Doing the Blog-Thing Wrong All Along

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

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

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

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

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.

My Fan Club

I have a mind to join a club and beat you over the head with it.
Groucho Marx


I never dreamed that someday I’d have my own fan club.

To my amazement, I have one on Facebook. (Actually, I have two; but more on the second one later.)

And now that I have a fan club of my own, I find the experience a little bewildering. Two questions, in particular, plague me: What expectations do my “fans” have of me? And, will I be able to live up to these?

Yet I can deal with these concerns because any person who says that he or she wouldn’t love to have a fan club is more than likely lying.

Still, now that I have one, I feel undeserving. If I were a writer who has touched the hearts of thousands of readers I’d understand. But I haven’t done this—at least not yet.

The question then becomes, if I’m not exactly a well-recognized writer, how did the Silvio Sirias Fan Club get started?

A couple of years ago, my wife, Erinn, thought it would be a quaint idea to start a Bernardo and the Virgin Fan Club. She created a page on Facebook and invited our friends to join. Before long, close to forty—all of them friends of ours—had signed up.

I thought the Bernardo and the Virgin Fan Club was a cute idea, and since the club was devoted to the book, the attention wasn’t on me; or so I convinced myself. (This is the second fan club I referred to earlier.)

Lamentably, the Bernardo and the Virgin Fan Club has just sat there, static after the initial reactions, and waiting for someone (Is it supposed to be me?), to breathe life into it.

A year passed since the club’s creation when I received an email from our “foster” daughter, Isabel Montoya. (For more about Erinn's and my relationship with Isabel read "A Blessing for Isabel.") In the message, she wrote that she had created the Silvio Sirias Fan Club, also on Facebook. Isabel said that she believed that such a club would be more appropriate than the one devoted to my first novel because she knew the publication Meet Me Under the Ceiba was right around the corner. She added that she hoped I enjoyed the gift and that she had named me the administrator so I could manage the group myself.

I thanked Isabel, not really comfortable with the idea of managing my own Fan Club, and thought: Oh, well, it was a nice gesture. My plan became to let the group sit for a while—at least until Isabel had forgotten she had created it—and allow it then to die a natural death; at that point I’d delete it from Facebook. On the first day two persons joined: Isabel’s mother and my wife. That should be about all the members, I concluded; and I placed the Silvio Sirias Fan Club out of my mind.

That was about three months ago. Last week, a ninth-grader said to me, “I saw your Fan Club on Facebook, Dr. Sirias, and I joined.”

I smiled and thanked him. The following day, another student said the same thing, almost word for word.

That evening, while at home, I checked my Fan Club site. To my astonishment, fifty-seven fans had joined. (And as I write this there are now seventy-four fans, including a few persons I don’t know. I realize this is nothing compared to the 300,000 fans the Victoria’s Secret Fan Club has, but I’m happy.)

The club I had never suspected would take off has suddenly come to life. Gamuts of emotions are running through me because of the Silvio Sirias Fan Club—mostly confusion and apprehension—but also joy at being recognized as a . . . as a . . . as a what?

As a writer?

As a teacher? (Are the students who signed up trying to curry favor?)

As both?

The writer in me asks, “Have most of the Fan Club members read Bernardo and the Virgin?”

Will they rush out and purchase a copy of Meet Me Under the Ceiba the very day it’s released (September 30).

And, what am I going to do for my Fan Club?

To this last question, the teacher in me answers: “We will soon have a quiz on Bernardo and the Virgin. It will be in the form of a contest. The first person to answer the question correctly will win a prize.”

Stay tuned, details will be forthcoming within the next week for members of the Bernardo and the Virgin (click on name to visit site) and the Silvio Sirias Fan Clubs on Facebook.

The Pleasure of Guiding Blossoming Writers

I learned that you should feel when writing, not like Lord Byron on a mountain top, but like child stringing beads in kindergarten—happy, absorbed and quietly putting one bead on after another.
Brenda Ueland


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



For the second consecutive year I’ve taught a course titled Introduction to College Writing, here at Balboa Academy, under the auspices of the University of San Diego. The students—mostly seniors, along with a handful of juniors—who successfully complete the class will receive three units of college credits that they can transfer to their university of choice.

As a teacher, last year was a rewarding experience, and based on what I learned I was able to, from the onset of the school year, develop a writing curriculum that challenges the students, encouraging them to venture forth into the world as writers who seek to have readers see the world as they do. I’ve been blessed with a group of talented, hard-working youngsters that has accepted every writing challenge I’ve set before them.

Because the results have been so enjoyable for me to read—not to mention enlightening—I feel the need to share these with a larger audience. I want to thank Eric Jackson, publisher of The Panama News, for making this possible. The students’ essays, which have been appearing regularly in the Opinion section since the September 22, 2008 issue, have been well received. I’d now like to take this opportunity to invite readers to revisit the notable writings these young authors have produced.

The first class assignment was to write a piece that would give readers insight into the type of person the author is. Alexandra Kula shared with us the essay “I’m Peter Pan,” in which she, as a youth who has already experienced life in several countries, describes how Panama has become home, and that she wishes she didn’t have to grow up so she could stay here a little longer.

Dominique Wiese, who has Zonian roots, writes about awakening to her mother’s heritage and coming to fully appreciate this part of herself in the piece “The Colombian in Me.”

When asked to write about something that would give readers insight into the type of person she is, Katalina Durbin responded with “The Eyes of a True Angel”—a moving piece about her summer volunteer experience at Panama’s Children’s Hospital.

Another student of Zonian stock, Andrew Bivin, wrote about how a close friend, by way of example, has taught him to seize the moment as opposed to planning every detail of his life in “Yes, No, Maybe So.”

In “What Made the Difference,” Erica Mutoh shares the vital lesson she learned about the importance of having an accepting attitude when she was confronted with a major change in her life.

The second class assignment was for students to narrate a personal experience. Spencer Jackson, in “A Walk in the Dark,” tells us about the terrifying experience of being stranded one night in the Netherlands.

In the piece, “My Pet Rock,” David Madinger, with considerable humor, shares his experience of being a rare item: a teenager afflicted with a kidney stone.

Ashley Kula, when asked to write about a personal experience, composed “Moving On,” a tale about her highly successful transition into life in Panama.

“California, Here We Come” tells of Michelle Klimasch’s discovery of and newfound passion for the great state.

Juan Diego de Obarrio narrates a harrowing tragedy he witnessed, years ago, at Panama’s Avalon Water Park in the piece “Slide #9.”

Students were also asked to write an essay about another person. Sarah Beck produced the touching piece “You Cook. I’ll be the Granny.”

And when asked to write an essay about culture, Eisha Abdel-Ghany opted to take her readers on a stroll through the streets of Cairo in “Walk this Way: or, Walk like an Egyptian.”

What has been most rewarding for me, as the instructor who has cheered them on through the act of writing, is that these essays are just a small sample of the excellent work every single student has produced. And, yes, there are many more student writings in the pipeline waiting their turn to appear in The Panama News.