by Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo
When I first saw the Vroman’s Bookstore event for American Dirt had been cancelled I thought to call up a new guy and set up a date for Tuesday now that my night was clear, but then I waited. I remembered the #DignidadLiteraria manifesto just out from Myriam Gurba, David Bowles, and Roberto Lovato. I went back and read their call to actions and thought, what if something else took its place?
At first I waited to see if something was already in the works. I mean, the call had already been put out to protest the event. People were ready, but I waited to see who might still be going. A few others asked the same question on Twitter. I sent a DM to Myriam–whose critique of AD was the first voice of dissent on the issue–asking if anything was being planned and waited for a response.
I know Myriam through the LA literary scene, we once featured together, but I don’t know her really, and yet, her words have saved me.
When the El Paso shooting happened on August 3, 2019 killing 22 people and injuring 24 others, and the news came out that the shooter was targeting Mexicans, I was horrified and heartbroken. Later that same week my family gathered for our annual summer pool party, and when I panned across the 80+ family members in their different shades of brown, I thought if a person wanted to kill Mexicans we were an easy target gathered in the open and covered in nothing but swimsuits and sunshine at a public El Monte pool. It’s as if we were flaunting it. I should have been laughing with my tías and racing my nieces, but instead I kept a watch on the entrance gate and marked every new arrival who came through looking out for any persons I didn’t know.
That week I was scared silent.
But Myriam had words. On August 5th, just two days after the horrific event, she had this to share on Instagram.
Simple. To the point. And yet, one of the hardest things to say in that moment. Through her words on social media, I felt seen and not alone. She helped me find my bravery again.
I may not know Myriam, but I know it isn’t easy being that one voice time and time again, and so when I hadn’t heard back via Twitter I thought, She doesn’t always have to do the heavy lifting. I, too, can do something at Vroman’s. It’s my local bookstore, after all, and Myriam can be the one to call up a honey and enjoy her night.
So that’s what I did.
I started by emailing a call to my friends and organizers, a list of people I actually see and work with and trust on a regular. Most sent back encouraging regrets and maybes if traffic was kind. It was a Tuesday night, and though I’m a San Gabriel Valley local, most of my compatriots are not. I pushed on.
Next I put the call out on social media. Though I don’t have a big following, I figured I might catch a few people, and thankfully, others reposted the call as well. Over a day, I had two people confirmed to join.
The morning of I woke with the idea to reach out to Vroman’s and see if they’d officially host us. They had the space going unused, and maybe if I had this piece of the puzzle more people would join. They said no, but that an #ownvoices event is in the works for March 21st. Would I like to be involved?
Sure.
Was what I wrote out in the reply email but didn’t press send. I left the computer for a while and went on to get ready for the day and drive to work. On the drive, where I do my most intense thinking, I drafted a response in my head. When I arrived at the office, I sent it off.
“I appreciate Vroman’s planning an #ownvoices reading in March, but I find it unfortunate that the organization doesn’t see value in having two #ownvoices events. You have an opportunity to support your local immigrant and children of immigrant communities as well as other readers and writers of color by opening up a space [that] is currently going unused. While the March event will likely feature books and writers already on your shelves, this is a chance give space to indie, emerging, and newer writers who are currently hurting from lack of representation and support in publishing.
I hope you reconsider. Thanks for your time. “
By now it was noon, and I had told people to meet at Vroman’s at 7pm. I waited.
The Vroman’s rep wrote back that they would still not host us without time to promote, but they would be interested in collaborating on such an event with me. This seemed good: open communication and a possible future event featuring my fellow writers. The questions became, Do I call off the event? Do I tell Vroman’s we’re already planning to be there?
I reached out to two trusted friends, and one was available for feedback. After some more thought, I sent a reply.
“Thank you for the invitation to work on either the March 21st event or a separate event. I appreciate your interest in building bridges with local writers of color both already featured at Vroman’s and those not yet on the shelves. I do want to work with you on a future event.
The idea to host a reading tonight came out of a call from #DignidadLiteraria–a collective created by Myriam Gurba, David Bowles, and Roberto Lovato–to organize read-ins and other actions, and the canceling of the AD event felt the perfect time to act in solidarity with the work they’ve been doing. I do have a small group of people interested in coming out tonight. I know you can’t host us at this time, but would it be possible for us to gather in the outside courtyard at 7pm? I would encourage people to patron the store to buy Marcelo’s book and other picks from the #ownvoices displays.
I want to honor the store’s wishes and continue this conversation beyond today, but I still feel compelled to join with people tonight in either in the courtyard or another space close by.”
Vroman’s gave us permission to gather in the courtyard.
At 6pm, friend and advocate, Désirée Zamorano treated me to a quick happy hour bite and glass of wine down the street. At 6:30pm I brought out my roll-away amp and speaker, a few blank posters, Sharpies, and an armload of #ownvoices books and started setting up.
On one poster I wrote: “I grew up crossing the border on Saturday mornings.”
The publishing industry (and movie industry) believes in only one portrayal of the border, but I actually grew up going to Tijuana with my parents for day shopping trips. We’d buy school shoes, Christmas presents, and inventory for their concession stand at Pico Rivera Sports Arena. My weekends were spent in three places: my grandmother’s house in Boyle Heights, shopping malls in Tijuana, and selling candy to Tigres del Norte fans in Pico Rivera, but that’s not the border story big publishing wants to hear. I tell it anyway.
Right at 7pm, friends Kate Maruyama, Lauren Eggert-Crowe, Ashaki M. Jackson, and Luivette Resto walked up. I encouraged people to write their own messages on posters provided, and we displayed the words with the books I brought.
At 7:15 we began with Désirée Zamorano reading her essay “Scarification” published at Acentos Review. Next up was F. Douglas Brown reading a basketball poem in honor of the fallen star and father, Kobe Bryant. Sehba Sarwar read from her newly released novel, Black Wings and shared how it was difficult for her to publish the book because publishers and editors wanted to put her in a box she did not belong in. Angela M. Sanchez shared an essay on the colonization of the ahuácatl/aguacate/avocado. Josh Evans read poems about his Black experience and wanting to fit in. Luivette Resto read work from Judith Ortiz Cofer and Puerto Rican ancestral poet, Julia de Burgos. I closed out with a poem from Sara Uribe’s Antígona González and my poem “To Be the Daughter of Immigrants” about those Pico Rivera days.
By 8:15 we were done and the audience had grown to about 20. People coming in and out of the store had stopped by to listen. A mother and daughter sat right up front for the whole thing. When I talked to them after, I found out that they had come out to see what American Dirt was all about. “All I knew was Oprah picked it,” the mother said and laughed that maybe that was a poem. The daughter talked about a writer coming to visit her class. They were happy to have found us. I met a shy Latinx librarian. I met booksellers and a rep from the the publisher, and looking back now, I wish I could have talked to more people.
In the end, I’m glad we were able to gather together, and I’m thankful for those who showed support along the way. If I were to do it over, I would have brought more books to display and asked my friends to amplify the call sooner so more people could join, but in the end, I’m happy for all the waiting and starting small.
This is all to say, You, too, can host a #DignidadLiteraria read-in. I hope you do. One thing I take from Myriam Gurba is we cannot be silent.
Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo is the daughter of Mexican immigrants and the author of Posada: Offerings of Witness and Refuge (Sundress Publications 2016). A former Steinbeck Fellow, Poets & Writers California Writers Exchange winner, and Barbara Deming Memorial Fund grantee, she’s received residencies from Hedgebrook, Ragdale, National Parks Arts Foundation and Poetry Foundation. A Macondo Writers’ Workshop member, she has work published in Acentos Review, CALYX, crazyhorse, and American Poetry Review among others. A dramatization of her poem “Our Lady of the Water Gallons,” directed by Jesús Salvador Treviño, can be viewed at latinopia.com. She is a cofounder of Women Who Submit.
Noriko Nakada edits the Breathe and Push column for Women Who Submit. She also writes, blogs, tweets, parents, and teaches middle school in Los Angeles. She is committed to writing thought-provoking creative non-fiction, fiction, and poetry. Publications include two book-length memoirs: Through Eyes Like Mine and Overdue Apologies, and excerpts, essays, and poetry in Lady Liberty Lit, Catapult, Meridian, Compose, Kartika, Hippocampus, The Rising Phoenix Review, and Linden Avenue.