Barbara Jane Reyes

Barbara Jane Reyes was born in Manila, Philippines, and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area. She received her B.A. in Ethnic Studies at U.C. Berkeley and her M.F.A. at San Francisco State University. She is the author of Gravities of Center (Arkipelago Books, 2003) and Poeta en San Francisco (Tinfish Press, 2005), which received the James Laughlin Award of the Academy of American Poets. Her third book, entitled Diwata, is forthcoming from BOA Editions, Ltd. in 2010.

Her chapbooks, Easter Sunday (2008), Cherry (2008), and West Oakland Sutra for the AK-47 Shooter at 3:00 AM and other Oakland poems (2008) are published by Ypolita Press, Portable Press at Yo-Yo Labs, and Deep Oakland Editions, respectively. Her poetry, essays, and reviews have appeared in Latino Poetry Review, New American Writing, North American Review, Notre Dame Review, XCP: Cross Cultural Poetics, among others.

She has taught Creative Writing at Mills College, and Philippine Studies at University of San Francisco. She lives with her husband, poet Oscar Bermeo, in Oakland.

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LR: I wanted to start by talking about history, which is something that figures strongly in your poetry—for example in Poeta en San Francisco we see historical references mixed in with local references to San Francisco (SF) and the Beat Movement. Can you start by talking about how both history and geography are incorporated into your work?

BJR: I grew up on the periphery of SF, meaning that I lived in the East Bay for most of my life in this country. The more I came to see other parts of the country, I realized that there’s something interesting about SF and its history of people coming from so many different places and colliding with one another. I know this happens in every major American city, but for me SF has this unique place on the cusp of the Pacific Rim […] When the westward movement got to the Pacific Ocean, it just kept going into the Pacific. Just think about major American wars in Asia in the 20^th century, and SF being a very important strategic point, and then Honolulu, and then Manila. What that means for all those people that get cast aside and spit out of that system is that they all end up with this baggage that they’re aiming at one another. That’s SF for me.

LR: And in your own personal history when did this dawn come?

BJR: It really did happen in college, as an undergrad at UC Berkeley. I remember reading Frederick Jackson Turner’s “The Frontier Thesis,” where he talks about the American identity—and here he really means the masculine identity created as these men are forging West and dealing with the landscape—that makes the American man different from the English colonial subject. What my professor argued was that the wars in the Pacific, starting with the Spanish American War and the Filipino American War, were an extension of that creation of the masculine American, because there wasn’t anywhere else to go but the ocean. The Philippines were seen in the Filipino American War as the starting point for America to get into China and start its own empire.

When I was hearing these things lectured to me and as I was reading about them, what I was seeing in SF started to really make sense—what I was witnessing and experiencing as a Filipino girl growing up in the Bay Area, not being able to find any evidence of long time Filipino settlement there, even though now I know that there is a much longer history. I always kind of felt like that there had to be some reason why so many of us just kind of got plopped in the city. And a lot of it had really to do with that movement into the Pacific once the frontier ended. 

LR: When you write this poetry, how do you think about how people who are not as deeply entrenched in this history are going to read it and understand it?

BJR: I think that there are enough concrete colors there. I think about this, for example, when I’m in the Mission District walking around the mission. I spent a lot of time there because I had done a presentation for one of my Native American Studies courses on sacred spaces, the idea of the mission and the mission system. We all see these symbols and these landmarks, so there are always these points of geography to grasp onto, whether or not we know the specific history behind them. I think that when folks come to the Bay Area, they may or may not know something, for example, about Angel Island. But it’s a big rock out there in the bay that they can find out about. They may or may not know something about the I-Hotel, but they can go visit it.

I always kind of hope that poetry will make or compel people to research farther or think about these things farther. I hope that maybe deep in their consciousness, it will alter something that they have previously taken for granted or haven’t thought about. I feel like as long as I am not making up any of these historical references and that they are actually there and verifiable, that it will hopefully encourage a reader to stop and think next time he or she is walking up to North Beach to hit one of these nice touristy traps–the I-Hotel is right there! Just stop and look at it.

LR: And so these physical reminders of history are actually very important to you.

BJR: Absolutely. I think a lot of it has to do with monuments and my own search. Like a lot of Filipino Americans I knew growing up in the Bay Area, we were always searching for monuments, and feeling like we weren’t finding them. Monuments to our communities. We didn’t know where to look. And you know, the monuments really are there–we haven’t been completely wiped out. There is evidence of our having been here since the turn of the 19^th-20^th century. I hope part of what my poetry is doing to is to point them out.

LR: I want now to jump to some of the concerns you’ve written about on your blog. Recently you addressed translation, and asked yourself how one can or should critique translated poetry when you don’t know the language yourself. Some have responded by asking how your books, which incorporate Tagalog, should be read by non-speakers. What are your thoughts on that now?

BJR: I think that in my mind there is a difference from, let’s say, the poetry of Lorca or Neruda that was written entirely in native tongue. I guess we can say that Poeta is written in my native tongue, if my native tongue is code switching. My family and I have a very pragmatic system of communication that is mostly in English, or not–it just depends on what is the most efficient way of being understood. So it isn’t quite English and isn’t Tagalong–but what is it? I speak in this code switch language.

Of course I think that the primary text of Poeta is in English, and the Tagalog adds another layer to how we think of English. What is English? You go to any part of United States and a different kind of English is being spoken there, and we shouldn’t be invalidating anybody’s English.  The English of the Bayou and the English of Chinatown and the English of East Oakland are different things altogether, but we find ways of understanding one another because the goal is communication. I think that if the goal is communication and poetry for me is just a form of communication, then we will try to be understood and understand one another but also be true to and honor that language that defines us, or that language that we truly speak.

Ultimately this is about whether as a reader we can trust that the poet is really trying to communicate something to us. I think that there’s a lot of suspicion surrounding hearing a language we do not understand. Can we not step back from that and say that there’s a system of communication happening here that delineates a community, and [if] so how do I expand my community such that someone who has hardly ever experienced Tagalog can possibly find a way in, despite some sections of a 109-page book that may be in a language they’ve never seen before? There’s all this English and all these concrete cultural references that you can anchor yourself to as a reader.

LR: While on the subject of different Englishes, I read this from your recent blog post: “As Filipinos, we have a loaded relationship with the English language, which I believe is why we pun ‘bad’ English, deliberately mispronounce and redefine English words. These are some ways of claiming ownership over the language, and isn’t it great, how we empower ourselves with the ‘master’s’ language.” So bilingualism or pidgins seem more than just by-products of the need to communicate, but can be acts of rebellion or activism. How accidental or deliberate do you really think this is?

BJR: I think initially, a simple acknowledgment of multiple Englishes, hybrids or pidgin can be considered some kind of rebellion or even activism in that it decenters standard or proper, English or institutional English. Lee Tonouchi’s work, Living Pidgin (Tinfish Press, 2002), is a pretty comprehensive volume on the matter of pidgin and activism. I do think we should consider that activism is involved in fulfilling the need to communicate by creating a new or hybrid language and system of code switching. It isn’t just a by-product. As well, I think recognizing the need to communicate and understand one another across multiple communities is pretty important. This is how we begin building coalitions.

LR: And that brings us to activism and building community, in the more literal sense. Is activism different for us as minority writers? Is it more important? And what about those who want to be seen as writers in their own right, apart from their ethnicity?

BJR: I feel like we just have to do the double work. There might not be any way around it. I really do feel like if community and forwarding our work as a community of artists is important to us, then the concrete work that we do as folks who head community arts organizations–as editors, publishers, and mentors–that work is indeed activist work. And I’ve chosen to do that on top of the fact that I want to continue writing books. I love the idea having a professor contact me out of the blue and say I have X number of students reading your work, can you come in and talk? I want to walk into a classroom where they’ve never read Filipino lit before and have them ask me a million quesitons about my book.

LR: Speaking of that, you recently mentioned in your blog you’ll be teaching yourself in class. Have you thought about already what you’re going to say about yourself?

BJR: I think it will probably be okay … I guess it was different when I walked into Ronald Takaki’s Asian American history class and we read his Strangers from a Different Shore or another classic, like when we read A Different Mirror. It was fine, because he was one of the authorities on Asian American history. So I guess I’ll just have to have that confidence in myself as one of the authorities on Filipino American poetry, and be academic about it.

LR: How does it feel to be considered such an authority?

BJR: I’ve always been in this leadership position just because my name has been out there as an author for a while. But it was even prior to that, really starting with my years with maganda magazine, which was so important for the local community here. It was so important that elder Filipino American poets, really folks I look up to very much, found me and my colleagues. They were so thrilled to see this younger generation.  I started on the local spoken word scene, so I was always visible to some community of Asian American or young poets of color and I was called upon a lot to shout poetry on megaphones at political rallies and that kind of stuff.

LR: Is your role as an authority or a leader in this community different from that of your predecessors?

BJR: I believe in concrete support, as in how can I be concretely supportive of young Filipino poets or young poets in general who are looking at what I’ve done in my career as some sort of blueprint for theirs. What am I going to do as a mentor, somebody who edits publication, somebody who curates a reading series, or somebody who can write letters of recommendation for an MFA program? So I think that’s a lot of it right there.  Two of my poetry mentors, Jaime Jacinto and Eileen Tabios, were hands on. Whereas I consider the monumental community figure like Al Robles to have been inspirational (because of his poems, the subject matter of his poems, and his community work; his poetic and political practice were the same thing), Jaime and Eileen gave me a lot of one-on-one concrete literary advice about where to submit my work, which poets to read; they asked me hard questions about what I wanted my poetry to do, and advised me accordingly. Both have also read my manuscripts in progress and given me feedback on these. These two also brought me into literary reading venues and as editors, into publication.

So, following the lead of these two, as an editor for various poetic projects, I’ve tried my best to open up the publication space to younger API and Pinoy/Pinay poets; in the past I’ve included the poetry of Ching-In Chen, Debbie Yee, and Sasha Pimentel Chacon in OCHO. Yee’s poem, “Cinderella’s Last Will and Testament,” ended up in Best American Poetry 2009. Two of my forthcoming guest editor projects, In the Grove and Blue Fifth Review, will include poems by Niki Escobar, Rachelle Cruz, Sean Labrador y Manzano, Gizelle Gajelonia, Yael Villafranca, and Allison Moreno.

I have a couple more editing projects up my sleeve, in which I plan to continue opening up that publication space to emerging writers or color.

LR: Can you talk about your invovlement with Philippine American Writers and Artists (PAWA) and Arkipelago, and highlight for us some of the upcoming events?

BJR: My current involvement with PAWA has been as a board member, curating our reading and workshop series with Edwin Lozada. In this capacity, I’ve been trying to provide literary reading space to writers in the community, both established and emerging. I’ve always valued the live reading as a crucible, a place to try out new work in progress, a way to refine the work.

On June 5, we are teaming up with Eth-Noh-Tec for an evening multidisciplinary performance and storytelling. Featured artists are filmmaker Nara Denning, theater performer Sean San Jose of Campo Santo, poet Aileen Ibardaloza, musician Ron Quesada whose Kulintronica is blend of Southern Philippine kulintang and electronica, and theater performer/stand up comedian Allan Manalo of Bindlestiff Studio.

LR: You mention bayanihan in your blog. What does that mean?

BJR: Bayanihan is a Tagalog word that means something to the effect of ‘the spirit of community’. Bayan refers to a nation or community. So bayanihan means the spirit of community to achieve something, like some kind of goal.

LR: And so when you think of bayanihan for the Fil Am or AA poetry community, what might those goals actually be?

BJR: As an author, major goals are publication and book sales, not just for myself individually. I want to see more APIA and Filipino American authors’ books in print, a diversity of voices. I encourage more writers to polish and submit their manuscripts to publishers, and to do so in a focused manner. I’m a strong supporter of independent publishers, because there are many with admirable mission statements about ethnic, political, and aesthetic diversity.

Nick Carbo told me years ago that one of the best way to bolster book sales was through course adoption. Experientially, I agree with him. That said, I want to see our literature taught widely. Outside of academic settings, I haven’t figured out yet how to make our books appealing to the greater APIA community, i.e. those outside of activist, artist, academic communities, or how to effectively bridge that gap. This is a work in progress for me.

LR: Lastly, can you tell us a bit more about your upcoming book, Diwata? Like your other books, it will be incorporating history and themes of historical dislocation. But in what ways do you think it will depart from your first two books? Perhaps start by telling us about the mythological, creationist (or re-creationist and rebirth, as it were) aspects of the book?

BJR: The way I’ve come to think of Diwata is like this: in my work, there are themes I’ve previously tried to address, for example, as you mention, the recurring theme of dislocation. It’s taken on some mythic qualities in my first two books, but I think only in glimmers, this mythical or mythological tellings and retellings of dislocation. Diwata became the space for me to blow it up.

While wary and critical of contemporary reclaiming of pure indigeneity as appropriation, I am still interested in possible ways indigeneity morphs and endures in our urban, American everyday given Western conquest, diaspora, transnationalism. Does such a thing exist without going native, without forwarding a new noble savage? If so, how? What changes, how does it change?

Tammy Ho Lai-Ming and CHA Logo

Tammy Ho Lai-Ming is a Hong Kong-born writer. She edited Hong Kong U Writing: An Anthology (2006) and co-edited Love & Lust (2008). She is also a founding co-editor of Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, the first Hong Kong-based online English literary publication. She is currently studying in London, UK. More about Tammy can be found at her web site.

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LR: First question to ask any writer—how did you start, or what are your memories of first starting to write creatively?

TH: Until university, I wrote almost exclusively in Chinese, mostly just scribbling and half-thought out ideas. I think it took English to really get me started. When I was an undergraduate student at the University of Hong Kong, I spent a great deal of time in the library. One day, I picked up a copy of Ambit off a shelf I was sitting near and started reading. I was especially drawn to the poetry and shortly afterwards I began trying to write creatively in English. I showed my first poems to one of my professors and received positive feedback, which encouraged me to continue writing. I have been writing ever since.

LR: As a Hong Kong native and member of the HK Writer’s Circle, you’ve remarked that the size of the HK writing community has been underestimated, even by yourself. As a young writer, who did (or do) you look to as models and as peers?

TH: This question is interesting as recently I was thinking about the smallness of the Hong Kong poetry writing scene. I think that my opinion of the scene probably waxes and wanes, sometimes it seems full of great writers, other times it feels a little bit constrained. The truth is that there are some strong writers in the city but as English is not the first language of most residents, the number of English writers is always going to be limited.

My models, I think, vary through time. I often find inspiration in the works I am reading at the moment and in recent personal experience. I don’t think that there is someone I return to over and over again as a source of inspiration or as a guide for my creative writing. That said, the following Asian writers have inspired me at different points of my writing career: Shirley Lim, Louise Ho and Leung Ping Kwan. As for peers, I would have to say first and foremost Reid Mitchell, my writing partner and sometime friendly editor. Also, I would like to mention the Singaporean poet Eddie Tay and Hong Kong poet Arthur Leung.

LR: What would you say is special about being a writer in HK?

TH: I guess the mixture of Chinese and English influences is probably the most obvious characteristic of writing in Hong Kong.

LR: Interesting–could you elaborate? What is it like to be composing in a language that may not be your native one? How does actually writing in a different language feel different from, say, translation (if it even does)?

TH: Personally, when I write in English, I think first in that language. But I do wish to have more Chinese/Asian elements in my creative works. I don’t want to ever lose touch with my linguistic and cultural roots.

LR: Cha’s “about” statement remarks that Cha was founded a decade after the handover—does this figure into HK writing?

TH: Of course, some writers address the handover. However, as far as I know, the English creative writing output from Hong Kong is generally not very political. An exception I can think of is Louise Ho, a Hong Kong poet whose writings have some political elements. We mentioned ‘a decade after the handover’ in Cha‘s “About” statement as much as a time marker as any kind of political statement.

LR: What about being a writer in the Asian diaspora?

TH: I am not sure that I am an Asian diaspora writer. I am from Asia and although I currently live in the UK, I will return home at some point. I am more in the Asian-expat writing community.

LR: You are also a scholar of Victorian literature. How, if ever, do your more academic pursuits intersect with your creative ones?

TH: In some ways, they are very different pursuits. However, sometimes my academic reading (either in the form of novels or scholarly works) will inspire me to write something. I am sure that my poetry is full of unconscious or conscious reactions to my academic work.

LR: Two of your poems that I really enjoyed: “Minute” (“You are so spoiled. I had not time to philosophise”—something I think many of us have heard from our parents!) and “Ring Fingers” (just the fantastic nature of it). Care to comment on either?

TH: “Minute” is a very autobiographical poem. The scene portrayed there isn’t far off of an experience I had visiting my parents’ house. It was actually written on the bus home after spending a night with my family. My father told me about his fear of the clock and we looked at its hands together. It is a moment I will never forget, not only because it is now captured in the poem.

“Ring Fingers” is also autobiographical. It is about the time I lost my ring fingers and the cat ate one of them.

LR: Why and how did you start Cha?

TH: We started Cha in the summer of 2007 because we realized that Hong Kong did not have an online literary journal, at least in English. Such journals are common in the West but are less so in Asia. From our observation, we also knew that there is a lot of great writing in English in Asia but that it often goes unnoticed. We therefore decided to found Cha, as a means of trying to support new writing from and about Asia. Since Jeff (my co-editor) is a professional editor and I had also edited several literary collections, we felt we were in a reasonably good position to start the journal.

LR: Why the name, “Cha”?

TH: When we founded the journal, we wanted to publish work from across Asia, not just from Hong Kong. Cha, which means tea in many Asian languages, struck us as a name which could encapsulate many different eastern societies at once. Obviously, the drink is an important, nearly ubiquitous, element in many Asian cultures. But beyond this, the word cha, and its variants, is almost as common in the region. For example, a word which can be Romanized as cha means tea in Korean, Japanese and Chinese. Likewise closely related words also mean tea in other languages. Think for example of chai in Hindi. Drinking tea is associated with a kind of contemplation, a sense of savoring something that is both simple and complex, which is equally true of good literature. So because of its linguistic and cultural ubiquity in the continent, and its more philosophical associations, we thought that Cha provided an apt name for a journal devoted to Asian literature.

LR: An issue for any literary magazine that is “ethnically” themed is choosing what content fits this theme—does a journal themed around the Asian diaspora experience need only showcase work by Asian authors, and what is an “Asian” theme to begin with? Cha has previously published work by diverse authors on diverse subject matter, yet manages to maintain its central theme. What is Cha’s philosophy, and how do you find yourself choosing what to publish?

TH: Again, I am not sure the term ‘diaspora’ is entirely appropriate to describe Cha. Of course, we have published a number of writers who could be considered part of the Asian disapora, people of Asian descent living in another country. But many of our writers are also Asians living in Asia. We also publish a number of writers who could be jokingly called part of the ‘Caucasian disapora’, that is, expats living in the region. One thing we have realized editing the journal is that the definition of ‘Asian writing’ is quite fluid and dynamic. I think what my co-editor, Jeff Zroback, wrote in his second anniversary editorial summarises our philosophy on ‘Asian writing’:

I also had no sense of the diversity of the Asian writing community. When we began, I assumed that Asian writers were those found on the continent, locals, maybe a handful of expats. I have come to realise that this definition was far too narrow—that in a globalised world the idea of Asian writing must be more inclusive and fluid, must encompass the perspectives of writers from the diasporas, travellers to the region, even people with an interest in the continent. Asia it turns out is everywhere. All you have to do is open your doors. How else can one run a Hong-Kong based journal from a house in London?

LR: An interesting feature of the magazine is “A Cup of Fine Tea,” in which you revisit and analyze works published earlier in the magazine. What was the impetus for this feature, and what are your future plans for it?

TH: “A Cup of Fine Tea” is our critique column for works previously published in the journal. The philosophy behind it is that if something is good enough to be published in Cha, then it is good enough to receive critical attention. We also hope to encourage discussion of the texts through our interpretations. We have also found that just providing a different way to look at the works draws readers to the journal website; some people are more drawn to the academic side while others prefer to read the original texts for themselves. I am not sure that we have definitive future plans for the column, although we would like to attract some outside writers to contribute. We have also had reactions from some of the writers featured in the column. For example, one poet would like to include our piece in her upcoming collection.

LR: Interesting about their reaction–are they ever surprised by what people find?

TH: When we analyse works previously published in Cha, we simply add a link to the relevant pieces (instead of reprinting them on the critique column). The writers usually leave us comments regarding the pieces and they can be found on the Fine Tea web site.

LR: In the latest issue of Cha, your co-editor Jeff Zroback commented that “the written word and the Internet are perhaps the two best ways to travel, to experience new things without ever leaving the comfort of your house”. He also remarks that editing an online journal from home “slips into the quotidian”. Could you comment on what it has been like to publish and online journal? What are the advantages or disadvantages of being online instead of on paper? Is it any more important for a writing community like the Asian diaspora?

TH: Jeff said it was ‘quotidian’ because we live together so of course the running of the journal slips into our day-to-day routine to a certain extent. That having been said, there is an element of travelling and having the world come into our computers associated with the journal.

As far as I see it, there are two main advantages to publishing online. The first is obviously cost. We simply couldn’t afford to publish a physical journal without more financial means. The second advantage is the accessibility and exposure the internet offers. If we were publishing a physical journal, we would have a very small and limited circulation. Being online, on the other hand, allows us to reach a wide audience throughout the world and find Asian writers wherever they may be. We don’t think we are losing that much by not having a physical copy. We may, however, consider publishing an anthology in the future, if we can secure funding.

LR: How have you found guest editors, and how have you found working with different guest editors helped or shaped Cha?

TH: One special feature of Cha is that we have at least one guest editor for each issue. The guest editors read the submissions with us and help us select works; they are among people who have appeared in the journal. We think that this process brings freshness and a new set of eyes to our submissions and thus gives each issue a slightly different feel. We both appreciate the new perspective the guest editors bring to the editorial process. The guest editors we have had so far include Eddie Tay, Arthur Leung, Nicholas Wong, Reid Mitchell, Bob Bradshaw, Royston Tester, Jonathan Mendelsohn and Gillian Sze.

We are particularly grateful that Eddie approached us to be our first guest editor. He eventually became our Reviews Editor. Reid has served as guest editor several times and now he is our Consulting Editor. Bob is not only a regular contributor (his poetry has been published in Cha two times), he also acts as a Tea Taster for our critique column, “A Cup of Fine Tea.” Arthur and Royston will return as guest editors in future issues, perhaps indicating that their experience of working with us was a pleasant one. Other guest editors such as Jonathan and Gillian have had creative works published in more than one issue of the journal. Gillian is our first female guest editor and therefore she will always have an important position in the journal.

LR: Any other future plans for Cha?

TH: We don’t have specific long term plans at the moment except for continuing to put out the journal and hopefully keep growing our readership.

LR: Last but not least, advice for writers and other members of the writing community?

TH: Keep writing. Keep reading.

Joseph O. Legaspi

Joseph O. Legaspi is the author of Imago (CavanKerry Press), winner of a Global Filipino Literary Award. He lives in New York City and works at Columbia University. A graduate of New York University’s Creative Writing Program, his poems appeared and/or are forthcoming in American Life in Poetry, World Literature Today, PEN International, North American Review, Callaloo, Bloomsbury Review, Poets & Writers, Gulf Coast, Gay & Lesbian Review, and the anthologies Language for a New Century (W.W. Norton) and Tilting the Continent (New Rivers Press). A recipient of a poetry fellowship from the New York Foundation for the Arts, he co-founded Kundiman (www.kundiman.org), a non-profit organization serving Asian American poets.  Visit him at www.josepholegaspi.com.

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LR: So where did the idea for Kundiman come from, and what unique purpose does it have in the Asian American writing community?

JL: It really started off as kind of the infamous BBQ story. [Co-founder] Sara Gambito had invited me to an aunt’s place—the term of endearment, no blood relation—and we were sitting on hammocks, eating charred meat, amazed how this group of people was so comfortable together, like family. It just hit us. We had both struggled upon graduating from MFAs: we had tried finding communities but were both at a loss. I told her about Cave Canem, which is a home for African American writers. We thought, why not do this for ourselves, for Asian American poets?

Unlike umbrella organizations for a lot of different writing, Kundiman is more focused towards poetry. Because the Asian American umbrella is very complicated, we try to vary the retreat ethnically, by age, and stylistically: we’ve had Myung Mi Kim, who is a very experimental poet; Rick Barot, who is a formalist and narrative poet; and Staceyann Chin, who is a spoken word poet. We don’t want to shun anyone. Remember that Sarah and my initial experience was that we felt excluded. So that’s what we try to do–create a space.

LR: Kundiman’s main event is its workshop, to which fellows apply, and where they meet other Asian American writers. What effect have you seen on the writers who go through it?

JL: From the six years we’ve done the workshop, we’ve seen our emerging poets not only develop as writers, but become successful at pursuing academic careers. A high percentage of them have been getting into MFA programs. Others are pursuing Ph.D.s.

But we are seeing other kinds of development. We will sometimes have 20-year-old undergraduates, and I think having a community like this, they know that there are people like them, this is not some unicorn, not something mystical: this is something they can do and they can love poetry and it’s okay.

LR: Can joining a community tangibly change someone’s writing style?

JL: I have one person in mind, whose work was very unstructured. When we review applications, we look not only at craft, but process and potential. This person came to the retreat and was just how we imagined—great person, but very out there. By the end of the retreat, this person’s work was much more reflective, just in those four or five days. Not only did this person manage to make use of form, but for the first time, used images that hearkened from his background as a Filipino American, which I didn’t see before. There were a couple of other Filipino Americans there, and seeing how those other Filipino poets handled and carried themselves I think caused this person to tone down.

LR: So there is a tangible change–it does have an effect to be around other Asian American poets.

JL: It really does have an effect. A lot of people will say, “When I’m here, I don’t have to explain myself.” I think that speaks volumes.

LR: It seems at this point in time there have been many Asian American poets that have been successful—you bring many of them into your workshop. Even with these role models, are there more ways to go for Asian American writers?

JL: I think we’re at this juncture where there are Asian American poets that are second or third generation, and willing to take a risk and pursue something creatively–something marginalized, like poetry. But I also think a lot of Asian Americans are writing, and we’re so thankful for those individuals who led the way. There are those who have struggled in ways probably far more complicated than I myself can even really understand, establishing identity. For example, for [former Kundiman faculty] Lawson Inada, just being visible was such a struggle: being of Japanese American descent, a young lad interned with his family. I feel Kundiman creates a space where young emerging American Asian poets can have access to these amazing individuals who have a lot to give.

LR: Earlier you talked about the diversity of the Asian American community. Is there anything unifying it? Is there a way to define Asian American poetics?

JL: Poetry with a capital “P” is definitely what unifies us. Is there any unifying style? No. We’re not writing about our grandmother’s anymore, or not solely that.

LR: Moving a little into your own work. In your book Imago, you wrote about your childhood. Why did you decide to start there for your first book?

JL: I don’t think I did. I feel it was kind of inevitable that I would write about my childhood. I came to America when I was twelve, and I think the transition—I can even call it the shock—of immigrating from the motherland was really character building, I think. I was also the first person in my household to have left home for college. I felt I lost some part of me, so it was an active reclaiming. I felt that I needed to chronicle what happened.

I also feel like every life is worthy of being mythologized, and so this was an active self-mythologizing. I think poetry is just such a great medium for that.

LR: What do you mean by mythologizing?

JL: I’ve always been fascinated by creationist myths. It was my childhood literature; I loved Genesis. In a way, I’m poking fun at myself. But in a way every life is important. Now, once its transferred to paper, it is your life but its not your life anymore. Its art now, or so you hope.

LR: Or you’re hoping other people will access it and relate to it.

JL: Exactly. When it’s published, its out of your hands, and you’re hoping people can get something out of what you’ve done. The whole self-mythologizing is how I can make my life, in a way, “better”–more magical than it really is. In a way that makes it literature and not journalism.

LR: Do you think that writing about the past and our personal histories is in any way more important to Asian Americans, immigrants or minorities?

JL: Yes and no. I’m leaning towards yes, because I feel like at this point, Asian American writers are still very much underrepresented in the media, in literature, in publishing. Publishing is hard for Asian American poets: once you have the Jhumpa Lahiris, publishers don’t want to go beyond the Jhumpa Lahiris. In a way there is still plenty of room to be filled by our stories, by the Asian American diaspora.

But then again, why do we always have to write about Asian American issues? We don’t.

LR: Do you have advice for young Asian American writers, how they can promote Asian American community?

JL: Just persist on writing. I know so many talented writers across cultural lines who just stop writing. In a way, it becomes an endurance game. So just continue writing our stories.

Support other Asian American writers. Buy their books, go to their readings, teach Asian American literature. Be community leaders, be in academia, be community activists. The more of us out there, the better.

But definitely, the root of it is, just keep writing. Sit down at that desk, and tackle that blank page.

LR: Any upcoming Kundiman events to mention?

JL: The only thing brewing is the Kundiman Prize. It is such an amazing opportunity for an Asian American writer. It’s the first one, and we want to make it a success. We need to mobilize and support one another in this venture.