“A wise man can play the part of a clown, but a clown can't play the part of a wise man.” ~ Malcolm X

If you had told me—any number of years ago—that I would someday get a clown measuring 6-by-4 inches tattooed on myself & covering the majority of my left thigh… I would have laughed in your face. Yet if you had shown me the clown—with her vintage suit de…

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“What’s in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours. A star, a daystar, a firedrake rose at his birth.” ~ James Joyce { Chapter 9, Ulysses }

As a storyteller, I find it remarkably difficult to tell my own story. I’m convinced that I share this affliction with other narrators… Preferring to become invisible, or to shrink into the background of the stories we weave—to be a fly on the wall, or to be the wall itself—that is the goal! But I set out to discover my backstory—to explore the myth(s) of my origin—with this project, & I still intend to follow through. I shared Part 1 of this piece (or perhaps just the preface to it) over two years ago… So here’s Part 2, in which I introduce you to my great-grandmother.

Her name was Mama Chila… Or so I believed, because that is what I heard her called by everyone else. My mother Brenda—whose name is fairly unique in the family—would boast about being one (the 11th to be precise) of over fifty grandchildren. My grandmother Norma—who shares a name with her eldest daughter—was the fourth of twelve children… All birthed by this matriarch of the farm in Quebrada, Puerto Rico. Her husband, the patriarch, was known to family & farmhand alike as Papa Juancho. My abuela spoke incredibly tenderly of both her parents for the rest of her life—eyes watering wistfully as I asked my questions about her childhood. Her father had passed some time before I was born, but her mother was still around to see the first few years of my life.

The memories I have of her are blurry & disjointed, at best… But apparently, I enjoyed lengthy conversations with my great-grandmother at the handful of big family gatherings I attended as a child. I can only imagine what it was we talked about, but I was a precocious child who gravitated to the company of elders from early on. I do remember being rocked to sleep by abuela—as she sang beautiful lullabies in Spanish—enough times to make her arms the place I felt most safe in the world. I don’t know how old I was when I finally realized that Chila was a nickname for Cecilia—meaning I was the grandchild named after her mother—but I remember it came as quite the surprise… So what did the youngest Cecilia speak to the oldest Cecilia about? Only the angels know.

I was much older when I learned that Cecilia Echeandia (not yet called Mama Chila) was 21 when she married Juan Felix Gonzales (not yet Papa Juancho)—who at the age of 37 was a full 16 years her senior. The feelings that came with this knowledge were softened in learning their marriage was opposed by one of Cecilia’s older sisters—who also married a Gonzales brother only five years her senior. All feelings aside, the age discrepancy certainly helps to explain how our matriarch went on to mother a dozen children… As well as how she lived to see her eldest grandchildren give birth to great-grandchildren. In a large family that goes by nicknames (& numbers) to keep track of who belongs to who, I believe there is a special tie to the one(s) you share your name with.

I’ve always loved my name—despite how frequently I’ve heard it butchered, disemboweled, & just plain mispronounced… I’ve also had many nicknames—yet none which I answer to more often than the one used by my family & my dearest friends. I delight in hearing my niece & nephew call me “titi Ceci,” & when I named this newsletter “La Belle Vie de Ceci” I was also delighting in the fact that « ceci » is a word in French—which offers a fun (if nonsensical) meaning for fellow Francophiles. It isn’t the beautiful life of Cecilia—because I don’t feel like I can speak for all the Cecilia’s. Even if I could, I don’t know that I’d call all their lives beautiful. The beauty lies in the mystery… In what I can’t remember speaking about with my elders, but believe I heard with my heart.

To be continued…

“Healing is impossible in loneliness; it is the opposite of loneliness. Conviviality is healing. To be healed we must come with all the other creatures to the feast of Creation.” ~ Wendell Berry

I turned 38 last weekend, which means I’ve officially been writing poetry for two decades… Over half of my life! So I suppose it’s about time I tell my origin story on here. Not as a writer—since that dates back to as soon as I was capable of holding a pencil and clever enough to invent my own words—but as the poet who followed a path centered around that specific genre towards a graduate degree, a published book, and a few teaching gigs (that eventually ran dry). But the truth is that I never meant to box myself in as a poet, per say, though for a time it felt fitting to refer to myself as one… If only because it seemed like the easiest, most fulfilling, maybe even marketable thing to do as a bilingual, multi-hyphenate artist coming of age before we all stopped believing in a future in academia.

It all began at a humble cafe that has stayed in business over the years thanks to the loyalty of the students across the street. Truly, it was proximity which brought us to The Sweet Shop Cafe with such regularity more than it was the offerings at said establishment… These ranged from milkshakes to Italian sodas to Boba teas and encompassed every type of handheld, sandwich, or wrap imaginable. But if I’m being entirely honest, it all began with a hilarious sandwich board made of cardboard and advertising a poetry club in permanent marker.

I had only recently arrived along with the newest crop of freshmen to Florida State University, but I was already eager to declare myself a creative writing major and find my tribe. Therefore, the very moment our families (at least, those members who had driven or come along to install us into our dorms) had dissipated—and all that remained of the crowd on campus was students who lived or professors who taught there—I set off in search of a sign. It came far sooner than I expected—right as I rounded a corner to the brick courtyard under student union…

In fact, I almost smacked face first into it! Rounding the same corner except coming from the opposite direction were two young men… One of them had recently become a creative writing major himself, and would go on to publish several beautiful books. But at the time, all I knew of these students is that they were both wearing handmade sandwich boards which slung over their shoulders using twine to attach the front and back sides. In the time it took to apologize, I noticed their signs advertised a group called the Society Of Poetic Elements… (Or S.O.P.E. for short.)

I attended their next meeting, and found myself the only freshman (and female) student sitting at a table of about four or five other juniors and seniors. They met every Thursday night, and waxed philosophical about poetry for about two hours… Encouraging each other to read so-and-so or try such-and-such technique to improve a recent draft. I marveled at the sheer quantity of names of still living poets they knew and dropped so easily. I forced myself to read even my worst results of the generative prompts, and blushed at their kind remarks.

Growing up, I’d already been part of choirs, orchestras, theatre ensembles, and many a collective performance before. But it was at The Sweet Shop Cafe where I was born a poet—and in this place that I finally learned what it meant to be in community with fellow writers… I honestly consider myself fortunate that it was such a decent experience, and that it prepared me for my first official workshop—which didn’t occur until the following semester. To this day, I feel as though I owe a debt of gratitude to Glenn, Karl, Phil, and Todd for being so dear.

There were other members who I’m choosing not to name… One, the founder of S.O.P.E who I didn’t meet and become friends with until many years later. Two, a dear-hearted and dearly-departed soul whose name I will refrain from saying out of respect for his relatives. Three, the other wearer of the sandwich board (whose behavior towards me wasn’t ok, so I’m not ready to open up about that right now). Finally, the other students who wove in and out of the group—who helped me keep it going after the original members graduated. I owe them thanks, too!

Lately, I’ve struggled to identify as a poet. It’s certainly still the genre I’ve spent the most time appreciating, contemplating, studying, utilizing, etc. It has shaped me—led me so much farther than I could’ve dreamed—and being one is a dream that continues to guide my steps… Just not all of them. Not even most of them, anymore. The years I spent so certain of that identity were beautiful, but oftentimes heart-breaking ones... I learned that a poet is a lonely beast of burden here on earth—often tasked with bearing witness to far too much.

Still, it felt good to return… A full twenty years after I first walked through its front door—first put pen to paper in my beloved poetry journal—this so-called cafe has barely changed. The sunken couches and the tall-backed benches look as dingy yet inviting as ever… The wood-paneled walls have sustained another few generations worth of signatures, yet somehow remain the same shade of mustard yellow… The ceiling hasn’t been replaced, and the hand-drawn advertisements look trippy as ever… Maybe some things never change. {to be cont.}

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“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet…” ~ Juliet { Act II Scene II, Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet }

When I was a child, I remember being asked to recite my full name—as though it were a line of poetry. Those born into Spanish-speaking families usually relate to this plight… We tend to be given names which are a mouthful to say & must, therefore, be committed to memory—like long tethers to our luscious lineages…

My full given (& legal) name is Cecilia Milagros Llompart Borges… But I came prepared to list the maiden names of both of my abuelas, too—if I felt cheeky, or eager to flex my language skills (as most precocious youngsters are wont to do—especially when adults are present & asking). Here, I begin to dissect this name…

Having moved to Florida as a toddler who could barely manage one language, I was able to blend a second one into my daily rotation more seamlessly than either one of my parents. Despite being the first to learn English, my father’s strong accent & struggle to translate some of the more technical terms of his trade directly impacted his ability to secure work here—which threw him into a severe depression. My mother became the sole provider as a freelance artist & architect, but that put such a strain on our new family that their marriage nearly dissolved. Thus—after acquiring two breeding dalmatians to celebrate my first birthday stateside—we left the coastal, but less developed bay-area of Tampa & finally settled into the largely Puerto Rican neighborhoods which seem to make up the majority of the suburbs surrounding the city of Orlando.

Central Florida is where my memory solidifies into reels I can actually see, hear, feel… Memories I can recall using all of my senses: The morning of my little sister’s birth, or being gently pushed on the swing-set by the bilingual boy who lived in the house behind ours. The places we lived in now also had long names which I liked to say out loud: Indigenous names like Kissimmee (which I quite enjoyed spelling), & Poinciana (which sounded lovely regardless of how it was pronounced). I was developing—or perhaps simply discovering—an innate fascination for languages at this early age… I had already witnessed first-hand how language could make or break a family, as well as the powerful role it played in everything from our self-esteem to our ability to survive in a place. I gathered that we were different—because of the language(s) we spoke.

Since I was learning more than one word for each & every thing, I suppose I also managed to grasp from the get-go that the same person could answer to more than one name… By the time I could hold a conversation, I could do so in two languages fluently & was beginning to appreciate that each name also came with its own—different & rather colorful—personality: I was Cecilia, but also Ceci to my family, Cecilita to my abuela, & Cecilia Milagros to my mother when I was in serious trouble… Yet I only became Cecilia Llompart—the name that would someday become my author name—when I started Kindergarten & entered the American school system: One in which students have one first name & one last name, & in which nobody seems interested in learning about names—far less in being corrected when they mispronounce or misspell them.

To be continued…