A Painful Reentry into English

Confidence is contagious. So is lack of confidence.
Vince Lombardi

If we spoke a different language, we would perceive a somewhat different world.
Ludwig Wittgenstein


“I read your composition, and I’m afraid you don’t belong in my class. In fact, your writing skills are so poor I suggest you explore options other than college.”

The English professor’s words reeled in my mind, stinging fiercely as they bounced around in there. I'd just turned eighteen and had recently returned to California after living the past eight years in Nicaragua, completely immersed in the Spanish-speaking world. English, the language of my first formal instruction and of the first eleven years of my life, had retreated to a dormant part of my brain. Another two years would go by before it returned to the forefront.

Fortunately, I didn’t follow the instructor’s counsel about abandoning college, but his words, for many years, made me believe that I was unworthy of writing in English.

But I knew how to write. I loved to write. Of that much I was sure. My teachers in Nicaragua had validated my writing ability, often praising me for how well I expressed myself in what was, in essence, my second language. But with English now locked away somewhere deep in the nether-regions of my mind, I couldn’t produce the right words to ask my instructor to be patient, to allow some time for my language of birth to return—something I was sure would eventually happen.

And the language of my childhood did return, and rather quickly. Over the next few years my ability to write in English steadily improved. Still, in spite of this, my confidence remained low. I never dared to dream that anyone would take pleasure in reading anything I wrote in my “native” tongue. Instead, Spanish, my adopted language, was my creative outlet; and English was reserved for term papers, reports, and business letters.

The college instructor’s words haunted me for decades. And although a few years later I ended up writing and editing newsletters for several organizations—professionally, and in English—I felt like an imposter.

Oddly enough, my breakthrough in confidence came through an article I wrote—an academic piece about the Catalán Renaissance poet, Juan Boscán. For the first time I'd chosen to write an essay intended for publication in English, and the words flowed out of me as if in a dream, with ease, elegance, and grace—or so I like to believe. When I submitted this work to the journal Romance Notes, the editors accepted it without requesting a single change, not even a comma.

Throughout the years, I have often thought about my first college English instructor—even though I only spent a week in his classroom. Because of his remark, writing in English became a mountain I thought I’d never be able to climb. But little by little, day by day, word by word, my love of language and of writing has pushed me toward the summit, and although I’ve yet to reach the peak, the view from here is magnificent.

On Hunter S. Thompson

“What the hell is this goddamn gabacho pig writer doing here?”
A vato loco about Hunter S. Thompson, “Strange Rumblings in Aztlán.”

Intertextual: adj. Relating to or deriving meaning from the interdependent ways in which texts stand in relation to each other.
American Heritage Dictionary


One of the greatest pleasures in literature is discovering the intimate links, previously unknown to one, that exist between different texts. In moments like these, the kaleidoscope of the reading experience congeals to form a vibrant, colorful, yet crystal clear picture that is capable of making our lives more luminous, sometimes altering them forever.

Twenty-five years ago, a friend urged me to read Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. And at last, a quarter of a century later, while my wife and I were in North Carolina over Christmas to visit her family, I was thrilled to see that my father-in-law had checked out a copy Thompson’s classic work from his local library. It was a fairly recent edition (1996), published by the Modern Library Collection, and titled Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Other American Stories.

At once I plunged into Fear and Loathing, finishing after only a couple of days, which is truly remarkable for a slow reader like me. From the onset I was engrossed, absolutely loving the hallucinatory anarchy of Raoul Duke’s (and his Samoan lawyer’s) outrageous adventures. I’ve never consumed LSD; nor have I ever engaged in a binge of epic proportions, such as the one described in the story. But now, after reading Thompson fictional account of a freelance reporter on assignment in Las Vegas, I feel as if I had. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is, indeed, an absolutely astounding feat of creative writing as Thompson deftly takes his readers straight into the heart of lunacy.

Once I had finished this highly-regarded novella, I started to leaf through the rest of the book and came across the essay “Strange Rumblings in Aztlán.” This piece of investigative journalism, originally published in Rolling Stone Magazine (as was Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas), deals with the death of Mexican-American reporter Rubén Salazar at the hands of the Los Angeles Sheriff Department during the East L.A. riots of August, 1970. What was is store for me was one of those magical moments when the life-ties between distinctly different texts reveal themselves: the connection between the Chicano writer, lawyer, and social activist, Oscar Acosta, and the Samoan lawyer of Fear and Loathing became tangible and my pulse accelerated.

I had always known that Acosta served as the whole cloth model for the lawyer of Fear and Loathing, but thanks to “Strange Rumblings in Aztlán,” his relationship with Thompson as well as the critical role he played during that crucial yet tragic moment in the history of the Chicano Movement became clear. (And knowing this now helps me understand why the noted Hispanist Ilan Stavans became so obsessed with Oscar Acosta that he authored the book Bandido: The Death and Resurrection of Oscar “Zeta” Acosta). I was impressed with Hunter S. Thompson’s grasp of the dilemmas Mexican-Americans faced at that point in time (and disheartened by how little things have changed) and I now believe, and firmly, that his documentation of this event should be required reading for anyone interested in the history of U.S. Latinos. I doubt that anyone else recorded the turmoil of the East Los Angeles riots and Rubén Salazar's death with such lucidity.

And then, while again flipping through the pages of the book, I came across the essay titled “Jacket Copy for Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream.” Reading Thompson’s account of the circumstances that led to the writing of Fear and Loathing—and in the slightly altered order in which I read the three pieces—constitutes one of those radiant experiences that makes a reader thankful for gifted writers. The entire portrait, the translucent connection between the riots, Rubén Salazar, and the chaotic tale of Fear and Loathing was rendered naked. I could see, and plainly, how the death of Rubén Salazar, the civil rights struggle of Oscar Acosta, Hunter S. Thompson, the Samoan lawyer, and Raoul Duke are all part of a mosaic, a puzzle of history and fiction, that perfectly depicts the turmoil of the late 60s and early 70s.

In learning how Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas came to be, I couldn’t help but be in awe of the burst of genius, of that unadulterated visit from the muses that accompanied Hunter S. Thompson during those days when he performed what perhaps will be remembered as his best writing, and which has, deservedly, earned him a spot in the American literary pantheon.

On In the Time of the Butterflies

These three brave sisters and their husbands stood in stark contrast to the self-saving actions of my own family and of other Dominican exiles. Because of this, the Mirabal sisters haunted me.
Julia Alvarez


Shortly after setting off on my quest to learn everything I could about Latino and Latina literature, several persons raved to me about How the García Girls Lost Their Accents, the work of a new novelist named Julia Alvarez. I purchased a copy and, although I enjoyed The García Girls, the book had been so exalted that I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed after I finished reading it; I had been set up to expect much more. I did, though, like many things about the novel. Still, it was not the sterling classic some readers were making it out to be. But I did see one thing, and most clearly: as a writer, Julia Alvarez had enormous potential, and How the García Girls Lost Their Accents left me wanting more.

A couple of weeks prior to the publication of In the Time of the Butterflies, a review appeared in The Charlotte Observer. I can no longer recall what the reviewer had to say about the Dominican-American’s novel, but the critique inspired me to make a special trip to the bookstore the very morning of the book’s release, and I started to read In the Time of the Butterflies that same day. From the opening paragraph I was hooked. Alvarez’s wistful recreation of the lives of the Mirabal sisters is, indeed, a truly remarkable feat.

More impressively, in between novels Alvarez had grown considerably in her craft. The Butterflies is a stunningly beautiful and touching historical novel in which Alvarez vividly captures the voices or, better yet, the souls of the noble sisters—victims of Rafael Trujillo’s brutal stewardship of the Dominican Republic.

And to this day, whenever anyone asks me what’s the first U.S. Latino or Latina novel they should read, without hesitation I reply, “In the Time of the Butterflies.”

In Hindsight: On Daniel Ortega’s Return to Power

Discourtesy does not spring merely from one bad quality, but from several--from foolish vanity, from ignorance of what is due to others, from indolence, from stupidity, from distraction of thought, from contempt of others, from jealousy.
Jean de la Bruyere

Hind-sight: n. Perception of the significance and nature of events after they have occurred.
American Heritage Dictionary


I write these thoughts the morning that Daniel Ortega is to be sworn in as President of Nicaragua. I never dreamed that he’d return to power. In fact, in the article “A Time to Step Aside,” which appeared in this blog and in The Panama News, I predicted that the Nicaraguan people would not be foolish enough to reelect him.

I was, indeed, far off the mark.

Today, in retrospect, I believe I understand why Nicaraguans have chosen, once again, to trust a man with such an ignoble past. (And I refer not to his politics, but to behavior and deeds that reflect poorly on his character.)

Throughout the years I lived in Nicaragua, I frequently witnessed the degrading way in which the upper class treated—and still treats—their hired help. In fact, when I first moved to Nicaragua—as an eleven year old gringo-nicaragüense—the contempt with which Nicaraguans of means regarded their less fortunate compatriots left me speechless. Moreover, although I was only entering my teenage years, I could clearly see that the government of the rich didn’t care about the needs of the vast majority: the poor.

Almost every day of my Nicaraguan adolescence, and I say this without exaggeration, heartrending funerals would pass in front of my home, the pallbearers carrying tiny coffins—an indication of the nation’s alarmingly high infant mortality rate. Without doubt, the armed revolution against the US-supported Somoza dynasty had much to do with the desperate conditions in which most Nicaraguans lived. And during the family’s reign, the underprivileged stored up half a century of resentment while the bank accounts of the wealthy swelled, via blatant corruption, and the military acted ruthlessly in silencing the voices of conscience. Ultimately, though, the long-contained anger of the poor erupted with the fury of a once-dormant volcano and the world soon witnessed the crumbling of one of Latin America’s longest-standing dictatorships.

As the Sandinistas’ crowning moment approached, Nicaragua’s privileged fled. As tens of thousands descended upon the runways of Miami’s airport, I prayed that during their stay there they’d come to understand the reasons for their exile.

But, alas, when I returned to Nicaragua after a nineteen year absence—and ten years after the Sandinistas had been voted out of power—I was saddened to see that the poor were worse off than under the Somozas. Part of the reason, of course, was the Contra War and the economic embargo with which the Reagan administration punished the Sandinistas for their leftist agenda. But upon my return I was also dismayed to see that the wealthy, if anything, were even more scornful, if not downright vengeful, toward the poor.

It troubles me that in exile Nicaragua’s elite found it easier to blame the Sandinistas, Fidel Castro, Che Guevara, the poor, and communism for their misfortunes when, in truth, they should have been looking into the mirror and asking themselves some probing questions.

And today—the day of Daniel Ortega’s return to power—although deep down Nicaraguans realize that he will not lead them to the Promised Land of prosperity, the poor are rejoicing in his return simply because they had once again grown weary of being the object of the upper class’ disdain.

It’s now clear to me now that the failure of the wealthy to have learned the most significant lesson of the 1980s is what made it possible for the former Comandante de la Revolución to win this election—in spite of an unremarkable record as a leader and his highly questionable character.

The key to redemption is to change one’s behavior. And this is the lesson that Nicaragua’s elite failed to learn.

On Reading María Amparo Escandón

Do not measure your loss by itself; if you will take all human affairs into account you will find that some comfort is to be derived from them.
Saint Basil

Hope is a waking dream.
Aristotle

I know but one freedom, and that is the freedom of the mind.
Antoine de Saint-Exupery


Esperanza and Libertad: Hope and Freedom.

These are the lead characters of María Amparo Escandón’s two novels: Esperanza’s Box of Saints and González & Daughter Trucking Co.

The points of departure of both works are the tragic, heartrending losses the women experienced in their lives. Esperanza, of Esperanza’s Box of Saints, will, of course, rely on faith and hope on her quest to find her daughter—in spite of the assurances of her closest friends and relatives that the adolescent is, indeed, dead.

Libertad, of González & Daughter Trucking Co.—in an ironic use of her name—is in a Mexican prison. Her fellow inmates—as well as the readers, for that matter—know little about her. She’s shrouded in a cloak of mystery, and no one, with the exception of the warden, knows why Libertad is incarcerated. But what we soon learn is that the protagonist of Escandón’s second novel is a gifted storyteller, and that it’s through her considerable narrative talents that she will come to terms with the enormous tragedy for which she holds herself responsible.

Gloomy material, right?

What’s remarkable about Escandón’s tales is that although the circumstances her characters face are grim, she tells their stories in a lighthearted, humorous vein. In fact, several critics have used the term “hilarious” in reference to both works.

What I find true is that it’s impossible not to fall in love with Escandón’s characters: they are strong yet gentle, determined yet flexible, clever yet respectful, and supremely creative in the ways they confront their anguish.

And what’s perhaps most commendable about María Amparo Escandón’s novels is that they illustrate—and very clearly, in fact—that hope, freedom, imagination, and humor are our best assets when dealing with irreparable losses.