Interview by Beatriz Pérez Pereda

THE GUALDRA, La Jornada Zacatecas, originally published on 2024-02-20

Claudia Morales: “I write about migration because it's intrinsic to my identity”

If I were to define Claudia Morales, I would describe her as a woman who juxtaposes her joy against the chaos and violence of the world. She has discovered, through both teaching writing and her own creative endeavors, a refuge not only to exist in the world but also to accompany others through the stories she weaves. With the unbridled enthusiasm of a girl who simply wanted to write and the courage of a young woman who packed her books into a suitcase to traverse multiple borders, Claudia recently released her novel *Cálao Bicorne* (Fondo Blanco Editorial, 2023). In this work, memory and the calling to write converge, intertwining with the voices and tales of others on a journey to seek direction and purpose.

Beatriz Pérez Pereda: You've just released a novel, *Cálao Bicorne*, which explores the necessity and significance of writing and silence in a brutal world. As a creative writing instructor, what is your current relationship with writing?

Claudia Morales: I never imagined there could be anything more pivotal in my life than writing. However, now I find teaching creative writing equally indispensable in my journey of constructing worlds that shape reality. What I refer to as "raw" or "fresh" writing are those initial lines that emerge intimately, almost from the flesh, devoid of mediation. It's when, at some point in life, we realize we are writers and pen down our first poem or story. Revisiting that mode of self-discovery in language is challenging. There's something profoundly special about those initial lines. Personally, for a long time, I couldn't reconnect with that energy. Various other factors took precedence: financial and personal responsibilities, disillusionment, ego, and the shallow desire for recognition. Teaching writing has rekindled my connection with the girl who simply yearned to write and the young woman who packed her books into a suitcase, migrating to Mexico City, far from home and alone, to pursue a degree in literature, to become a writer. When I explain to my students what constitutes a character, how we summon their presence, how we engage in dialogue with them, I find myself recalling why writing holds significance and resides within our beings. It elucidates why writing transcends mere publication and acclaim as a celebrated author. Teaching reacquaints me with that mystery, with the realm that thrives behind words, which do nothing but caress and suggest. Currently, I'd characterize my relationship with writing as intimate and potent—a thread tethering me to my ancestors, to the nightmares of my childhood, akin to an umbilical cord grounding me, reminding me of my essence.

BPP: *Bicorn Hornbill/Calao Bicorne* is the title of your novel—a captivating, almost enigmatic title, derived from a distinctive bird's name. Could you share how you decided on this title?

CM: I penned this novel over roughly seven years, during which it underwent numerous title iterations. I often employ this anecdote with my students to illustrate how each narrative possesses its rhythm, how every book emerges from a symbiotic relationship between author and manuscript. Hence, writing is an act of humility rather than ego (at least, the form of writing that captivates me), as the narrative dictates its rhythm, conclusion, initial lines, and title.

Rafael Ramírez Heredia, my mentor and friend for several years, advised me that titles should be evocative, enticing the reader. That, for me, has always been perhaps the paramount rule of crafting short stories and novels. Consequently, I invested considerable time pondering over this title. The novel delves into oral storytelling forms, with one tale being inspired by a story my grandmother recounted—a tale of oral history. In this story, a woman is ensnared and metamorphoses into a bird. This bird serves as a metaphor for writing, for the act of writing, throughout the novel. I grappled with selecting the ideal bird, as birds are laden with symbolism. I deliberately avoided common choices like doves or condors. Instead, I sought birds based on their calls, their melodies.

My father spent his formative years in the Sierra Madre of Chiapas, where he identified birds by their singing, desiring the book to establish a sonic connection. Thus, I arrived at the Hornbill.

BPP: When reading your works, it appears to me that your literary universes are situated on borders—not solely geographical ones; you're a writer who dwells on the periphery, gazing toward the opposite shore. Do you believe this inclination stems from being a traveler, a migrant woman navigating between borders?

CM: Entirely so, albeit not entirely consciously. I find solace in making lists as a creative exercise (which I also encourage readers to try). For instance, I compile lists of the places I've called home. Recently, I engaged in this exercise and began with my childhood house in Cintalapa, Chiapas—the home we left when I was four years old; from there, to my residence in San Francisco Bay, with a stopover at my apartment in CDMX. Reflecting on these spaces prompted contemplation of movement and migration, as I've experienced extensive relocation and migration firsthand. It seems this nomadic lifestyle is ingrained within my family's memory.

I write about migration because it's intrinsic to my identity. I'm a woman from Chiapas who has enjoyed numerous privileges because my parents were the first in their families to attend university. My father is a high school teacher, and my mother is a nurse. They provided for our basic needs, but it was their commitment to fostering our happiness that truly enriched our lives. We traveled extensively from a young age, thanks to my parents. Additionally, I had the privilege of early exposure to literature, as my parents are avid readers. They, too, are migrants—survivors of severe poverty in Mexico and racial violence. Over time, I've come to realize that, like many parents of their generation, they've silently resisted in numerous ways, nurturing an alternative worldview through their care.

Nonetheless, we've never forgotten our roots—we hail from a peasant family, impoverished and displaced. I have cousins who migrated to the United States in the '90s; one of them is missing, and these absences and stories have deeply influenced my writing. One of my earliest stories centered on his disappearance in the U.S. Another depicted my uncle, living with disabilities on the border. I vividly recall the sight of my cousin's mutilated finger upon his return from the other side—a poignant symbol of vulnerability amidst his towering stature. He lost his finger while working in Idaho, cultivating onions. That wound, in a sense, demanded a story to be told, a story to articulate our collective silences.

Perhaps initially, I wasn't fully aware of it, but today, I'm keenly aware of the type of writer I am. My writing serves as a tether, as I maintain a connection—like an umbilical cord—with my ancestors, their struggles, their modes of resistance, and their unique storytelling traditions. It's both an intimate and political choice.

Furthermore, for approximately a decade, I've been involved with migrant aid organizations. I hesitate to label myself an activist, as it feels presumptuous, but I strive, in the words of Lucio Cabañas, to "hacer pueblo”, you hago pueblo porque soy del pueblo. For over a decade, I've supported migrant movements, particularly those who've survived the "La Bestia" train journey. This commitment is intertwined with my writing. I write about migration because I live it, breathe it—it's an intrinsic part of me.

Beatriz Pérez Pereda: You recently stated on your social media platforms that "writers like me, writers from the global south, racialized and peripheral, write because we have to find a way not to be alone, to resist, to tell our stories of migration, of care," a statement that resonates deeply. Could you share which authors you're currently reading and would recommend to our readers? Additionally, what are your current interests, and what do you envision writing about in the future?

CM: I wholeheartedly recommend authors such as Javier Zamora—his work, *Solito*, is a pivotal exploration of memory, crafted with poetic prose that tantalizes the senses. He stands in the great tradition of Central American literature, reminiscent of luminaries like Roque Dalton and Mario Payeras. From Chiapas, I suggest delving into Mikel Ruiz's work, a master of short stories and novels. In fact, I incorporate his novel, *The Errant Children*, into my Latin American writing class. Another notable mention from the south, this time in the realm of short stories, includes Laura Baeza and Nadia Villafuerte. In Chiapas, poets Matza Maranto and Juan Carlos Cabrera Pons offer profound insights through their verse, with their collections published by Los Libros del Perro. Recently, I came across *Reguero de cadaveres* by Juan Eduardo Mateos Flores, a chronicle that I believe is his debut work—published by the same press. In terms of Chicana literature, I recommend Myriam Gurba's Mean *Mala Onda*, translated by Elisa Díaz Castelo. If you're proficient in English, explore Gurba's untranslated story collections as well. Additionally, I suggest works by Maurice Carlos Ruffin and Nalo Hopkinson.

Reflecting on my writing journey, I've realized the need to deconstruct aspects of myself—many of my characters didn't resemble me in appearance, emotions, or experiences. Consequently, I'm currently crafting a collection of stories that continues to explore themes of migration, while also delving into the narratives of Afromexicans.