 When I was invited to give this year's Effie Lee Morris lecture I had for a brief moment the notion that I should be lecturing you the audience for something bad you've done. I don't know I should put you over my knee and do a little birthday spank or not and looking around the room I think somebody might like that. I don't know. But I'm not here to endorse corporal punishment or scold you for coming out this early evening. I'm here to entertain and explain in no particular order the genres have employed for 40 plus years. I'm all over the small literary map, poetry for adults, for children, biography for middle grade youth, film, not video, plays, prefaces when asked, literary criticism with the drowsy effect of sleepy time tea, picture books, chapter novels, a self-proclaimed song that I imagined Beyonce working into a repertoire. She would belt out that song and then ask me lyricist flush with pride to come out and take a bow. That's my title too much of a good thing. And I begin randomly. In fall 1994 I received a call from a program manager of the Los Angeles Opera. The manager asked, is this Gary Soto? Yes, I answered provided you don't have anything against him. She said she didn't. She was calling to ask if I would write a libretto for their opera in the schools program. Sure, why not? A libretto? I was just thinking about that. We talked a little bit, hung up the phone and I turned to my wife and asked, what's a libretto? I thought a libretto was maybe something like a surgical procedure, not unlike a lobotomy. It sounded somewhat the same, I don't know. As an independent writer, I often say yes to work outside of my immediate knowledge. In this case, I was forced to learn on the job. This opera became Nirlandia, which played at two middle schools in the Los Angeles area, then disappeared as a one hit wonder. But I wasn't done with this literary effort of mine. The opera morphed into a one act play that included an old man rap. This was pre-Hamilton, by the way. This was pre-George Bush, Barack Obama, and our president, whatever. I was brave to think that I could hang some bling in the shape of dollar signs around my neck, wear a baseball cap sideways, and rap from one side of the stage to the other. And while these lyrics, and while these lyrics, writing these lyrics to the song, I told myself to sound contemporary, be with it. Don't utter such old phrases as, Holy Toledo. Within the play, the rap works splendidly. For my lips, not so. I would recite this ditty, but I don't wish to come off as a Pat Boone, the crooner from the 1950s, who in the 1990s sang heavy metal. Poetry, as we know, is the mother of all literary genres, and I speak of the oral tradition, as in conversations heightened by beauty, pain, nature, love, place, and our sense of mortality. It's a tradition as old as campfires. In my mind, I see a couple of Neanderthals around a campfire, each with a shiny bone, thinking, OK, we've eaten our Macedon for today. Should we recite poetry under the godless stars? And would the bones of our hunted down prey make sounds? Was this by chance the first open poetry mic, circa 7,000 BC? Without mics, of course. By three adult novels, what can I say about them? They featured a deadbeat poet by the name of Silver Mendes, a lowlife from Oakland, who can't write for beans or frijoles. But you'd like to drink with him, smoke with him, hang with him. He's not solid husband material, but he's good-natured and resilient. I wrote one novel, then another, and a third which received a two-sentence review and book list in which the word ghastly was used not once, but twice. Ghastly, ghastly, I thought? I read a couple of pages of my novel titled Amnesia in a Republican county, and I did see it upstairs. It's here in this library. Bless you. And I thought they were pretty good lines. What's the thing about ghastly? With the trilogy completed with no film options in the forecast, I closed up shop on this genre. Enough of writing adult novels, adult novels. Until last year, I had piles of these remainder books in my garage. I should have taken the snow shovel, scooped them out into the front lawn, and created a bonfire in a sort of banned-this-book moment. YA novels. I have four of them, one which was honored three years ago by the Children's Literature Association, a group of fine academics spread across the country. They honored me with the Phoenix Award for the most neglected book of the previous 20 years. Neglected book, 20 years, I could line up a bunch of my books and get that award annually. The shame of it, I decided that I would accept the honor and did a little research as I prepared for my two-minute acceptance speech. Where did I turn? Amazon, of course. And with my mouth hanging open, scanned a few reviews. One which said, this is the worst book I've ever read. Another reviewer, like Boring. Another said, why did the school assign this book? This was my last honor, the most neglected book award. I assured my acceptance speech to 30 seconds. And since I'm on the subject of literary awards, I bring up my book, Partly Cloudy, Poems of Love and Longing. It received a framed certificate that said in so many words that the book might receive critical and commercial recognition in the future, but not now. Be patient, the award told me. Meanwhile, here's a certificate for you to hold for a while. This was 10 years ago, and I'm still holding my breath. The certificate is placed face down in a box in the garage where my remainder of Silver Mendes novels once were placed. I forget the movie, but I recall my laughter when in the dark of a Berkeley theater, I read the quickly moving opening credits. I read among the credits this line. Truth is like poetry, and you know everybody hates poetry. I thought I was brilliant. Yes, perhaps so. Everyone hates truth too. I find truth in my poetry, and I find an audience coupled with it by influences out there, especially with my poem, Oranges, the most anthologized poem in contemporary literature. I present a short video done by a young man who took time, lots of time, to reconstruct my poem using Legos. Call it genius, not the poem, but the design this young man came up with. Let's see. In December, frost cracked underneath my steps. My breath before me net, gone. As I walked toward her house, the London's porch light burned young, night, day and any weather. But though, walking away, until she came out, pulling her clothes, spaced bright with illusion, I smiled and touched her shoulder, letting out a scream. Across the used car, a line in the Atlantic juries, we were reading the word for a store. The tiny bell ringing sales, the bell and air around us. I took the canvas, teared like niches, asked what she wanted. I was thinking beneath her in the pocket, and when she looked at the child at the cost of time, I didn't say anything. I took the thing in front of my pocket, and in an orange, she said, I'd be quiet and I can't hear her. When I looked up, the man's eyes were in my mouth, known very well, but it was all around me. Outside, the king's heart, sesame gas, saw a hand, like a ghost, to my chest. I took my girl's hand, like two lives, and at least, the letter around the child, was written in the center of the piece. So I missed this, so I missed it. Lots of wonderful work from that young man who created that video or that art piece. Did I mention that I seldom make public presentations? Lynn Davidson, a soft voice of persuasion, could verify the worry in my eyes when she courted me earlier this year, and asked whether I would be willing to give this year's lecture. I swallowed a few times, and nervously pulled out a dog-eared business card for my equally dog-eared wallet. Here, I said, call me if you must. And I'm glad that she did. I don't do straight poetry readings, for instance, and will do my best to be the Duke of Dark Corners, meaning that I don't make myself public, no Facebook, no Twitter, no blog, no cell phone, no LinkedIn, no Instagram, no email. I usually stiffen when my landline rings. Oh, it's some assistant professor from the Midwest calling, bothering me. I went in queries right in front of me, directed right at me, questions like, where do you get your ideas? To which I would answer the salted rim of a margarita glass. Still, I've perfumed the world with stories and poems. Allow me a few yarns. I recall visiting a library in Fresno, my hometown, my wife's hometown. This was 15 years ago, and after the presentation, asking this youngster seated on the floor of the head, any questions? One youth raised his hand and asked, Mr. Soto, I have a question. Did you use to go out with my mom? I squinted a suspicious eye at this squirrely child. Genetically, he did look familiar. At a stop in Stockton, California, I did a dog and pony show at a school, and a week later, received a batch of letters from the students. One letter said, thank you for coming to our school to sell your books. That was caught like a rat. On yet another occasion, by way of a letter, I got praised up and down in poor lunatic penmanship as the greatest writer ever. The author of this letter said that he owned several of my books, of which his favorite was Hatchet, the wrong Gary. And I was perhaps in the wrong place when I did a poetry reading in the mid-1980s when a huge Chicano sporting a big large begote, a beard, asked in a mean, spirited way, what has been your contribution to Chicano literature? I answered, I'm the first Chicano to write in complete sentences. And he said, okay. Okay, just asking. That's all right. I take you to Atlanta, Georgia and an educational conference where a large woman carting a box of books approached me as I sat behind a table waiting to autograph books. She beamed at me, her Barack Obama button on her left chest, pressing against my chest when she gave me a bear hug. She started to bring out books one after another and set them on the table. They were my books, all of them, each one of them. She said, you're my favorite children's writer ever. And in fact, she told me that I meant so much to her that she named her dog after me. So I asked, what's your dog's name? Soto. So I asked her, what kind of dog is it? He goes, a chihuahua, of course. Well, it sure beats that 20-year award I got. The other one about recognition is coming. Hold on. I've been asked illogical questions over the years and I brief you on a few of them. I've been asked, what's the difference between Hispanic and Latino? Answer, Latino's vote, Democrat, Hispanics, Republican. I've been asked, is it okay to beat up people? Why are your shoes red? Do you have a personal relationship with God? What did you last take drugs? Are you in college? It said, why is it that your left shoulder slumps a little? Why is that? Are you a role model? Do you write your own books? Are you a celebrity that I can find on television? I've been, I've answered every one of these questions. Carefully in mind you and have to wonder about the mental health of our nation. I got sidetracked. I returned to the theme of genres, musicals. A musical for young people, done that. This was in and out of shadows and with a serious subject matter regarding dreamers or undocumented youth. Certainly on the front burner of debate as only a month ago, Attorney General Sessions announced the end of DACA. Twenty drafts later, one year of fundraising and rehearsals the musical became a smash hit at The Marsh as in the Marsh Theater of San Francisco. Sell out crowds. This was easy to do because it was a very small theater. Still, I assume my role of Peacock when others asked, hey, what are you doing these days, Gary? I would answer writing smash hits for sell out crowds. Unlike Hamilton's prices the ticket cost for in and out of shadows was $10 and you got a Xerox program autographed by me at the end of the program. The musical played at The Marsh and several community colleges up and down California. Let's hear one of the songs I wrote. Better yet, let's see the youth, some of whom are dreamers. I'm going to touch something over here that's going to activate. We tried to take the musical to different venues. Up and down California and it's really, really, really difficult. Even though it was thematically in the air no one seemed willing to do it. And since we're on the sort of music is circulating in our eardrums let's play the B-side of a song I composed with a guitarist, Steve Valesquez who's saying vocals and played every instrument on this garage wonder. I did the lyrics and we're going to go 30 seconds into the song. So how do we do that from here? Yeah, I see it. I click. I just wanted you to hear the Bow Wow songs. That's it. That should get me something, I don't know. I worked hard on that Bow Wow part. To tell you the truth, we had 30 seconds to have a song and I have to confess and a lot of me and my age we all wanted to be rockers, you know. In the 60s we had wonderful sounds of the Motown and the Beatles and the British Invasion and Dylan and Donovan and I think that this generation has Justin Bieber, you know. I don't know. Picture books. The most successful happens to be too many tamales. It's a fine cautionary story that morphed into the longest running seasonable play in Los Angeles, 20 years in counting at the Bilingual Foundation of the Arts. But of the nine picture books that I've done, my favorite is Chato's Kitchen. It features a low writing essay, Watto, Gatito, Chato and his carnal, his sidekick, Novio Boy. It was published in 1995 and it was immediately banned by the Clovis School District. Clovis is right next to my hometown of Fresno. It was banned for fear that if the youngins read this book they might strip off their Abercrombie and Fitch attire in favor of gang banger duds. Big front news in the Fresno Bee. Oh dear me, not a controversy when my career was tugging along like a tugboat. Did I jump from this tugboat? No, I was at the helm all the way through, but I was silent as fog. I didn't say a word. I let others wrangle over this cat that was impounded for his dress, fur mind you, and its attitude, kitty cat, playfulness mind you. It was front page news for a week, then inside news, and then finally just editorials. The controversy became a yawner after a while, four months later the citizens of Clovis must have licked catnip because they came through their jolly senses. The book was back on the shelves. I believe that picture books are the second step toward literacy, the first being a mother or father, or both, sharing face time at bedtime with her child. It's a tenderness that adds to a child's sense of the world is safe. Poets and writers, two words that go together like biscuits and gravy or chorizo con huevos or huevos con winies. We recognize literature as one of the three major creative expressions, music and art being the other two. A lawyer friend says, told me, man aren't you excited when you say to people that you're a poet? I said I would never admit that in public. Thus my playful essay is called 13 stereotypes about poets which appeared in the Huffington Post about three years ago and subsequently in a book of mine. And I'm going to read you just a little tad from this essay. It's a disappointment that I'm not invited to parties more often because I possess an extensive social armor in the form of 12 suits including a rare Paul Smith three piece, rare in that there's only one other like it in the United States. To my mind it's close to being bespoke, meaning that a tailor working from my measurements made it just for me. I'm disappointed because I want to be present at a party where a mid-level techie, wineglass in his right hand, cracker in his left, asks what do you do? I'm a poet I would answer nibbling on my own cracker sipping from my own drink. Gee, this is a nice party. Look there's more food coming. And you live where? The techie might wonder in a semi-vegan heart. But a loud he says, interesting I read a poem, a short poem about blackbirds once. Didn't understand it at all. And then I go on a little bit and then I sum up the 13 stereotypes about poets. Poets wear braids. We no longer are partial to braids though we've all seen them tilted smartly on heads, both male and female. Admittedly, they're attractive head coverings, but only for the generation before the 1960s. And only if you were European with an owl-shaped face. Okay, goes on, I skip. Poets are silent and reflective types. They are really loud. That's a lie. Poets like flowers. They hate flowers. And each one has a large description. Poets vote Democrat. I read this excerpt. Yes, most darken zeros in the voting booth in favor of Democrats, but a few vote Republicans. Generally, these poets iron their jeans and then re-iron them with sharp creases. Republican poets are always men. Poets don't work. What a lie. Unbalanced poets must hang on to things when they walk. This is really true after the third drink. Poetry slams are for everyone. I read you this. Poets in a slam rhyme like this. I'm gonna fall before the call, but a big beautiful doll, a heck of tall. You feel me, y'all? After some soft clapping from the audience, the poet swings his hair from his right shoulder to his left. Then he begins another. Skinny but mad, gratefully glad, mom and dad like frowned at bread, but my word is sugar baby ain't that bad. These slams start about 7 p.m. and end when we turn 25. Poets drink too much coffee. Another lie. Poets listen to NPR. A big, fat lie. Poets need sensitivity training. They need potty training. Poets understand dreams. Hangover, yes. Hangovers, yes. Dreams, no. Poets live on the top floor of the ivory tower. Oh, forget that one. Poets smell. That's really true. That's a playful piece. Don't take it that seriously. Chapter novels. Done seven of those. My most successful chapter novel is in the American Girl series. The year was 2005. This book allowed me to be sort of a celebrity, I thought. And because I did invent this doll. I have two stories to share with you about this chapter novel. One funny, one not so funny. Tonight, this evening, I opt for the funny one. I read from the story of mine that appeared in a book of mine that was also remaindered in the garage. It's called What Poets Are Like. And the essay is called Public Displays of Affection. And you have to picture me. I've been playing basketball. I go to a drinking fountain. I see someone reading my book, Marisol. I pushed off the bench and made my way to the drinking fountain by the baseball diamond. On the muddy trail to the watering hole, I spied a ponytailed girl reading my chapter novel, Marisol. She was seated comfortably on the grass, absorbed in a narrative in which the main character moves from Chicago's Pilsen neighborhood to the suburbs of the plains. At age 10, the same apparent age as a reader on the grass. Published in 2005, the novel came with a doll. Some would reverse this and say that the doll came with a book. In a very short period of time, one splendid November, this became my best seller. $250,000 went home with the girls. Whether the novel was read or not, I didn't care. Hi, I said eager to admit that, yes, little girl, I wrote this book. What do you think of it? Do you have any questions to this author about this charming tale? The girl gazed upward at me using her finger as a bookmark. She was half through the novel, and if memory served right, Marisol the girl hero was searching for her cat, Rascal. You know I continued advancing the conversation. I wrote that book. I smiled to give her evidence that in spite of my sweaty appearance, I was an all right guy. When she returned in a different scowl as if beholden a piece of irrelevant gum embedded in sidewalk, I reeled in my smile. Nothing stirred in her, nothing moved her to utter, oh really? I hurried away to the water fountain and drank my filled and rapid gulps, afraid that the girl might skip off to her parents for a report. A dirty old man tried to talk to me. Then I headed home without raising my eyes to the rear view mirror. This relationship was like over. You know, I've seen people, you know, John Grisham, you know, Stephen King, you know, these people at the airports and, you know, in public spaces. But I've never seen anyone carry my book around, so on my one occasion, and I was almost arrested, it seemed like. Proverbs. If I sport, if I sported a beard and toga, I might come off as a wild-eyed prophet standing before a burning bush. I worked that genre as well. My new book this fall is Meatballs for the People, Proverbs to Chew On. I shared with you a dozen or so proverbs, which is traditionally the literature of peasants, not the literature of scholars. Let me see if I could find my little list of proverbs here. Go here there. So I'm going to read you about a dozen proverbs. I've tried that genre as well. And the first one. A backbone is more useful than a wishbone. The bike built with stolen parts never rides straight. A snowman in sunlight knows when to give up. Looks so poor even the flies stay away. Burger patties on the grill hissing at customers. A mouthful of flattery and lies to think that this is where we kiss. Poker face best if you win the lottery. The only tool is to hammer everything gets pounded. Roughly cut bread, rough hand behind the knife. Friends cash out when you're broke. Autumn begins when the first apple falls. A martyr's halo is sometimes a noose. DMV hell without the fire. Weekly deductions from your paycheck government thievery. Pushing a stroller at 15 sends without parole. Lodom 20 next week it's 50. Did I mention the two films I wrote directed and produced? Produced means really that I handed out cold bottles of water and slapped together homemade sandwiches for the cast. The best that I could say about the two films that I made were that they were short and the voices synced up with the lift movements of the actors. They were done in 1991 and 1992 and I was done with that genre filmmaking. Luckily they are on VHS tape not DVDs. They are very hard to come by thank goodness. Still I did give filmmaking a crack. I become another sort of mouthpiece. I play the role of Shakespeare you kissed by the book is an example and my new Shakespearean theme romantic play the spark and fire of it which is meant for high school students to hold hands kiss not far from rose bushes and well I'll skip this last part. In some ways my books will do this they will provide adolescent love to burn not eternally but like a big lighter that is until the butane runs out. If you're an independent writer and I'm one of them then you try to create work that others might find of value and enjoyment. There's a little bit of a commercial nature inside me but now and then I get ambitious I pray I'm going to conquer the literary world east of Venice but just short of the Bay Bridge usually when these moments of ambition occur I just lie on the couch until that feeling disappears from my bloodstream and I'm back to normal. I don't accept writing jobs I've been asked to write about the day of the dead no senor I've been asked to write about the quinceaneras no puedo no quiero I've been asked to lend my name to the California Dairy Association this I can do I did accept the job to writing about winchimes which I believe is noise not melody I got a call about six years ago from a junior high classmate asking if I would write a story about our late husband he had been eaten by a shark I declined I'm a poet and essayist this is how I want to see myself this is how I want to remember I've made my characters flawed very flawed as the best literature is the literature of unhappiness or oddness we read Richard Russo Raymond Carver, Elena Ferrante Carson McCullers and Enright for their take on the human condition the human complications not for feel good moments this is me as well so I have a story about a girl with a story in which a girl realizes that her family has no manners a story in which a boy is asked to get rid of his dog by walking him three miles out in the rural countryside of Fresno and then running back alone to home a story in which two boys discover a rack of funeral suits they put them on and symbolically they are headed to their own funeral at a very early age I've tried translations and have written prefaces to large national figures including Cesar Chavez I did some history as in my retelling of a memoir of a Spanish Civil War this will book will be issued in 2018 film treatments two two sit in my files the words fading from inattention and to think that I imagine Jennifer Lopez brightly clutching my treatments I mean, get Gary get Gary on his landline so what am I a poet, essayist, children's author, novelist songster, playwright a little of each with a dash of a phrase maker inside me I'm fortunate to have enjoyed juggling words and having them come down mostly in the right order I thank the friends of the San Francisco Public Library honoring the late F.E. Lee Morris I did meet her extraordinary librarian and inspiration to all of us and along with the Women's National Book Association for sponsoring this lecture series which allows writers to come and have their say in an elegant setting good of all of you to come out this evening for you needing a spanking see me a little later finally I don't need a frame certificate to remember this evening it's an honor to be here among you now a book signing and later this evening a proper drink thank you thank you so much Gary we are so honored and so happy to have had you with us you're not done yet because we are now going to have a few questions from the audience they'll get to know about what you have just been telling us all of your exciting stories and about your creative process and anyone who would like to ask a question of Gary please raise your hand and I will bring you the microphone hi Gary thank you so much what was your first success? you write you submit you write submit can you talk to us about that? yes I can my first book was published in 1977 and it's called the elements of San Joaquin it's a poem, a collection of poetry set in the valley thematically about field work, family sort of the rural, urban violence that clouds over Fresno so that was published in 1977 and I was a young man trying to make it happen so I have an MFA from Irvine was among other poets we're all submitting work to literary magazines this book by the way the elements of San Joaquin has been out of print for a long time it will, chronicle books will publish it next year the new expanded edition revised edition it's a very beautiful looking book and it comes out in April and does anyone else have a question for Gary raise your hand I'll bring you the microphone yes I appreciate the aspect of curmudgeonliness what do you have against computers and email and all that sort of stuff not that I'm disagreeing with you just asking you know I have a lot more privacy and I just have never understood how technology works and you know I've sort of I don't have a cell phone I don't have Instagram or any of those I don't have a Facebook I somewhat try to create one I think but I don't know I feel like the privacy thing is really important you can be really sucked into the computer you're on Bart and so everybody's like this and I don't want to be like that it's also an age thing too yeah and it's definitely a privacy thing right much champions up here at the public library yeah anyone else with a question for Gary going once going twice thank you very much for coming out this evening thank you all so much for being here