Writer Estella González has lived in Tucson for years, but East LA is in her blood, and in her work. “Affectionately known as East Los, this Latinx neighborhood with its working-class migrants seeped into my writing. Spanglish, Caló, Mexican, Catholic, and Indo-Hispanic history are interspersed with my stories of love, trauma, and identity.”
As a child, reading was also in her blood. “I would read anything I could get my hands on, including TV Guide, the backs of cereal boxes and the comics in my father’s Spanish-language newspaper.” On discovering libraries, her personal possibilities grew. “We couldn’t afford luxuries like books, so the library satisfied my reading hunger. They were literary Disneylands, opening up new worlds that expanded my imagination. One particular library I loved had a collection of Hispanic writers like Rolando Hinojosa and Corky Gonzalez, which gave me hope that I could one day write a book.”
She is the author of an award-winning short story collection, Chola Salvation, and a novel, Huizache Women. Her stories and poetry have been published in journals and anthologies, winning many awards. She even served as writer-in-residence at the Pima County Public Library, coming full circle to mentor other writers. “The residency connected me with emerging and experienced writers with similar dreams. It repeatedly proved something I already knew: the drive to put pen to paper, or fingers to keys, intersects all communities, transcending socioeconomic status, gender and culture.”
Estella mainly writes fiction, but will switch to poetry “when the speaker’s voice is particularly strong and needs to remain concentrated. Poetry is the best way to emphasize a compelling voice.” Fiction and poetry often overlap and complement one another in her work. “Fiction-writing can be poetic. I see that when I come across a particularly lyrical line or strong imagery, not only the visual but also the aural, olfactive, sensual and gustatory. Writing poetry enhances fiction because, even though you have more room in fiction, every word still needs to count.”
When writing poetry, Estella focuses on “compactness and density. Though a poem can be brief, it is also complex. I love shaping a line that reflects a particular feeling or theme through sensorial description, metaphor, anaphora, etc.” In teaching poetry she encourages students to experiment with imaginative ways of expressing themselves. “I always emphasize the five senses to create an impression of an emotion the writer would like to convey. Instead of writing about a concept like justice, I ask students, What does justice smell like? It brings up the unexpected.”
Estella feels that acknowledgment of Latinx writers has improved since she began writing. “White American spaces could not or would not make room for my narratives. Even though I had complacently read and studied English and American literature during my college years, I did not encounter the same courtesy toward my writing. Compared to the ‘70s, Latinx authors now appear more visible. The internet, especially social media, has opened up the floodgates to access work by Chicanx and Latinx authors. I’ve been able to take virtual writing workshops with iconic Chicanx poets like Lorna Dee Cervantes, Juan Felipe Herrera and Luis Rodriguez.”
Estella’s life in Tucson is busy with her writing and associated activities. “I journal every morning, a habit I established after doing The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. I also volunteer for the Tucson Festival of Books and Southwest Book of the Year organizations. When the weather cools in Tucson I hike the surrounding trails. Sabino Canyon is my favorite.” She is always on the lookout for her next poem, which can appear from anywhere. “As a writer, you can’t help but take inspiration from everything around you. My experiences inform my writing. These are the themes of my life, so they are naturally going to pop up in my writing. And everything is suited to poetry.”
“Christmas is for the babies” Amá says
pouring hot manteca into a glass bowl filled with flour.
Thick palms, callused from factory work,
start an avalanche that rolls into the hot pool of fat.
Grainy sludge oozes gray through latticed fingers,
while one hand grips the rim of a golden glass bowl,
a cradle for oranges, bananas and mangoes.
Today, the bowl births buñuelos on the
Formica table with its blonde wood veneer.
Amá sprinkles a blanket of flour before slapping
down the dough’s bottom, fingers dent its smooth skin —
hard hands rip the dough into four baby balls.
She powders each face, gently, before
palming their cheeks flat.
Amá’s wiry fingers web out the dough
like those spring coils she tested nonstop
at the fabrica.
As she fists the soft bolita, it crawls away
a little, before pulling back, deflated and distended.
By now Amá’s mouth curves sharp, an upside-down U.
Heavy grunts escape as baby tortillas form.
They huff, puff, breathe in time with Amá.
Each bolita grows wide and thin with each
spin of the rolling pin — stretched strong for the fire.
Amá then twists herself, scoops chunks of lard from the red and white
box on the counter, plunking pale clumps into a yellow skillet
roasting on blue flames. She dips the thin circles of dough in
a scalding oil bath — blistering, popping, browning.
Like a partera with forceps, Amá delicately tongs, rotates each disk,
pulls, then stacks gently onto a nest of white towels.
Resting, their oily faces soak up her sugared cinnamon.
I snatch one from the top, crunch through the brown sweetness.
Amá nods, whispers “Feliz Navidad, mijita.”
Dee Cohen is a Prescott poet and photographer. deecohen@cox.net.
