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Special

Alejandro Jimenez: The Ground I Stand On

Premiere: 4/4/2023 | 00:12:00 |

The Ground I Stand On is a lyrical and meditative documentary short that explores the work and creative process of Alejandro Jimenez, Mexico’s 2021 Slam Poetry champion. See how his life experience as a U.S. immigrant farm worker shapes his unique vision of the power of poetry and its connection to a collective past.

About the Episode

Artist statement from Alejandro Jimenez

On the afternoon of September 24th, during the Q&A portion of a poetry reading, with 100+ high school students in Northern Colorado, a student raised their hand and asked me, “When did you know you wanted to be a poet?”

Alejandro Jimenez.

The student was sitting cross-legged on a chair in the cafeteria of a brand-new high school building, and I was the first guest speaker to recite poetry within their walls. The student was holding a pen and was ready to take notes on the notepad resting on her right thigh. She waited, eagerly and attentively, for my answer. “I don’t think of myself as a poet…” I felt a wave of shame come over me as those words left my mouth, “…so I am having a hard time thinking about a precise time or moment I knew I wanted to be a poet,” I responded. The student, midway through writing something on her notepad, looked at me, confused.

“You know, I guess growing up brown in this country that wanted me gone,” I continued, “I thought that to be a poet I need to be a dead white guy. I thought poetry existed only in places where people like me were not welcomed. However, I am alive and Brown and I continue to be amazed, and grateful, that I am invited to places where I am wanted.”

I finished my answer explaining that I am learning to be comfortable in calling myself a poet. The student wrote some notes down and looked as confused as I felt about my own answer.

Since then, I have been thinking more intentionally, about why it is that I have trouble thinking of  myself as a “poet”. If I am being honest, it is a thought that has crossed my mind at least a few thousand times over the last decade but I don’t allow myself to dwell on it.

We all deal with imposter syndrome. Maybe, I am just ignoring it, the imposter syndrome, so I don’t give it more power. And also, to me, conversations about why we create art can seem elitist. I have never wanted my words spent on that.

I have always preferred creating art, rather than discussing it.

Alejandro Jimenez performing, photo courtesy of Alejandro Jimenez.

When I lead poetry workshops with students of color, they overwhelmingly express their distaste for poetry because they see it as “art for white people.” I share with them that I also disliked poetry for the same exact reasons they express. I disliked it because of how rigid it seemed. I disliked it because it seemed that only white poets were present. I disliked it because I did not see myself in it. I disliked it because this art form, or at least the way it was presented to me, seemed not to want me.

I tell them about spoken-word, and that it has been the type of poetry that made sense to me, and was my access point to this art form.

Before this, I tell them that we have always been surrounded by poetry.

I tell them: corridos are poetry. I tell them that hip-hop is poetry. I tell them that before the written word there was the spoken word. I ask them to think about how their families tell stories. I ask them to describe that setting. I ask them to tell me the smells, the sounds about that setting. I tell them, poetry is storytelling.

It is gossip. It is song. I say that poetry is infinite and there is always a place for them in it.

My number one goal as a poet is to get people who look like me eager to write their stories and dismantle the notion that this art form – poetry – is not for us.

Alejandro Jimenez writing, Off the Road, LLC.

The process of decolonizing is as precise, and intentional, as the process of colonizing. So, while I might have some insecurity about calling myself a poet, the students that I get to work with assure me that I am a poet. The communities I get to visit assure me that I am a poet. Not because I am invited to places where I am not wanted (as I previously believed was necessary), but rather because I am invited to places where I feel complete. And that’s what poetry is for me: following and writing your story to create a home and letting go of any insecurity and/or shame.

Thinking back to that Saturday in the cafeteria, this is what I wanted to say:

I knew I wanted to be a poet when I felt alone, and for whatever crazy reason I decided to share my poetry out loud in public, and people felt a connection.

That was over 15 years ago. I knew I wanted to be a poet when an old Brown lady approached me, crying, after a reading and thanked me for my work – stating that she had waited over 65 years to feel validated and recognized through art. I knew I wanted to be a poet when my grandmother saw one of my performances online and she called me from Mexico and cried while trying to congratulate me. I knew I wanted to be a poet when my mother called me and told me that my father, on his deathbed, asked her to tell me not to let go of the joy that poetry provides me. There are moments in my artistic journey that propel me forward. Sometimes I get to experience those moments often and other times I go months, even years, without feeling purposeful in this art.

But I always come back to this: our stories will always guide us to where we want to be and need to be and will help us build, and strengthen, community. Always. And no one is better at telling our stories than us.


About Alejandro Jimenez

Alejandro Jimenez, Off the Road, LLC.

Alejandro Jimenez is a formerly-undocumented immigrant, poet, writer, educator and avid distance runner from Colima, Mexico, living in New Mexico. He is the 2021 Mexican National Poetry Slam Champion, he is a two-time National Poetry Slam Semi-Finalist (US), multiple time TEDx Speaker/Performer, and Emmy-nominated poet, whose work centers around cultural identity, immigrant narratives, masculinity, memory and the intersections of them all. He is a TIN HOUSE Writers Workshop participant. His work has appeared in The Acentos Review, The Latino Book Review, Yellowscene, As/Us Journal, Rethinking Schools and other publications. He has also been featured in Radar2021|Telemundo|NBCUniversal and Tracksmith​​. His self-published book, “Moreno. Prieto. Brown.” (2017), has sold over 2,000 copies and has been incorporated in curricula across various school districts and universities.

About filmmaker Raúl O. Paz-Pastrana

Filmmaker Raúl O. Paz-Pastrana

Raúl O. Paz-Pastrana is a Mexican immigrant filmmaker, cinematographer, and multimedia creator, based in Denver Colorado. His work intersects contemporary art, political documentary, and visual ethnography to explore themes of belonging, alienation, and the concept of “home.” Paz-Pastrana often collaborates with BIPOC artists and academics that are working on bold artistic projects that expose racism and xenophobia, such as the worldwide “Hostile Terrain94” installation and the “Coyotek project” interactive website. His films have screened at museums and festivals worldwide including at the Sheffield Doc/Fest in the U.K., the Museum of the Moving Image (MoMI) in New York City, and at the Guadalajara International Film Festival (FICG) in Mexico. His work has received support from the Spark Fund, the Princess Grace Foundation, The Ford Foundation-JustFilms, The LEF Foundation, ITVS, Catapult and the Sundance Institute among others. He is a BAVC MediaMaker Fellow, a Firelight Media Documentary Lab Fellow, a New America National Fellow and a Creative Capital Awards Artist Fellow.

About filmmaker Alan Domínguez

Filmmaker Alan Domínguez

A cultural and national border crosser since birth, Alan Domínguez is a filmmaker who addresses issues such as hate crimes, police corruption, wrongful incarceration and the immigrant experience. Denver based with Nuevo Mexicano roots, Domínguez’s documentaries and narrative films have been screened and distributed in three different continents and in three different languages. His work has been broadcast on Hulu, World Channel, Rocky Mountain PBS, Colorado Public Television, Third World Newsreel and Latino Rebels. Additionally, Alan’s films have been screened at Festival Internacional de Cine en Morelia, New York Latino Film Festival, XicanIndie Film Festival, among others. Domínguez’s films have received support from Imagine2020, Arts in Society, National Association of Latino Independent Producers, Corporation for Public Broadcasting, World Channel. He is a Latino Media Market Fellow, National Association for Latino Independent Producers Fellow, Latino Leadership Institute Fellow and Doing your Doc Fellow.

 

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PRODUCTION CREDITS

A film by Raul O. Paz-Pastrana & Alan Dominguez.

This program was produced by Off the Road Productions, LLC. A production of Firelight Media in association with The WNET Group.

For the IN THE MAKING digital series, Michael Kantor is the Executive Producer for American Masters. Stanley Nelson, Marcia Smith and Monika Navarro are the Executive Producers for Firelight Media.About American Masters
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Original production funding for In the Making is provided by the Corporation for Public Broadcasting and the National Endowment for the Arts.

Major support for the In the Making digital series is provided by the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. Additional funding provided by the National Endowment for the Arts, The Rosalind P. Walter Foundation, Anderson Family Charitable Fund, The Marc Haas Foundation, The Philip and Janice Levin Foundation and Edgar Wachenheim III.

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TRANSCRIPT

(no audio) (Alejandro speaking in Spanish) (Alejandro continues speaking in Spanish) (Alejandro continues speaking in Spanish) (grasshoppers chirping) (Alejandro continues speaking in Spanish) (grasshoppers chirping continues) - [Alejandro] My name's Alejandro Jimenez.

I live in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

I'm originally from Colima, Mexico, and I'm a poet and writer.

I came to the U.S. when I was eight years old.

I woke up in Walmart parking lot in San Diego.

But the actual act of itself, like I was asleep for it.

I really, where I was like, "Whoa, like I am somewhere new, new," was when we were riding the Greyhound bus in Oregon and it started snowing.

(soft music) (soft music continues) When my mother registered me for the third grade in January of 1996, my ESL teacher had trouble with the multiple syllables in my name.

She said, "Ah-lee-han-dro, it's too long.

Let's call him Alex."

My mother looked at the floor and said, "Okay."

That same year, I met Mrs. Perrit.

She would not allow me to go to the bathroom until I pronounced my request correctly.

In eighth grade, my friends and I jumped each other and started our own gang.

We were afraid of what the following school year would hold.

After all, that was the furthest any of our parents had gone to school.

(thunder booms) I guess punching each other was how we showed support and guidance.

Later, some would drop out.

In high school, I was one of four brown faces in AP classes in a school that was over 30% Mexican.

I always felt weird when my teachers praised me for not being like the rest of them.

What is this "rest of" that I am not?

(soft music continues) (grasshoppers chirping) We were farm workers, we were laborers, and we knew that it was injustice.

Like, how come we're the ones working, and why do we get to live in a small cabin that's like cockroach infested?

Why do we have to go to the bathroom outside?

Why do we have to mix our pesticide-filled laundry with our clean laundry, when in the same orchard, like the owners live in a nice big house?

So, my mom put this thing together, a bunch of albums of just like, it has all like my races, things that she like kept.

Yeah, that's one of my favorite running pictures of all time, just 'cause it's just like, you know, a bunch of farm worker kids, doing it.

And then this one too, here you are.

So I always really had this fire to get to know the world outside of the world I lived in.

I shared with my counselor and I was like, "Yo, I want to go to college."

Varsity athlete, good grades, community service.

I was undocumented at that time.

I didn't really understand what that meant.

Her exact words were, "I thought you were going to stay here and be a farm worker like your parents."

(soft footsteps crunching) (bugs buzzing) I write to not forget because of just everything that it has meant as far as resistance.

(soft footsteps continue) You're in Northern New Mexico, which was the first successful revolt when the Indigenous peoples around here kicked out the Spanish, the Pueblo Revolt.

The reason why the revolt happened when it happened is because three runners were transporting the messengers, by the arroyos that I run here.

Two of them got caught and they got hanged, and one got away.

(soft music continues) (soft music continues) When people are like, "Yo, how'd you get into poetry?"

My mom, my family and song.

(soft Spanish music) As we cooked together, I asked my mother for a recipe and everything she says is, "Grab with your fingertips un poquito of this, un poquito of that, una cucharadita of this and of that, no mas."

So how much is un poquito amount?

(Alejandro speaking Spanish) You'll taste and you'll know when it is good.

And the recipe, it is not about the dish I wish for them to cook.

It is about the trust in and with your body to know when enough is enough.

Let it grieve, let it remake itself.

Let it grieve.

Let it grieve, let it remake itself.

Let it rejoice.

Let it rejoice.

Let it, let grieve, let it remake itself, let it rejoice.

If the brown body is not seen as worthy, it is neglected, it is deprived of light, of sage.

Let it grieve.

Let it remake itself.

Let it rejoice.

Let it remake itself.

Let it rekindle itself?

(soft music) When I need to make sense of something, I write about it.

When I need to make sense of something, and I can't write about it, I'll run about it.

(soft footsteps crunching) Sometimes when I'm having trouble writing a poem, or I need to work through something, I'll run, and somehow during the run, (snaps) it just comes.

And so for me it's a way to, in writing, reclaim, I mean, create new things.

I love that about writing, what it does for me, how it allows me to connect with people.

(traffic humming) My vision to hopefully open up space and create space where, you know, they feel that they can be who they are.

- [Instructor] Hi.

- [Inmate] Hello.

- Did you ever imagine how it is that I explained to my mother that I peed my pants again, and again, and again?

Mrs. Perrit, I really, really need to go.

I've been holding this for such a long time, and I need to let it out.

It might smell like genocide, like burnt ancient scriptures, but you told me to pronounce my words correctly and for me that means to speak the truth.

As proof that I have mastered your language, I wrote you this note, so Mrs. Perrit, may I, please, go to the bathroom?

But in that moment, right, whatever this anger, this pain I felt towards this person, it was gone.

It was gone.

Like, I don't need this pain anymore.

I don't need to carry this anymore because the poem did what it did for me.

Whatever we write, whatever story we want to tell, is much bigger than ourselves, even though we might not realize it then.

We're gonna write a letter or poem that yearns for home.

(soft bright music) You never know what people are gonna write.

They don't know what they're gonna write, and that's the beautiful thing about facilitating that space.

It doesn't tell me about my ability as a facilitator, but the need for poetry.

- I wake up in the morning with my two chubby daughters next to me, hit the kitchen, open the fridge and eat the leftover chubbies from the night before.

(group laughing) (group applauding) - I see the ships and I smell the salt in the air while my grandfather checks the lobster traps and gives me a starfish he finds.

Watching the waves as the tides come in, the smell of the salt in the air.

- A place where I watched the fireworks on the 4th of July from the mountains, overlooking the whole state, and I can point into a distant city and say, "That is home."

(soft bright music continues) (Alejandro speaking Spanish) (Alejandro continues speaking Spanish) - I think for me, returning to my country and being received with open arms, like that's honestly, like, probably the best artistic experience I've had in my life so far.

(soft bright music continues) (soft music fades) I am running from, yeah, just the noise of what expectations people have of me, what expectations I have of myself, what society thinks what I should be doing or not doing.

I know I'm running towards something and I feel like every year gets clearer and clearer what that something is.

(gentle acoustic music) (gentle acoustic music continues) (gentle acoustic music continues) (gentle acoustic music continues)

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