Eat, Write, Love

Sometimes Chicana poetry is rooted in a polemic of anger, rage, and blame for political marginalization and oppression of Latinos. Some, including even professors I studied under at the University of North Texas in the late nineties, think because of this that Chicana poetry is mere journalism, flat language, and rage.

These people would not be surprised by the recent online explosion of poems denouncing SB 1070, the Arizona immigration law, which distract us from good, carefully constructed poems. Hundreds, if not thousands, of "poems" have been posted, everywhere from Chicano literary blogs to Facebook. Some are nothing more than prose cut up into poetry. This activism-as-poetry leaves Chicana poets struggling against all-too-common criticisms. One must not turn away from her culture or political reckoning, but one must keep some attention to artistry and craft.

Diana García's work is unflinchingly beautiful with a knack for imagery and music, and despite its overtly political title, her book When Living Was a Labor Camp does the work of good poetry. The work is carefully crafted to evoke both a sense of musicality and a sense of crisp imagery. The work takes us beyond mere political flat statement to a place of artistic creation. The language pops. García writes in the preface,

I write what I hear and see, the stories of my dad, his friends and brothers, my godfather tell over six-packs of beer and plates piled with tacos. I listen to the aunts gossip in the kitchen, voices hushed as they recall some long-ago tragedy. The men howl at how they almost got swept up by la migra. The women weep for husbands killed by pesticides, nephews and nieces killed in a fire when the kerosene heater exploded. And always the guitars and songs, one uncle's clear baritone, my father's perfect harmony, the women listening for tones long forgotten. I write what I eat and smell.

Yet it is in her poetry where García most shines. Her language is precise, fleshed with detail and meaning. In her poem "Cotton Rows, Cotton Blankets," García juxtaposes the dark gnarled toil of laborers with lighthearted promise. She conflates light and beauty with burden and punishment:

Braced by youth and lengths of summer breeze

we didn't give a damn. We'd be late, we joked,

stalled by a pregnant mare draped in sheets.

Later, backs to the sun—bandanas tied

to shade our brows, hands laced with tiny cuts;

later, when the labor contractor

worked us through lunch without water; our dried

tongues cursed the mare in cotton blankets

brought to foal in the outlines of summer.

García is consistent in her careful use of strong verbs: "cradled," "draped," "stalled." She doesn't settle for easy words, but rather crafts her language towards what I call sorrow in beauty. There is a lushness to García's lamentations and a scarcity and barrenness as well. She weaves lengthy and lush lines with sparse and short ones, and this, combined with her taste and artistry, and her close attention to detail, she creates a varied musicality.

Although heartbreaking, there is a slow movement from lamentation and suffering to praise and resilience in the collection. In other words, it is not a rash political pout, but rather a carefully sketched portrait of life in a labor camp. She holds forth the language, rhythm, and musicality with crisp images that can move the senses of a reader.

Even when she writes about potentially clichéd icons, she does so with careful attention to the rhythmic qualities of words. She places what is ugly in the context of what is pleasing. She writes of being uplifted by a dream of La Llorona, her "hair caked with mud and tule rush." In another poem, "The Creek That Bears Salmon," mud appears again, signifying the loss, toil, blood, and earthiness of the people in the camp. It is the mud of fertility, planting, and growth. Garc...