Response 10: Jimmy Santiago Baca

After reading Baca's works, I feel as though I've come up for a breath of air after being underwater, or returned after a journey to a foreign place.  I actually manage to forget that I'm sitting in my living room, rather than in La Casita, in a jail cell, or in the back or front seat of a car, wondering where I'm headed.  Baca sucks me into his world and makes me feel like I myself am a prisoner there, forced to endure what he has endured.  But the reality is that I feel as though I am there every step of the way, like a ghost or conscience, observing him and the people around him--knowing that I am not and will never have to endure this, but knowing we are going back in time, to a past that can't be changed.  And all I want to do is change it.

I read A Place to Stand before I read any of Baca's poems, which I suppose was an odd introduction.  Having missed class last week, I knew nothing about him, and had never read his work prior.  Though I was made aware at the beginning of the piece that Baca considered himself a poet--and that this work was meant to, in some way, illustrate why and how--I got so swept up in the narrative that I nearly forgot Baca was a poet at all.  I found his prose to be particularly strong and engaging--so much so that he seems to me a natural essayist.  He recreates his life, from the beginning, in such vivid detail that I can't imagine being anywhere else but in these moments.  He knows how to tug at the heartstrings without getting too sentimental (something I was actually worried about at the beginning, as his introduction to the memoir does get a bit sentimental, reading more like an emotional reflection on the past with hopes for the future.  The memoir itself, however, avoids this--which was somewhat of a relief to me--and pulls the reader into the heart of the story.  Never a dull moment, never a detail that doesn't feel important, never an account that doesn't shed light on Baca's life, society, and the world at large.  He knows how to get at the root of things; I can tell Baca did a great deal of ruminating and careful analyzing of himself and his past before he began writing this piece--it shows through in the conciseness, the attention paid to life-defining events, and the generous detail with which it is rendered.  That, along with his poet's eye, make for a piece of prose so effective I can't take my mind off it.

Baca's poems, though just as riveting, are a shocking change to me after reading the prose.  I find myself trying to imagine him writing these poems, but I can't quite do it--I've become so enamored with the memoir.  I expect having dinner with him and hearing him read will help me with this, though.  I notice that many of his poems read like prose--they are long-ish and packed with detail, and reference many of the same events as the memoir.  I feel more of a distance in his poetry--like I am held back at arm's length, an observer but one who is not a part of the events or experiences.  With A Place to Stand I felt like I knew who Baca was; with his poems, I left with more questions than answers about the striking images, the more subtle emotion, the significance.  I think they all deserve a second read; probably a third or fourth.

On the whole, I found Baca's rendering of Chicano life and culture to be both enlightening and entertaining, and his personal accounts effectively heartbreaking (whether in a good or bad way).  He cuts deep and lets a little salt in the wound.  You know how he feels when he's done with you.  But personally, when I'm finished reading, I'm not sure how to feel.  Did I just get to know someone too well, or have I barely scraped the surface?  I'm looking forward to dinner and the reading--hopefully I'll know by the end.