PORTFOLIO
Baptized
Initially, the ocean had only existed in my mind as an idea. It could only exist in this way. Pictures, descriptions, the beach, speculation, rumors, and first-person accounts can only create an image in the mind, but nothing can make you feel like you are in the center of this force of nature. As I walked up the bridge and asked permission to come aboard, I gazed out at the open water, and even then, I could not even conceptualize what the ocean was. The water, like my mind, was too still.
"PFFT! UNDERWAY!" The mooring lines were collected, and we moved away from the coast at a slow pace. Our underway to Alaska was scheduled to take 3 months. This was my first long voyage. The ship begins to pick up her pace. A few hours passed, and I now felt like a doe who had only just been born. My thighs felt weak. My stomach flipped like an Olympic gymnast going for the gold. I become paranoid. The ocean knew I was an outside entity. The endlessness of this blue tint mocks me, and I am now nothing but a speck of dirt in the desert. I feel lost and insignificant. The low and never-ending crashing of waves creates complex origami that is white on the creases. Focusing on a single spot creates confusion, and I wonder if I am looking at the same spot or if there can even be a spot in the ocean. The largest mass on the planet seems so unfamiliar to me—nothing like the desert, the lake, or even the beach. There is no land visible or borders, no chance of survival if I were to fall in, and no mercy from any God if I were to be swallowed by this ocean. I shut my eyes tight, trying to force the vertigo away. I bring my palms to my temple and rub them hard. I feel a cold sweat on my back. I want to cry. Panic is sneaking into the pores on my back as sweat seeps out. Will this sensation ever go away? Will I ever be able to stand firmly on my own two legs on this gray vessel?
A day passes, and the vertigo makes it impossible to keep food down. I find myself running to the head to vomit in the stainless steel toilet with no seat. The fluorescent lights buzz, and the rocking do nothing to relax the tight muscles in my stomach. I feel a tear on my face caused by the pain in my head and abdomen. I have to force myself to get it together. It's only been a day. I navigate the unfamiliar maze of the ship's intestines to reach the first deck and step back outside to the starboard smoke deck. Witnessing and feeling the mist from the shattering blue glass beneath me, the cold breeze from behind, and the blazing white sun above, the ocean now becomes The Sea. During the day, she is calm and beautiful, and the sun, with its egotism, compliments her- gifting her an image of himself and placing it on her stomach. This causes dolphins to rise to the surface, jumping for joy. Joy that can now be found on my face accompanied by warmth. Who wouldn't feel cheerful? The sun lowers, beginning to take its gift back. Oranges and lavenders surround me. The ship, in comparison to its surroundings, is hideous. Nothing but a gray, lifeless machine made of steel. She does nothing but wait for commands and follows orders through without reservation. Devoid of personality and incapable of creating anything aside from calluses and nicotine addiction. The joy hemorrhages from my body, and at the same time, the sun falls below the horizon too soon to appreciate the sunset. At night, The Sea is louder. She is restless. She is cold. She is angry. The Sea and its vastness, its quiet roar, and its constant movement tell me that I do not belong there. The Sea, with time, brings every man's mind to a breaking point. The uncertainty of the night keeps you in a state of constant stress. She rocks the ship, and we all do our best to ignore her rage and not venture outside, knowing that in the morning, she will ease up on the assault.
The days soon become monotonous after I reach my breaking point. My shipmates irritate me. I distance myself from others and stop speaking to my division altogether. I do nothing but wait for commands and follow orders without reservation. The only solitude I feel is when I go outside to smoke. I pick up the habit and, throughout various visits, notice new faces join me on the smoke deck. The gray deck now looks like someone spilled buckets of pepper all over it—specks of white and black litter underneath our black boots. We toss our cigarette butts into an empty ammo can. A few sailors conversate, but it's mostly quiet. The sun burns our skin and makes our eyes ache because there is no shade. The short smoke breaks make everything tolerable and help me to mentally prepare for the night shift, which I am now assigned to.
Nights pass, and I realize that the vertigo has vanished. When did that happen? Over the intercom, the pilot house announces, "ALL HANDS STAND BY FOR HEAVY ROLLS." I brace my body, and I realize that the Sea, which I was so afraid of as a young man, is merely a child who cannot control her tantrums. Routine in her miserable attitude makes her predictable. They ordered us not to go outside the ship at night because of the possible danger, but I am apathetic. I step outside and light a cigarette on the third deck aft of the ship. I am embraced by blackness. The Sea has now become the darkest place in all existence. Not sleep or blindness or even hell could replicate this emptiness. I look over the side, and I think I can see specks of white from the waves, but I can't be sure. The crashing is the only sound, and it almost beckons me. Inviting me to my death. Although not an empty threat, she knows no sane man would willingly follow her calls. The cold breeze from the day is now a harsh, stinging wind, and my Newport is the only source of warmth for miles aside from inside the ship.Clouds begin thin in the sky, breaking up, and now I can see the moon. My eyes adjust, and I can see the stars in the sky. There are so many. The contrast is incomparable and could never be photographed. It possibly can only be mimicked by a skilled artist, with expensive and rare materials acquired from all over the world. The moon reflects off the fresh paint and illuminates the aft deck. I can now see clearly. I stand firmly and allow myself to be baptized by the moonlight. I head inside and smile at a fellow sailor on my way to my berthing. I shower first to avoid the cigarette smell sticking to my rack, and once I step out, I look at myself in the mirror for the first time in a while. I've lost weight. My eyes are sunken. My skin is pale. I am different. I am transformed. I am born again.
Although I don't think I could ever know how The Sea came to be, whether by a grand designer with a master plan or an accident caused by pure chance, she became less "mystery" and more "misunderstood by man." I saw that she was alive and knew when we were with her. I learned she is not a path; she is a destination. She had tested me. I had always viewed myself as nothing more than a man. No particular interest or talent. No close friends or family. I even began to think of myself as soulless. There couldn't possibly be more to me. But I was wrong. In my seemingly lowest moment, The Sea forced me to look inside myself and find something I didn't know I had. She helped me find perseverance, courage, and bravery. I now step forward as sure as a buck with mature antlers, with confidence in every decision. No obstacle could ever stand in my way again. Some may call it delusion induced by isolation, but all I can see in myself now is infinite potential. I see what man is capable of.
Push Forward
Writing is necessary for marginalized groups to evolve and share their identities and cultures. When I was in elementary school, I often felt stifled creatively and culturally, because I was not allowed to speak Spanish in class, draw, or really do anything except focus on whatever the teacher said. I was always a good student because my parents had always pressured me to do well in class. As time passed, the urge to break free from my academic shackles grew. In contrast, the shackles tightened. One day, I bent over my desk and began drawing a rose during my teacher's lecture and when I finished, I leaned back and smiled. My teacher took notice of my break of focus and snatched the half sheet of paper off my desk and held it up to my face. She gave me the expected rhetorical response: "Is this what you should be doing right now?" I looked down in shame, and my face burned because I knew my classmates were looking. I became an example of what not to be. If the teacher made a note to my mother, I knew I'd be in trouble. The white teachers had a tendency to call our parents if we acted out. She took the drawing to her desk and put it inside the drawer. My eyes became wet, and I thought of her showing my mother what I had been doing instead of paying attention. I brought my head to my desk and began to cry.
Class ended, and I wiped my tears and tried to go on about my day as normally as I could.When I got home, I realized the teacher did end up calling my mother. She shouted and chastised me, and she whipped me. Even after all that, the worst punishment for getting in trouble at school that day was her telling my father about what happened. He called me outside to the backyard and told me, "Mijo… hay que echarle ganas en la escuela." He told me I really needed to try harder, even though I was an A student. He told me to stop goofing around and drawing because that was never going to make me any money. So I stopped drawing. Words from a father to an impressionable son. I just listened and did what he told me to do without question. Should I have gone against his word and done what I pleased? My life, forever altered, with no artistic escape, all because of eight words my father spoke to me.
Stupid America by Lalo Delgado is a poem that confronts and challenges racial stereotypes with the power of words. Delgado writes
Stupid america, see that
Chicano
with a big knife
on his steady hand
to address the specific stereotype of "dangerous mexican"(Delgado 1-4). The following lines "he wants to sit on a bench and carve christfigures" act as a sort of brazen counter argument (Delgado 6-7). Facing racist rhetoric is, unfortunately, a universal experience for minorities- and all Americans are affected by it either positively or negatively. Delgado's poem is about not casting immediate judgment and invites the reader's predisposition to make snap judgments to do the same. Stupid America also invites the reader not to compartmentalize themselves if they've ever been judged. Delgado challenges these stereotypes through poetry and even describes a poet-
Stupid america, hear that
Chicano
shouting curses on the street
he is a poet
without paper and pencil
and since he cannot write
he will explode.
(Delgado 9-15). Again, Delgado contradicts the violent stereotype by assuring the reader that the Chicano he writes about is merely misunderstood. Delgado knows these first impressions need to be deconstructed and seen below their surface. Seeing past the surface allows people to connect and understand your art, words, and voice.
Jimmy Santiago Baca's A Place to Stand is a first-hand account of how powerful writing can be for someone who has been judged and cast aside by society. His background and story are inspiring to an audience seeking to understand what life is like outside of white picket fence America. Although A Place to Stand is set in the US, it is told from the perspective of an outsider looking into a world. Baca describes seemingly average household items, "the expensive leather and wood furniture, the new refrigerator stocked with food, the sparkling pool I could see beyond the glass doors leading to the patio," as the "good life" (52). This contrast between his own life and the reality his mother lives with her own white family creates a rift in his relationship with her and eventually spirals Baca into a life of crime. With time, Baca slowly learns to read and write in jail and uses his skills to form connections with others. For example, while in prison, Baca wrote the poem Healing Earthquakes to discredit "the American society filled with stereotypical labels that discredited my people as inferior and lesser in moral character"(215). His poem briefly describes his passing life, and although short, Healing Earthquakes acts as a window for the audience into his life embedded in Mexican roots. Baca faced steep consequences for drug dealing. I would even say it's unfair. However, Baca was fortunate enough to gain an appreciation of writing, transforming his pain into art that others could relate to. A Place to Stand serves as an emotional and inspiring tale of a Chicano who is able to tell his story full of culture and heartbreak in an extraordinary way.
Minorities need to write their stories. Writing is a technology used to pass on the legacy. Without it we would miss powerful stories and lessons from artists like Baca and Delgado. Words move the human spirit, and those who face judgment and alienation are full of grit. This grit is a powerful force that can propel us forward which is evident in Baca’s strong will to tell us about his life and Delgado’s outspoken defiance of racism. All our obstacles become milestones when we look back on them. If we take the time to write about them, we can ensure our successors have a roadmap and help them push forward.
My Writing Path:
Dawn
The nature of writing follows specific concepts that categorize major themes and symbols and ultimately has shaped my understanding by making me aware of the relationship between myself and the audience. During the COVID quarantine of 2020, most of us were subjected to a lot of alone time, which resulted in inner reflection, and while I was quarantined, I began to write a script for a movie set in the apocalypse. I was enamored by the settings and character arcs from movies and shows like Mad Max and Breaking Bad. I imagined scenes for my script and would describe them as best as possible. However, it felt like I was trying to translate an alien language into English because I had a hard time with story building and imagery; worst of all, my characters lacked depth. I was sick of Marvel action movies made to earn a quick buck, lacking depth, plot, and originality, but when it was my turn up to bat, my story came up short. It was apparent that my script lacked a cohesive plot and was directionless and unbelievable. I thought it (and myself) was a void of creativity, and I just lacked talent. There was no fixing it, and I gave up. Taking ENG101 has shown me I lacked the proper tools and reference points. I assumed that since it was not great when I started, it would never be great. Concepts such as "A written text is an object outside oneself that can be changed, developed and improved," "Writing creates and gives individuals identities," and "Failure can be important to one's own writing" were foreign to me when I began ENG101, but highlight my shortcomings and gave me a roadmap to better writing.
I have built a strong foundation for understanding other literature and am better equipped to make my writing unique and meaningful. A Place to Stand by Jimmy Santiago Baca is an inspiring one-of-a-kind autobiography of an ex-convict who has found meaning in his life as a poet, even though everything in his life has worked against his success. Born into a toxic household to an alcoholic father and deeply insecure mother, Baca is left abandoned as a child and is fed into a foster system that often leaves children behind in education, emotional connection, and humanity. With an unsuccessful attempt at an education, Baca remains there until reaching adolescence and running away. Unfortunately, his lack of direction and desire for "the good life" leads him to sell drugs, and subsequently, he is arrested. During his time in jail, Baca finds new fears and anxieties that are amplified by his childhood trauma, and he looks for an escape. When he is thrown in isolation for refusing to comply with the guards, Baca's soul is cut open, and his subconscious pours out before his eyes. This is a turning point for Baca, and he begins his transformation from an illiterate boy who only saw his life as a burden to a skilled poet who can capture love from the hearts of those in pain. Baca practices his writing and connects with his culture, history, and other people inside and outside of prison. Continuing to face challenges with the prison staff, Baca begins to form an institutionalized mindset. Dangerously close to becoming another cog for the complex prison machine, he is finally released. In the epilogue, Baca faces even more heartbreak by the loss of his father, brother, and mother- still struggling to comprehend how so much injustice could happen to those he loved.
Jimmy Santiago Baca's own writing is subject to the concept that "A written text is an object outside oneself that can be changed, developed and improved." Baca's inability to read and write alienated him from his peers when he was young and discouraged him from trying to learn. With no other thing or person to turn to, Baca began to write letters to strangers. With time and practice, Baca gradually improved his grammar and literacy. Unintentionally, he formed a connection with those he was writing his letters to, "If there was not an actual person receiving what I was writing at the other end, it made writing harder. Writing for me was my connection to the streets, to someone out there" (Baca 179). His search for something to fill the abyss left in his heart from constant abandonment made him want to improve his writing. Once he could read, he was introduced to a very intimate writing style- poetry. His newfound ability leads Baca to engage with those who write to him (his friends) and those who write for him (authors of poetry), giving him the stepping stone needed to enter a new chapter of his life. Although Baca describes and witnesses horrendous acts of violence committed by fellow inmates, guards, and himself, his spirit remains intact. When introduced to Chelo, it is evident that Baca's writing had changed, developed, and improved- much like his own soul. Writing poems like Healing Earthquakes, he reflects, "I began to see who I was in a new context, with a deeper sense of responsibility and love for my people" (Baca 215). Crafting beautiful poems that bond us, the audience, to his pain, other inmates, his friends, and his family. We now are witness to the metamorphosis of his soul, and it is evident that Baca embodies this writing concept.
For many writers, writing is a part of their identity. For great writers, writing is the root of their identity. Baca is one example, and Gloria Anzaldua is too. Anzaldua's article How to Tame a Wild Tongue discusses and refutes restrictions on language and how it is used to alienate and attack. In her article, Anzaldua uses her own experience and her cultural history to describe different facets of Spanish and how they are perceived in our communities and by others. How to Tame a Wild Tongue also describes how these branches of Spanish and the regions they originate from affect other aspects of culture, like music. Finally, Anzaldua gives us warm closing remarks and entices us not to abandon who or what we are.
Anzaldua gives us a window into a Chicano's lifestyle and the struggles they face with identity. This article about "flip-flopping" between cultural identities is a part of the Chicano experience. "'Pocho,' cultural traitor, you are speaking the oppressor's language by speaking English, you are ruining the Spanish language," I have been accused by various Latinos and Latinas. Chicano Spanish is considered by the purist and by most Latinos deficient, a mutilation of Spanish," (Anzaldua 35). This type of criticism firstly acknowledges and then categorizes a variation of Spanish spoken by "Americanized" Mexicans, although done in a derogatory way. Anzaldua sees this instead as an evolution of a younger generation that has been cast out and criticized. Through this article, Anzaldua also speaks on self-reflection and how her heritage affects her language, "When not copping out, when we know we are more than nothing, we call ourselves Mexican, referring to race and ancestry; meslizo when affirming both our Indian and Spanish (but we hardly ever own our Black ancestory); Chicano when referring to
a politically aware people born and/or raised in the U.S.; Raza when referring to Chicanos; tejanos when we are Chicanos from Texas." Most of these identities are vague representations and are often used interchangeably depending on the audience. However, they are still used and can make those they apply to feel either welcomed or confused to what they are. Anzaldua writes this article embracing all of these identities in both Spanish and English, with some instances devoid of translations, giving us clear insight of who she is and who is writing for. She is a Chicana writing for Chicanos. Anzaldua has been given an identity and shapes it to her liking.
In the past, I would have identified myself as a failure. However, through readings in ENG101, I can now see failure as a stepping stone rather than an obstacle to catapulting my writing to the next level. I made a strong connection between failure in my own writing and George Orwell's Politics and the English Language. Orwell points out the flaws in political writing, which is often padded with unnecessary jargon to avoid saying anything concrete, "Orthodoxy, of whatever color, seems to demand a lifeless, imitative style" (Orwell). He implies that the reason political writing is bad is due to a lack of humanity and attachment from the writer. I found in my own tutoring sessions that I was also adding unnecessary "fluff" to my essays, essentially rambling. Once I realized my failure, I could work on it through revision and live by a new motto, "Less is more". By cutting down my anecdotes and summaries, I could get my point across faster and keep my audience engaged. Overcoming this failure was challenging because I had to be honest with myself and actively look for what was not necessary, but it has made me a better writer.
Becoming aware of these writing concepts has turned me from a selfish writer to a conscious one. All writing is meant to be shared, even if (actually especially if) intimate or personal. However, it comes with a caveat of formatting and a level of self-awareness. It may seem performative, but all art is. With this new level of understanding, I am ready to learn more.
Works Citied
Push Forward
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[1]Baca, Jimmy Santiago. A Place to Stand. New York: Grove Press, 2002
[2]Delgado, Abelardo “Lalo.” “Stupid America.” Tumblr, 23 Apr. 2015,
https://www.tumblr.com/perezia/23167608644/stupid-america-by-abelardo-lalo-delgado.
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My Writing Path: Dawn
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[1]J.S. Baca, A Place to Stand, Grove/Atlantic, Inc, 2007.
[2]Anzaldúa, Gloria. “How to Tame a Wild Tongue.” Borderlands: The New Mestiza–La Frontera. San Francisco: Aunt Lute Book Company, 1987, 33-45.
[3]Orwell, George. Politics and the English Language. 1946. The Orwell Foundation, https://www.orwellfoundation.com/the-orwell-foundation/orwell/essays-and-other-works/politics-and-the-english-language/.
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