Annie Says My tía, Annie, told me: "You could never be a writer, let alone a poet. What do your know? I mean, what can you write about? "You got a D on your last book report you gotta be able to write English good, use big words... and you've never even been out of Oxnard. Writers travel all the time New York, Paris, Rome... Every place they make Oil of Olay. That's where writers go, that's where they live. Your family doesn't have money to travel. You never will. And you don't even type. Now, how you gonna be a writer? Sure, some famous poets, they say wrote longhand but that was some years ago, and they were men. Men have it easy, worthless lazy dogs. But you wouldn't know about that 'cause you've never been with one. You've never ate, slept, inhaled, pure passionate love. Writers are always in love, like this Harlequin romance I'm reading. Now, how are you gonna be a writer? You don't even like boys yet. You've never given your heart to a boy, so he could take it, hold it, clench it, wring it dry, to toss away, forgotten in the gutter. "They make you cry, hurt, suffer. Writers know stuff like that, they heal their pain with words. You don't know about pain, anguish, outrage, protest. Look on TV... The Brown Berets, they're marching. The whole Chicano movement passing you by and you don't even know about that. You weren't born in no barrio. No tortillería down your street. Bullets never whizzed past your baby head. "Chicana Without A Cause. "No, mi'ja, Nobody will ever buy your books, so put your pencil down and change the channel for me, it's time for 'As the World Turns'"