A Mexican American poet, AOC and the myth of the Latino vote

Michael Torres, a former graffiti artist whose words will soon be published in The New Yorker, asks this question in his poem, “[White] America.”

His debut poetry collection, An Incomplete List of Names, was released this October and grapples with themes of race, language, and neighborhood while exploring their effect on identity.

The language is sharp yet wildly imaginative, as shown in the poem, “Learning to Box.”

“That summer / I learned men are born from torn muscle tees, / sharp teeth, and pink scars on smooth faces. / There, motor oil combed over the lawn, / Bud cans crunched sunlight into silver / blades, and sweat slipped along foreheads like commas between every other word / those boys, desperate to leave kid-dom, / spat out.”

The poems effuse raw power, like well-told coming-of-age stories. Yet, just as they strut along, they trespass into more risky territory without much warning, as if Torres is trying to keep the reader on her toes.

A perfect example is when Torres trims hedges for a white woman’s lawn, and she asks him if he speaks English. Naturally, Torres, who is ethnically Mexican but born in the States, finds the question insulting. In another poem, Torres shares an anecdote about a professor who invites him to dinner; the two have a great time, yet Torres feels that he has to suppress his true self. Instead of saying things like, “stay up or / peace out,” expressions he grew up with in Pomona, California, Torres reaches for words like “delightful” and “dichotomy.”

These poems seemingly suggest that Torres rejects white America, or that white America will always view him as alien, but he doesn’t settle for such obvious conclusions. He prefers ambiguity—not for cleverness’ sake—but to reveal another layer of complexity within his identity: the fact that he doesn’t completely resonate with his Hispanic roots either.

In the poem “[Mexican] America,” Torres studies an image of his grandfather who visits the States from Jalisco.

“When I was a baby, Apolonio, my father’s father/ would nibble my earlobe, maybe hoping to take with him/ back to Mexico a small part of me.”

He adds later:

“The older sister of a girl I wanted to date / asked if I spoke Spanish. I shrugged kinda. / She stared at me and my gold-plated grief. / I italicize Spanish in my poems although I hardly speak it my / every day. / Is this forgery?”

Torres’ distance from the language of his ancestors is a recurring theme in the book and one that plays a strong hand in molding his childhood and adolescent experiences. In short, not speaking Spanish in his “every day” makes Torres a different kind of Mexican.

But, what kind? And how different from Spanish-speaking Mexicans?

These questions—random enigmas—wedged into the crevices of An Incomplete List of Names are the binding that holds the various poems together. The common theme being: What exactly does it mean to be other, or even perceived as other, in the United States?

Torres never offers a complete answer to this provocation (hence the name of the collection?), but his questions certainly feel prophetic now, as the way America views its Latino population has consumed a large part of national conversation since Election Day.

The Poetry of Politics

Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, whose own mother immigrated from Puerto Rico, sparked this dialogue only an hour after she coasted to reelection on Nov. 3.

Once Florida and Texas began to glow red, AOC tweeted a stiff rebuke to her party:

Since then, former Vice President Joe Biden has been declared President-Elect by every major news outlet. But, to many, the fact that Trump gained Latino voters in 2020 feels as appropriate as a drunk uncle on Thanksgiving.

How Trump was able to cater to Latinos is only one part of the discussion. Perhaps the more contested, is what should constitute Democrats’ “strategy” and “path” for regaining the Latino vote.

Everyone from news anchors to average Joes on Twitter are pitching ideas about how this can be accomplished.

Some arguments have been quite disappointing, even borderline racist, like this op-ed in The New York Times, which suggests that minorities voted for Trump only because the white patriarchy strengthened its invisible vise on their minds, as if minorities are unable —on their own accord—to find reasons for voting the way that they do.

Chalking the Latino vote up to the white patriarchy is convenient (as absolving oneself of blame usually is), but by not assuming responsibility, offers no solutions for a nation that could use some balm and bandaging right now.

Los Angeles Times journalist Esmeralda Bermudez echoed this sentiment on Election Day via Twitter. The fact that many expressed shock that Latinos didn’t vote uniformly, as if they are a separate species defined by their hate for Donald Trump, ignores the rich tapestry of Hispanic culture in the United States.

Why would a Mexican American in Arizona toss his ballot the same way as a Cuban American in Florida?

Torres nudges the idea a bit further. He argues that one cannot even lump all Mexican Americans together. Place and neighborhood, Torres claims, has a stronger effect on identity than shared ancestry. His friends, or “homies,” are close to him because they grew up in close proximity.

“And when I say homies, I’m talking about/ those south-side-Pomona homies; right-by- / the-60-freeway homies; down-the-block- / from-Tom’s-burger-and-across-the-street- / from-where-Nacho-Moreno-got-hit-by / a-car-on-his-way-to-8th-grade-one-morning homies.”

Where Torres could have stopped at Pomona, or even south-side Pomona, he demarcates the exact geographical area that nourished his individuality with landmarks close to his heart. Intriguingly, this poem’s title is, “All-American Mexican.” The goal is not to be exclusionary or territorial, but to reveal nuance. Torres feels the need to make distinctions between homies in his own city because he argues that even if people realize that differences exist within Latinos, they don’t necessarily understand how deep those lines run or their impact on identity.

Those lines not only separate Torres from other Latinos, but also reinforce the distance between him and white America. Like a crisscrossing railroad track, Torres rejects the notion of duality. Torres is not so much Mexican American as much as he is Mexican and American. This slight difference in semantics signifies a departure from the traditional understanding of trying to preserve one’s (or, their parents’) culture while adopting a new one. What Torres attempts to explain is that those like him are not a little bit of both, but something completely new. Hence, his most provocative statement in An Incomplete List of Names:

“I’m building my own country. It looks like / my 7-year-old self, rocking a Looney Tunes / Raiders tee and throwing-up the Westside. / My country doesn’t speak Spanish but / it knows when you’re talking shit. / My country fits onto this very page. / My national anthem keeps getting remixed. / We’re working on a website.”

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As much as neighborhood and geography play a role in An Incomplete List of Names, Torres is not advocating for the construction of an actual country, but the idea of a country.

A country marked by individuality and an appreciation for cultural nuance.

Perhaps America could become such a country. If so, reading Michael Torres would be a decent place to start.

An Incomplete List of Names is available for purchase at Beacon Press.