S is For
A Conversation with William Archila
In my Introduction to Latin American Studies course at UT Austin, I sat near a student who was the son of a U.S. diplomat to Argentina. I attended the occasional study group sessions for exams, and in one of them, he told the group about the racism he witnessed when he lived in the country. He said that once, he and his father were traveling through a rural area, outside of Buenos Aires, guided by a governmental official. As they passed by farmers collecting crops, this official made the comment that the country would be better without “them.” The “them” referred to the indigenous population, and this official went on to joke about burying all the indigenous groups in one big hole in the ground.
The student recounted his shock upon hearing the official speak this way, but immediately I thought about how his father’s work for the United States government and how the history between the U.S. and Latin America is similar to this mentality. Crack open any serious textbook on U.S.-Latin American affairs, and you will see the ways in which the U.S. has quite literally buried anyone who doesn’t fall in line with its capitalist interests.
For William Archila, El Salvador is the center of his poetic universe, and in S is For, we see “the voice of the immigrant, the refugee, and the ever-present exile as a weapon against invisibility and displacement.” Archila’s work is symbolic, lyrical, and boldly nostalgic. But at every turn, the poems are honest, and it is through this honesty that we witness the careful attention required to bridge the harsh realities of the past with the potential opportunities of the present.
William, thank you immensely for your time. As a Latin American Studies major during my undergraduate years, there was one thing that came up consistently no matter what course I took: The United States has actively interfered in the internal affairs of its Latin American neighbors for centuries. In the 20th century, the list of horrendous CIA sponsored operations is quite long, and naming all of them here would neglect the ways in which individuals and families impacted by such callousness have been left with a void, one that merely satisfied the political and financial needs of a person or entity thousands of miles away.
In “Northern Triangle Dissected,” we see a bit of the ways in which you embody the voices of those who have achieved their means through brutal force, as in the section titled “#3”:
If there’s no body left, there’s no crime
no court case, so bury the filthy bastard.
Don’t fuss about it. It’s just a quick blow
down he goes. You see the brains
unclogged like leafed rainwater
in the gutters. My bag. My haunt of flies.
Thinking of nothing will make nothing
happen, so nothing will
do precisely. Nothing.
The above voice is quite ambiguous, but the sentiment of violence persists. How did you approach writing about violence in this collection? What parameters did you place on yourself to balance the voices of victims, witnesses, and transgressors?
William Archila: I think I might be repeating myself with this response, but my writing about violence comes from what I know, what I was exposed to as a child, but also because if I write about ugly subjects, say such as garbage or a dead dog, instead of flowers, then there’s some assurance that if there’s some type of beauty in the result of the poem, it will belong to my doing, my craft, and not the subject. So my approach has always been to describe the violence in an objective way as much as possible, but my expressive side always gets the better hold of me and I end up with a marriage of the two because I cannot contain the anger, loss and frustration. And I think that’s a more human approach.
You know the dirty wars in Central America never ended. El Salvador as a result, now more than ever, is the epitome of modern poverty with a huge gap between the rich and the poor. So this poem “Northern Triangle Dissected” is a response to the origins of this discrepancy, a response to the violence, to the Central American caravans, to the zero-tolerance policy by the White House, a response to the unaccompanied minors that were fleeing this violence and showing up in classrooms. I was really struggling with the question, are these asylum seekers considered less human? And in order to grapple with this question, the poem developed into this multi-layered voice poem, where I can begin to understand the sides of the isssue.
Let me take off my poet hat and speak as a human being here. See, these teenagers fleeing violence and persecution came in search of asylum, looking for jobs, better education, housing and health. Instead they encountered hunger, illness and threats of physical harm along their dangerous journey to the border and this combination of experience puts them at the risk of post traumatic stress disorder and depression. By the time they get to the US, their anxiety and mood disorders can be debilitating. These are the causes for dropping out of high school and developing mental illness and what not. So there’s definitely a disregard for Central American lives embedded in US immigration policy. It’s the same disregard for Central American lives the US government had during the cold war, when they continued to support the right-wing government in El Salvador, when everyone knew El Salvador was butchering its own people. See, most people are uneducated of how the US intervenes in Central America, overthrowing left-wing governments to prop up right-wing dictatorships for a direct exchange and exploitation of the country's natural resources. Therefore, it is obvious to say that immigration from Central American countries begins with foreign American policy.
So, to get back to the question, the poem therefore had to open up to allow a portrayal and communication from the perspective of the bandits and narcos, the minute men, the exiles, the refugees, check point officers, migrants, people with no country, ghosts split between past and present, between a sense of home and refuge. I was definitely not going to give the media a voice. In the media the voiceless get no air time whatsoever. So, I wanted to make sure the voiceless get a chance here at least in my imagination.
Esteban Rodríguez: I like that you speak about how the American public has a lack of awareness of the true atrocities the U.S. government has engaged in with Central American countries. Toni Morrison once said that she placed herself at the border, the edge, and claimed it as center. From a craft point of view, how much did you feel needed explaining (history, politics, cultural elements of various countries, etc.) and how much were you expecting the reader to know and learn?
WA: At first, I saw myself as some type of cultural ambassador and felt a huge responsibility to make sure I explained myself with the history and politics behind my poems. Otherwise, I felt the reader would not be able to follow any cultural references, and such. I had to include dates and names of places or white wash my experience so that if I wrote about the civil war in El Salvador, that experience could also be applied to any civil war, which was great and also a challenge. I was looking for markers or post signs that led the reader to some kind of common ground. I did not mind it at first, but after a while it became repetitive, the dates and names of places, I mean. However, this led to overwriting the poems and I felt I was adding too much language that was not needed.
Without naming names, I remember reading many poets in my education that required me to look up historical or cultural records. There was always research involved. Those poets expected the reader to know or to look up the references. Okay, I’ll mention names. For example, when reading T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, how many historical allusions or languages does one have to look up. It’s quite a lot. I actually love falling into that rabbit hole when I read something as complicated as The Waste Land. I enjoyed that journey as a reader. This realization led me to be a bit free with my own work and I began to realize the reader is also involved in the making of the poem. The reader is the receiver of the poem and the poem will unfold itself as a kind of reward depending on how much the reader is involved in the reading. There is an exchange here between the reader and the writer. It’s a creative act. The poem is static until the reader makes sense out of it. This led me to believe that the poem was addressing a reader I could trust, meaning a reader willing to enter a poem without markers.
ER: I love that you say that the reader is involved in the poem, because they truly are. I remember a professor of mine saying that the “personal is universal,” and this has always guided my own work. In S is For, there is a moment where your speaker seemingly steps outside of the poem to reveal the way in which he relates two separate conflicts. Below is the opening of “When I think of Aleppo”:
I too lived a war, but I don’t think
I necessarily have to like the alternative
for permanent residence. There are ways
to be cursed when a brother ends up
in a rival gang, & you must throw down
because the feud is on, the way of
Polynices and Eteocles. It’s complicated
the way I associate my mother-in-law
with Aleppo, or the photo of two
Syrian boys sitting in rubble, one
torn sweater-arm over the other's
shoulder, two years older than my sons
asleep in the darkness of another siren.
I think more & more in parallels now
because there’s a feeling in me
that outlives my way of thinking.
As you wrote these poems, and did your research for them, what did you discover about the world that you could relate to? Was there anything that you wanted to include that didn’t make the cut?
WA: What a question? What did I discover about the world that I could relate to? Through my senses, experiences, interpretations, my cultural and socio-political backgrounds, and my own personal beliefs, I think I ultimately discovered that the Central American migrant crisis, haunted by the past of the civil war in El Salvador, affirmed that the world is not governed by intelligence or justice, but by social influence and brute force, that those in power have no conscience. The rules they set do not care about life, justice or kindness. It only benefits those who seize power. That’s why the exodus is a natural and national pattern for the dispossessed classes in El Salvador. This is the only option to take when there’s a lack of opportunities.
Another discovery that was reaffirmed is that art is a representation, an artistic attempt, where just like film, there’s a lot of lies, a lot of making, visions, where it seems like it was written the way it is presented. Instead you’re taking reality and presenting your ideas through language and form. You’re taking the joy and pain of living and creating a new reality, a new way of seeing. How you use your senses to give life intensity. How to show what we don’t see. What’s hidden. What we’re unconscious of. How to show the other side of the moon. In this sense art is a lie that makes us realize the truth. It leads me to my firm belief that the artist’s job is to disturb the peace, that there’s no separation from activism and the arts. Art from social justice, but also with an inclination to delight the senses and expand consciousness and the human imagination.
Music and words are my sanctuary and in the making of these poems I was not afraid to get rid of words, phrases or lines. I always ended up with less than what I started with. I discarded more lines than the lines I used in my final product. To me that’s the human voice in struggle: when one is moved to write, you feel the urge to sing, but as soon as you move from that impulse to writing the poem, you hit reality, a world of limits where transcendence is impossible. You can never match the feelings or dream-like qualities with words because you hit a world of time and laws and logic. Instead you get an attempt, a voice in struggle, an authentic and aesthetic voice born out of necessity.
ER: Like many around the country, I’m thinking about what the current presidency means for individuals who find themselves in a societal, financial, legal, emotional, and physical limbo. The opening stanza of “Dear Republic” is as follows:
I want to tell you every argument against disappearing
should be turned over & exposed. What matters most
is the invention of our unbearable presence. I want to live there
in the middle of its own well, a gleaming light devoted to clarity.
Can you speak a bit about this poem and what clarity can be found during these uncertain times?
WA: When I was working on “Dear Republic" I was thinking about invisibility and the many ways in which the US makes people disappear. Let me give you some context. Earlier in the book, I addressed this theme with the poem “On Invisibility,” which marks the chronic effect the opening sections on the migrant crisis and the civil war in El Salvador has on the voiceless and the displaced. Invisibility is the ultimate cloak these marginalized voices display as they navigate metaphysical questions of identity and the dead. By the time I get to “Dear Republic,” towards the end of the book, I’m trying to address presence as a possible response to the state of invisibility. So this clarity that I refer to is that this political landscape is beyond my control. There are those historically in power who govern not by intelligence or justice, but by brute force backed by money, and through their policies they do not want a body like mine here. And I’m questioning, what is it about my body and others like mine that create such antagonism. It is knowing this that brings clarity. The very fact that I recognize that which causes me pain is a very liberating experience.
Now beyond the poem, I think for these uncertain times, at least for me, this clarity I speak of allows me to weather the political landscape in which we live in, and therefore loving someone and also loving something like poetry or Blue Note Jazz grants me the possibility that there is room to breathe and create, create a new self, one that struggles but does not suffer over things beyond their control.
ER: Within the scope of your control, where do you find yourself putting your time and effort? Where and who do you seek comfort from?
WA: In my writing & my family. That’s where it’s at. That’s where I put most of my time & effort. Everything else is sort of secondary. When I have a bad day at “the office” or I get hit with yet another piece of news from the White House, I have my family to comfort me and encourage me, and if my family is having one of those terrible days, as we all tend to have them now and then, I still have my writing and my reading at night, which gives me the opportunity to say I’m still here and the opportunity to recuperate all those moments, places and people I lost. My family and my writing allow me to let go and just find joy. I love having breakfast with my family on Saturday morning where we just enjoy our meal and each other’s company. It’s a blast. I guess I should also add music. It’s always with me, everywhere I go it consoles me, rejuvenates me and gives me the opportunity to change my mood if I’m struggling on my own. It relaxes me and reduces my stress. Plus, I find an emotional or cultural connection every time. So my family, my writing and my music are the three things that comfort and fuel my life.
William Archila: William Archila is the winner of the 2023 Philip Levine Prize for Poetry for his collection S is For.
His first collection The Art of Exile was awarded the International Latino Book Award, an Emerging Writer Fellowship Award from the Writer’s Center and was selected for The Fifth Annual Debut Poets Round Up” in Poets & Writers. The Gravedigger’s Archaeology, Archila’s second book, received the Letras Latinas/Red Hen Poetry Prize.
He has been awarded the Alan Collins Scholarship from the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference and the Fighting Fund Fellow Award from the University of Oregon. He was also awarded the 2023 Jack Hazard fellowship.
His work has been published in Poetry Magazine, The American Poetry Review, AGNl, Copper Nickle, The Georgia Review, Kenyon Review, Los Angeles Review of Books, The Missouri Review, Pleiades, Poetry Northwest, Prairie Schooner, Indiana Review, Ploughshares, TriQuarterly and the anthologies Latino Poetry: The Library of American Anthology, The BreakBeat Poets Vol. 4: LatiNext, and The Wandering Song: Central American Writing in the United States. He has work forthcoming in Colorado Review and the New Ohio Reivew.
He is an associate editor at Tía Chucha Press. He lives in Los Angeles, on Tongva land.