Poet: Gary Soto
Born: 12 April 1952, California, USA
Nationality: Mexican-American

Soto is a poet, memoirist, and novelist, best known for his work dealing with the realities of growing up in Mexican American communities. Soto recreates the world of the barrio, the urban, Spanish-speaking neighbourhood he grew up in, with vivid imagery that brings the sights, sounds smells, and tastes alive on the page.

Focusing on everyday experiences Soto’s poetry evokes the harsh forces that often form life for Chicanos, including racism, crime, and poverty. Soto’s work has received high accolades from Pulitzer Prize finalist lists and the National Book Award, he has also received a Nation/Discovery Award and the Levison Award from Poetry. However, Soto is probably best known as a writer for both children and young adults with writings exploring universal life themes such as family life, alienation, and making choices.

Born to Mexican-American parents Soto worked in the fields of the San Joaquin Valley in his youth. His father died in 1957, when Soto was five years old, leaving the family struggling to find work and he had little time or encouragement in his studies.

Soto earned his BA in English from California State University in 1974. He also did graduate work in poetry at the University of California where he was the first Mexican-American to earn an MFA in 1976. He also taught at the University of California, Berkeley, and was a Distinguished Professor at the University of California, Riverside. Whilst no longer teaching, Soto currently lives in California, dividing his time between Fresno and Berkeley.

Saturday At The Canal by Gary Soto

I was hoping to be happy by seventeen.
School was a sharp check mark in the roll book,
An obnoxious tuba playing at noon because our team
Was going to win at night. The teachers were
Too close to dying to understand. The hallways
Stank of poor grades and unwashed hair. Thus,
A friend and I sat watching the water on Saturday,
Neither of us talking much, just warming ourselves
By hurling large rocks at the dusty ground
And feeling awful because San Francisco was a postcard
On a bedroom wall. We wanted to go there,
Hitchhike under the last migrating birds
And be with people who knew more than three chords
On a guitar. We didn’t drink or smoke,
But our hair was shoulder length, wild when
The wind picked up and the shadows of
This loneliness gripped loose dirt. By bus or car,
By the sway of train over a long bridge,
We wanted to get out. The years froze
As we sat on the bank. Our eyes followed the water,
White-tipped but dark underneath, racing out of town