Angel Luis Colón

FINALLY I CAN SHARE THIS COVER.

Christ. It’s been two years since Hurricane Maria.

Puerto Rico is still in a bit of a state. I’ve always told people to look at how the US treats its non-state territories for a good idea of how they’re going to treat the parts of this country seen as lesser, but it’s more than that. Folks should look to those places to also find inspiration in how to survive and find the little moments that sparkle in our lives.

10/28/2019 an anthology I am thrilled to share with people drops. ¡PA’QUE TU LO SEPAS! Stories To Benefit The People of Puerto Rico.

I’ve discussed this before, but it’s weird to see it out there with a cover and a street date. Like, super weird.

I hope people dig this and I hope I do my writers proud in my promotion and push of their work. I was fortunate enough to get to read 11 amazing stories. They put all the work in.

When I decided to take the jump into this project, I worried about a lot of things: time, promotion, getting answers from folks I wanted in the ToC. Most of all I worried about my motivations and how others would view them.

Let’s be real. This is a public endeavor and perception is important. You can choose to care or not care, but it’s present and should be confronted in whatever way we can confront it. In this case: was this more about me than my writers or Puerto Rico? I’ve stated before that I was hesitant as I never felt quite Puerto Rican enough to rep my people. Is that bullshit? Probably, but the doubts always linger. Just like the doubts of my motivations. Am I doing this to increase my stock; to look better to other Latinx writers and those within more privileged spheres? Is this a means to garner attention and to stroke my own ego at the expense of others in my community?

I think those are valid worries. It’s easy to slip and fall into those traps when writing is such a solitary and narcissistic endeavor. Are we ever truly capable of pushing others ahead of us without trying to catch a few drops of that sweet, sweet exposure?

I don’t have an answer. I only have what my thoughts and my words and their worth varies from person to person. End of the day, I’m trying to take a step and 11 very good humans provided their support to achieve a goal: help Puerto Rico in some small way.

Of course, we want people to see us and read us and know us. We want to titillate and terrify with our own voices. I often wonder if there’s a conditioning in some of us to feel shame at that desire. At times that feels like an excuse, though, but there’s also something to it. We’re overwhelmed with a feeling that we need to be humble in asking for such small things that are automatically provided to others.

Bluntly: I cannot imagine how much worse it is for my Afro-Latinx and Queer Latinx family.

End of the day, I want people to read these stories and get a taste of diversity WITHIN our Latinx communities. We are not a monolith. We are varied cultures with colonial bonds and beautiful roots that have nothing to do with one another. We are peoples who have had to make do with nothing and quite often make fucking miracles.

Anyway, here’s the amazing ToC too.

Bad Puerto Rican (Foreword) by Angel Luis Colón

The Bones of Rio Rico by David Bowles

Bobby’s Leave 1968 by Désirée Zamorano

Me Encanta Tu Nombre by Carmen Jaramillo

Turistas by Hector Acosta

Bobo by Richie Narvaez

Papa’s Manuscript by Chantel Acevedo

The Sundowner by Jessica Laine

La Baca by Christopher Novas

It Takes Un Pueblo by Hector Duarte Jr.

Red Zone by Alex Segura

Boricua Obituary by Cina Pelayo

Preorder ¡PA’QUE TU LO SEPAS! Now – HERE

Hey folks – I’ve got me a random little idea.

You listen to the bastard title? Cool. You like some of these writers? Double cool.

Now prove it. Hit me up on Twitter with a pic of you with any of my former guests books AND drop a review for them. You do that and I’ll send you a free, signed book from yours truly.

NOW GO LISTEN. I’ll tally what I’ve got on 7/12 and announce winners then. Use the hashtag #thebastardtitle to enter.

 

Love to the very awesome Kristopher Zgorski for having me over at his site, BOLO Books. I always appreciate his kindness.

That said, I’ve got something on my mind – the strange tightrope act that is promotion.

I’d like to say that this isn’t necessarily about self-promotion, but ultimately this game does boil down to that. What are the decisions to make when the long term goal is raising one’s stock. What kind of weird shit do you have to grok and agonize over for a return? I don’t think I’m off base when I say that whatever move a serious writer (and when I say serious, I mean the type of person looking to make a little cash or grow their influence, so really EVERY writer) makes in regards to their “platform” is entirely colored by these questions and more. Building that promotional platform as a marginalized writer makes it even more haphazard.

I know this because I agonize about plenty of my own promotional decisions. My focus, though, might be difference than most writers. A lot of that having to do with the fact that yes, gasp, I am a marginalized writer. I am of a group that it can be fashionable to boost and have an ethnicity that I can absolutely exploit to my advantage.

And like I said before, it becomes a weird tightrope act. One that I believe is navigable by beginning to really understand that while, yes, there are certainly selfish reasons to build your platform on representation and boosting of marginalized voices, there’s a level of honesty that must come with it or else it’s entirely performative.

I can’t in good faith exploit my background. I’ve spent too long self-loathing and willingly detached from that world. I’m also keenly aware that there are plenty of others who will judge me or exploit me because of that very same background! It sucks, but it’s true. So what do I do? How do I make up for my own inadequacies while doing something I believe AND ensuring that my own efforts to become something I love aren’t wasted?

Simple: be honest. I can only do so much, but I can do something. I can boost the voices I know and I can work to expose myself to others I don’t (in a completely legal way, hardy-har-har). I can make sure as many voices as possible rise up with me or celebrate when they pass me by a country mile. It’s OK – all the boats will rise in time.

We also can’t succeed on the backs of others. Simply chasing those further along the road isn’t a path to success. While it’s nice to celebrate and boost those who do well, we have to think about our motives. Are you shouting out that writer who landed an awesome deal because you’re happy for him/her or are you looking for a blurb? Are you cool with boosting your platform with tissue paper? Because that’s what you’re doing if your intent is the latter. Quid pro quo is nice (and sometimes entirely realistic) but if you’re planning on basing your career on it, good luck. You’re sort of getting the Death Star plans with none of the details that way (oh look, there’s nothing on those hand-me-down schematics about exhaust port issues, ah well).

I mean, look at what can happen when you depend on performative people to help boost your stock. It’s a disaster.

I think it’s important we craft a community that better understands that idea. That performative wokeness or working for the benefit of the individual isn’t supported. That mindset is why we’re so woefully under and misrepresented still. We are not in this alone and we can’t continue acting that way.

Success isn’t going to be found with our lips on a boot or our nose up anyone else’s ass. Nobody wants to hang with anyone who smells like butt. WHY DO YOU WANT TO SMELL LIKE A BUTT?

Promote other writers. Promote yourself. Remember to own your reasons why and remember that the road to hell is paved in good intentions.

Go buy my book, though.

 

When I was in freshman year of high school, I hung out with a lot of the kids from my bus stop. My mom bought a beauty parlor with money saved and moved us to a more affluent section of the Bronx from where I’d grown up. The neighborhood demo was very Italian and Polish. Nothing new for me since I already went to school with a very diverse mix of kids, but there was a fucking canyon between being in a school with these kids and living among them.

Anyway, I’d made friends. A bunch of twerpy nerds like me. We talked video games and sports. Standard 14-year old shit. I felt comfortable. High School wasn’t going to be so bad.

Then the “turn” happened.

If you’re part of a marginalized group, you might know what I’m talking about, but I’ll explain a little more because this piece is not for my fellow Latinx, POC, or LGBTQ+ peers.

I don’t remember the specifics, but a debate came up on the bus ride home. Since we were teenagers, it was probably something dumb, but it was boisterous and loud. Eventually, one person on the losing end of the argument starts getting their balls busted—in this case, we’ll go with “Greg”—and said loser gets heated. Where I’m from it’s no big deal. You bust balls back, it’s all done. Nobody offended mothers, and nobody threw hands.

But Greg was mad. Greg was especially mad at me because out of the goddamn blue, completely after all the arguing and ball busting was done, Greg turned to me and said:

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up, you stupid spic?”

Being on a bus, we could assume I was not the only spic in Greg’s vicinity, but guess what? I was.

I won’t get into the post script here. We’ll say Greg learned not to say that word ever again in earshot of me. My point is that turn.

You’ve overstepped an invisible line. You had the gall to treat them as an equal and debate them on a level playing field. You had the absolute balls to even discuss a thing, no matter what that thing is.

Hence, the “turn”. It’s the look of disdain as the drunk MAGA uncle “Clues you in on a few things.” or gives you a little bit of the old “Let me explain to you how the world works.”. It’s the Twitter thread where a mutual decides, “You’re misinformed.” or “I have plenty of ***** friends that don’t feel that way.” It’s the moments where you don’t know what you’re talking about or you’re not seeing both sides of the argument. You’re too emotional. Too political. Too other.

So the turn happens. And that turn isn’t always accompanied by toxic racial or ethnic epithets, as mentioned. It’s more than that, it’s a hidden arrogance, a sense of propriety that’s always been there waiting for the very moment “you” went out of your place. Because, see, it’s OK for you to exist in a way where you are always less than them, but if there’s a goddamn hint of that scale going level, oh no, time to cut you off at the legs.

Imagine needing to always be prepared for this. To know that every interaction in social circles can spin this way. The answer, in the turner’s mind, is for you to know your place and shut the fuck up. To merely exist as window dressing; piping in when appropriate and favorable to the turner’s experiences. Earn sympathy or empathy but never equity—that would be crazy!

The other choice? To stop caring. To stand by the principles you’ve set for yourself the same as anyone else.It’s difficult to get to that place, especially when you are trying to navigate your way through institutions built entirely around the premise that you are meant to be an outsider always; a light palate cleanser between courses of the exact same dish.

There’s the popular adage “be the change you want to see” that gets used against marginalized folks a lot these days. The phrase’s new meaning basically boils down to, “Shut up.” which is entirely dependent on everyone’s inclination to, well, not act. That said, speaking is an action as valid as anything (fuck’s sake, it’s the go to dialogue tag in writing) and speaking can be a larger motivator of change than any donation or punch. The very courage to speak, that IS the change some people need to be before the next step is made.

Ultimately, the turn will come either way. Let it be for something worth it.

You ever stand outside in line to get into a popular club or bar? Maybe a restaurant, something really cool and trendy that all your friends just rave about?

Here’s a scene for you. You’re waiting on the line. It’s crawling. You see folks bypassing and getting the VIP status, but that’s fine. You’re just here to have a good time with friends, maybe celebrate a birthday. Normal stuff.

So you get to the door. The doorman barely looks your way and says, “Sorry, wrong shoes.” You look at your shoes. Look at everyone else’s shoes. You even take a peek at the doorman’s shoes and sure enough, not a fucking difference between any of them except yours are red versus everyone else’s green. Well, shit, you think, I got green shoes in my car. So you get off the line, get your green shoes, and get back on line.

Back to the door. “Sorry, that jacket’s not allowed. Wrong brand.”

Well, now this is some bullshit. The jacket is exactly the same as everyone else’s except there’s a logo on the lapel that’s circular instead of triangular. Barely noticeable! You don’t have another jacket, though. This is the jacket you’ve worn to anywhere else like this and it’s never done you wrong.

So you beg. You plead. You mention that you have friends inside. That you’re not the type to cause trouble. You say you’ll go out and get the right jacket next time, hell, maybe they have one inside that you can borrow just for the night. You’re desperate and it shows.

So the doorman, still not looking you in the eye but smiling at everyone else walking on by, says he’ll check. Sure enough, there’s a lost jacket and it’s two sizes too small. You figure, fuck it, just for the night, it’ll be fine. You tear off your jacket, cram yourself into that accepted one like Sunday sausage, and FINALLY, you’re let in.

You make it six steps into the club until you’re shoulder to shoulder with everyone else. Nobody’s moving. Nobody can dance or get a drink. You notice all those VIPs were walking into another vestibule with a staircase leading up to a very roomy space. You turn and spot a club across the street playing the same damn music and with no doorman, no dress code. People are having fun.

Loose metaphors, but I have a point. This is the modern publishing industry for the marginalized writer. Fit the template to get six steps in, but uh oh, you’re not unique enough. That’s for other people.

What I’m trying to say is: don’t beg at the door to get six steps into a club you’ll never dance in. Go to the next club or sneak in through the goddamn back door. Don’t ever destroy yourself to live up to anyone’s expectations but your own.

Because when you’re wearing a jacket two sizes too fucking small, my friends, everyone will notice.