"In Colleges, He is found in Asian Studies Courses, Learning an Asian Language."

You know what I am really tired about? People raising their voices in a small classroom.

Unless you are the professor, have something witty to say like A.J., or you are the dedicated facilitator of class discussions: STFU

That being said, I found Tuesday’s discussion —prompted by Andy and Jen (props!)— to be an very important in our understanding of American Literature.

Because how better to understand American Literature then with a book of poetry complete with Tagalog and Baybayin languages?

I think Andrea said it the best when she said that the purpose was to give readers the “push back” of being exposed to a foreign language. Because I, as several of my classmates, felt that a glossary was imminent to Poeta en San Francisco. And I think that Andrea brought up a strong argument of why it did not.

But on the topic of elitism and whether or not Barbara Jane Reyes is an elitist poet, I would have to say “yes.” Before the flame wars begin, let me explain my position.

It is my opinion that any writer –poets in particular— write their works with a certain hint of snobbery. Every person’s writing is a small memoir of her or his own life experiences. And since only the writer of piece may have lived the shoes of herself or himself, it will always be evident that no reader will completely understand the writing.

Heck, I could say that this blog entry has my own form of elitist pretentiousness.

But I guess the point of poetry is not for us to understand its meaning. As Ashley said in her blog post: “although we may lose the content of the poem that is written in another language, we do not lose the feeling/emotion.” And I am reminded of Yusef Komunyakaa, whose poems have a lot of feeling and emotion. Likewise, none of us can ever fully understand Komunyakaa’s poetry because we were not there – not even close, since most of parents probably weren’t even dating when the Vietnam War happened.

I will note that I understood most of page 84. Maybe because of my own resentment towards every documentary I have ever seen in college that featured old Caucasian men as “experts in so and so Asian culture.”

And I probably did grasp page 84 (I reckon I cannot title the poem since its “one continuous poem”) more so then any other page in Poeta en San Francisco. Maybe it was the only poem written in plain-speak. And very non-stereotypically poem-like.

Which brings me to the question, why in the world does page 84 even take place?

It is uncharacteristic compared to the rest of book. But bloody heck, did I take to it!

Also, is this the last required weekly blog entry? Or can there be more blogging for extra credit…*fingers crossed*