Luis Alberto Urrea's Blog, page 25

Sketchbook Saturday

This is called "Dawn." Collage, pen and ink, pencils and watercolor. I did this piece a few years ago as a kind of personal logo when I was really intoxicated with my beloved Southwest. The flow of colors represents the growing light of sunrise.

Tags: Sketchbook SaturdayartSouthwest

The Storyteller

Image Description: Luis does his first reading from Queen of America, due out Nov. 28. This was at the Tin House Writing Conference in July.Image: 

Aspen Summer Words

Sun, 06/17/2012 - Mon, 06/25/2012Location: Aspen, COEvent Description: 

Luis will teach an advanced fiction workshop.

25th Anniversary: Fishtrap Writing Conference

Mon, 07/09/2012 - Mon, 07/16/2012Location: Wallowa Lake, OREvent Description: 

Luis will lead a workshop at the 25th annual retreat.

Ten Years On

I entered New York City for the first time through the Port Authority.  I was full of dread--being a San Diego boy, I had no concept of Noo Yawk aside from "Taxi Driver," "The Warriors," "Escape from New York," "Mean Streets."  Although my mother was a New Yorker, and a firm New York addict who entered the distant and impossible dream of her great city via the weekly arrival of the New Yorker, through the 25 cent old issues of the New York Times Book Review you could buy in the used bookstore downtown, she had failed to convince me that New York was not a festering hotbed of slaughter and mutation.  The Port Authority, when I finally got there in the 1980s, didn't disappoint.  The scene in the men's room was apocalyptic enough for me.

I thought of myself as a hipster. I was living in the Boston area, teaching Expos at Harvard.  Proud of being the only Tijuana loco in the program.  I was fully involved in rights for the poor--having just left the world of "relief work" and missionaries to work at Harvard.  But I also considered myself a patriot--though my Tea Party amigos would deny that a liberal could be anything but a traitor today, I'm afraid.  I loved the USA.

I was in NYC for a book festival, where I'd be hanging out with such luminaries as Ernesto Cardenal and his Sandinista associates.  Near the booth I sat at was the North American Shining Path rebel booth.  Those guys wore bullets on choke chains around their necks, and had a banner that said:  VIVA EL .44.  Magnum power, baby.  One of the Sandinistas said, "If anyone here looks like CIA, it's because they are."  I wanted to turn in my Clash buttons because this seemed like the lamest revolutionary posturing.  Kill 'em all...after a hot dog at Washington Square.  For all that blood-lust and revolt, it seems quaint now.  Imagine that kind of event in New York this year.

In September of 2001, I was settling into a new life with Little, Brown.  I was teaching in Chicago, at University of Illinois.  We had a new baby onboard.  I was insta-dad, with two step-kids, and we had just moved from the far west side to the suburbs.  Traded cement for trees.

I was working on the investigation into The Devil's Highway.  That terrible death-ritual had just occurred in May.  Up until I was dragged into the desert to sift through the remains of the Yuma 14, I had been trying to decipher the hideous slaughter of women happening in Juarez.  A series of killings so monumental in size and outright evil that I thought the world would stop and shout.  It didn't.  many people still don't know a thing about it--and frankly, the femicides have been overwhelmed by the outright national massacre of the narco wars.  Imagine, hundreds--some think upwards of 700--women abducted and tortured across the fence from El Paso.  This was where I was starting to focus when The Yuma 14 took over my mind and heart.  This was the death I was steeped in when the towers fell.

50,000 people have been consumed by this ritual so far.  The gods of the Aztecs are stirring.  So much blood, so many hearts.

On September 10th, I called my editor, Geoff Shandler.  He was out of the office--it was after closing time.  I had begun my relationship with Little, Brown without an agent.  Just Geoff and me, talking abut the border deaths. He had urged me to get representation, since I was negotiating a contract with a corporation much larger than I was.  Good advice.  And I had gotten an agent, finally.  I called and left a message that was accidentally prophetic.  I thought I was being smart.  It was funny--on September 10th.  I said, "Put on your helmet.  The war begins tomorrow."

On September 11th, like New York, Chicago was in a bright perfect Tuesday morning.  The bigger kids were off to school and Cinderella was fussing with our baby girl.  I headed off to work.  Another ENG class of sleepy undergrads.  I enjoyed listening to Mancow--his outrageousness was offensive in a refreshing way.  "Mancow's Morning Madhouse."  They were not above tasteless jokes and pranks--tastelessness was their bread and butter.   So when Mancow said, "swear to God," there was a plane stuck in one of the Twin Towers, I ignored it.  But he insited.  He said it looked like a Swcharzenegger movie.

Then they started screaming.

I called Cinderella and told her to turn on the Today show.  Right now.  She said something like "Oh my God."

Now, there is no astounding eye-witness to history story to tell here.  No personal drama.  I just drove to work to send my students home.  But by the time I had gone the 35 miles from burbs to citadel, fighter jets were already circling the Sears tower.  I went in, and there were two or three semi-stoned dudes lounging in the seats.  "Who bombed what? one of them said when I told them to get out.  In that time, black SUVs had driven onto campus and had blocked off the entrance to the administration building.  Since then, thanks to friends I have made, I know these were FBI vehicles.

This was the moment--aside from Mancow fretting on air about whether he should flee or not.  The AV department had put up TV monitors near my classroom.  I was astonished to see the destruction for the first time then.  And the Pentagon.  Flames and smoke.  Students stod there staring.  Among them, a small group of Middle Eastern undergrads.  Several women wearing the hijab.  Silently watching at the back of the crowd.  Already, people were saying "Muslim terrorists."  Here was the moment that gave me hope, and that still gives me hope.

A white student turned to the Middle Eastern kids and said, softly, "You'd better get home before it gets unsafe for you."  I will never forget that human moment.  It was so tender, so pure.

Get home.  How simple that sounded.  How it echoes for me--through the horrors of that day, through the endless wars, through the financial downfalls and the narco wars and the corpses scattered in the Juarez wastes and the walkers dying in the Arizona heat as they try to feed their children.  Get home.  Get home.  But we cannot seem to find the way. But it lies somewhere there, not in guns, not in armies, not in bombs or torture or massacre.  It lies in one of us, turning to the other, and offering a moment of grace.

Grace is tiny and silly and even twee.  But Neal Cassady told Kerouac, "Grace beats karma." Home--we need an invitation, and a guide, and one hand to help us take the step.

The first review is in!

Got word of the first trade review of Queen of America: A starred review from Library Journal! I couldn't be more excited. Or more relieved. This is one of the most difficult parts of the publishing process, I think. Here's what the Library Journal says:

Urrea, Luis Alberto. Queen of America. Little, Brown. Dec. 2011. c.384p. ISBN 9780316154864. $25.99. F

Teresita Urrea, a real-life saint and the author's great-aunt, returns as the heroine of this gritty, bold, and much-anticipated sequel (though it stands alone) to The ­Hummingbird's Daughter. Picking up where Hummingbird left off, the narrative has Teresita fleeing Mexico with her father following the 19th-century Tomochic rebellion and arriving in Arizona to begin a new chapter of her life just as America is embarking on a new century. A tough but loving healer known as the Saint of Cabora, she eludes assassins while continuing to bestow her powers on the pilgrims that overwhelm her in hopes of being healed. Teresita travels America, experiences baseball for the first time, meets captivating people, and even considers the possibility of love. VERDICT Fiercely romantic and at times heart­breaking but also full of humor, Urrea's latest novel blends fairy tale, Western adventure, folk tale, and historical drama. Fans of Hummingbird and readers new to Urrea's work will surely enjoy this magnificent, epic novel. [See Prepub Alert, 6/13/11.]— Lisa Block, Emory Univ., Atlanta

 

Tags: Queen of AmericareviewLibrary Journal

Catching Up on a Cold Day

It has been a while since I chatted with you.  Sorry about that.  Been busy lately--coming home from Bread Loaf began a season of writing, editing and evaluating manuscripts.  And school began.  So I have been living among paper snowdrifts.

Cinderella and I started the summer at Tin House in beloved Oregon.  I tried out my new material from Queen of America there, to great huzzahs.  It made me very happy and rather bold.  I revved up the Tin House material and made it longer and more detailed for my li'l show at Bread Loaf at the end of the summer.

Speaking of Bread Loaf, I had a grand time this year.  We stayed down the mountain from the workshops--as my Facebook pals know.  You can see lots of photos and texts over on the "like" page.  Our neighbors were Chang-rae Lee and a sneaky bear.  Our hearts break now, watching the devastation in our beloved Vermont.

Here's an audio of my reading at the Loaf: Queen of America, from memory.  Go legendary, or stay in bed. The session opens with the legendary Alan Heathcock and poet master A. Van Jordan. My reading starts at around the 47 minute mark. Check out the other Breadloaf readings and lectures that are available for free on iTunes. They're all incredible and worth your time, especially Charles Baxter's lecture on "Undoings."

I am working hard right now on my next novel, the WWII Red Cross epic.  I am also working hard on my super-scary evil monster novel.  I am also having fun writing columns for Orion magazine.  I am also putting my short stories in order for a book.  And my poems. I used to collect stamps--this is more fun.

Travels begin again right about...now.  We're finalizing plans for the Queen of American Book Tour. Check my calendar on the website for dates and destinations.  I will be in DC, Texas, Arkansas, California, Michigan, Vermont and many others soon.  I'll be looking for you.  Maybe I'll do some show-biz like I did at Tin House and Bread Loaf for you.

It's Sketchbook Saturday (on Sunday!)

This is one of my all-time favorites. From a book of turtle drawings I put together for Cinderella to celebrate our coming together for good, May 1997.

Tags: Sketchbook Saturdayturtle

If I Owned a Writing Institute

Leaving for Bread Loaf in the morning, after starting the summer at Tin House.  Next summer, I'll be returning to Fishtrap for their 25th Anniversary blow-out.  Some of my writing pals make a writing conference circuit and pile on the paying teaching gigs all suummer so they can write the rest of the year.  I vow every year that I'm not doing it anymore, but when the Loaf calls, or my new family at Tin House...or Squaw Valley...or Fishtrap...it's hard to say no.  Even though Perpetual Book Tour, Year Eight is underway, and I am trying to balance writing, teaching at UIC, touring, judging and family duties--it's hard not to try to share the joy and awe in writing with good people who want to learn.  Besides, where else can you have Benjamin Percy threaten to disrupt your appearance by sneaking up behind you naked?

Still, I dream of a writing institute to teach writing in another way.  Those of you who know me know of my mystical leanings, my Chinese wen-fu ideas, my Japanese haiku/wabi sabi proclivities, my indigenous hummingbird/dragonfly shamanic spirits experiences.  How the heck would you teach that?  Or offer it as a writing conference?  (These are, let's face it, Summer Horse Camp for grown-ups, a kind of literary Princess Cruise.)  I have to say, if only William Stafford were still with us, he'd know.  His son, Kim Stafford, one of the great writing teachers in the world today, had it going on at Lewis and Clark college in Portland--the fabled MNorthwest Writing Institute.  Until Lewis and Clark withdrew from the game.

As Steve Martin once said: "First you need a million dollars."  OK.  Say we have a million dollars--let's go to Oregon.  This is a place that seems sacred and pretty and lively and funky.  "Whatsoever it is, it gots to be funky"--James Brown.  All the great writing that sprouts in Oregon could fill a university.  So, there.  In the country--sorry, you concrete-junkies, you bus exhaust breathers and neon Bodhisattvas, this is my institute and we're out where there's some deer and water and some trees and birds.  We could be near the shore--Cannon Beach.  OMG.  Or near the Columbia River--The Gorge.  OMG!  Could be up in the fruit loop amidst cherry orchards.  If so, then we could make the workshopppers go pick fruit one morning, just to get the soul awake.  But we'd be close enough to Portland so you city slickers could get into town and gorge on lattes and hit Powell's to buy buy buy buy books and magazines.

We park across a creek from the institute--we need to walk in.  We need to  cross a wooden bridge over the water.  Just like Tin House. We have a great barn which we steal from Bread Loaf--coffee all day, conferences, dances, readings, AA meetings, blues concerts.  There is a labyrinth off to the side, and a Zen garden on the other side.  People live in cabins.  There is a small hill where we have a trailer park with cool retro trailers--authors stay here and work.  Outside the property, there is an old motel given over to bohemian writing lofts as well.

We offer martial arts, pottery, dance, bird watching, horseback riding.  Anything that reminbds us of the creative spirit we seek to engage.  Free notebooks.  A book store.  Because the Border Patrol taught me a new way to think about writing when they taught me how the track--we will have trackers take us out and show us how to read the land.

But the cool part is that every cabin has a small library of carefully selected books.  Every cabin has a full magnetic poetry set on its fridge.  The cabins have registers where you enter your poems.  And, I've written about this before--a place of deep resonance, a place of writing vibes full of actual prompts.   We call this farmhouse, The Widow's House.  No one goes there.  It has a fence and a garden and we see lights in it at night.  Once, before each participant leaves, she or he goes in alone and prowls.  Every drawer has something evocative--letters, diaries.  Buttons in boxes.  Old shoes in the closets.  Photo albums.  Toys.  And we must find a story for ourselves fabricated from the hints, clues, suggestions, inspirations the widow has left behind.

Um, we get another million and make it free.  If not, whoever wants to tend to the rose garden can get free tuition.  It'll last a week, and the rest of the year, it's a sanctuary where one can dream in peace.

That's where I'd start.

See ya there.

Sketchbook Saturday #4

Argh, week too busy to blog. Hate that. But this makes me happy. From about 1979.