Adios to ‘a Will Rogers for Chicanos’

Jose Antonio Burciaga was an iconoclastic artist--a strong-willed essayist, poet, writer, humorist and muralist. He also was a founding member of Culture Clash, active with us from 1984 to 1989. At a memorial recently at the small Mission Carmel church near his home in Monterey, he was remembered by the family priest as, first and foremost, “a great Chicano,” and that he was.

On Oct. 7--the night of Burciaga’s death from stomach cancer--we trekked back to Stanford University’s Casa Zapata for a candlelight vigil with many of the students who lived, worked and studied with Jose and his wife. The Burciagas had once been resident fellows and lived in the home that is connected to the Chicano dorm on the otherwise conservative campus.

It was a journey back to where many a Culture Clash night was spent--a journey sad and triumphant, poignant and thoughtful, tragic and comic: To see the historical murals of Burciaga (“The Last Chicano Supper”), to see his many books on the shelves of the dorm’s common area, to see the home where we had drank tequilas and barbecued one of Tony’s favorites, tripas (cow intestines . . . yummy). It was at Stanford where we defined and redefined what Culture Clash was and what it would be. There in the shadow of the Hoover Tower and the powerful conservative think tank known as the Hoover Institution, we always thought of ourselves as the necessary antithesis as we giddily planned our nationwide, leftist, guerrilla comedy strategies. When Jose and his wife, Cecilia--a dean who advocated for minority and women’s rights--packed up and left that resident house, it was a sad day for higher education.

The triumph was in seeing the students at the vigil. Strong, courageous, organized, smart . . . and sad, yet with the insight to tell cuentos, or funny stories, to each other. And that’s the way Tony would have liked it. He was one of our foremost humorists, a Will Rogers for Chicanos.

These kids know that we have precious few scholars and role models, and that as we say goodbye to Tony, we must carry out the legacy, the words, the art and the poems of this extraordinary cultural worker.

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On that warm night last week at Stanford, we had a few stories of our own. We cannot remember Burciaga without a smile on his face. Even when he would get mad at us, as he often did, he would crack a smile or just let out his signature guffaw.

Born in 1940, Burciaga was raised in the West Texas border town of El Paso. His family lived in the basement of a synagogue where Burciaga’s father was the custodian. He graduated from the University of Texas at El Paso and his later training included stints at the Corcoran School of Art and the San Francisco Art Institute. His book, “Undocumented Love,” won a Before Columbus American Book Award for poetry. He is also the author of “Drink Cultura: Chicanismo” and “Spilling the Beans/Loteria Chicana,” in which he told a few cuentos himself about his involvement in the early, explosive days of Culture Clash.

It took Burciaga a few books before he would even include his founding member status in his biographies. But after he saw our shows, “Bowl of Beings” and “Carpa Clash,” and after he witnessed our popularity among college- and high-school-aged youths, Culture Clash would squeeze its way into his official history. We had to earn that right, and that was fine with us.

One of our fondest memories of Burciaga was in those early days. We were performing at the small Galeria De La Raza in San Francisco. Backstage was nothing more than a large closet with no escape. In order to leave, one would have to walk through the stage and audience. Richard was on stage doing his usual rambling 55-minute stand-up offensive when Burciaga, who was waiting to go on, simply had enough. But, backstage there was only a 12-inch-by-12-inch bathroom window several feet off the ground.

Burciaga in those days performed with a large Mexican bag filled with cultural goodies and whatnots, a large campesino cowboy hat, Texas boots and a large machete attached to his belt. Tony was a Texan, y’all! According to Ric and Herbert, Burciaga angrily squeezed like a west Texas sidewinder through that impossibly small window, falling to a sidewalk that was a good eight feet down. He went through, boots first, and landed without hurting himself or losing any of his swap meet props. As the machete struck the sidewalk though, sparks shot off. The man was on fire! We managed to talk Burciaga back for a few shows, but it was only a matter of time before we would anger him again. It was generational; we were some 14 years younger and much dumber than Tony.

Founding members Monica Palacios and Marga Gomez had left the troupe by the time we hit our first cross-country tour. One night, in Connecticut, a group of Puerto Rican feminists had cornered Richard, angered by his material, and Burciaga had to intercede. Actually, he ended up agreeing with the women, but he averted certain death for Montoya. Burciaga led the charge for the women, but he eventually had to get in the van for a drive to the airport, during which he lectured us about women’s issues, arroz con pollo and tequila boilermakers. Burciaga taught with love and compassion, and thank God he taught us, but he would always have the last laugh and the last word. Our early years were not pretty. Burciaga was our John Lennon and we were three Ringos. But, we learned. Burciaga eventually had enough of the road; his young family needed him, his books needed to be written and empty walls awaited his historic murals.

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Recently, we were performing “Radio Mambo” in New York. We called Burciaga as we had many times throughout the last year. He asked us if we would go to St. Patrick’s Cathedral, light a candle and pick up some of his favorite prayer cards, including San Martin Caballero (patron saint of the unemployed, according to Burciaga). We made the pilgrimage and sent him the prayer cards in airline sickness bags--his favorite letter holders.

Sunday, we closed “Mambo” in San Francisco, one block away from that little window ol’ Burgie jumped out of as a pachuco paratrooper. Following the show there was a memorial where poets Jose Montoya and Lorna Dee Cervantes read several poems by our fallen comrade. Luis Valdez and Dr. Loco were there to soften the blow. Burciaga’s 19-year-old son, Tono Jr., took the stage and played rock ‘n’ roll guitar. There was an empty microphone and a small table where Burciaga’s bag of props once sat.

Yes, there is that empty feeling in our hearts, that knot in our stomachs, but there is hope and much laughter in our remembrances and the living legacy of this man’s art, his children and the strength, courage and continued activism of his wife. They are his family; we were just lucky enough to work with the man, albeit for too short a time. Jose Antonio Burciaga will never die! Que viva Jose Antonio Burciaga!