Ambientes_New Queer Latino Writing

by Lazaro Lima

  It was after listening to a lot of complaining about Brendan and Clayton that I, as I inevitably do, blurted out my opinion. “What I think was rude, what I think was really rude,” I intoned, “was when Brendan took to whispering to Gerry on the couch, whispering to him like I wasn’t there. And then, to top it off, I thought it was rude when he took Gerry upstairs to give him an—what was it he was going to give him?—an adjustment.” Of course, I would later regret having said that, but at that moment, in the silence that followed, I looked up from the couch, looked to Sil, who was standing in the middle of the room, and then to Gerry, who was sitting a few inches away from me on the couch. Sil—Gerry—Sil—Gerry. St. Paul—Minneapolis—St. Paul—Minneapolis. Would the bridge hold? Or would we all be plunged into the cold and dirty water below? Bruiser lowered himself off the couch. “Fucking screwing around,” Sil said, biting his fingernails and glancing a sidelong look off of Gerry, and that was it. The subject changed. The bridge held.

  I sometimes wonder what Sil and Gerry said, to themselves or to each other, about what I let loose. I sometimes wonder why I let it loose. I don’t quite know myself. Maybe I was taking Sil’s side by revealing Gerry and Brendan’s little tryst. But it’s more likely I let loose what I let loose because I thought Gerry had robbed me of the attention I had coming my way—attention from Brendan, a man-boy, a brat I didn’t take seriously and I didn’t even like. It’s also likely I thought Gerry had lied to me when he told me Brendan thought I was cute, that Gerry felt I needed propping up and set about to do just that. It’s also very likely I was angry because Gerry insulted me with his “Oh, God, here comes that long story again. Please, Sil, fast-forward through it.” I knew it may only have been Gerry’s way of releasing some of his shame and anger over being so “pussy whipped,” but I felt injured nevertheless.

  My last morning in St. Paul, we all took one more big hit off the pot pipe. The supply was coming to an end. We piled on our winter clothes and walked single file through the fresh path Gerry had scraped from the house to Gerry’s SUV and Sil’s hatchback. Sil walked ahead of Gerry, his breath rising in puffs behind him. I pulled up the rear, my traveling case on wheels in tow behind me, my gingerbread house kit under my arm. Sil said his hatchback, which we hadn’t been using in the snow and ice, needed to be taken out for a spin. We wiped the snow off its windows with our coat sleeves. But when Sil tried to back out, we couldn’t get over the snow and ice that had accumulated underneath the wheels. So Gerry and I got out and pushed while Sil kept the car in reverse and put the pedal to the floor. He gunned, the car rolled back and Gerry and I pushed forward, and we had to repeat the process over and over for a good while.

  In the back seat of the finally freed car, I said, “You know, for a while there, I thought Gerry and I were going to end up like one of those idiots in that show last night, broken-boned and half-dead.”

  “Yeah,” Gerry said, “but there would have been no camera to catch it all on tape.”

  “Sil would’ve gone inside,” I picked up the tomfoolery, “taken another hit off the pipe, and waited a while before he dialed 911.”

  “And by that time,” Sil concluded, “you both would have been dead.”

  We all laughed, and I took in one last look at the eaves of the house. Inside, the birds twittered in their cages. On the ground floor, the dogs were probably already asleep, their huge heads resting on their huge paws. The clocks were surely ticking, the aquariums were bubbling, and the fish were doing whatever it is fish do when no one’s home. Sil had left a pot of beans on the stove, and they were slowly boiling. Below I’d left my bed unmade, and the snakes were hibernating, waiting for spring. Sil said he would e-mail all the pictures we’d taken and he did. Many of them show all three of us in the house, in various states of dress, with Bruiser and Bruno slobbering, their wagging tails captured in a blur here and a blur there. Still more pictures show us before the Frank Lloyd Wright houses we’d found with the help of the web, or in the middle of a snow-covered park with a frozen body of water behind us, a museum shaped like a mission, all three of us waving and smiling, smiling and waving. Were the three of us waving goodbye to ourselves, to the three of us, for good? A few springs have come and gone since my last six days in St. Paul, but I’m still not sure.

  Arturo, Who Likes to Shave His Legs in the Snow

  LUCY MARRERO

  Arturo at thirty-four years old filled out his bronze body with defined muscles. Despite his strength, he still had a delicate appearance, like one too beautiful to pick strawberries in the California heat—just like his abuela. El jefe, his pink cheeks glowing in the excitement of finding one so beautiful, took her hand as she prepared to jump down from the bed of the truck that had brought her and her husband to the fields that first morning, their brown arms pressed against other brown arms, swaying and jerking with the rocks and potholes in the road. El jefe took his abuela’s hand and led her into the office instead, gesturing for her to remove her wide-brimmed straw hat and sit, sit down, please.

  Her graceful fingers gripped at the brim as she held the hat over her stomach and pelvis and stood unmoving, praying silently behind pursed lips and tightened jaw: Por favor, no me moleste. Por favor. Por favor, señor, déjame sola.

  Arturo looked up from the notebook where he’d been frantically trying to capture the images as they spilled out of his brain, fingers scrambling to keep up. He stood and passed his palm slowly across frosty glass that’d seen winters just as cold as this for more than eighty years. He saw the flakes like tiny down feathers starting to fall.

  His flesh immediately puckered with a chill, but still he lingered, palm on the window, for a moment before turning away for the pink-tiled bathroom. It would have made a lovely photograph, the palm against the frosted window, the arm slightly relaxed into an aesthetically pleasing line to the chest, shoulders pulling the body into a relaxed but regal posture, smooth slope of the nose dark against the outside light.

  The thick pile of the white rug between Arturo’s bare toes contrasted with the hardwood floor, and the radiator blew warm air over his goose bumps, relaxing him as he rummaged in the medicine cabinet. The shaving cream and razor sat lined up on the sink as Arturo let the soft track pants, smoky charcoal gray, drop to the tile and pulled his white T-shirt over his head. He gazed into the mirror, squinting his eyes as if trying to spot something in his reflection. So different without clothes, he thought, turning away from the mirror slightly so that he could see the elegant lines of muscles crossing his back.

  Such a delicate balance, trying to find the right clothes to wear. When browsing through burgundy and forest-green sweaters or stark button-downs with muted ties, sometimes his mind wandered, and when he looked down, he found his fingers resting against smooth velvet or cool satin. It startled Arturo to realize he’d somehow moved from the men’s section and into the women’s. The textures of their clothes were so beautiful, comforting even. His sybarite nature clashed with the standards expected of a successful businessman like himself, and so he would make his way back to the men’s section, sighing quietly.

  Arturo grabbed a soft towel from the cabinet and inhaled the fresh scent of laundry detergent before gathering up the rest of his supplies and headed out the front door, scanning the yard for the tree stump that kept him company from his desk. It was already covered in a layer of white powder from earlier snows. By four o’clock, about two inches had accumulated, and by then Arturo could no longer resist the teasing little flakes on his skin, the dry cold air that promised to hug his body.

  The hairs on his leg popped out as goose bumps covered his entire body, and Arturo shivered. He propped his left leg up on the friendly tree stump. The shaving cream felt warm in contrast to the frigid air as he covered his leg from ankle to knee. The never-changing ritual soothed the cold from his mind as he ran the razor first from knee down to ankle all around until he’d finished the entire lower part of his left leg like a lawnmower, leaving perfect rows of almost-smo
oth skin. Adding more shaving cream, he then repeated the perfect rows, this time ankle to knee, razor traveling neatly all the way around his leg.

  Arturo squinted as a few flakes fell onto his lashes, and more fell from his stylish hair as he switched legs. The snow was falling more insistently now, but still he took his time, savoring the cold as he worked. It was so quiet he could hear the scratch of the razor as it liberated the hair from his skin one row at a time. The expanse of trees outside his front door cordoned him off from the rest of his world, and the neighbors and their poorly concealed curiosity disappeared from his mind as he worked rhythmically.

  The small, gloved hands gripping tree trunks were worlds away, the crunch of twigs underfoot unheard.

  He ran the soft towel, now damp from the falling snow, down both legs and lifted his heel to inspect the back of each leg. Satisfied, he folded the towel over once lengthwise, once sideways, and placed the shaving cream and razor inside, folding the towel over them once again into a neat little package. Inhaling deeply, he braced himself against the cruel coldness, standing tall for a moment more, lingering just a moment more before heading in, when a juvenile giggle pierced the peaceful silence surrounding him.

  His head whipped around to the row of trees barren of leaves, branches bending under their heavy white burden. There. Small, gloved hands disappeared from tree trunks and he heard the crunch of snow underfoot, whispers, and small voices in hasty retreat. Arturo gathered himself up quickly, his chin high despite the blood pounding out his heartbeat in his ears. He hadn’t dropped the towel, but the package had threatened to lose its contents, and he tucked them safely back into the fluffy, damp towel. Purposefully, he turned back to the front door, his stride proud despite his nakedness. He leaned against the door after closing it, gulping deep breaths, instructing his body to settle down. The towel released its cargo, and faintly Arturo heard the clatter of metal on tile. Puzzled, he ran one hand over his cotton boxers, which had somehow become wet and warm.

  Quickly he shed them, grabbed his dropped supplies, and headed for the kitchen, where he deposited everything, including the towel, in the garbage. Eyes fuzzy and unfocused, he stood motionless for a moment, body still, mind whirring with something he couldn’t quite grasp. If you had asked him, he would have been unaware of any thought at all. Just a moment of spacing out.

  The steam rose in the tiny bathroom, breathing a thin sheen of moisture on the rosy tiles and the mirror on the rusted medicine cabinet. Arturo wet his hair and let the water splash down onto his face, eyes squeezed shut. As he stood that way, his mind wandered without his permission, dragging him back, back into scenes he’d long forgotten.

  “Fag!” the chubby brown teenager shouted, cackling and elbowing his skinny friend, the one who hardly ever spoke. They laughed and slapped each other high-five as Arturo hurried past. I don’t want to miss warm-up time, he told himself, carefully avoiding mention, even to himself, of the daily menace that interrupted his memorization of class routines.

  He walked briskly, arms moving just the slightest bit as he visualized each movement, breathed the steps of the routine in time to the rhythm of his footsteps.

  Chas-sé, chas-sé, pique-pique, side.

  Hooold—and down, rond de jambe, contract.

  He rolled his shoulders back and walked on. He intended to convey nonchalance and confidence, but instead only emphasized his dancer’s posture, drawing attention to the way he glided gracefully down the sidewalk, a stark contrast to the slouchy, hunched shoulders of the other teenage boys sitting on stoops and playfully insulting each other at street corners.

  Arturo froze, one foot still in front of the other, his weight suspended, not yet committed to the next step. Is someone following me? He drew his feet together and let his backpack drop from his shoulder, eyebrows furrowing dramatically as he enacted the act of looking for something, anything, from its depths. His heart pounded so loudly in his ears he could hardly make out the muffled sound of footsteps. His follower dragged his feet, but he was coming quickly. Arturo realized quickly he needed a plan of action, but before he could think anything at all, he was hit from the side by a wall clothed in baggy jeans and quilted jacket.

  They fell, and if it could be replayed in slow motion, it would have been beautiful, the collision of solid body, so compact, into Arturo’s lithe and lanky frame. It would have showed the indignation on the solid form’s face, sneering, personally affronted, it seemed, by the fragile body he reached out for as if to embrace. Folding his arms around Arturo as he floated to the ground, a swan’s drawn-out dying dance, Arturo’s knees collapsed, his elbows bent like a hula dancer’s, lingering in the air, until the floating, floating, slow embrace was interrupted by the sick thud of flesh hitting pavement.

  The water flowed over Arturo’s eyes, still clenched shut. He opened his mouth just so, taking in small gulps of air, spitting out the water that snuck in with it, then reached down to shut off the water. As he toweled off, he regarded the shirts hanging in his closet. The shimmer of peach beckoned to him from the hanger furthest to the left of the hanging rod. It always beckoned to him. This time, it was more insistent, and Arturo felt compelled to it, reaching for its soft, smooth skin, wanting it pressed against his own. He slipped into the shirt, slowly, his face showing concentration as he buttoned the iridescent pearl buttons. They glinted with the light as he worked.

  He pulled on his favorite black pants, simple and well cut, a contrast to the material above it. Arturo finished dressing, pulling on his jacket that smelled strongly of leather. He inhaled the scent of his father coming home from the third shift to sleep for two hours before disappearing into the predawn morning to catch the truck to the fields. The jacket felt bulky and heavy against the delicate peach underneath.

  Contributors

  ARTURO ARIAS (b. 1950, Guatemala City, Guatemala) is professor of Latin American literature at the University of Texas at Austin. He is a well-known expert on Central American literature, with a special emphasis on indigenous literature, as well as critical theory, race, gender, and sexuality in postcolonial studies. Prior to joining the University of Texas faculty he was Greenleaf Visiting Professor of Latin American Studies at Tulane University. He is the author of Taking their Word: Literature and the Signs of Central America (2007), La identidad de la palabra (1998), and Gestos ceremoniales (1998), as well as the editor of The Rigoberta Menchú Controversy (2000) and a critical edition of Miguel Angel Asturias’s Mulata de tal (2000). Arias cowrote the film El Norte (1984) and has published six novels in Spanish, two of which have been translated into English (After the Bombs, 1990, and Rattlesnake, 2003). Twice winner of the prestigious Casa de las Americas Award for his fiction, and winner of the Ana Seghers Award for fiction in Germany for his 1989 novel Jaguar en llamas (Flaming Jaguar), Arias was given the Miguel Angel Asturias National Award for Lifetime Achievement in Literature in 2008 in his native Guatemala. He also served as the president of the Latin American Studies Association (LASA) from 2001 to 2003.

  SUSANA CHÁVEZ - SILVERMAN (b. 1956, Los Angeles, California) is professor of romance languages and literatures at Pomona College in California. Her creative work has been widely anthologized, and her embrace of “Spanglish” as a language of national becoming places her at the vanguard of an emerging “Latino baroque aesthetic.” She received her BA from the University of California–Irvine, her MA in Romance Languages from Harvard University, and a PhD in Spanish from the University of California–Davis. She has taught at various institutions including the University of California–Berkeley, the University of California–Irvine, and the University of California–Davis, as well as the University of South Africa. Her academic research and writing center on gender and sexuality studies, memoir and autobiography, Latin American and U.S. Latino literatures, and feminist pedagogies. She is the author of Scenes from la Cuenca de Los Angeles y otros Natural Disasters (2010) and Killer Cronicas: Bilingual Memories (2004) and coeditor of Reading and Writing the Ambient
e: Queer Sexualities in Latino, Latin American, and Spanish Culture (2000), and Tropicalizations: Transcultural Representations of Latinidad (1997).

  STEVEN CORDOVA (b. 1963, San Antonio, Texas) published his first collection of poetry, Long Distance, in 2009. His poems have appeared in journals including Barrow Street, Calalloo, The Journal, and North-west Review. His work has also been anthologized in The Wind Shifts: New Latino Poetry (2007) and Best Gay Poetry 2008 (2008). Cordova grew up in San Antonio, Texas, and now lives in Brooklyn, New York.

  TATIANA DE LA TIERRA (b. 1961, Villavicencio, Colombia) is the author of Xía y las mil sirenas (2009), For the Hard Ones: A Lesbian Phenomenology / Para las duras: Una fenomenología lesbiana (2002), and various chapbooks, including Píntame una mujer peligrosa (2004) and tierra 2010: poems, songs and a little blood (2010). In the 1990s de la tierra cofounded and edited the Latina lesbian publications esto no tiene nombre, conmoción, and la telaraña. She currently resides in southern California and envisions a writers’ eco-village in the mountains of Colombia.

  RAMÓN GARCÍA (b.1967, Colima City, Mexico) has published poetry in a variety of anthologies, including Best American Poetry 1996 (1996) and The Floating Borderlands: Twenty-Five Years of U.S.-Hispanic Literature (1998), and in the journals Crab Orchard Review, Ambit, Poetry Salzburg Review, Los Angeles Review, and Mandorla: New Writing from the Americas. He has published fiction in Story and Rosebud Magazine and is the author of the poetry collection Other Countries (2010). A founding member of The Glass Table Collective, an artist collective that formed in 2008, he lives in Los Angeles and is a professor in Chicana/o Studies at California State University–Northridge.

  RIGOBERTO GONZÁLEZ (b. 1970, Bakersfield, California) is an associate professor of English at Rutgers University–Newark. He is a prolific writer who has successfully transcended genres and audiences, including as a writer of bilingual children’s literature. González is the author of the novels Crossing Vines (2004) and Mariposa Club (2009). His poetry collections include Black Blossoms (2011), Other Fugitives and Other Strangers (2006), and So Often the Pitcher Goes to Water until It Breaks (1999). His edited collections include Camino del Sol: Fifteen Years of Latina and Latino Writing (2010) and Alurista: Poems, Selected and New (2010). His memoir Butterfly Boy: Memories of a Chicano Mariposa (2006) won an American Book Award from the Before Columbus Foundation.