Rigoberto Gonzalez's sublime new memoir Butterfly Boy:Memories of a Chicano Mariposa tells thestory of what it's like to grow up first-generation Mexican-American, gay andworking-class in the United States. In prose that is lyrical, crisp andcompressed, Gonzalez writes of the events, big and small, that have shaped him.Born in Bakersfield, California to a family of Mexican farm-workers, he movesback to Zacapu, Mexico, to spend his early childhood. Returning to California,he recognizes from an early age his queerness, his erotic awakenings, and thenecessity of keeping them hidden.

All of this is recalled as the then-19-year-old Gonzalez,trying to get away from a violent, older lover, and grappling with the messycomplexity of family, takes a slow bus journey with his father back to hisgrandparents in Michoacan, a journey that in many ways sees the birth ofGonzalez both as self and as storyteller. Weaved throughout is the presence ofthe butterfly, an image of Eros, queerness, beauty and violence.

I caught up with Gonzalez at the University of Illinois,where he is Associate Professor of English and Latino Studies, to ask him somequestions.

Alistair McCartney: I haven't read a book in a longtime that gets so beautifully at the mystery of queer desire, its strange,warped magic from childhood on, and how that follows us into adulthood. Also,the connection between sex and violence, sex and sorrow. What was it like torevisit the violence of the relationship with the boyfriend you describe? Andhow long did the book take to write?

Rigoberto Gonzalez: Butterfly Boy took eight years to write. The project began as aseries of short nostalgic essays, mostly Rated G memories about Mexico, myfamily's migration to the US, and my mother. But when I began to weave themtogether, I had to develop a narrator who could turn the lens toward himselfand be forthcoming about his own physicality and desires. Otherwise he wouldn'tbe human or a reliable guide through his difficult journey. Since the narratoris still a teenager, I wanted to preserve that sense of awe, mystery andheartbreak that we all go through in adolescent experimentation. I simplydescribed physical contact, and wrote the sex scenes through the curious,hungry mind of a teen, without getting too crass or romanticizing gay sex. Totap into such a place, I simply closed my eyes and remembered. I'm now 36, andthat narrator is 19, so the benefit of distance allowed me to return to themost painful memories, which still hurt, but which I can now articulate throughthe wisdom of maturity.

You write about the complexity of father and sonrelations with such clarity and grace. How did you navigate writing aboutfamily and people close to you? Were there taboos that had to be broken?

I know many writers who live afraid of relatives recognizingthemselves in their fiction. In nonfiction, there's no hiding place. So when Iset out to write truth as I remembered it, I didn't bother censoring myself,otherwise I'd be compromising the integrity of the memoir. But being honestdoesn't mean being disrespectful. Like Annie Dillard warns, "Writing is anart, not a martial art." So I wanted to handle the subject of my fatherand of my abusive lover delicately, a balance between rage and affection. I didkeep my lover nameless, as well as most relatives I write about, even thoughI'm sure they can all recognize themselves in the book. What's important is theexperience, not the specific identity of the players.

I became an avid reader as a way of attaining some privacy,not only from my crowded household but also from my secret, my sexuality. Whata surprise to suddenly feel the urge to write and not simply read! I suppose itwas out of admiration for this skill, another way I could affirm myindividuality. It's actually a very small leap from reader to writer. I startedtaking writing seriously in college, where I also learned about the MFAprograms where writers learn about the profession and the possibility of acareer. Part of that training is to explore writers who want to keep youwriting. For me, it was the Chicano poets Lorna Dee Cervantes, Francisco X.Alarc—n, Pat Mora, Gary Soto and Alberto R'os. Not only were they my favoritepoets, they became my teachers and mentors. I came away from college an artistwith politics and passion.

My poetry book Other Fugitives and Other Strangers is a companion piece to Butterfly Boy in that it engages the complicated, love-hateemotions between gay lovers in a complicated relationship. The pieces alternatefrom the voice of the victimizer to the victim, to the voice of ambiguity,because sometimes we play both roles in a dysfunctional relationship. I alsohave a forthcoming book of stories, Men without Bliss, with young and gay protagonists, but quite different(I hope) from the young man in Butterfly Boy. I'm working on a second book of nonfiction aboutgrief and loss. There is a chapter updating the father-son thread in ButterflyBoy (my father was diagnosed withParkinson's disease about five years ago, and that has strained ourrelationship in another way), a chapter on my love life as an adult gay man,and a chapter about one of my literary heroes, Truman Capote, the queen of wit,but also of sadness.

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