educators through the agonizing instances when, regardless of how hard they may try, the students’ vacant stares tell them, and bluntly, that the aims for the day have fallen short of the mark.

Still, the rewards of teaching, which come in small and large measures, far outweigh the frustrations. What’s more, the incidents that validate an educator’s labor often take place outside of the classroom—in the hallways, when a passing student pays a compliment that leaves the teacher feeling radiant; or when a teacher discovers that something a student learned in one’s class makes a moment in another class luminous; or when a teacher receives an email with a message of gratitude from a former pupil. Such occurrences are marvelous, and on the day I start to write this piece, I was the beneficiary of several comments that made my day—perhaps, even, my month.

Wednesdays are half-days at Balboa Academy. These afternoons are often devoted to workshops designed to help teachers to continue growing in the profession. On this particular occasion, the workshop was about, of all things, improving the way we teach writing.

I arrived a few minutes early and was walking toward my assigned table, greeting colleagues along the way, when a teacher whom I had never met before approached me.

“Dr. Sirias?”

“Yes?”

“My son is in your Spanish class and he absolutely loves it. He been telling us every day about the stories they are reading and discussing in class. He’s now giving me the titles of books he wants me to buy. I’ve never seen him so excited about reading. I just wanted to thank you for that.”

I tried, as best as I could, to deflect her compliments. I stated that her son is a bright young man, a terrific student—which he is—and that I had little to do with his newfound enthusiasm for literature. Still, as I sat down to await the start of the workshop, I was feeling quite elated.

My group soon began its task: to learn how to assess the skills of individual writers. Wanting to concentrate on a particular essay, I stepped outside of the large room in which we had congregated and sat down on a comfortable chair in the hallway to read the piece in silence. As I approached the midway point in the student’s paper, I felt a human presence next to me. I looked up and recognized a teacher from the middle school.

“Dr. Sirias, sorry to interrupt,” she said. “I simply wanted to tell you that my daughter loves your Spanish class.”

Again, I made an awkward attempt to ward off the praise and then, blushing profusely, I thanked my colleague for her kind words.

The rest of the afternoon I worked with added enthusiasm, thanks to the statements that helped to validate my daily efforts. After we concluded working that afternoon, I rose from my seat, ready to head home, when a third teacher approached me.

“Dr. Sirias, my daughter feels that your writing class is inspiring. She has never been eager to sit down to write an essay until now. Thank you so much.”

I wish I could say that I receive such tributes every day, but the truth is quite the contrary: on most days, like all teachers, I go about my business without accolades. But neither do I expect them. Nevertheless, such instances of recognition make up for the moments of frustration during which I feel I had done everything within my power to make a difference, only to fall short of the expectations I have set for myself. But today, what made this afternoon especially moving is that the flattering remarks came from fellow teachers—from others who, like me, know, and intimately, how difficult it is to perform magic in the classroom.

Uplifted at a President’s Funeral

2009-09-11T15:41:00.001-05:00

It is not titles that honor men, but men that honor titles.
Niccolo Machiavelli

The greatest way to live with honor in this world is to be what we pretend to be.
Socrates

Make friends with the angels, who though invisible are always with you.
Saint Francis de Sales

For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
Alexander Pope

In the old Managua—destroyed during the December 22, 1972 earthquake—the Presidential Palace was located in the highest point of the city: on the hilltop ridge next to the crater lake of Tiscapa. The wide, majestic building could be seen from virtually anywhere in the capital. When my family moved to Nicaragua, in 1964, the residence reminded me of a beacon of hope—that’s because the man who occupied it then was a compassionate, caring person.

Rene Schick’s presidency is remembered as a time of peace, stability, and respect for human rights; and I believe his life-affirming leadership is one of the primary reasons that my adolescent memories of Nicaragua are so idyllic. His presidency was a oasis in the midst of the long years of political turmoil that preceded him and the popular uprisings that would follow. And President Schick’s calming influence over Nicaraguans became possible, I believe, because he identified with the common man and woman, and they, in turn, completely identified with him.

Rene Schick had been the nation’s Minister of Education during Luis Somoza’s presidency. And the elder brother of the dynasty saw something in Schick that few others did: an ability to lead in a composed, positive manner. When Luis Somoza declared his preference for Rene Schick to be his successor, protests surged from within his party. The leader of this subversion was Julio Quintana, Minister of Government and Justice and a hard-line supporter of the Somoza regime who, in addition to seeing himself as the logical successor, took exception to Schick’s humble beginnings and troubled past.

And the truth was that Rene Schick’s past was susceptible to criticism. A native of Leon, he studied law in the local university, obtaining a degree in spite of a serious affliction: alcoholism. The people of Leon told stories of the many times they saw the young attorney stumbling drunk through the city streets or, worse yet, passed out on the sidewalks. Schick’s erratic behavior reached such an extent that many Leoneses gave up on this bright young man who, unfortunately, seemed incapable of holding down a steady job. Yet those who did so would be proven wrong.

Desperate to redeem himself, Rene Schick turned to Alcoholics Anonymous. He became a fervent convert and before long he was preaching the virtues of sobriety with missionary zeal. His speeches were so moving that attendance at AA meetings soared, and he was credited with convincing many others to abandon alcohol. A school principal, a regular at the AA meetings, impressed by the young man’s charisma, offered him a position as a sixth-grade teacher. Schick accepted the job and found his life’s calling in education. Shortly thereafter, he also started to become involved in local politics.

Years later, during the Liberal Party convention in which Luis Somoza officially announced Schick as his nominee of choice, Quintana’s strategy was to belittle Schick, suggesting that he was a working-class alcoholic who was barely fit to be in a school. In spite of the attacks, Schick won the nomination, and when word leaked out about what had been said about him, instead of rejecting the former teacher, the common folk of Nicaragua embraced him as one of their own. Schick responded in kind, working diligently to become “El Presidente del Pueblo,” (The President of the People).

As President, in a practice that Schick’s own ministers criticized as an improper use of government funds as well as preserving age-old Latin American paternalistic practices, poor Nicaraguans would stand in line for hours to share their troubles with their leader, and he’d hand out money to help alleviate their plights. Through this ritual, Rene Schick, among Nicaraguans, became a symbol of kindness and compassion.

But the presidency’s generosity came to an abrupt end on August 3, 1966, when Rene Schick died of a heart attack while working in his office. The news of his sudden death shocked every Nicaraguan, but none more so than the working class, who in this President had found a hero.

Only six days before President Schick’s death, Pedro Joaquin Chamorro wrote the following in an editorial of La Prensa: “We must acknowledge that during the three years of Schick’s administration Nicaragua has experienced an era of tranquility. From that tranquility, everyone has benefitted.”

And on the day after Schick’s death, a new editorial issued a prescient lament: “Neither bloodshed, nor imprisonments, nor forced exiles took place during Schick’s administration.”

* * * *

In Managua’s old Mercado San Miguel, my mother owned a small store. Although the enterprise was never very profitable, running it entertained her. Twelve-years-old at the time, I’d often spend the day with her, helping out whenever I could but mostly studying the vibrant community of this vast open-aired market.

On the day before Rene Schick’s funeral, his body was scheduled to lay in repose in the Palacio Nacional for the public to view. This building, where the Nicaraguan congress used to meet, was an eight block walk from my mother’s business. Around noon, curious to witness the event, as well as wanting to pay my respects, I received my mother’s permission to go there on my own.

It was a sweltering tropical day. The sun beat down relentlessly upon the thousands of working-class people who skipped their siestas to pay homage to their dead leader. Outside the National Palace, in the middle of a narrow street, two rows of cadets from the Academia Militar stood at attention, facing one another. A cadet had fainted because of the heat, and he looked tragically young, even to me, as he lay with his face flat on the steaming pavement. His fellow cadets stared straight ahead, as if a prostrate body in the middle of their formation was the most natural thing in the world.

I got in line and waited under the scorching sun for my turn to enter the building. When it finally arrived, I sighed, relieved to be indoors. Almost instantly, however, the sound of women wailing startled me back into the moment. Inside the National Palace, two long orderly rows of mourners filed slowly alongside the president’s casket. There were no restrictions; people passed so close to Schick’s remains that they could have touched him. But no one did. Instead, a deep feeling of loss bonded everyone there, a dense solemnity that commanded respect.

The former president appeared to be sleeping, peacefully at rest. The sounds of crying became more intense the closer I came to the casket, and even in my twelve-year-old mind it was evident that the poor of Nicaragua had lost someone important, someone they had loved and trusted.

Shortly after I had stepped outside of the viewing room, and I was on my way toward the exit, something frightened the people walking in front of me. What happened, I’ll never know. Did a member of the Guardia Nacional brandish a weapon menacingly? Did one of the guards, feeling suddenly threatened, make a gesture that alarmed the crowd?

The human wall in front of me turned abruptly, trying to find another exit. I failed to respond properly; instead, I attempted to push my way toward the original exit, against the flow of the crowd. Within seconds I was being bashed around by a throng intent on getting out of the Palacio Nacional.

I started to have difficulty breathing, trapped in an increasingly airless cocoon of adults. I was also being crushed, my ribcage hurting from the pressure of the throbbing mob. I was about to surrender to a spreading wave of panic when an unexpected occurrence took my mind off of the dangerous situation: my feet left the ground. In the tight weave of the crowd, I had become weightless. Suddenly I was advancing with them, without effort.

Then something inside of me, something I can only describe as an angelic instinct, told me to relax—and upon doing so, in spite of the peril, the ride became enjoyable. As the huddled mass of people made its way to an alternate exit, I glanced around me, scanning the faces and feeling an inexplicable kinship with every one of them. Although the experience of being carried lasted twenty seconds, at the most, it felt like I was suspended amid the humanity for hours.

As we at last approached an exit, the crowd thinned somewhat, and as gently as I had been lifted, my feet were back on the ground. As soon as we passed through the stately doorway and were once again in the dense tropical heat, we scattered—everyone rushing in different directions. I moved to one side, leaning against an outer wall of the Palacio Nacional, utterly relieved to be safe and free.

In the more than forty years that have passed since that mournful event, the experience of that day has become a haunting metaphor for me: after the death of Rene Schick, Nicaragua entered a period of unparalleled turbulence, a time when every Nicaraguan would be in need of angels and luck to deliver them safely from harm.

A Heartwarming Letter from a Reader

2009-09-06T13:34:00.001-05:00

Hearing from readers who've been touched by something one writes is always a magical moment. I doubt that I'll ever get tired of learning that the long, lonely hours behind the publication of any work have been worthwhile.

In April of 2008, in this blog I reprinted a review of Bernardo and the Virgin that Kevin McCloskey published on Amazon. The reason I did so is because I enjoyed the story-form his review took, and I wanted to share that. At the time I tried to find a way of contacting Mr. McCloskey to ask for his permission. Unfortunately, I was unable to come up with his email address. In any event, I included his review in the following posting: "A Revision Update, and a Story as Review of Bernardo and the Virgin."

And then, a couple of weeks ago, I received a heartwarming letter from Mr. McCloskey. This time, I share the missive with his full consent.

Dear Silvio,

I just found to my delight that you reprinted, on your blog, my Amazon.com story/review of Bernardo and the Virgin.

I was, indeed, inspired and moved by your splendid novel.

When my brother Brian returned from Nicaragua he read it, enjoyed it, and thanked me for it. Then he mailed the book back to Nicaragua to a friend. Oddly enough, Brian tells me he is headed back to Nicaragua next week. This will be his third trip there in two years.

I was extremely worried about my brother when he made his first impetuous trip. But after visiting Nicaragua myself, I extended my brief trip and deepened my understanding the people and the place by reading Bernardo and the Virgin. Books don't often change me, but after reading your book I became a bit less cynical, and somehow less worried about my brother's capacity pursue his own journey.

I am sorry that I am unable to write this note in pure story form. I am an illustrator, so I do love stories, and I am sometimes a writer of small things.

Thank you for writing of bigger things.

Kevin McCloskey
Communication Design Dept.
Kutztown University

The Seldom-Mentioned Somoza

2009-08-27T16:18:00.001-05:00

Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.
John F. Kennedy

To discuss Nicaraguan history without mentioning the Somoza dynasty is impossible. This family, whose name resides in ignominy, ruled the country for nearly half-a-century as if the land and its inhabitants were their personal property. What’s more, to preserve their power and holdings they ruled Nicaragua with an iron fist.

The legacy of their nearly-fifty-year stewardship endures to this day in the chaos and bitter divisions that characterize Nicaraguan politics.

The names that invariably surface when discussing the clan are those of the generals: Anastasio Somoza García (1896-1956) and Anastasio Somoza Debayle (1925-1980), both supreme commanders of the Guardia Nacional, Nicaragua’s armed forces. Respectively, these men represent the Alpha and the Omega of the regime: they are responsible for its rise and its fall.

In most discussions, however, the third member of the regime is usually omitted. Only Nicaraguans and a cluster of hardcore Latin American historians remember his existence: Luis Somoza Debayle. He was the eldest son and older brother of his fellow dictators. On his sixteenth birthday, as a gift, his father awarded Luis the rank of coronel in the Guardia Nacional. But Luis didn’t inherit the others’ passion for military life. Instead, the world of business, particularly agriculture—in which he had a degree from Louisiana State University—called to him.

Shortly after Luis Somoza completed his college studies he won a seat in the Nicaraguan Congress. At the age of thirty he was elected that body’s president. And when he was thirty-four, in September of 1956, his father, Anastasio Somoza García, was assassinated. The brothers’ held firm in the ensuing challenges to their power. The younger brother, Anastasio Somoza Debayle, already at the head of the Guardia Nacional, reacted forcefully—a foreshadowing of the ferocity that would characterize his tactics twenty years later—to squelch all attempts to remove the family from the throne. The Nicaraguan Congress appointed Luis to fill the remainder of his father’s term; and the following year he was elected president of the republic and served in this position until 1963.

The view historians’ have of Luis Somoza’s presidency is ambivalent: his reign is regarded as a mixture of benevolence and force. But his reputation for recurring to violence arose during the Somoza brothers’ quest to avenge their father’s death. They believed, erroneously, that the assassination had been the product of a widespread conspiracy. As a result, hundreds of Nicaraguans suspected of wishing the dictator’s death were jailed, tortured, and several of them executed.

Although most of the responsibility for the bloodshed during this dark era falls squarely on the shoulders of the younger brother, General Anastasio Somoza Debayle, many of their compatriots claim that Luis Somoza did little, or nothing, to stop his sibling. Nevertheless, there is ample evidence to suggest that Luis was far less inclined to use violence and fear as tools to secure obedience. One episode, I believe, illustrates this. In 1958, a revolutionary group, which included Pedro Joaquín Chamorro, launched an invasion of Nicaragua, inspired by the success Castro was having in the Sierra Maestra, with the expressed purpose of overthrowing Luis Somoza. The operation failed and the rebels were sentenced to nine years in prison; but after serving eighteen months Luis granted them amnesty.

Luis Somoza also passed legislation that suggests that he was a visionary statesman—he understood that his family’s grip on Nicaragua would have to be loosened if they wished to remain influential over time. Before stepping down from the presidency, Luis Somoza signed a law that prohibited family members from succeeding one another in the presidency—a move that reportedly infuriated his younger brother.

When Luis Somoza’s term ended, he maintained a low political profile, preferring instead to devote his energies to watching over the family businesses. During this time, nevertheless, he played a significant buffering role—keeping in check his younger sibling’s inordinate lust for power and wealth.

The elder brother indeed provided a measure of sanity in an otherwise ruthless family dynasty. The following story, I think, indicates this. Luis Somoza built a mansion in what was, at the time, the eastern edge of Managua. He chose a small city block and purchased all the humble homes on it—at a fair price. There was, however, a woman who owned a corner house and refused to sell. Luis Somoza pleaded with her until he realized that his efforts were useless—the woman would never yield. A true dictator would have removed the woman from the lot through intimidating tactics, an improvised law, or by force. But not Luis Somoza. Instead, he built a high red brick fence around the entire block with the wall running alongside the back and one side of the woman’s home. The sight always struck me as surreal: a mansion that resembled a Louisiana plantation and, left outside, on a small corner, a humble adobe home.

Luis Somoza did, indeed, come across as the benevolent face of the dynasty.

He died in 1964, at the age of forty-five, from a heart attack. After his death, his younger brother, Anastasio Somoza Debayle, assumed absolute control of the country, ruling with such lack of compassion that within twelve short years of Luis’s death the rest of the family was on a plane, bound for exile, after a popular uprising overthrew them.

The void left by Luis Somoza’s early death represents one of those historical enigmas that will never be solved. And the essential question is: would he have let go of the family’s stranglehold over Nicaraguan life to allow democracy to take hold in return for the Somozas being allowed to retain a significant portion of their properties?

I choose to believe that Luis was the visionary and that he would’ve placed restraints on his younger brother’s ambitions, an act that, in the end, would’ve saved tens of thousands of lives and avoided a violent revolution.

In the midst of this pointless speculation I offer a personal story: a memorable experience involving Luis Somoza that took place when I was nine-years-old. This tale, in my mind at least, is a small indicator of his warmth and humanity.

My family and I were returning to Los Angeles from visiting relatives in Nicaragua. This was back in the days before direct flights existed between the United States and Managua. Large, four-engine Pan-American Airline planes would make scales in San Salvador and then Guatemala City. There, passengers would board a jet that would take them straight to Los Angeles.

During our stop in San Salvador, as we waited for new passengers to board, I visited the restroom. As I was returning to join my family, somewhat distracted and looking down, a sudden, collosal presence blocked the aisle: a remarkably tall man with an massive, barrel chest. My gaze turned upward and his dark suit made him seem like one of the most daunting obstacles I’d ever encountered.

And then I gasped when I recognized the handsome face. I had seen it often in the newspapers during my visits to Nicaragua: it was the man who only a couple of months before had been President of the Republic. I stood there, awestruck, my mouth agape.

Seeing the state I was in, he smiled—a sincere, warm smile—reached forward, gently placed his right hand on my shoulder, and said, “Con permiso, caballero”—Excuse me, Sir.

With my mouth still wide open, I nodded, stood aside, and allowed Luis Somoza and the three men he was traveling with—who were also dressed in dark suits—to pass by to take their seats toward the rear of the plane. Yes, it was Luis Somoza who, like me, was flying in economy class.

The Death of Alexis Arguello: A Portent of Things to Come in Nicaragua?

2009-08-20T11:52:00.003-05:00

(This article was meant to appear in Latismo. But due to a misunderstanding about exclusive rights, it will appear in the next issue of The Panama News instead—and, of course, here.)

‘Before, I thought we all were brothers. I thought the world was a beautiful place. It's a lie. Everyone is selfish. Now I care nothing for the world. It makes me feel selfish to say it, but people made me that way. I hate politics, I hate industry, I hate governments... I hate it ...’
Alexis Arguello, “Adrift In A Sea Of Choices,” Sports Illustrated, October 31, 1985

We are upset. This is a heartbreaking announcement. He was the champion of the poor, an example of forgiveness and reconciliation.
Rosario Murillo, Presidential Spokesperson and wife of Daniel Ortega, President of Nicaragua

On July 1, 2009, at 2:02 a.m., Alexis Arguello, mayor of Managua, capital city of Nicaragua, leaned forward while sitting on the edge of his bed, placed the barrel of his Ceska 9 milimeter revolver against his chest and, holding it with both hands, pulled the trigger with the thumb of his right hand, shooting himself straight through the heart.

That act also shattered the hearts of every Nicaraguan—including those of the nearly 300,000 Americans of Nicaraguan ancestry who live in the United States.

But Alexis Arguello’s command over the collective imagination of his compatriots was not due to his role as a politician in the Sandinista party. In fact, many Nicaraguans remain bewildered as to why he converted to a cause he once opposed and fought against—literally—as a member of the Contras.

The reason Arguello’s suicide crushed the spirits of his fellow Nicaraguans—as well as of millions of boxing fans—is because he was a living example that through hard work, discipline, and persistence a person can rise out of poverty to capture the respect and admiration of the world.

November 23, 1974

On this date, at the age of twenty-two—and six years after making his debut as a professional boxer—Alexis Arguello, in the thirteenth round of the main bout at the Inglewood Forum, knocked out Ruben Olivares of Mexico, Featherweight Champion of the World, to claim the title. Nicaraguans everywhere raised their arms in celebration. The first Nicaraguan ever to win a boxing title, Alexis’s climb to the top had come to represent hope in a nation that recently had seen its capital city destroyed by an earthquake and that, at the time, was edging its way toward civil war.

From this day forward, Alexis Arguello reigned for nearly a decade as the undisputed champion in three weight categories—featherweight, lightweight, and super-lightweight. During those years he was the brightest spot in Nicaragua’s human firmament, the greatest source of pride for a beleaguered nation. His grace and power in the ring earned him the esteem of boxing aficionados throughout the world, and his name was often mentioned in the same breath as his formidable contemporaries—a stunning gallery of boxers that included a still resilient Muhammad Ali.

Nicaraguans, however, had adopted Alexis as their Champion when few beyond the borders of this Central American nation knew of him. His compatriots had taken the young man into their hearts in the early 1970’s, when, although new to the profession, he started to defeat an impressive string of opponents by knockout. Nicknamed “El Flaco Explosivo” (The Explosive Thin Man) by Edgar Tijerino—Nicaragua’s most renowned sports writer and commentator—on the night Alexis took the walk in the Inglewood Forum from the locker room to the ring to face Olivares, he carried the hopes and dreams of every Nicaraguan on his shoulders. And immediately after his crowning victory he became Nicaragua’s Knight-in-Shining-Armor, his country’s Ambassador of Excellence.

A Symbol of the People

Throughout Alexis’s boxing career, his behavior both inside and outside of the ring warranted his compatriots’ absolute faith in him. His nickname in the United States, “The Gentleman Boxer,” reflects how Alexis rejected the taunts and crude displays of macho bravado customary in his profession, choosing instead to always say kind things about his opponents. Moreover, after every victory he’d visit his rival’s corner to give him a warm embrace and offer a few words of encouragement. On one occasion, when the victim of his fearsome right hook failed to show signs of rising from the canvas, Arguello, instead of allowing the referee to raise his hand in triumph, pushed his way toward his rival to check on his condition. It is this facet of the boxer’s conduct that has received the most praise in the countless eulogies that have followed his death.

The Beginning of Arguello’s Descent

Ring Magazine ranks Alexis Arguello as the 20th best fighter of the 20th century, the Associated Press named him the best junior lightweight of all-time, and the International Boxing Hall of Fame inducted the Nicaraguan in 1992. But the fighter’s glory years came to an abrupt halt in 1983 when he attempted to win a fourth division title against the much-younger and harder-hitting Aaron Pryor who, although fiercely challenged by the Nicaraguan, eventually knocked him out in the 14th round. The defeat was a crushing blow that every Nicaraguan took personally. Alexis retired shortly afterward.

Arguello, however, still retained his good looks and charm. As a result, he received offers that kept him in the limelight, including a stint as a boxing commentator for HBO and a chance to try his hand at acting when he appeared in an episode of Miami Vice. In addition, in spite of having succumbed to an athlete’s worst enemy, the passage of time, he still remained his nation’s most glorious living hero.

Outwardly, then, Alexis’s life seemed idyllic: the son of an impoverished shoemaker, he had risen from out of Barrio Monseñor Lezcano—one of Managua’s poorest neighborhoods—to take the world by storm. He lived in Miami, owned a mansion, a yacht, several luxury cars, and attended parties alongside the rich, famous, and beautiful of the world.

Yet, although he led a glamorous life, Alexis never forgot his roots. He invested in Nicaragua—buying houses and vehicles for himself and his relatives as well as contributing generously to charity.

But as often happens with individuals who achieve wealth and fame through boxing, after the cheering ended Arguello’s life quickly started to unravel.

The first setback took place shortly after the Sandinistas rose to power in 1979, while the boxer was still in his prime. The revolutionary government confiscated all of Arguello’s holdings in Nicaragua, alleging that the boxer had been an associate and supporter of deposed dictator Anastasio Somoza Debayle. The reality was that Somoza, desperate for positive publicity, engineered Alexis’s presence at a political rally in the city of Esteli, and during the ceremony he bestowed upon the athlete the honorary title of Lieutenant in the widely repudiated Guardia Nacional—Nicaragua’s army. To all who witnessed the event, it appeared that the dictator counted with Arguello’s full support. Sadly, such occurrences, where the unwavering popularity the boxer enjoyed among his compatriots would be used for political ends, became a leitmotiv in Alexis’s life.

And a few years later, to add to the former boxer’s troubles, in the emotional void that followed his retirement, he went from being a millionaire to being broke, became dependent on alcohol and drugs—cocaine being the main culprit—and lost his family.

Alexis Arguello, the Contra

In search of something new to devote his life to after boxing, as well as still being angry over the confiscation of his properties, Alexis Arguello joined the Contras, the U.S. financed guerrilla force that sought to destabilize the Sandinista government. His enlistment was a significant public relations achievement for a group that was perceived throughout much of the world as lacking legitimacy. A photograph of Alexis Arguello wearing a Contra uniform circulated widely in the world press. The Sandinista government, in response, established a decree that forbade the Nicaraguan media from mentioning Arguello’s name, hoping to keep his compatriots from learning that their hero had joined the counter-revolutionaries. Reporting directly to Edén Pastora, the famed Comandante Zero—the Revolution’s best-known dissident who had led the Sandinista forces in the final battles against Somoza’s army—Alexis was ready to fight “to help free his nation from communism.”

While touring the southeastern jungles of Nicaragua, Arguello witnessed scenes of extreme poverty and suffering among Nicaragua’s indigenous population. Torn apart by their despair, he requested humanitarian assistance from the Contra leadership. They dismissed his concerns, saying that all resources were destined for the men and women fighting the Sandinistas. Yet the retired boxer had observed that the Contra leaders were living in relative opulence in neighboring Costa Rica. Confronted with what he considered a hypocritical stance, Alexis abandoned their cause.

The Lost Decade

Arguello returned to Miami to face impatient creditors and an Internal Revenue Service eager to collect back taxes. Knowing only one way to make quick money, he returned to boxing. But his motives had ceased to be pure, which had been the foundation for everything Arguello had done: his was a lifelong search for honesty and honor. No longer fighting for the love of the sport, Alexis retired again after only two fights, but in the absence of something meaningful to do with his life, he succumbed once again to alcohol and drugs. Reports of his erratic behavior flooded the Nicaraguan community. But Alexis Arguello remained a hero in the eyes of his compatriots. They had faith in the Champ, believing that he would be able to come from behind, as he had done so many times in the ring.

He resurfaced in the early 1990s, returning to Nicaragua after Violeta Chamorro defeated Daniel Ortega in the presidential elections. The purpose for ending more than ten years of exile was clear: to reclaim the properties the Sandinista government had confiscated from him. The process, however, proved slow and tedious. In an effort to draw attention to his dilemma, as well as to earn money for the legal wrangling, Arguello returned to the ring. But at the age of forty-two he was a shadow of his former self, and after two lackluster fights he hung up the gloves, for good.

Still, stepping back into the ring got the attention Alexis desired, speeding up the time it took to recover his properties. Also, returning to his homeland boosted Arguello’s spirits as he was welcomed as a hero. Politicians opposed to the Sandinistas sought his endorsement. Businesses did as well. He was a living legend: in the decade in which he was a dominant force in his sport, he had given a people desperate for redemption a chance to feel pride. But their worship also riddled him with guilt. Still battling his dependency on alcohol and drugs, he felt that he was living a lie and in doing so letting down every Nicaraguan that had ever believed in him.

Arguello tried many times to conquer his addiction, but to no avail. Desperate to take back control of his life, shortly after the turn of the century, he enrolled in ODERA, a recently-established rehabilitation center in the town of San Marcos, Nicaragua. The founder of this center, Francisco López, was also the treasurer of the Sandinista Party and a confidant of Daniel Ortega. After seventy-five days of voluntary confinement, Alexis came out proclaiming himself drug and alcohol free. More significantly, however, during the boxer’s internment, López had arranged a meeting between Arguello and Ortega from which the former adversaries emerged as friends.

Alexis Arguello, the Sandinista

Daniel Ortega, well aware of the mythic status the former world champion enjoyed among Nicaraguans, enlisted him in his plan to bring the Sandinistas back to power. Alexis became the party’s vice-mayoral candidate for the 2004 elections and his popularity helped to sweep Dionisio Marenco, the Sandinista mayoral candidate, into office.

Marenco became a popular and effective mayor. His star rose quickly on the Nicaraguan political horizon. But another Sandinista’s popularity, especially when it outshines Daniel Ortega’s, becomes ground for ostracism within the party. This had happened with Herty Lewites, Managua’s previous mayor, whom Daniel also had shunned. (Herty later became the presidential candidate for the dissident Movimiento Renovador Sandinista—MRS—and was considered a serious contender when he died from a heart attack only weeks before the 2006 election.)

With Dionisio Marenco falling out of grace with the Sandinistas’ undisputed leader, and with Daniel Ortega vying to place as many of his candidates as possible in office in the 2008 municipal elections, he knew he needed an extremely popular candidate to hold off Eduardo Montealegre’s bid. Montealegre had been Ortega’s most significant opponent in the presidential elections of 2006. To run against Montealegre, who was leading an alliance of political parties seeking to take back Managua, Ortega picked Alexis Arguello.

The results of the November 2008 elections, in which Arguello allegedly won with 51% of the vote, were severely tainted by widespread claims of fraud. Ultimately, after a quick recount that remains suspect, Nicaragua’s Electoral Council proclaimed Arguello the victor. But the election results, including Alexis’s, provoked nationwide protests; and the doubt surrounding the former boxer’s victory cast a long shadow during the six months he served as mayor.

What’s more, stepping to the forefront of the mayoral office, unlike when Arguello stepped into the ring, showed his lack of preparation for assuming a position of leadership in the full limelight of politics. His open style of communication, always speaking straight from the heart, provided plenty of fodder for being attacked and lampooned, which the opposition media certainly did, and gleefully.

But the public chiding didn’t bother Alexis, who was always up for a few laughs. Rather, it was the feeling that he hadn’t won the race for mayor legitimately. And what bothered him worse were the accusations of fraud and corruption that followed the election. The questioning of his honor, in particular, started to weigh heavily on the mind of the Nicaraguan icon. In a 2003 television interview with Fernando Chamorro, Arguello was asked if he wasn’t concerned that the Sandinistas were using him, the same way Somoza had done twenty-five years earlier. The former boxing champion replied that to be used was fine as long as it placed him in a position where he could help the poor, whom he considered his true constituency.

The Sandinistas, however, would use but not trust their chosen candidate. Rosario Murillo, Nicaragua’s First Lady, as well as the Presidential Spokesperson, named herself head of Arguello’s mayoral campaign and she, in turn, appointed several advisers to keep the former world champion on a tight leash, to try to prevent him from inadvertently saying anything damaging.

Then, after Arguello assumed office, in an agreement apparently reached beforehand, he allowed the secretary of the city council, the Sandinista Fidel Moreno, to be the true power behind the throne. Upon watching online videos of city council meetings, one can observe Moreno frequently whispering in Arguello’s ear, telling him what to say.

As the world worriedly watched the coup perpetrated against Honduran president Mel Zelaya, another coup was simultaneously taking place in the city of Managua while Alexis was in Puerto Rico attending a commemoration in honor of Roberto Clemente, the baseball great who gave his life bringing supplies to Nicaragua after the 1972 earthquake. Upon Arguello’s return, he learned that the city council had passed a resolution stripping him of all powers, except ceremonial ones. Seventy-two hours later, the Nicaraguan national hero was dead from a self-inflicted wound through the heart. The circumstances that led to his decision and what took place during this lapse of time still remain a mystery. Rumors abound of several confrontations between Arguello and emissaries of the president and first lady. What is certain, however, is that the orders to remove Alexis Arguello’s mayoral muscles came directly from the chambers of the first couple: Daniel Ortega and Rosario Murillo.

Alexis’s life had crossed paths with suicidal behavior before. His father had attempted it when Arguello was a child. And the champ, having reached the despairing depths of drug dependency in the mid-1980s, went as far as to put the point of a sharp knife against his chest intending to plunge it through his heart. Only the desperate pleas of one of his sons, then a child, stopped him from doing so.

But on July 1, when he pulled the trigger, it was neither the drugs nor the alcohol that provoked the act. Instead, the foul world of Nicaraguan politics, especially as played by the Sandinista leadership, moved him to commit suicide. Every Nicaraguan knows this. The former boxing champion was a man who behaved honorably and who always put his heart into everything he did, even in the brutal world of boxing. The tragic manner in which he ended his life, however, clearly indicates that Alexis Arguello had stopped believing in everyone and everything, including himself. On the night he pulled the trigger, not only did he pierce his own heart, but he wounded those of every Nicaraguan, both at home and away, who saw him as a larger-than-life figure, as one of Nicaragua’s noblest offerings to the world.

More ominously, though, the reaction toward Alexis’s death has revealed the unfathomable chasm that at present exists in Nicaraguan politics: those who oppose the Sandinista government place the blame squarely on Daniel Ortega’s and Rosario Murillo’s shoulders while those loyal to the regime are accusing anyone who mentions the first couple’s complicity of being on the CIA payroll. What remains a unifying theme above all the shouting is that both sides are deeply mourning the Champion’s passing. The people of Nicaragua are having trouble accepting that Alexis Arguello, their national hero, is gone. And what has become alarming for those who know the nation’s history of bloodletting and who are acutely aware that Nicaragua faces yet another political crossroads that may once again lead the nation down the dark passages of violence, Alexis Arguello’s suicide seems like a portent of things to come.

Balboa Academy: Year Three

2009-08-11T12:44:00.002-05:00

When schools flourish, all flourishes.
Martin Luther

The principle goal of education in the schools should be creating men and women who are capable of doing new things, not simply repeating what other generations have done.
Jean Piaget

Many of the ninth-grade students who will be in my Hispanic literature course stopped by to meet me, for the first time, the day before school started. The occasion is an Open House, of sorts, where incoming freshmen are invited to visit the high school to become familiar with their new surroundings and their new teachers.

This marks the fourth time I've experienced such a day at Vasco Núñez de Balboa Academy. (I revisited my first two years as a high school teacher in “Balboa Academy: Year One” and “Balboa Academy: Year Two.”)

As my new pupils trickled in, stepping hesitantly into the classroom—their expressions revealing their legitimate fear that their next Spanish teacher might turn out to be an ogre—a question that former colleagues often ask me kept turning in my head: “Do you like teaching high school?”

When I answer that, indeed, I do, the skepticism in their eyes betrays their efforts to keep their doubts to themselves. And I fully understand their disbelief—teaching in a university, which I did in a former life, is the most prestigious, most intellectually challenging and lofty position a teacher can aspire to have. What’s more, these former colleagues understand, and fully, the extraordinary amount of toil and sacrifice that goes into obtaining a Ph.D. Thus, I can hear, and clearly, the unexpressed question that rings inside of their heads: “Why are you teaching high school? It’s a waste of a doctorate.”

These are, indeed, fair questions. Only a decade ago, I would have asked them of anyone with a similar academic background who was teaching in a high school.

If I were still living in the United States, I would feel uncomfortable teaching at this level—without question. Ph.D.s toiling in secondary education are stigmatized: members of the academy automatically assume that we lack the ability to compete in higher education. (The exceptions, however, are found in the best U.S. prep schools.)

But I’ve been residing in Central America since 1999, and to survive here the first thing a person must do is to make significant concessions in the way one sees the world, as well as in the way one earns a living. The universities that exist here—even those that claim to be affiliated with U.S. universities—are alien to me: they have little resemblance to the institutions that formed me and where I taught for years while living in the States. What’s more, their cultures and their complete lack of understanding of the concept of faculty governance frustrated me to no end. Thus, trying to prevent me from developing an ulcer or, worse yet, a heart condition, my wife urged me to steer clear of them; and after three entirely disappointing experiences, I saw the wisdom in her counsel.

Yet, I love teaching. I feel alive when I’m in the classroom, sharing my passion for literature and the written word. But, having chosen to remain in the tropics, where else could I apply my training and make a small contribution toward shaping future generations?

The answer, I discovered soon after moving to Central America, is in those high schools that abide by U.S. standards of education, of which there are several in the region. But even these institutions have quirks that prevent them from reaching their potential: a high turnover of recruited, American-trained teachers and administrators; owners and board of directors who lack a background in educational policies and procedures; and schools in which profit has become, unfortunately, the primary operational motive.

And then there is Vasco Núñez de Balboa Academy, where I’m about to begin my fourth year.

What sets Balboa Academy apart, I believe, can be traced to its origins. When the United States turned over the operation of the canal to Panama—on the stroke of midnight at the turn of the century—a group of teachers that had worked for years in Department of Defense schools in the Canal Zone started an educational institution of their own that would adopt the highest possible American standards. Moreover, the creators supplied an additional caveat: Balboa Academy would always place the students’ interests first.

To start a new U.S.-style school, virtually from scratch, is a bold move, a genuine leap of faith without any guarantee of success.

But the overwhelming support the enterprise found in the community, from the onset, startled, and then thrilled, the founders—eleven of them, all educators, all women. The first day Balboa Academy opened its doors, a large number of families placed their absolute trust in the institution. In return, the founders of Balboa Academy pledged to place quality education above profits.

For several years before joining Balboa Academy, I fantasized about being part of a faculty-owned institution. I imagined that such an entity, if well-conceived, well-managed, and able to maintain a pristine purpose, could become an educational haven in which students would blossom, teachers flourish, and classrooms would be exciting and creative arenas. (In fact, while in Nicaragua I explored, along with a handful of former colleagues, the possibility of opening our own university. Sadly, in addition to the timing being off, the obstacles proved insurmountable.)

In Vasco Núñez de Balboa Academy, such an institution exists. And what I admire most, as a teacher, is that the founders never bring the full bearing of their weight to persuade others to conform to their particular vision of what constitutes quality education. Instead, institutional decisions are reached, more often than not, by consensus, after deliberations in which teachers have the opportunity to provide input. The overriding concern of every change, every improvement, and every resolution revolves around the students. Although single-minded, this focus makes for a vibrant, dynamic environment that’s alive with the excitement of endless possibilities.

Having reached the end of the loop, I now return to the starting point of this piece, once again asking myself the perennial question, “Do I enjoy teaching high school?”

The answer is: “Yes, I do.” And I enjoy doing so because I am part of a bold experiment in education—the teacher-owned school. My experiences here have confirmed my belief that such an institution can become the best of all worlds. What’s more, I’ve arrived at this conclusion without mentioning the special, lifelong relationships that I’ve forged with dozens of students who, today, at the beginning of my fourth year at Balboa Academy, have become an essential part of my life.

An Open Letter to a Young Writer

2009-07-03T20:27:00.003-05:00

If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it.
Anais Nin

I don't know much about creative writing programs. But they're not telling the truth if they don't teach, one, that writing is hard work, and, two, that you have to give up a great deal of life, your personal life, to be a writer.
Doris Lessing

Always be nice to those younger than you, because they are the ones who will be writing about you.
Cyril Connolly

For Dominique Wiese

This missive is an apology, of sorts. That’s because, at a crucial moment, when you needed my endorsement, when you needed a vote of confidence, I failed you. But perhaps you didn’t even notice this. In fact, it wasn’t until after we said our farewells that I realized that I had let you down.

Thus, in case you overlooked my lapse, allow me to refresh your memory.

The incident took place the day of your graduation from high school, during the reception that followed. You, your family, and I were chatting, all of us feeling proud of your accomplishments. At some point during our conversation your father expressed how much he liked Words of a Dragon: a collection of the best essays from the Introduction to College Writing course--a collection that, incidentally, included several outstanding pieces that you wrote. Throughout this part of our gathering, I kept deflecting, rather clumsily, your father’s praise for my teaching. After all, I kept insisting, the students wrote those works, not me.

Feeling awkward and hoping to divert attention away from the topic, I turned to you and said, “Tell me, what are you going to major in?”

“I’m thinking about art,” you replied. But then you hesitated for the briefest of moments, looked me in the eyes, smiled, and added, “or maybe I’ll study creative writing.” And I knew that you meant every word of that last statement.

That part of your answer came as a complete surprise, startling me, and instead of rejoicing and offering words of encouragement I stammered something about how some writers are also excellent visual artists, what a wonderful gift this is, and how God did not see fit to grant it to me. Shortly after I was done stuttering, we said our farewells and went our separate ways.

That scene has been haunting me since because I now realize that I should have said, “That’s wonderful. I enjoy your writing, very much, and I have faith that someday you’ll make your mark as a writer.”

But let me try to illustrate why your expressed desire to become a writer so alarmed me. I’ll try to do so through a story I learned while conducting research in preparation for writing Bernardo and the Virgin. As an adolescent, Bernardo Martínez told Father Enrique Mejía Vilchez, the man responsible for ministering to the residents of the village of Cuapa, about his fervent desire to become a priest. In response to Bernardo’s plea for support, Father Mejía Vilchez adamantly refused to endorse the teenager’s ambition, crushing his spirit--at least temporarily.

Although Bernardo first attributed the refusal to the priest’s cantankerous nature (I met Father García Vilchez when he was well-advanced in years, and his legendary ill-temper was, indeed, based on reality), in the years that followed that exchange, a phrase Father García Vilchez said gnawed at Bernardo: “Why do you want to become a priest? Don’t you know that the road to hell is paved with the heads of priests?”

The day came, eventually, when Bernardo understood that the priest’s rejection was not because he lacked faith in Bernardo’s vocation and resolve (although at the time, with Bernardo being illiterate, the cleric knew that the young man had a long, uphill struggle before him), it was because Father Mejía Vilchez was acutely aware from his own experience that the priesthood was a harsh, lonely life of sacrifices that he did not wish upon anyone, let alone upon someone he respected, like Bernardo.

A similar sentiment overwhelmed me the day of your graduation.

My hesitation was never a question of lacking faith in your ability or in your resolve; rather, the long, difficult journey to arrive at the point where I can, still with trepidation, call myself a writer, reared itself, a terrifying specter. All those instances of self-doubt, and the wasted time these provoked, sent a chill straight through me. You see, the sacrifices called for to become a writer are daunting, and many times along the path it seems as if instead of moving forward one is regressing. What’s more, like the priesthood, being a writer is a lonely occupation, with only a handful of people capable of understanding and of offering to help along that journey. And the solitude in which writers work, without validation or pats on the back, invariably lead to moments of despair that become even more dreadful in the face of the editorial rejections that unavoidably plague writers at the most vulnerable stages of their careers.

And yet, in spite of these drawbacks, in spite of these fears, the sacrifices become worthwhile once we feel that we have achieved a satisfying measure of command over the craft.

Thus, well aware of the difficulties that await you, I can say in all honesty that I believe that you have the aptitude and the will to succeed. Your writings, as you know, have impressed me, for several years now. And I’ve been stirred to confidence by the statement you made last school year that you already know what your first novel will be about. Indeed, I believe that you have many tales to tell and, more importantly, that you’ll learn how to tell them well.

For these reasons, I shall now state what I failed to say the last time we spoke: “Walk boldly toward your goal of becoming a writer. I have faith in your desire and in your willingness to work hard to learn the craft; and I pray that someday your words will touch the hearts of many readers.”

Godspeed, then, and may God bless you.

Doing the Blog-Thing Wrong All Along

2009-06-22T16:10:00.001-05:00

With the advent of blogs, while more is being written, the writing’s getting worse. Personally, I am as careful with the text of a blog as I am with the page of a novel.
José Saramago

Learn to get in touch with the silence within yourself, and know that everything in life has a purpose. There are no mistakes, no coincidences, all events are blessings given to us to learn from.
Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

I’ve been somewhat neglectful of my blog as of late, but that’s not out of lack of motivation or out of laziness. The truth is that I’ve been short of time because of the convergence of several important events: the conclusion of the 2008-2009 academic year, a demanding stretch for teachers as great amounts of effort are expended to wrap up the year on a high note; the upcoming release of Meet Me Under the Ceiba (September 30), which has obligated me to learn more, and rather quickly, about the business of promoting my work; and the polishing of Harvest of My Gathering: Essays from the Tropics, whose manuscript has begun circulating among publishers. It has been a busy couple of months, indeed.

In trying to learn how to promote my books I’ve visited various websites and blogs that offer sage counsel. One site in particular offered excellent advice on how to write for blogs. But what I read saddened me: it turns out I’ve been doing this wrong for the past five years. The author argues that the attention span of internet readers is minimal, and that in posting more than fifteen lines of text a writer will be left with only a handful of readers—those who are most devoted to the writer or the ones that have plenty of time on their hands.

I agree with this assessment. In fact, I’m one of those readers whose attention will soon drift unless the subject or the writing absolutely grabs me. The article therefore suggests that it is better to make a brief comment about the topic at hand, followed by a link or two to lead interested readers to further information. This way it’s easier to make frequent posts and the writer is guaranteed greater traffic.

Nevertheless, in spite of knowing that the practices preached in the article are true, I can’t turn away from the type of writing I’ve been doing these years. When I started my blog, my hope was to write a collection of essays worthy of compiling in a book. And after polishing the best entries these last eight months, I am proud of the result that is Harvest of My Gathering. There’s a unity and smoothness to the readings that has exceeded my expectations.

What my blog has become since its inception, for me at least, is a sounding-board where I publish what I am thinking at the time, share a few of these entries with readers of The Panama News, and then allow the writings to breathe for a spell in the hope that with further revisions they’ll acquire the wisdom and grace of a fine wine. Although traffic through my blog may remain low, I know that the essays I post here are the best work I am capable of producing at a given moment; and I certainly cannot ask more of myself.

Thus, happy with the outcome, I shall continue violating the guiding principal of blog writing, which is: keep it simple and short. But I break these conventions with the full knowledge that within another five years, if I bestow upon my entries the same passion I gave to those of the first five years, I will have enough material for More Essays from the Tropics.

Participate in the Bernardo and the Virgin Readers' Contest. Details on Facebook.

Preview of an Introduction

2009-05-29T07:20:00.004-05:00

Dear Blog:

I apologize for neglecting you for so long. I realize that when we started our relationship I promised that I would make one entry per week. But you must admit that for nearly five years I have kept that promise, even though there were many instances when I was tempted to take a vacation. Well, five weeks have gone by without me contributing to your growth. But I have a good excuse: I’ve selected the best entries for a manuscript titled Harvest of My Gathering: A Collection of Brief Essays. I’ve been working hard polishing and updating these; I’ve arranged them in an order that makes sense, and then I asked my trusted first editor—my wife, Erinn—to review the result. She believes the book reads very well. I was so thankful to hear this. But then Erinn gave me news that set me back a bit. She said, “You need to write an introduction.” Her words brought forth a mild case of writer’s block—something that I’ve never experienced before. But after tossing many ideas around, I believe I came up with a decent opening for the collection, or so I hope. Please keep in mind that it’s just the introduction. Someday you’ll be able to read the entire book that we’ve written together, and I pray that you’ll approve. In the meantime, I now promise to get back on track with my weekly entries. But so you’ll see that I’ve been busy and not goofing off, here’s the "Introduction" to Harvest of My Gathering: A Collection of Brief Essays.

Love,

Silvio

Introduction

A good essay must have this permanent quality about it; it must draw its curtain round us, but it must be a curtain that shuts us in, not out.
Virginia Woolf

The essay is a literary device for saying almost everything about almost anything.
Aldous Huxley

I first visited Nicaragua, my parents’ country of origin, when I was a year old. Of that trip, I remember nothing except for a handful of peculiar scents that fused themselves into my olfactory banks. But experiences like this—coupled with growing up in a Los Angeles Latino household—made me believe, as a child, that every family in the world was a mixture of Spanish and English, cheeseburgers and tortillas, rock and roll and boleros, staid colors and gaudy visual displays. In my eyes, then, throughout the first five years of my life, being bicultural seemed the norm.

But I woke up to the harsh reality that I was dwelling on the outer, largely invisible fringes of US society my first day in kindergarten, at Vernon Avenue School. And at this juncture, as a five year old Nicaraguan-American—this was long before hyphenated ethnic identities became the norm—I wanted, more than anything, to become solely “American.” The last thing I sought was to stand out among my Los Angeles schoolmates: I fervently desired to blend in seamlessly into the society for which my teachers were preparing me, even if that came at the expense of my Latino identity.

Throughout the years of my “Americanization,” however, my parents continued visiting Nicaragua, in spite of the huge economic sacrifice this represented for our family. I traveled there twice again—quite an odyssey on the aircrafts and in the Central American airports of that era—at the ages of seven and nine; and, in spite of the brevity of these visits, on both occasions I returned to the States with concrete memories of people, Spanish-language tongue-twisters, foods, places, and fascinating stories. The experiences harvested during these trips took their rightful place in my memory alongside the smells I internalized as a toddler.

And there was one thing, above all others, that I knew, although not rationally, with every fiber of my being—an intuition so overwhelming that it became truth: life in Nicaragua was closer to being real, the country’s history was more palpable, and the culture was easier to grasp and dissect than that of the United States. Because of the affirming immediacy of these childhood impressions, I became very fond of my parents’ homeland.

But that affection was not enough to prevent the feelings of shock and dismay when my parents informed me, shortly after I had turned ten years old, that we were moving to Nicaragua, for good. The mere notion made me feel as if my American heart and identity were being ripped to shreds, thoughtlessly discarded because of my parents’ selfish desire to return to the familiar, to a homeland that nostalgia had rendered as virtually flawless. But for me Los Angeles was home, the center of my universe; California inspired awe, and while attending school I learned to swim rather effortlessly in the diverse cultural waters of the United States. Moreover, although my experience in and knowledge about Central America was limited, I knew two things for certain: the United States looked forward, usually with optimism, but Nicaragua was mired in the past.

Aware, even at that young age, that my sights are normally cast on the brightest spot on the horizon, I abhorred the thought of leaving the only homeland I knew—the most innovative and creative nation on earth, where I saw myself, and most clearly, growing happily into adulthood. In my ten year old mind, Nicaragua represented a retrograde culture where order, discipline, industriousness and efficiency were concepts that no one seemed to understand. And my American upbringing had ingrained these traits in me as the most admirable in any civilized society. Because of this, moving to my parent’s country of birth represented a giant step away from the All-American boy I had worked so diligently to become. Thus, to reword Dylan Thomas, I did not go gentle into the tropics.

Today, however, with the radiant clarity of hindsight, that move has become the most significant milestone of my life.

After only a few months in Central America I began to see great order in what once appeared to be unadulterated bedlam; I saw supreme discipline in the lives of so many Nicaraguans who struggled every day against the tidal wave of poverty to make something of their lives; I witnessed indescribable acts of courage in those who risked everything to speak out against injustice, against a government whose sole purpose was to retain power, regardless of the human cost.

In the midst of poverty so oppressive it would wrench anyone’s heart, I witnessed countless noble, compassionate deeds, often bordering on heroism. Life in Nicaragua, then, both its pleasures and its pains, soon became far more stirring than it ever had been in Los Angeles. And to incorporate the experiences of Nicaraguans into my personal history, all I needed was to keep my five senses on alert. What’s more, as an “American” teenager living in the underdeveloped world, I learned that both the beauty and the ugliness of humankind are always in close proximity, at less than an arm’s length.

My Nicaraguan adolescence is what led me to become a writer. What I experienced on the streets, what I heard in casual conversations, what I read in the papers throughout those years filled my mind with wondrous, and often tear-jerking, stories—and I became duty-bound to one day tell as many of them as I could.

Immersed in a world that revealed something new and often magical every day (Gabriel García Márquez, by his own admission, hasn’t invented a thing; he considers himself merely a chronicler of tropical experiences), within less than a year I had become fully Nicaraguan, and enthusiastically so. My identity as an American went dormant—although on occasion it would resurface to give me a slightly skewed framework, compared to those of my peers, for viewing world events. The boy I had been in Los Angeles faded away as I learned to think and feel like the people around me. And as I grew increasingly happy to live in Central America, a new identity, that of a Nicaraguan, took hold, and firmly.

But after living eight years on this narrow strip of land that connects a continent, I was obliged to leave. The options for continuing my education in Nicaragua were too confining; thus, my only choice became to return to my place of birth, live in the company of relatives, and attend college. But the move back to the United States carried a hefty price: I plunged into a severe identity crisis. For decades I was unable to bring my two cultural beings into harmonious co-existence—one identity always sought to dominate over the other—and regardless of how hard I tried to craft both halves of me into a peaceful whole, the differences seemed irreconcilable. But, in spite of this strain, or perhaps because of it, something worthwhile emerged from the quest to understand the hybrid I am: this collection of essays.

When I committed to one entry per week in my blog, I allowed myself the frivolous luxury of writing about my personal fixation of the moment. Nearly five years later, after sorting through these micro-obsessions, I can observe, and clearly, an ongoing exploration of the recurring themes that constitute my search to find my place in the world.

The first section of this harvest, “Hopes and Smiles: The Panama Writings,” consists of essays that seek to understand the culture and politics of my recently-acquired third homeland: Panama, where I’ve resided since 2002. The second section, “A Worthwhile Journey: The Nicaragua Writings,” are pieces that attempt to sort out the convoluted world of Nicaraguan political affairs, a seemingly inescapable quagmire of power-mongering and greed, regardless of where the leadership resides on the spectrum. Section three, “Writings Without Borders,” are a gathering of entries that probe political and cultural events throughout the rest of the world, including the United States, that have moved me to comment upon them. The fourth section, “Mirrors Reflecting Back: On Favorite Readings,” are brief annotations about books that have contributed to shaping my identity. And the fifth section, “Love Made Visible: On Writing, Teaching, and Other Diversions,” are my most personal essays—they explore events from my past, the things I most love doing, and other experiences that have played a role in turning me into a writer.

Regardless of the topic of the essay, Harvest of My Gathering is, in its soul, my attempt to reconcile the adolescent who radically shifted his cultural identity with the person I am today. And although the journey has at times brought its share of confusion and pain, every step has been worthwhile because the experience of gaining insight into the cultures that have molded me has unquestionably informed the way this Nicaraguan-American acts, thinks, and writes.

Panamá, May 2009

Bernardo and the Virgin: Making the Rounds

2009-04-22T13:27:00.004-05:00

Recently, I discovered an online news article from the University of Costa Rica—dated April 7, 2008—that reports on a lecture that was centered on the novels The Tattooed Soldier, by Hector Tovar, and Bernardo and the Virgin. Needless to say, I was flattered and thrilled to learn of the attention.

The piece, written in Spanish, is titled “Central American Trans-imaginary Expressed in U.S. Literature,” and the author is Katzy O’neal Coto. The article begins by stating that Central American customs, traditions, language, and ways of being and thinking are still alive among the millions of immigrants who reside in the United States and are struggling to become part of a new multicultural reality.

Dr. Yajaira Padilla, Assistant Professor at the University of Kansas, who gave the talk, stated that both novels form part of a construct that allows members of the Central American diaspora to identify with an imaginary collective that exists beyond the borders of their homelands. These texts, she said, give readers a glimpse into the complex process of how immigrants define themselves as Central American or Central American-American, not only in relation to the multicultural U.S. imaginary, but also as part of what could be referred to as the Central American trans-imaginary.

The article goes on to say that the massive immigration of the 70s and 80s, due to the civil wars, lead Central Americans to establish economic, familial, cultural, and other such networks in their new homelands. Also, as a result of their displacement immigrants are constantly obligated to redefine their identities, both as a collective and as individuals.

Dr. Padilla posits that The Tattooed Soldier and Bernardo and the Virgin explore many of the questions that are raised by the evolution and transformation of Central American identities, particularly in those communities that have moved to the United States.

About Bernardo, she states that the novel provides an innovative look into the revolutionary and migratory histories of Nicaragua, incorporating the viewpoints of women and children of immigrants. Dr. Padilla goes on to explain that the novel is based on the true story of Bernardo Martinez, to whom the Virgin Mary appeared, as well as the stories of other fictional characters, among them: Sandinistas, an American priest, journalists, and Nicaraguans who reside in the States. Divided into three parts—covering the years of the Somoza dictatorship (1930-1979), the revolution (1979-1990), and the post-war years—the novel tells the story of what made Nicaragua what it is today.

The article concludes with the news that Dr. Padilla is studying the literary production of U.S. writers of Central-American heritage in an effort to help define Central American-American Literature, a branch of U.S. Literature that has yet to be recognized.

Click here to read the original.

* * * *

After learning about Dr. Padilla’s interest in Bernardo, I sent her an email expressing my thanks. In a most kind response, Dr. Padilla informed me that she is currently writing an article, for publication, on the novel. What’s more, she will be including Bernardo and the Virgin in the course on U.S. Latino and Latina Literature that she’s teaching next fall.

I can’t express how gratifying it has been to learn that a group of students will be reading and discussing my firstborn novel, come fall semester, in the University of Kansas.

Publicity Copy for Meet Me Under the Ceiba

2009-04-15T07:05:00.003-05:00

To review the publisher's publicity copy—better known as catalog copy—of one’s forthcoming book can be a bittersweet moment: sweet because of the excitement of learning with what words the publisher intends to market the work, and bitter because, on rare occasions, a writer discovers that the publisher is out of synch with one's work. Because of this, I always approach this moment with a little trepidation.

As the release of Meet Me Under the Ceiba approaches, I was thrilled after reading the catalog copy for the novel. Marina Tristan, Assistant Director of Arte Publico Press, wrote the descriptor. She did a magnificent job—better than I could’ve ever done—capturing the spirit of the novel.

I’d like to share with you the draft of the copy:

Meet Me under the Ceiba
Silvio Sirias
September 30, 2009, 256 pages, $15.95
Trade Paperback
ISBN-10: 1-55885-592-0, ISBN-13: 978-1-55885-592-2

This affectionate portrayal of a small Nicaraguan town
reveals humanity in all its beauty and ugliness

“I’m not afraid of that old man,” Adela once told her niece. But everyone in the small town of La Curva, Nicaragua, knew that the wealthy land owner, Don Roque Ramírez, wanted Adela Rugama dead. And on Christmas Day, Adela disappeared. It was two months before her murdered body was found.

An American professor of Nicaraguan descent spending the summer in his parents’ homeland learns of Adela’s murder and vows to unravel the threads of the mystery. He begins the painstaking process of interviewing the townspeople, and it quickly becomes apparent that Adela—a hard-working campesina who never learned to read and write—and Don Roque had one thing in common: the beautiful Ixelia Cruz. The love of Adela’s life, Ixelia was one of Don Roque’s many possessions until Adela lured her away.

The interviews with Adela’s family, neighbors, and former lovers shed light on the circumstances of her death and reveal the lively community left reeling by her brutal murder, including: Adela’s older sister Mariela and her four children, who spent Christmas morning with Adela, excitedly unwrapping the gifts their beloved aunt brought them that fateful day; her neighbor and friend, Lizbeth Hodgson, the beautiful mulata who early in their relationship rejected Adela’s passionate advances; Padre Uriel, who did not welcome Adela to mass because she loved women (though he has no qualms about his lengthy affair with a married woman); Adela’s former lover Gloria, the town’s midwife, who is forever destined to beg her charges to name their newborn daughters Adela.

Through stories and gossip that expose jealousies, scandals, and misfortunes, Sirias lovingly portrays the community of La Curva, Nicaragua, in all its evil and goodness. The winner of the Chicano / Latino Literary Prize, this spellbinding novel captures the essence of a world rarely seen in American literature.

Praise for the work of Silvio Sirias:

"The details of Bernardo's Nicaragua are wholly entertaining and enticing, with images of Catholic mysticism juxtaposed against the particulars of life in the dusty village of Cuapa. Sirias' prose is lovely."—San Antonio Express-News on Bernardo and the Virgin

SILVIO SIRIAS is the author of a novel, Bernardo and the Virgin (Northwestern University Press, 2007), and he has written and edited several books on Latino/a literature, including Julia Alvarez: A Critical Companion (Greenwood Press, 2001) and Conversations with Rudolfo Anaya (University Press of Mississippi, 1998). He received his doctorate in Spanish from the University of Arizona and worked as a professor of Spanish and U.S. Latino and Latina literature for several years before returning to live in Nicaragua in 1999. He currently lives in Panama.

Although the information regarding Meet Me Under the Ceiba has yet to be uploaded onto the website, if you wish to learn more about the publisher, Arte Publico Press, click here.

El laberinto del fauno: When Impossible Monsters Triumph Over History

2009-04-07T16:44:00.001-05:00

I thought of a labyrinth of labyrinths, of one sinuous spreading labyrinth that would encompass the past and the future and in some way involve the stars.
Jorge Luis Borges, “The Garden of Forking Paths”

In the infinite lie of that dream . . . .
Julio Cortázar, “The Night Face-Up”

Fantasy, abandoned by reason, produces impossible monsters; united with it, she is the mother of arts and the origins of marvels.
Francisco de Goya

I am responsible only to God and to History.
Francisco Franco

El laberinto del fauno—translated into English as “Pan’s Labyrinth”—has become one of those few films that grows on me with each viewing as I keep uncovering new layers of meaning.

To dismiss this movie as a children’s fable constitutes a refusal to consider the serious issues this tale explores: the nature of reason, of reality, of time, of freedom, of duty, of obsessions, and of the human need to believe that in the future something better awaits us.

Guillermo del Toro’s masterful fantasy, released in 2006, is set in post-civil war Spain, during the viciously repressive aftermath of a brutal conflict in which over half-a-million Spaniards lost their lives and at a time when the rest of the world lived in the gloom of World War II. The heroine of the story is an eleven year old girl named Ofelia—superbly played by Ivana Barquero. Her mother, a widow—played by Ariadna Gil—has remarried; and Ofelia’s new stepfather—played by Sergi López—is the sadistic Captain Vidal: a fascist who believes in the moral superiority of the victors, the Falangist Party, and in the necessity of cleansing Spain of all Republican sympathizers.

Captain Vidal has ordered his family to leave the city and move to an ancient millhouse from where he commands a garrison of soldiers that has been charged with annihilating a small column of socialist rebels resisting Francisco Franco’s reign through guerrilla warfare.

Throughout her short but turbulent life, the heroine has found refuge in fairy tales. In the film’s present, Ofelia’s avid reading of her treasured books has become an especially important sanctuary because she intuitively knows that her stepfather is capable of acts of extreme cruelty.

Shortly after the heroine arrives at the grim millhouse, a fairy lures her into a labyrinth that descends into an underground universe, well below the historical world of Spain. There, a faun—a mythical deity, half man, half goat—informs the girl that she is a long-lost princess, but that if she wishes to return to her kingdom she must successfully complete three tasks that will determine whether or not she has become fully human during the centuries her spirit had been away. If she has become human, she cannot return to her kingdom.

It is precisely at this point that Ofelia’s fantasy world and the historical world of Captain Vidal become destined to collide. Guillermo del Toro, who in addition to directing the film also wrote the script, doesn’t give viewers many opportunities to catch their breath—the pace of his storytelling is relentless and both worlds, those of the labyrinth and of history, are grim and inhabited by terrifying creatures.

Time plays an essential factor for both lead characters, but particularly for Captain Vidal who kills his perceived enemies without much thought or remorse because he is obsessed with his father’s heroic death on the battlefield. Time is so important for Captain Vidal, in fact, that he’s unnaturally attached to the pocket timepiece he inherited from his father. In spite of Captain Vidal’s best efforts to live up to his father’s legacy—who held the rank of general—he fears the clock’s ticking and suspects that he doesn't have enough time left to emerge from under the paternal shadow. The Captain’s frustration at coming up short manifests itself in self-loathing, which he eases through physically torturing and killing his enemies.

With death and destruction as the primary method for resolving existential conflicts, the world of history would easily overwhelm Ofelia’s magical universe if Guillermo del Toro hadn’t resorted to the legacy of two Latin American literary giants: the Argentinians Jorge Luis Borges and Julio Cortázar.

(The movie director understands, and perfectly, movie-making’s indebtedness to literature: when Ariadna Gil expressed that she was having trouble understanding the mother’s absolute dependence on her cruel husband, Del Toro selected several passages from Dickens’s novels to help the actor come to terms with the role).

From Borges, of course, Del Toro borrows the device of the labyrinth—the leitmotif with which the Argentinian writer is most closely associated. In Borges’s literary construct, the labyrinth is our world, our universe, through which we wander and are constantly obligated to make choices, with every choice altering the course of our lives. The fairy guides Ofelia through the maze, but ultimately the girl will have to make a difficult decision, and although in the labyrinth she can momentarily hide from her nemesis, Captain Vidal, the maze cannot protect the heroine from the confrontation that awaits her at the final intersection where the historical world and the fantasy world at last collide. (It is indicative of Del Toro’s fondness for Borges that the book the faun gives the heroine to help her make decisions is titled “El libro de las encrucijadas”: The Book of the Crossroads.) According to Borges, when we’re confronted with situations similar to that of the girl/princess, the choices we make define us and move us one step closer—for better or for worse—to our destinies.

Borges’s writings often place characters at the center of the universe—as Ofelia eventually is—where time and space ultimately collapse, leaving readers to reflect upon the multiple significances that a character’s decisions have on the resolution of an enigma.

But to rely on Borges’s labyrinth alone could not carry Guillermo del Toro’s fantasy against the massive weight of the historical world that Captain Vidal represents. To make Ofelia’s visions utterly believable, Guillermo del Toro appropriates the obsessions that Julio Cortázar instills in the psyche of his characters. In this Argentine’s stories, a character’s fixations and visions become so compelling that the fantastic events surrounding them are rendered far more believable than everyday reality. In “La noche boca arriba” (The Night Face-Up), the reality of captive of the Aztecs who’s about to be sacrificed is far more credible than the thin dreams of his other self: a modern man who experienced a motorcycle accident; or, as happens in “Las babas del Diablo” (The Devil’s Droolings), it becomes easier to believe that a photographer has unknowingly surprised the devil by taking his picture than it is to believe in the character's insanity.

The difference between the Argentinian writers is that Borges wants his readers to ponder the endless possibilities his stories intelligently pose, while Cortázar enjoys making the reader question which of two worlds is the real one.

Guillermo del Toro, in borrowing from the storytelling legacies of both writers, asks his viewers to enter the labyrinth with Ofelia, judge her choices, and in the end determine which of the outcomes is reality: Is she a human dreaming of being a princess? Or is she a princess, ready to return to her kingdom?

As witnesses to the confrontation at the final crossroads of El laberinto del fauno, Guillermo del Toro, most appropriately, leaves the choice up to us.