SOURCE: An interview in Partial Autobiographies: Interviews with Twenty Chicano Poets, edited by Wolfgang Binder, Verlag Palm & Enke Erlangen, 1985, pp. 221-29.

[In the following interview, originally conducted in May 1982, Zamora discusses the origin of her poetic vocation, her major literary influences, and her contribution to twen-tieth-century Chicano literature.]

[Binder]: When were you born and where?

[Zamora]: I was born in Aguilar, Colorado, a little village at the foot of twin mountains called Spanish Peaks in Southern Colorado, on January 20, 1938.

Which members of your family had immigrated to the US?

Toribio Ortiz, one of the first settlers to this country before it was a United States, is the only "immigrant" on the paternal side of my family, insofar as I know. On the maternal side, the Borrego family, too, were one of the first families to arrive here. But my maternal grandfather and his family are Indian. The actual genealogy is difficult to trace since family records were destroyed during the period of land confiscation. It would seem more appropriate to say that the members of my family emigrated from territory to territory, later, from state to state, or from the mountains to the plains, from villages to cities, etc.

It is difficult for me to speak about this because I feel that tracing one's genealogy is an exercise in arrogance. It paves the way for unwarranted vanity on the one hand, and/or defensiveness on the other. It's unfair to expect individuals, or families, or clans to justify their existence anywhere. I don't mean to imply that your question does that, but having lived in a situation where arrogance reigns supreme, particularly about familial lineage, I fall victim to that conditioning more easily than I care to admit. Unfortunately, most of us Chicanos do.

What are some of your most lasting childhood memories, both good and bad?

Good memories are meager, or, it could be that they were less impressive to a child's mind. I remember I had a passion for school and studies, for doing good, and for escape. There was, for example, a desire to climb the peak of the mountain near which I was born. It will never happen, of course, because the mountain is over 14,000 feet high, but the desire never quite leaves. As a child, life was one full shock after another; and it is painful for me to speak of childhood experiences. One of the reasons I write today is that these experiences left me with a shyness and such a timidity; it was nearly impossible to express myself vocally, verbally, or even by actions, except in school. As a child (from the age of three), and into my youth, I attended Catholic schools and I aspired to become a nun that whole time.

Who were the persons you grew up with, and what was the language spoken at home?

I grew up with one brother, two sisters, an aunt and an uncle who are about my age, and with cousins. A vernacular English was spoken by all of us at home. With grandparents and great grandparents, Spanish was spoken. As is commonly known, it was forbidden to speak Spanish at school. And today, it is still forbidden in Texas for co-workers to speak Spanish on their jobs.

When were you first made aware of being a Chicana, and how?

I was always aware of who I was, but applying the name "Chicana" to it didn't happen until the Chicano Movement. Before the Movement, we were called by hyphenated    names—Mexican-American,    Spanish-American, Latin-American, Hispanic-American etc.,—that defeated the purpose of expediency, but served the ends of dismissal. Those ends are still actively served by the all-encompassing, collective label, "Hispanics." It effaces the specificity of who we are yet holds fast the notion that we all belong elsewhere. I suppose, though, that that psychological evolution can be considered progress in the minds of those who feel that Chicanos are a species apart from the human race.

To call oneself "Chicano" or "Chicana" is a political stance against, and an effort to halt, oppressive ignorance. Currently, that ignorance wishes to see itself legislated as global authority on such things as selective breeding, selective education, selective justice, and selective freedoms; and accordingly, that the essence of excellence be thus limited to their definitions and categories. Respectively, these are remarkably mechanistic and exacting in their monetary conventions.

Since we Chicanos, like many Third World cultures, have resisted evolution in that direction, it is assumed that we are enemies of "progress." We are indeed enemies of ignorance, and if we had been allowed to be educated, I think you would have seen an evolution in this hemisphere of a better kind. But to get on with the question….

Like many others during the early stages of the Movement, I became aware that being "Chicana" would be more humanly productive than being a hyphenated American. And the specific experience that solidified that awareness in my case was the reading of David García's book, Chicano. I read the book in one evening between tears, and it was on that same night (early morning, really) that I decided to make a lifetime commitment to the tenets in "The Spiritual Plan of Aztlán." At that time, I had already earned a B.A. and an M.A. in English literature; and I was pretty disillusioned with the educational system. I thought, though, that by continuing on for the struggle through teaching, that it might make a Ph.D. worth the effort. I was wrong, of course. One cannot teach Chicano literature if there are no text books. And another problem is that Chicano students are systematically turned away from entering the universities.

Was there a person or an experience in your life that opened you up to poetry?

Well, I had always written on my own for reasons mentioned earlier. Necessity rather than encouragement motivated me. It does still.

Although I had been studying French, British, and American literatures, it wasn't until I read Emily Dickinson's work that I was moved to write poetry in 1968. I was attracted to her poetry for the economy of words used to express, and at the same time, transcend the human experience. A philosophy professor who was a good friend as well as a mentor, introduced Japanese poetry to me, a more refined poetry that achieves the same thing. I just took off from there to study other cultural forms, to practice different techniques, and to try them out in different languages.

When did you write your first poems, and who published your first work?

During this time, 1968, I wrote my first poems. I remember feeling much like a thirty-year old virgin who discovers she has neglected a very important part of her development. And, characteristically, I rushed to make up for lost time. I experimented in all the techniques and styles I could find to the point of contortion. That partly explains the abundance of various styles and influences in Restless Serpents; but, of course, it doesn't explain my neglect.

The first two poems to be published were written in German. I translated them into English, submitted them to M. L. Michaelsen of Pierian Press, and they were accepted and appear in A Rocky Mountain Anthology.

Do you feel that it is doubly difficult to suceed as a Chicana writer?

I'm not sure how to respond to this question if the assumption here is that to be published is to succeed. The act of completing a written work brings with it the feeling of success, and this was true for me even before any of my work was ever published. I know, though, that when others are made aware of the fact that I am Chicana, I have double the trouble, double the resistance, and double the hautiness in response, not just to my work, but to my very being. To succeed in this case, is to abolish racism, and that hasn't happened yet.

Who are some of the Chicano poets that you like? And who are some of the mainstream poets that you like? State your reasons.

I like José Montoya's poetry for its genius that may never be fully appreciated in our lifetime. It is such a treat to watch him recite his poetry before an audience, and to witness the poem, the poet, and the people come alive together. And it is on the printed page that his poetic genius is fully apparent to me. His "Arroz Is Arroz Is Arroz" is my favorite poem for its punning title ("A Rose is a Rose is a Rose"), of course, and for its eerie quality of laying to rest life's ironies into one compact poem in which he writes about Chicanos by moving in and out of English, Spanish, and Chicano caló with the ease of a hummingbird.

For the same reasons I like José Antonio Burciaga's poetry. He takes no pretentious attitude even though he is one of our most popular and humorous poets, and our most direct. His "Españolitli Titlán …" (actually an untitled poem titled, "Untitled") is a linguistic classic, an intermingling of three languages, creating a fourth. Like Montoya, Burciaga creates new words by integrating phonemes of two, three, and sometimes four languages. And they both have learned this, as other Chicano poets have, from the people they interacted with and from precursors who created the language. I never tire of the works of these two men, who, in addition to being "people's poets," are also visual artists and fine muralists.

Of the Chicana poets, Olivia Castellano, who combines elegance with technique, and Lucha Corpi with her original images, are among my favorites. There is a profound and active intelligence embedded in each poem they create. Lucha, who writes in Spanish, uses the shorter form which I favor; and Olivia, who writes in English (mostly), extends and compounds the image, meaning, and the whole poetic experience which rarely happens (for me) in poems of longer lines. Too little attention is given to the inspired works of these women. They themselves are inspiring, and I often wish I could write like they do.

Also, I wish I could recite my poetry the way Lorna Dee Cervantes and Emy López do. Lorna's poetry is in English and Emy's is in Spanish. These two poets extract from large and small audiences full attention, interaction, and thunderous applause in a way I've never seen happen. Their presentations are that powerful. Theirs, too, is a double talent.

The mainstream U.S. poets that I am found of are Walt Whitman, William Carlos Williams, Wallace Stevens, and Denise Levertov. I like the first two, Whitman and Williams, more for their poetic theories than for their poetry. Wallace Stevens' poetry and his theories, which he consistently practiced, influenced my early work, especially the poetry I wrote about 1970–1973. In fact, my Master's thesis is a comparative study of Stevens and Francis Ponge. It's not a particularly successful study, according to my thesis advisor, but doing it did enable me to penetrate Stevens' work and to understand the process of extending an image to dimensions outside its own realm, sometimes on three levels at the same time. From Ponge, I learned to do the reverse.

My fondness for these poets is comparable to the fondness I presume young Marines feel for their drill sergeants who teach them skills to stay alive. Denise Levertov's poetry taught me to apply those skills to political ends without falling into pernicious dogma.

I've learned a great deal, too, about poetical application to political subjects from other poets who may not fall into the category of mainstream: Yeats, Auden, Joyce, Shakespeare, and Dante. And I learned the subtlety of poetic effect from Rilke and Goethe. Studying the French Symbolists was valuable in exploring the unremitting mind. Actually, all the poetry I've read, particularly cultural poetry (Indian, Afro-American, Persian and contemporary Iranian, Russian, Cuban, Bolivian, Brazilian, etc.), has influenced me in one way or another. I read all poetry that is available in translation; and in those languages to which I am limited, I read in the original. I don't know if this indulgence is good or bad for one's poetry, but it is something I do immoderately.

Do you like to recite in front of a public; are you a public or private person? Have you changed your attitude in this matter over the years?

Clearly, oral recitation is the best way to present poetry, but it still remains an unnerving experience whenever I am called upon to recite. For a while, it was unbearable. In fact, only recently have I returned to reading/reciting poetry in public after a four-years absence. The decision to return to public recitation was based on cultural necessity. I am called on to recite as a Chicana poet. If it weren't for that, it's highly probable my poetry would be of little interest. And, if it weren't for that, it's certain I would have remained a private person who happens to write.

What should be, according to you, a (Chicano/a) writer's function, if any? What direction should Chicano writing take?

A writer's function, if there is one, is to lift the spirit of the people, and to take the responsibility for the direction that spirit takes once it is granted. That makes writing a precarious occupation and not to be taken lightly. I don't know what direction Chicano writing should be taking, but it's safe to say it's taking its own direction and developing in its own time.

Proper development requires slow gestation; and Chicano writing is emerging unscathed by publishers and cities alike, mainstream or otherwise, who worked diligently to control its ideological and/or aesthetic direction. It has been a joy to watch the literature emerge, again and again, on its own terms.

Undeniably, some Chicano writings are deplorable shams with predictable contrivances and shallow imitations. When they surface, these writings are notable for the obvious subjects that lend themselves to notorius exploitation of the creative process and/or cultural themes. Fortunately, clumsy contrivances never quite coalesce in Chicano writing as in any other writing.

Do you feel that living in New Mexico, California, and Texas successively changes one's outlook on life as a Chicana?

Well, moving about as much as I do doesn't change my outlook on life as much as it intensifies it. I don't know about other Chicanas, but life for me was just as difficult, perhaps a bit more painful in New Mexico and in Texas (but for very different reasons) than in California. For example, in California, it's much easier for a woman alone to move about with the illusion of freedom. In New Mexico and Texas, sexism, racism, nationalisms, etc., are more blatant. There is an underlying terror in Texas where most people, men and women, arm themselves to excess. One racial group is pitted against another. Judging from a statement made in Houston (where I lived), things apparently have improved, for Chicanos, at least. The statement: "Did you notice how Raza doesn't kill Raza so much anymore?"

If that's true, one of the reasons may be this unifying factor: that in nearby camps the Ku Klux Klan is training its children, young adults, men and women to fight in combat. The paranoia seems to be that all the "foreigners" and "weirdos" will try to overtake this country. The training camps are spread throughout the Southern states.

One of the reproaches by orthodox critics toward Chicano writers is that they are not close enough to the barrio, that their life and writing is not proletarian enough. What do you think of that?

That's an old and false complaint. I haven't heard it in a long time. When I did hear it, or whenever I happened to read such reproaches, I noted that they came from aspiring or upper-class literary critics. I never know what to make of such hypocrisy. Does anyone?

The underlying assumption of such statements, of course, is that the proletarians are incapable of understanding or of responding to anything outside their own circles. The most appreciative responses, the most astute reactions and observations I've witnessed with regard to poetry came from people in the barrios. They know more about poetry than they are given credit for; they understand more about it probably because they know more about survival, struggle, oppression (and hypocrisy) and because there is inherent in their world view a natural and native intelligence that baffles even the best of the well-intentioned critics.

What are some of the poems from your own production that you cherish most, and why?

The ones written in Spanish and the poems that are products of dreams are my most cherished, respectively, because it is so difficult for me to write in Spanish, to control the interplay between emotion and language. (I attribute that to lack of training); and the poems that come to me in dreams, such as the title poem, "Restless Serpents," are a favorite because they remain a mystery. I find new things in such poems years after they have been written. It's a humbling experience to think at first that one writes well, or otherwise, by one's own will. The dream poems bear witness to another, more patient source.

What are you working at now? Have you ever felt tempted to write narrative prose?

Yes, I have been tempted and have succumbed to it on occasion. Its inexacting standards are an adequate distraction when the poetic voice is unyielding. Narrative verse is more to my liking, though.

My doctoral dissertation (Mythopoetics of Chicano Poetry: An Introduction to Chicano Archetypes) takes up most of my time these days. I have completed another volume of poetry, After the Salmon Leave, which will go to press soon, and I am completing other projects (too numerous to list here) that include co-editing, co-authoring, and co-producing books, cassettes, and chapbooks. The latter is part of yet another project I am working on with José Antonio Burciaga. We're forming a publishing company that will be devoted to Chicano authors and artists.

Many of your poems show echoes of hurt, rejection, loneliness, decay, dying. How existential are these feelings for you; do you reflect your outlook on life as a whole? Or are you writing different things now?

Does so much negativity really permeate the poetry? That's the nature of existentialism, I suppose, but it isn't a reflection of my outlook on life. I will concede that there is pain expressed in the poetry, loneliness to the extent that poetry requires, and death as life's promiscuous correspondent. But rejection and decay? Maybe you can enlighten me on this.

After the Salmon Leave is a book of Indian/Chicano prophecy, but there are poems in it that are extensions of earlier work. I'm not certain, but I think I'm writing about the same things differently.

Would you say that losing one's soul, both individually and collectively, is still a reality for the Chicano/a? Or has the so-called Chicano Renaissance accomplished anything in diminishing the degree of alienation?

I don't think it's possible to lose one's soul. One can disguise it, ignore it, attempt to run away from it, but one never loses one's soul. What you call losing one's soul, I call abandoning one's culture for purposes of assimilation into the mainstream or an ideology for a similar, less noxious reason, in order to avoid cultural involvement. Basically, it is a running away from oneself. And that is what alienation is: A running away from one's Self. It is a common occurrence in ambitious people.

Fewer and fewer Chicanos are doing that as the culture becomes more and more visible. Chicano artists, musicians, filmmakers, playwrights and dramatists work through their art to sustain it; Chicano historians help to document it; Chicano psychologists and philosophers help by analyzing its evolution. Their individual commitment to collective cultural improvement is unshaken by economic change and/or political setbacks. So, to answer your questions: No, losing one's soul … is not a reality for Chicanos collectively; yes, The Chicano Movement rather than "Renaissance" accomplished a great deal in diminishing the degree of isolation we felt before we became visible to each other. (By the way, the unfortunate use of the term, "Renaissance," is inappropriate, applied to us. The word implies a history, and our history is yet to be documented. It may be an appropriate term to use in the future, though.) It was the Chicano Movement that was the catalyst to cultural cohesiveness, and many people sacrificed reputations, families, and in some cases, their lives to bring the Movement about. A "Renaissance" hardly explains what happened.

Is there anything else that you'd like to say on yourself as a person, as a writer, on you views (cultural, political)?

I would like to emphasize that my cultural views reflect, to a slight degree, the views of those writers, poets, artists, musicians, etc., with whom I work and perform. I am a member of Trabajadores Culturales, but I am not speaking for them. As for my political views, they are indeed my very arrogantly own.

Still, what is briefly, but politically, characterized here are not pejorative statements of random observation. They are experienced incidents of repeated occurrence. Racism abounds as it resurfaced with a vengeance. Basic logic seems to elude political leaders and poets alike as never before; and, as a result, U.S. poets are a lost and terrified tribe of resentful "visionaries."

Just recently I attended two poetry conferences, one of American women poets, and the other for "International" poets. The former was a tribute to, and a romanticizing of female poets who had taken their own lives. Suicide and madness were the feminists' themes, and men were the targets for blame. The sparse number of Black, Chicana, and Indian women's poetry presented as an affirmation of life was completely dismissed by the overall conference. Suicide for feminist poets seemed to be the only solution to opposition and oppression.

The latter gathering of "International" poets was concerned with international affairs, presumably, and many of us Third World poets were invited to participate to verify that. This group was clearly concerned with life, but they were angered by some unnamed people's transgressions of some unnamed law. Doom's Day itself seemed doomed judging by the shouting panic of poets.

If poets reflect their people's predicament, and I believe they do, then that will give you an idea of the direction U.S. society and poetry are moving. And this predictable predicament has Chicanos, Blacks, and Indians braced for the new onslaught that angry petulance brings. Nevertheless, those of us who gaze differently, gaze unflinchingly as panic grips the "progressive" ones.