My Origin Story
Part 2 of 3: A playwright is born.
After my poems got published in those slim spine college poetry collections, I thought I was all bad. I would read my poetry at open mics at a place called “Corazon del Pueblo” on 1st street in Boyle Heights around the spring and summer of 2012. The atmosphere at the space was nothing like I ever experienced before. It felt like I was a part of this burgeoning literary/artistic movement, like I was back in the Harlem Renaissance or something or Paris in the 20s or some shit like that. I met and saw some amazing poets like Luis Rodriguez, this guy called The Bus Stop Poet, Matt Sedillo, David A. Romero, and many others. I also met and saw some amazing musicians like Thee Commons (now known as Tropa Magica) and Las Cafeteras.
Then, during one of the open mic nights, there was this performance that confused me. An actor performed a monologue embodying a street flower vendor. As she recited her lines she walked up and down the aisle of the audience begging folks with her eyes to buy one of her flores. Then, once her time was up, she snapped out of character and told the crowd about a show happening across the street at a theatre called Casa 0101.
I couldn’t wrap my head around this type of performance, it felt so real. It was nothing like the rehearsed sing song cadence of spoken word poetry that I was used to. Unfortunately, I never did catch that show, and months flew by before I ever stepped foot into the building of Casa 0101.
In the Fall of 2012, I began attending Cal State L.A. My daughter was already one year’s old, and my partner was about 5 months pregnant with our second child.
I remember feeling unsure about my future and my family’s future. I didn’t know how I was going to attend school full time, support my family financially, and be present in my children’s life, so I only took one English class thinking that I would be able to handle it.
I would walk from my house in East L.A. passing the Sherriff Station on Eastern Ave, passing underneath that house on a hill in City Terrace that I used to live in, all the way to the campus of Cal State Los Angeles. I would walk and think about how a college degree can feel so close and attainable yet so far away and impossible. I remember walking, listening to one of my favorite rappers “Eyedea” and his song The Dive Part 1 and 2, and I remember walking and listening to T.S. Eliot’s The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock on my “Ipod” on my way to class.
Even though I was only taking one class, I eventually dropped out. This English class, and I think everything else that was happening in my life at the time, like the advent of my second child at age 22 with no real way to support my family, really fucked me up. I learned that I sucked at grammar. And I remember thinking to myself, how the hell was I going to be an English teacher if I can’t even pass this intro class?
Then the worst case of writer’s block hit me for my final paper. I was paralyzed by literary analysis on a book I didn’t understand. I thought the narrator was schizophrenic, but perhaps I was just projecting. I remember getting a hotel and not telling anyone, thinking that if I just had some peace and quiet and some time to think, then I can finish this damn essay.
The next day, I walked down the hall in the same clothes I wore the day before to turn in my half-finished paper for some type of credit, but I was late, and the lights were off because they were watching a documentary on Orientalism.
My hands couldn’t overcome my embarrassment and shame to open the door. I walked back down that hallway, believing I was walking away from a college degree forever. At the time it felt like I was abandoning my kid’s future and any prospect of us having a decent life; where we wouldn’t have to struggle living paycheck to paycheck.
I remember accepting this fate. I remember realizing I was turning into a statistic: an unemployed 22-year-old Mexican American male with two kids living in East L.A. on food stamps. But then I remembered there was more to me than this. I remembered the freedom that I felt when I composed a poem for the first time. I remembered that writing was my way out: out of the 9-5 rat race, out of my reality, out of the poverty of philosophy.
I remember sitting in my piece of shit car, parked outside my girlfriend’s mom’s house, ready to confess to my partner that I dropped out of school. I remember a sense of relief relaxed my shoulders once I accepted and realized that I am going to devote my life to becoming the best writer I can possibly be.
The next couple of days and weeks I checked out as many books as I could about writing from that East L.A. library. I would wake up at 5am religiously, make a peanut butter and banana sandwich and a cup of coffee, and devour the books I checked out before my daughter woke up at 7am.
But I needed a job. For whatever reason I went back to Casa 0101 and knocked on their door to see if they were hiring. Executive Director Emmanuel Deleage answered the door.
“Can I help you?”
“yea, I was wondering if you are currently accepting applications?”
He joked and said “we’re a nonprofit.”
“oh, okay, thank—”
“—but we are always looking for volunteers. Would you like to see the theatre?”
“sure”
As we walked through the long hallway of the Jean Deleage Art Gallery, Emmanuel asked me about myself. I told him I was a poet, and how I just wanted to get involved in the arts. He flicked on the lights and described the space and how they were getting ready for their show “Trio Los Machos” that was back by popular demand.
I felt a strange sense of peace in that empty theatre, like I belonged there, or that I was always welcomed or like I was at church or something. As we walked back to the main office, he told me about a workshop I should take.
“You’re a poet you said right?”
“Yea”
“I’ll sign you up for this workshop that helps poets and writers be more performative. It’s Wednesdays from 6 to 9pm.”
“Oh okay, yea that sounds cool.”
I was only able to check out one class. I started working as a tutor and needed to be home to help out with the kids and the house, but I made sure I went back to go see the “Trio Los Machos” performance. I took my partner with me and we sat in the packed audience and witnessed this thing called theatre. The lights faded and this story about the Bracero program unfolded before our very eyes. The Bracero program was an agreement between the U.S. and Mexican governments that permitted Mexican citizens to take temporary agricultural work in the United States from 1942 to 1964. My grandfather on my dad’s side was a part of this program, and my partner’s grandfather was a mint farmer up in Oregon, so it really hit home for both of us. I was so inspired and perplexed by the art form and all the components of the production, that I actually had the courage to go up to playwright Josefina Lopez and ask her how the hell did she write that.
I remember her eye contact when I introduced myself to her. I asked: “How does something go from the page to the stage like that?”
“I’ll show you”, she said.
“Sign up for my beginning playwright class. It’s Tuesdays from 6 to 9pm, and it starts next week.”
That’s all it took. I signed up for that class, and kept showing up. I didn’t know a god damn thing about theatre, but she broke down the basic components of storytelling and playwriting structure. Then, when we had to bring in some pages, I shared some dialogue about a couple arguing about not being able to afford wipes for their baby, and that shit tripped me out. When I heard my words read out loud by other people for the first time, it felt like the walls of the classroom that we were in transformed into the walls of the back bedroom of my girlfriend’s mom’s house. It was crazy, and I was hooked.
I didn’t miss a class. I even remember running to the theatre after I parked my car sometimes out of excitement and fear of being late. (One of Josefina’s rules was to never be late in the theatre.) By the end of the 10-week workshop, I submitted two plays, even though only one was required, and I got the opportunity to hear my work read out loud by real actors this time! And man did I sound like an asshole. Well, the character in that play “Wipes” that was “loosely” based off me, sounded like an asshole.1
I remember thinking holy shit, that is the power of theatre and playwriting for me. I can use this art form to dialectically try to figure out all the shit I am struggling to understand and comprehend, I can learn how to be more human from these plays, how to be more patient with others and myself, how to be honest to myself, and how to be more courageous. And it was my responsibility to make my plays as dope and as accessible as possible. It has been my mission ever since.
Thank you again for reading or listening, and for all of your support! March got away from me, but I am excited to share part 3 of my origin story: A producer is born with y’all soon, plus other exciting theatre and playwriting news coming up in the next couple of months.
You can check out that play by clicking on this link here: Wipes