Miami Musicality: A Conversation with Cuban-American Poet Mia Leonin
by Sarah Escue
Mia Leonin is the author of three poetry collections, Braid, Unraveling the Bed, and Chance Born (Anhinga Press) and the memoir, Havana and Other Missing Fathers (University of Arizona Press). In 2017, BkMk Press will publish Fable of the Paddle Sack Child, a book-length poem. Leonin has published poetry and creative nonfiction in New Letters, Prairie Schooner, Alaska Quarterly Review, Indiana Review, North American Review, and others. She teaches creative writing at the University of Miami in Coral Gables, Florida.
Sarah Escue: Chance Born exudes feminine power. It’s important to have poems written by women about the female experience, especially regarding childbirth and motherhood. How has motherhood changed the way you think about and write poetry?
ML: Chance Born is a much more outward looking book than Braid and Unraveling the Bed and that has everything to do with having become a mother. I tend to be myopic and introverted, with a fair dose of self-centeredness thrown in, so I think in a very real sense, my gaze as a writer followed the necessary “pushing out” of birth. For example, I was pregnant with my daughter when the Iraq War began and in fact, I felt her first kick on the first day of the United States’ invasion of Baghdad. On TV, I watched American soldiers topple the statue of Sadam Hussein, and I thought I’m here with a baby in my belly and many women there are also pregnant, or birthing, or trying to raise children amidst tanks and bombs. I had always despised war, but the experience of becoming a mother re-circuited my body and mind to feel more a visceral anger and outrage. This is where a lot of the poems in the book come from.
SE: Your husband is a musician, and he has created free style musical interpretations that pair beautifully with your poetry (Unraveling the Bed). How does music influence your writing? Do you listen to music when you write? If so, what do you listen to?
ML: I hope my answer won’t be too disappointing, but I don’t think music affects my writing process directly. When I listen to music that speaks to my soul, I find the experience completely arresting, so that’s all I can really do. Therefore, I do not and cannot listen to music when I’m writing or revising. Musicality in poetry, however, is vital. I read my work out loud over and over as I revise. There, I hear repetitions, echoes, and dissonances that either attract me or not. I revise accordingly.
SE: You have lived in Miami for many years, and much of your work is grounded in Miami locale. How did you acclimate to life in Miami when you first moved there? How has living in Miami changed the way you think about language?
ML: My travel to Miami was to meet my father, a Cuban exile, for the first time when I was twenty years old. I write about this in my memoir Havana and Other Missing Fathers.
In that book, I write about the experience of listening to language for its emotional cues as opposed to grammar and conjugations.
Also, the lyric essay, “How to Name a City” in Chance Born is about how I acclimated to Miami when I first moved here twenty-three years ago. Language is always morphing to reflect the changing views, needs, and desires of its population. Because Miami is a polyglot city with so many new people coming and going, this seems to be doubly so. Therefore, if you know Spanish, for example, you’ll recognize that there are Cuban, Colombian, and Peruvian phrases in my essay. The essay goes on to reveal how becoming a mother has also helped me feel more connected to my community because being a mother forces you to find community. I tend to stand on the margins and look in, but children grab you by the wrist – literally, metaphorically, and spiritually – they pull you into the fray. Here’s an excerpt:
You give birth to a girl of guava-sticky, croqueta-salted fingers, and panetón-pinched belly. You produce a susto water bearer and industrial grade manufacturer of mocos. In this city, it’s acceptable to call children creatures. Creatures of God that is. Fellow shoppers who previously pretended not to see you as they rushed to the front of the line now bestow your child with blessings: Que díos me la bendiga. You would have once received such an affirmation with wry stoicism; however, the sweet heft on your hip drains you of all irony. You are grateful for any blessings that come your way.
SE: You write in both Spanish and English quite beautifully. What is your writing process for both languages? What’s similar, and what’s different?
ML: I tend to write most of my poetry in English, but Spanish appears when it is necessary for meaning, tone, or language play. In Chance Born, there’s a poem called, “After Carmen Herrera’s Blanco y Verde.” Word play and phrases just bubble up naturally because I was thinking of Carmen Herrera, a Cuban-born painter who, in interviews at least, displayed the cunning, mischievious sense of humor (picardía) that I love about Cuban culture. Ironically, it’s also a trait I relate to my mother and grandmother, who were US born southerners. Anyway, I wanted to play with that picardía, so I imagined an interview between me and Carmen and it came out in a mix of Spanish and English.
SE: How has your relationship with Cuban culture changed over the years? How do you stay connected with Cuban culture?
ML: As I mentioned before, my connection to Cuba began as a young woman. My father was Cuban. I’d never known him, and when I finally met him at age twenty, he ended up being largely unknowable. Many years later, I’ve accepted that fact, but in the meantime, I have connected to Cuba through the relationships I have cultivated with Cuban and Cuban American friends these last twenty years. I also wrote about Spanish-language theater for ten years. During that time, I saw a lot of theater from and about Cuba. This deepened my understanding of Cuba and the exile community on an intellectual and cultural level, but more importantly, theater taps into the emotional and subconscious life of a community. Through theater, I witnessed the island and the diaspora’s fears, resentments, fantasies, and ecstasies. I am profoundly grateful to have experienced Cuba and Miami though its theater.
Travel has also an important connection to Cuba. My memoir is all about travel and most of it takes place in Cuba. I hadn’t travelled to Cuba for many years, but last May I had an opportunity to visit with Dialogues in Cuban Art, an amazing artistic exchange program between Miami and Havana, envisioned and implemented by my dear friend, Elizabeth Cerejido. You can read my blog posts about the experience here:
http://dialoguesincubanart.org/category/uncategorized/
That experience left me with a desire to return to the island soon.
Sarah Escue: Chance Born exudes feminine power. It’s important to have poems written by women about the female experience, especially regarding childbirth and motherhood. How has motherhood changed the way you think about and write poetry?
ML: Chance Born is a much more outward looking book than Braid and Unraveling the Bed and that has everything to do with having become a mother. I tend to be myopic and introverted, with a fair dose of self-centeredness thrown in, so I think in a very real sense, my gaze as a writer followed the necessary “pushing out” of birth. For example, I was pregnant with my daughter when the Iraq War began and in fact, I felt her first kick on the first day of the United States’ invasion of Baghdad. On TV, I watched American soldiers topple the statue of Sadam Hussein, and I thought I’m here with a baby in my belly and many women there are also pregnant, or birthing, or trying to raise children amidst tanks and bombs. I had always despised war, but the experience of becoming a mother re-circuited my body and mind to feel more a visceral anger and outrage. This is where a lot of the poems in the book come from.
SE: Your husband is a musician, and he has created free style musical interpretations that pair beautifully with your poetry (Unraveling the Bed). How does music influence your writing? Do you listen to music when you write? If so, what do you listen to?
ML: I hope my answer won’t be too disappointing, but I don’t think music affects my writing process directly. When I listen to music that speaks to my soul, I find the experience completely arresting, so that’s all I can really do. Therefore, I do not and cannot listen to music when I’m writing or revising. Musicality in poetry, however, is vital. I read my work out loud over and over as I revise. There, I hear repetitions, echoes, and dissonances that either attract me or not. I revise accordingly.
SE: You have lived in Miami for many years, and much of your work is grounded in Miami locale. How did you acclimate to life in Miami when you first moved there? How has living in Miami changed the way you think about language?
ML: My travel to Miami was to meet my father, a Cuban exile, for the first time when I was twenty years old. I write about this in my memoir Havana and Other Missing Fathers.
In that book, I write about the experience of listening to language for its emotional cues as opposed to grammar and conjugations.
Also, the lyric essay, “How to Name a City” in Chance Born is about how I acclimated to Miami when I first moved here twenty-three years ago. Language is always morphing to reflect the changing views, needs, and desires of its population. Because Miami is a polyglot city with so many new people coming and going, this seems to be doubly so. Therefore, if you know Spanish, for example, you’ll recognize that there are Cuban, Colombian, and Peruvian phrases in my essay. The essay goes on to reveal how becoming a mother has also helped me feel more connected to my community because being a mother forces you to find community. I tend to stand on the margins and look in, but children grab you by the wrist – literally, metaphorically, and spiritually – they pull you into the fray. Here’s an excerpt:
You give birth to a girl of guava-sticky, croqueta-salted fingers, and panetón-pinched belly. You produce a susto water bearer and industrial grade manufacturer of mocos. In this city, it’s acceptable to call children creatures. Creatures of God that is. Fellow shoppers who previously pretended not to see you as they rushed to the front of the line now bestow your child with blessings: Que díos me la bendiga. You would have once received such an affirmation with wry stoicism; however, the sweet heft on your hip drains you of all irony. You are grateful for any blessings that come your way.
SE: You write in both Spanish and English quite beautifully. What is your writing process for both languages? What’s similar, and what’s different?
ML: I tend to write most of my poetry in English, but Spanish appears when it is necessary for meaning, tone, or language play. In Chance Born, there’s a poem called, “After Carmen Herrera’s Blanco y Verde.” Word play and phrases just bubble up naturally because I was thinking of Carmen Herrera, a Cuban-born painter who, in interviews at least, displayed the cunning, mischievious sense of humor (picardía) that I love about Cuban culture. Ironically, it’s also a trait I relate to my mother and grandmother, who were US born southerners. Anyway, I wanted to play with that picardía, so I imagined an interview between me and Carmen and it came out in a mix of Spanish and English.
SE: How has your relationship with Cuban culture changed over the years? How do you stay connected with Cuban culture?
ML: As I mentioned before, my connection to Cuba began as a young woman. My father was Cuban. I’d never known him, and when I finally met him at age twenty, he ended up being largely unknowable. Many years later, I’ve accepted that fact, but in the meantime, I have connected to Cuba through the relationships I have cultivated with Cuban and Cuban American friends these last twenty years. I also wrote about Spanish-language theater for ten years. During that time, I saw a lot of theater from and about Cuba. This deepened my understanding of Cuba and the exile community on an intellectual and cultural level, but more importantly, theater taps into the emotional and subconscious life of a community. Through theater, I witnessed the island and the diaspora’s fears, resentments, fantasies, and ecstasies. I am profoundly grateful to have experienced Cuba and Miami though its theater.
Travel has also an important connection to Cuba. My memoir is all about travel and most of it takes place in Cuba. I hadn’t travelled to Cuba for many years, but last May I had an opportunity to visit with Dialogues in Cuban Art, an amazing artistic exchange program between Miami and Havana, envisioned and implemented by my dear friend, Elizabeth Cerejido. You can read my blog posts about the experience here:
http://dialoguesincubanart.org/category/uncategorized/
That experience left me with a desire to return to the island soon.
