Gustavo Barahona-López
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Gustavo Barahona-López (he/him) is a poet and educator from Richmond, California. In his writing, Barahona-López draws from his experience growing as the son of Mexican immigrants. His micro-chapbook 'Where Will the Children Play?' is part of the Ghost City Press 2020 Summer Series. A VONA alum, Barahona-López's work can be found or is forthcoming in Iron Horse Literary Review, Puerto del Sol, The Acentos Review, Apogee Journal, Cosmonauts Avenue, among other publications.
Twitter: https://twitter.com/TruthSinVerdad Website: https://linktr.ee/gustavobarahonalopez |
Self Portrait as Blank Name Tag
I do not question why my classmates
are standing around my bed
wearing jeans and t-shirts
by designers I do not know.
My soccer team runs by but
I feel it would be improper to join them
given I have no cleats on.
Instead, since no one seems phased
by the fact I am in my flannel pajamas,
I contort my body to make myself
seem as at ease as they are.
A girl from my advising group
comes up to me and asks
for me to say my full name.
Gustavo Adolfo López Hernandez,
I deliver, not bothering to anglicize shit.
With a satisfied giggle she turns and walks
away from me. I see a guy from my Calculus class
and remember I owe him a dollar I used
to buy a Coke. Panicked, I reach for
my non-existent pockets.
My mother once told me,
Always pay your debts promptly.
My mother often told me,
California was stolen from México in 1848.
Who then is the debtor?
My head begins to hang. I can no longer
keep my eyes from shutting out their faces.
I wrap myself in my golden eagle-clad blanket,
its talons facing outwards.
are standing around my bed
wearing jeans and t-shirts
by designers I do not know.
My soccer team runs by but
I feel it would be improper to join them
given I have no cleats on.
Instead, since no one seems phased
by the fact I am in my flannel pajamas,
I contort my body to make myself
seem as at ease as they are.
A girl from my advising group
comes up to me and asks
for me to say my full name.
Gustavo Adolfo López Hernandez,
I deliver, not bothering to anglicize shit.
With a satisfied giggle she turns and walks
away from me. I see a guy from my Calculus class
and remember I owe him a dollar I used
to buy a Coke. Panicked, I reach for
my non-existent pockets.
My mother once told me,
Always pay your debts promptly.
My mother often told me,
California was stolen from México in 1848.
Who then is the debtor?
My head begins to hang. I can no longer
keep my eyes from shutting out their faces.
I wrap myself in my golden eagle-clad blanket,
its talons facing outwards.
Commentary
Gustavo on “Self Portrait as Blank Name Tag”:
While part of the of the reason I love reading is the magic that occurs between the writer’s intent and the reader’s experiences, I often find myself searching for the context in which a piece is created.
I wrote “Self portrait as blank name tag” in a workshop with Rosebud Ben-Oni centered on self portraits. For this poem I thought back to my high school self. I attended a predominantly white independent high school on a scholarship. My Mexican immigrant parents’ entire yearly income would have barely covered the cost of tuition. While my classmates were well meaning, there were vast class, racial, and cultural divides between us that made it difficult for me to feel like I belonged. What kept me grounded during that time were the stories and histories my parents told me. The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, their own migration journeys, among so many others. They reminded me to be proud of my Mexican American identity and that I was at that institution for a reason.
Editor-in-Chief Christine Taylor on “Self Portrait as Blank Name Tag”:
I felt hooked by Gustavo’s poem from the first line and found myself immediately empathizing with the speaker. At the end of the poem, when the “talons [are] facing outwards,” I was cheering out loud. That final image is one of fight, strength, freedom, and reclamation all rolled into one. And equally complex is the title of the piece: at first the “blank name tag” to me signaled a sense of a challenged identity, but really the poem speaks to the fact that there is an opportunity for creation, such as a blank canvas presents to the artist.
While part of the of the reason I love reading is the magic that occurs between the writer’s intent and the reader’s experiences, I often find myself searching for the context in which a piece is created.
I wrote “Self portrait as blank name tag” in a workshop with Rosebud Ben-Oni centered on self portraits. For this poem I thought back to my high school self. I attended a predominantly white independent high school on a scholarship. My Mexican immigrant parents’ entire yearly income would have barely covered the cost of tuition. While my classmates were well meaning, there were vast class, racial, and cultural divides between us that made it difficult for me to feel like I belonged. What kept me grounded during that time were the stories and histories my parents told me. The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, their own migration journeys, among so many others. They reminded me to be proud of my Mexican American identity and that I was at that institution for a reason.
Editor-in-Chief Christine Taylor on “Self Portrait as Blank Name Tag”:
I felt hooked by Gustavo’s poem from the first line and found myself immediately empathizing with the speaker. At the end of the poem, when the “talons [are] facing outwards,” I was cheering out loud. That final image is one of fight, strength, freedom, and reclamation all rolled into one. And equally complex is the title of the piece: at first the “blank name tag” to me signaled a sense of a challenged identity, but really the poem speaks to the fact that there is an opportunity for creation, such as a blank canvas presents to the artist.
