Poet Spans Two Worlds, but Has a Home in Neither
by DAVID GONZALEZ
February 12, 2010
His poems, in countless anthologies and five of his own collections, are considered part of the Latino literary canon. His plays and lectures have earned him honors etched in flowery superlatives on plaques. But Tato Laviera would rather possess a more prosaic document, written in legalese.
A lease.
Mr. Laviera has known his share of troubles in recent years, including diabetes, blindness and dialysis. But in December, life became infinitely more complicated when he underwent emergency brain surgery. Too unsteady to return to his Greenwich Village apartment, he checked into a nursing home for physical therapy.
Two weeks later, he fled.
“You could feel the drugs in the old people, in their sentiments, and I knew that was not Laviera,” he said. “But when my foot hit the sidewalk outside the nursing home, at that moment I knew I was homeless. The honors I had didn’t mean anything anymore.”
Poets, even widely published ones, do not exactly roll in cash. Now, at 59, Mr. Laviera is struggling to find an affordable apartment in the city that has been his home since he moved here from Puerto Rico in 1960.
He has reached out for help to almost a dozen community and housing groups — some of whom were generous with praise but little else. Only one, United Bronx Parents, came to his aid. Lorraine Montenegro, its director, put him in a temporary room at a transitional shelter on Prospect Avenue. She saw it not as a favor, but her duty.
“I just think that when our writers and singers and artists run into hard times, we have to be there for them,” she said. “We can’t forget them. The community that has enjoyed their work for so long has to say, ‘Presente.’ ”
She lamented how fans in the city can be fickle when it comes to helping artists once the spotlight dims. Guadalupe Victoria Yoli Raymond — better known as La Lupe — went from being the Queen of Latin Soul to a destitute existence in the South Bronx. Héctor Lavoe, the Singer of Singers, wasted away penniless in a hospital on the edge of El Barrio, where his songs had once been the soundtrack to daily life.
Since emerging in the early 1980s, Mr. Laviera has been acknowledged as a singular voice whose life and work bridge New York and Puerto Rico. His writings, which pulse to the flowing rhythms of Spanish and English, deal with the tug of allegiances to culture and home, as well as race and language.
Juan Flores, a New York University professor and an early champion, said Mr. Laviera had influenced many others who came after him, “whether they admit it or not.”
“I found his best poetry to be a jewel of New York Puerto Rican expression,” Mr. Flores said. “His way of putting together the relationship between the island and the diaspora was more finely tuned and deeper than others. He took head on the issues of assimilation and cultural preservation and innovation.”
Though seen by some critics as past his prime, Mr. Laviera has kept himself in the public eye by teaching, lecturing and staging “sugar slams,” poetry events to raise awareness about the ravages of diabetes among minorities.
His own health problems deepened one day in December when he suddenly listed to the side and began to fall. Paula La Costa, who had shared her apartment with him since 2004, caught him before he hit the floor. Water on the brain was diagnosed, and the emergency surgery installed a shunt to drain the fluid. But it left him with difficulty moving his left leg.
Both he and Ms. La Costa agreed that he would need a place that was easier to maneuver around. He entered a nursing home, but soon grew alarmed at being surrounded by what he saw as people who were no longer engaged in life, but medicated and killing time.
“I just could not do that,” he said. “So I called my sister and asked her to liberate me.”
But relatives are not able to give him a long-term home. Besides, his urgency comes not just from needing a place to sleep, but a place to write. After a fallow period, his literary output resumed with the 2008 publication of “Mixturao and Other Poems,” his first new poetry collection in almost 20 years. He just completed the 700-page manuscript of a novel, “El Barrio.”
While he earns royalties from his books and anthologized poems, he has left the money untouched, hoping to tap it as a pension when he retires from teaching and touring. His income, he said, is limited. Just like his housing choices.
“It’s not like I’m looking to be subsidized in the realm of upper-middle-class elegance and comfort,” he said. “The terminology for me is ‘affordable.’ And in this city more and more people are just being moved out. My situation has given me whole new affinity for them.
“My eyes are thoroughly open.”
When he started looking for an apartment, he thought he could cash in some of the good will he had earned from a lifetime of community workshops and readings. Among those he approached were several politicians and advocacy groups in East Harlem, the setting of his novel.
The result? He answered with silence and a smile.
“I decided to come to the mainland,” he said. “The Bronx.”
While Ms. Montenegro searches for permanent housing, Mr. Laviera is settling in at the shelter. Over the last week he has slowly moved his belongings into a small room near the entrance of the building, known as Casita Esperanza, or Little House of Hope.
He becomes animated when he talks about his new neighbors, whom he hears as they walk past his room. He has already enlisted some to rehearse his play “Chupacabra Sightings.” He plans to give poetry readings.
“This has opened me up to even more feeling,” he said. “I can create here, and that makes me feel liberated. Being here has given me the spirit of continuity and centrality, and that’s better than a salary.”
by DAVID GONZALEZ
February 12, 2010
His poems, in countless anthologies and five of his own collections, are considered part of the Latino literary canon. His plays and lectures have earned him honors etched in flowery superlatives on plaques. But Tato Laviera would rather possess a more prosaic document, written in legalese.
A lease.
Mr. Laviera has known his share of troubles in recent years, including diabetes, blindness and dialysis. But in December, life became infinitely more complicated when he underwent emergency brain surgery. Too unsteady to return to his Greenwich Village apartment, he checked into a nursing home for physical therapy.
Two weeks later, he fled.
“You could feel the drugs in the old people, in their sentiments, and I knew that was not Laviera,” he said. “But when my foot hit the sidewalk outside the nursing home, at that moment I knew I was homeless. The honors I had didn’t mean anything anymore.”
Poets, even widely published ones, do not exactly roll in cash. Now, at 59, Mr. Laviera is struggling to find an affordable apartment in the city that has been his home since he moved here from Puerto Rico in 1960.
He has reached out for help to almost a dozen community and housing groups — some of whom were generous with praise but little else. Only one, United Bronx Parents, came to his aid. Lorraine Montenegro, its director, put him in a temporary room at a transitional shelter on Prospect Avenue. She saw it not as a favor, but her duty.
“I just think that when our writers and singers and artists run into hard times, we have to be there for them,” she said. “We can’t forget them. The community that has enjoyed their work for so long has to say, ‘Presente.’ ”
She lamented how fans in the city can be fickle when it comes to helping artists once the spotlight dims. Guadalupe Victoria Yoli Raymond — better known as La Lupe — went from being the Queen of Latin Soul to a destitute existence in the South Bronx. Héctor Lavoe, the Singer of Singers, wasted away penniless in a hospital on the edge of El Barrio, where his songs had once been the soundtrack to daily life.
Since emerging in the early 1980s, Mr. Laviera has been acknowledged as a singular voice whose life and work bridge New York and Puerto Rico. His writings, which pulse to the flowing rhythms of Spanish and English, deal with the tug of allegiances to culture and home, as well as race and language.
Juan Flores, a New York University professor and an early champion, said Mr. Laviera had influenced many others who came after him, “whether they admit it or not.”
“I found his best poetry to be a jewel of New York Puerto Rican expression,” Mr. Flores said. “His way of putting together the relationship between the island and the diaspora was more finely tuned and deeper than others. He took head on the issues of assimilation and cultural preservation and innovation.”
Though seen by some critics as past his prime, Mr. Laviera has kept himself in the public eye by teaching, lecturing and staging “sugar slams,” poetry events to raise awareness about the ravages of diabetes among minorities.
His own health problems deepened one day in December when he suddenly listed to the side and began to fall. Paula La Costa, who had shared her apartment with him since 2004, caught him before he hit the floor. Water on the brain was diagnosed, and the emergency surgery installed a shunt to drain the fluid. But it left him with difficulty moving his left leg.
Both he and Ms. La Costa agreed that he would need a place that was easier to maneuver around. He entered a nursing home, but soon grew alarmed at being surrounded by what he saw as people who were no longer engaged in life, but medicated and killing time.
“I just could not do that,” he said. “So I called my sister and asked her to liberate me.”
But relatives are not able to give him a long-term home. Besides, his urgency comes not just from needing a place to sleep, but a place to write. After a fallow period, his literary output resumed with the 2008 publication of “Mixturao and Other Poems,” his first new poetry collection in almost 20 years. He just completed the 700-page manuscript of a novel, “El Barrio.”
While he earns royalties from his books and anthologized poems, he has left the money untouched, hoping to tap it as a pension when he retires from teaching and touring. His income, he said, is limited. Just like his housing choices.
“It’s not like I’m looking to be subsidized in the realm of upper-middle-class elegance and comfort,” he said. “The terminology for me is ‘affordable.’ And in this city more and more people are just being moved out. My situation has given me whole new affinity for them.
“My eyes are thoroughly open.”
When he started looking for an apartment, he thought he could cash in some of the good will he had earned from a lifetime of community workshops and readings. Among those he approached were several politicians and advocacy groups in East Harlem, the setting of his novel.
The result? He answered with silence and a smile.
“I decided to come to the mainland,” he said. “The Bronx.”
While Ms. Montenegro searches for permanent housing, Mr. Laviera is settling in at the shelter. Over the last week he has slowly moved his belongings into a small room near the entrance of the building, known as Casita Esperanza, or Little House of Hope.
He becomes animated when he talks about his new neighbors, whom he hears as they walk past his room. He has already enlisted some to rehearse his play “Chupacabra Sightings.” He plans to give poetry readings.
“This has opened me up to even more feeling,” he said. “I can create here, and that makes me feel liberated. Being here has given me the spirit of continuity and centrality, and that’s better than a salary.”
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