5
1
Paperback
$19.95
-
SHIP THIS ITEMTemporarily Out of Stock Online
-
PICK UP IN STORECheck Availability at Nearby Stores
Available within 2 business hours
Related collections and offers
19.95
Out Of Stock
Overview
Raucous adobe hearts and urban violet mascara. Televised immigration games and ethnic sit-coms. Chile con karma served on a bed of race. In a startling melange of poetry, prose, journal entries, and even a screenplay, Zen Chicano desperado Juan Felipe Herrera fixes his gaze on his own life and times to craft his most personal work to date.Notebooks of a Chile Verde Smuggler is a river of faces and phrases, jottings and reflectionsa personal pilgrimage and collective parade of love, mock-prophecy, and chiste. Tuning in voices from numerous time zones, languages, and minds, Herrera recalls his childhood and coming of age, his participation in the Chicano Movement, and the surreal aspects of postmodern America. He uses broad strokes to paint a historical, social, and familial portrait that moves from the twilight of the nineteenth century to the dawn of the twenty-first, then takes up a finer brush to etch the eternal tension between desire and frustration, hope and disillusionment, violence and tenderness. Here are transamerican sutras spanning metrocenters from Mexico City to San Francisco, or slinking across the border from Juárez to El Paso. Outrageous, rhythmic lists"Foodstuffs They Never Told Us About," "Things Religion Makes Me Do"that fire the imagination. Celebrations of his Plutomobile that "runs on ham hawks & bird grease," and of Chicano inventions such as cilantro aftershave and "the art of eating Vicks VapoRub with your dedos." Pushing forms to the edge of possibility while forcing readers to rethink reality as well as language, Herrera invokes childhoods and neighborhoods, stand-up clowns and Movimiento gypsies, grandmothers of the buñuelo kitchen and tragicomic soliloquies of dizzy-headed outcasts of paradise. Notebooks of a Chile Verde Smuggler is a crucible of flavorful language meant to be rolled lazily on the mind's tongueand then swallowed whole to let its hot and savory sweetness fill your soul.
Product Details
ISBN-13: | 9780816522156 |
---|---|
Publisher: | University of Arizona Press |
Publication date: | 05/01/2002 |
Series: | Camino del Sol |
Pages: | 191 |
Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 8.90(h) x 0.60(d) |
About the Author
Juan Felipe Herrera has been a dishwasher, photographer, arts director, teatrista, antropoetista, Aztec dancer, graphic artist, cartoonist, salsa sauce specialist, actor, video artist, and stand-up comedian. A mostly vegetarian Capricorn, sign of the earth-rat, Free Tibet advocate, and Indian rights activist, he lives with his soul partner, Margarita Luna Robles, in Fresno, California, where he is a professor in the Department of Chicano and Latin American Studies at California State University, Fresno.
Read an Excerpt
Notebooks of a Chile Verde Smuggler
By Juan Felipe Herrera
The University of Arizona Press
Copyright © 2002 Juan Felipe Herrera.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0-8165-2215-4
Hard Curas on "C" Street
1436 "C" Street, late fifties,
San Diego, California
Show Mamá my right big toe infected and swollen. Ven aquí, she says.
OK, Mom. Just put your foot in this pan of hot water. Hold the toe up, Juan,
come on. OK, now, give me that razor. What razor?
Your papi's brand new Gillette. It's not brand new, Mamá.
'S OK, the hot water and the salt will burn the germs.
You ready, Juan?
Limpia for Walking into Clear Campos
Winter, Carbondale, Illinois,
late February, 1993
Step ahead, be carefulthe ice,
you can slip.
Unloosen, breathe. Remember to breathe deep.
Unloosen. Swing to an easy beat.
Let your jacket become light, the sweet light
from the floating leaves of winter.
Sing to yourself. Follow the naked trees.
Sing
I drop my burdens
from my feet that guide them
I drop my burdens
from my ankles that turn them
I drop my burdens
from my calves that cup them
I drop my burdens
from my knees that rock them
I drop my burdens
from my thighs that run them
I drop my burdens
from my hips that churn them
I drop my burdens
from my sexthat heats them
I drop my burdens
from my belly that smoothes them
I drop my burdens
from my ombligo that ties them
I drop my burdens
from the small of my back that cradles them
I drop my burdens
from my cintura that dances them
I drop my burdens
from my ribs that cage them
I drop my burdens
from my breasts that nourish them
I drop my burdens
from my mid-back that protects them
I drop my burdens
from my shoulder blades that build them
I drop my burdens
from my shoulders that salute them
I drop my burdens
from my upper arms that wrap them
I drop my burdens
from my elbows that swing them
I drop my burdens
from my forearms that caress them
I drop my burdens
from my wrists that pull them
I drop my burdens
from my hands that grasp them
I drop my burdens
from my fists that defend them
I drop my burdens
from my fingers that find them
I drop my burdens
from my neck that balances them
I drop my burdens
from my head that circles them
I drop my burdens
from my forehead that honors them
I drop my burdens
from my eyes that picture them
I drop my burdens
from my nose that breathes them
I drop my burdens
from my face that covers them
I drop my burdens
from my lips that invite them
I drop my burdens
from my mouth that savors them
I drop my burdens
from my voice that soothes them
I drop my burdens
from my throat that swallows them
I drop my burdens
from my heart that lives them
I drop my burdens
from my lungs that fill them
I drop my burdens
from my stomach that knots them
I drop my burdens
from this body that holds them.
I drop my burdens.
I drop my burdens.
As I walk, I drop my burdens.
As I walk, I melt with the snow.
Immigrant Fortune Teller Machine
Lissen,
Bobo Changoyeah,
you, rope-a-dope blues lover,
writer with a jinx on your ass, time is up
on your side of the block, betta' be adding up
your karma tortillas ]us about now, 'cuz,
all the chips you've been collecting be gone
to the wind, man, so
lemme set you straight
in a nice way, got it? So,
whaddya gotta do,
Chango, isbegin again,
toss out your old coins,
your mamá ashes, your papá whips,
yo' bad boy lover pill-poppin' games
an' mos of all your fast talkin' total whack
communicating genius girl self out the door!
Ahright, Sugar, yeah,
thass what I say,
step on
out now, naked,
everything showing, yo'
true self,
not that slime bug collection you've been
showing at the parlour, no no, noooo
you know whadday mean,
yeah, Chango, now,
iz up to you, you gotta trow out all that razz
matazz affabet', all them piles & stacks
of crosswords, those tiny pronunciation
dictionaries, the ol' memory power
tapes and that self-enlargement machine,
you know whad am sayon, OK?
Out wid it
out with all them hoodlum paintings of yoself,
out out, I said,
this is the lass stop before you
hit Phoenix, you know that next place you say
you are bound for, I see your ol' truck outside,
hissin', gettin' all shook under the sun,
outside, with that fine weasel sitting
on the red leather cushion next
to the wheel,
still rappin' about Desert Storm
comix & the great stash of bodies in the trunk
all the way from Tegucigalpa, yeah, yeah
I know, I heard it true
the grave vine, talking about the Virus in
air, grinning at you, adding up your DNA
like Fritos and bean dip, I can hear it from
here, yo' radio blastin' out,
yeah, about the Chain People,
the Chain Colonies, the hunger artists in search
of chicken sandwiches, the new bands of rape dogs,
it's my language anyway, sucker
so
whadelseiz new,
you going to ask me a new new
question today?
You come up with somethin'
new new? So tell me then, wha?
Did you say new, did you say Shakyamuni?
Did you say Shotinyotoey? In the hall,
the fast destiny velvet ball, is that what I hear
I heard you say
something? Or maybe you were jus laughing
in that fast high mariachi voice you got
from whoknowswhere, San Francisco? Yeah,
you jus bopped
in on the sneak,
but I'm tellin' you, don't
you come heah homo
thinking I'm going to put up wid you &
your razz about yo'self and all those yellow
papers you carry in your fish bag,
yeah thass
what it smell like, fish, good o1' mackerel,
wrapped in newspaper, yeah, yeah, you call it
something else, you always call it something
else, you come out with all those fancy hooks,
those scratchy little phrases, those words, yeah
those hooks,
thass what you call them, wordyhooks,
and you spin around me like an Italian
Puerto Rican boxer with all the moves an'
handsome serious faces you make
saying
you look good in any hat south of Broadway,
but, I'm telling straight up sugar, time is up, see
that door to yo' left,
no that one, muchacho,
the one
to your left I said, yeah
the one cracked
dopen, the one with all those tiny smoky
black bluish candles popping inside, gold
smoke and shadows, red vases blurrin'
wavin' into watery insects on the wall there,
some kind of holiday, like,
come on now,
I told you all about that door
long time ago, remembrrr, yeah, you remembrrr,
that first almost infinite day
when you came
up to me by yo'self,
yo' mamá and papi
still alive then, I think they were havin'
coffee and apple pie a la mode over there
by the newsstand, and your father was talkin'
big 'bout buyin' some kinda land in Kingman, Arizona
paying thuddy dollars a month from the Welfare check
sayin' he was goin' to leave it you,
but he was jus
a li'l too old for those things, his light was
'bout gone by then, then, well you know the res.
Now sugar, one lass time,
you go now, get on
out now, leave those old cardboard boxes here,
ain't nothin' in them anyway, jus leave them
right heah, & go on out there, time is right,
I can tell by the way people are shuffling
their feet & the shadows 'cross the fences,
time is time, jus smell the wet night rollin' in,
you know how my green blue blouse
always gets a li'l tight jus about now,
rain comin' in, maybe,
my customers drop a coin,
ask me 'bout the yellow sparks of sirens, wild crows
flyin' up to the saints carved outside the cathedrals
askin' same ol' questions, perched on the glass
against this glass, jus like you
they shiver and whisper like in an ol'
movie house, 'bout to begin, I tell 'em
the nun & St. Peter jokes 'bout to spin out
to the asphalt one more time, yeah, yeah
I think the weasel is waiting for you,
leave me the rope, doncha worry
'bout a thing, jus smooth your way out
by yo'self, whistle up
with yo' tiny crooked musical faces
thass your existence, Bobo Chango boy,
thass it.
Excerpted from Notebooks of a Chile Verde Smuggler by Juan Felipe Herrera. Copyright © 2002 by Juan Felipe Herrera. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments | xiii | |
Book 1 | Hard Curas on "C" Street | |
Hard Curas on "C" Street | 5 | |
Limpia for Walking into Clear Campos | 6 | |
Immigrant Fortune Teller Machine | 9 | |
Book 2 | Chile Con Karma | |
Oyeme, Mamita: Standing on 20th & Harrison | 17 | |
Undelivered Letters to Victor: #1 | 18 | |
New York City Angelic: Josh, my son, said | 19 | |
Greyhound Depot Chavalo, San Diego, '57 | 21 | |
Watering Cebolla While My Father Burns Lena | 22 | |
New York City Angelic: Listen closely | 23 | |
Don't Worry, Baby | 26 | |
June Journals 6-2-88 | 30 | |
Oyeme, Mamita: What is this "looking," this "seeing" you mention? | 31 | |
Undelivered Letters to Victor: #8 | 32 | |
Foodstuffs They Never Told Us About | 33 | |
At the Mississippi Delta Blues Festival | 35 | |
Patrick Henry Elementary, San Francisco, Sixth-Grade Class Photo | 36 | |
Machofilia(s) | 38 | |
Millennium Omens | 40 | |
Undelivered Letters to Victor: #30 | 42 | |
June Journals 6-1-88 | 43 | |
Oyeme, Mamita: La Reina is gone. Bekins is out | 44 | |
June Journals 6-3-88 | 45 | |
In Case You're Still Wondering about Racism | 46 | |
Events & Found Objects after the Blast | 48 | |
June Journals 6-27-88 | 50 | |
June Journals 6-29-88 | 51 | |
June Journals 6-7-88 | 52 | |
Oyeme, Mamita: Tortilla Flats is the place to be | 53 | |
Man Goes Woman | 54 | |
Abuelita Sofi Smokes Up la Cocina | 56 | |
Oyeme, Mamita: Another crossing | 57 | |
New York City Angelic: I sit at gate #9 | 59 | |
New York City Angelic: I was doing a poetry reading thing | 60 | |
Things Religion Makes Me Do | 61 | |
June Journals 6-23-88 | 63 | |
New York City Angelic: I have an appointment | 64 | |
New York City Angelic: Back on Schedule | 65 | |
Cunada Yoli, en el Jale | 66 | |
Margarita Walks the Fields in Fresno | 67 | |
Huerta Street Telenovelas | 68 | |
June Journals 6-5-88 | 69 | |
Tio Fernando & the Chamuco of Atizapan de Zaragoza | 70 | |
Subtleties | 72 | |
Fuzzy Equations | 74 | |
June Journals 6-4-88 | 75 | |
It Is Said | 76 | |
How to Make World Unity Salsa | 77 | |
Undelivered Letters to Victor: #31 | 79 | |
I, Citlalli "La Loca" Cienfuegos: Sutra on the Additional Counts of Suffering | 80 | |
La Marlene Grew Up in the Movimiento | 81 | |
June Journals 6-16-88 | 83 | |
Oyeme, Mamita: Letters on asphalt, letters on coffee, letters on rags | 84 | |
Undelivered Letters to Victor: #10 | 85 | |
My Plutomobile | 87 | |
June Journals 6-29-88 | 89 | |
June Journals 6-5-88 | 90 | |
Simon Says | 91 | |
Undelivered Letters to Victor: #4 | 92 | |
A Poet's 2027 Odyssey Backpack Instructions | 93 | |
Undelivered Letters to Victor: #9 | 94 | |
Ten Still Lives | 95 | |
June Journals 6-13-88 | 96 | |
Steppin' into Power in the Age of Plutonium, the Super-Right, & Other Explosive | 97 | |
June Journals 6-25-88 | 104 | |
Undelivered Letters to Victor: #38 | 105 | |
Sonny, Rudy, Rene, & Me | 106 | |
I, Citlalli "La Loca" Cienfuegos: Sutra on the Category Makers | 107 | |
Tio Chente Brings Ancient Coins from China | 108 | |
Notes on Other Chicana & Chicano Inventions | 109 | |
Undelivered Letters to Victor: #17 | 112 | |
Ejotes con Mayonesa | 113 | |
Orange Stop on 99 | 114 | |
Undelivered Letters to Victor: #11 | 115 | |
I, Citlalli "La Loca" Cienfuegos: Sutra on the Ninth Sun | 116 | |
Cry Like a Man | 117 | |
June Journals 6-6-88 | 118 | |
The Cat My Mother Cradled | 119 | |
Avenida Constitucion, Tijuana | 120 | |
El Teatro Reforma (con Clavillazo & Queso de Puerco Tortas on the Side during Intermission, circa 1959, Tijuana, Baja California) | 121 | |
The Red-Striped Accordion I Never Played | 122 | |
La Momia Azteca Always Followed Me across the Border While I Hid Madero Whiskey in My Cowboy Boots (Late Night Traffic) | 123 | |
Love the Victim Harder Than You Love His Killer | 124 | |
Chican@ Literature 100 | 126 | |
How to Enroll in a Chicano Studies Class | 127 | |
How to Be a Warrior for the Aztlan Liberation Army (ALA) | 128 | |
I, Citlalli "La Loca" Cienfuegos: Sutra on the Machine Hole | 130 | |
Vietnam Veterano Special (with Aspirins & White Powdered Donuts) | 131 | |
Taking a Bath in Aztlan | 132 | |
Undelivered Letters to Victor: #7 | 134 | |
I, Citlalli "La Loca" Cienfuegos: Sutra on the Notebook | 135 | |
Oyeme, Mamita: Welfare Days & Welfare Nights | 136 | |
I, Citlalli "La Loca" Cienfuegos: Sutra on the Audience | 137 | |
June Journals 6-30-88 | 138 | |
June Journals 6-4-88 | 139 | |
New York City Angelic: Reading Ginsberg's | 140 | |
New York City Angelic: Need a Zen quote | 141 | |
New York City Angelic: PS 94 | 142 | |
Oyeme, Mamita: I am that paper | 144 | |
Book 3 | On the Other Side of Puccini's | |
Letania para Jose Antonio Burciaga | 147 | |
On the Other Side of Puccini's (North Beach, San Francisco, 1994) | 150 | |
Book 4 | Hispanopoly: The Upwardly Mobile Identity Game Show | |
Hispavision Presents: Hispanopoly--The Upwardly Mobile Identity Game Show | 155 | |
Ever Split Your Pantalones While Trying to Look Chingon? | 163 | |
Two Tacos al Pastoral | ||
I. | How to Comb Your Hair High Up Like a Tipi | 164 |
II. | My Chickens Say, "Por favor, si senor, si senora" | 166 |
Three Surefire Ethnic Sitcoms | ||
I. | The Lost Picasso Enchilada Silhouettes: A "Noba Yor" Story | 168 |
II. | Juantoomany | 175 |
III. | La Llorona Power-Woman Confidential | 177 |
Subcomandante Chihuahua Speaks to the World Finance Ministers & the World Banko | 180 | |
Book 5 | How to Make a Chile Verde Smuggler | |
Interview at the Total Liberation Cafe | 183 | |
How to Make a Chile Verde Smuggler: Last Call | 186 | |
Notebook Fragments | 187 |
From the B&N Reads Blog
Page 1 of