Isolation | Editor, William Jensen
Shortly after Christmas, while driving into the Texas Panhandle, I hit a deer. The plan had been to drive to Santa Fe, New Mexico, dividing the trip with a stop at Palo Duro Canyon. At dusk, as I headed north on a lonely highway, I had a premonition I’d see some bucks zip across the blacktop, so I drove carefully and a little slower. The sky turned apricot pink, and I made sure my lights were on in advance. Twenty minutes later, the world was dark as a secret tomb. I was wide awake. I saw the stag jet out from the left, and he seemingly tried to ram me. I remembered not to swerve. When we collided, he smashed into my truck’s grill and flew back and rolled and slid. The deer died on impact. I managed to pull over and got out to inspect the damaged. Cold winds rushed over the plains. My front bumper was bent and falling off. It pushed into the left tire. I was miles away from anything.
There is something unsettling about standing by the side of an empty highway at night. Your imagination can run wild with memories of horror movies and urban legends. I wasn’t afraid, but I remained shaky from the crash. I didn’t know what would happen next, how I would get off that road. The Southwest is big. Lots of places to get lost in. Lots of places one can disappear. I felt swallowed up by the looming Texas night, and I didn’t know how I would get out of there. One thing I’ve noticed about the region is the reoccurring theme of isolation. From Cabeza de Vaca to Blood Meridian to Clint Eastwood’s westerns, there is an underlying tone of feeling removed from society, characters who are desperate for community. Why does the Southwest have such a grip on this sensation? The Southwest is big. Some might even say sprawling. And there are lots of highways that cut through the desert with only cacti and sage and rattlesnakes and the stars to keep you company. I definitely felt isolated that night.
Luckily, I experienced a small miracle.
A truck full of guys pulled up and asked if I needed help, if I was okay. Their truck was huge and full of tools and gear. They got out their chains and managed to pull my fender off the tire, and together we maneuvered and duct taped the thing together as best we could. Though I had been alone, a chance encounter with strangers saved the day. The Southwest has a lot of isolated areas, but it has lots of good people, too. Maybe all of that loneliness of the region is more myth than anything. There are towns and cities and neighborhoods where families prosper. There are schools where children learn, parks where friends meet and play, and there are churches, synagogues, mosques, and temples where people pray. The Southwest is filled with friends and people waiting to become friends.
This issue of Southwestern American Literature is a tribute to the relationships and communities in the Southwest. Though there have been conflicts, violence, anger, and segregation, we hope stories and poetry can help mend those wounds and bring us closer together. Professor Hujun Ren in China presents his insightful essay about racial conflicts after the Treaty of Gudalupe Hidalgo in the novel Ramona. An exploration of the strained relationships between the indigenous people in California and the elite Californio families after the US-Mexican War, Ren’s essay brings new light on a novel considered the Uncle Tom’s Cabin of the Southwest. Besides powerful scholarship, this issue is packed with incredible poetry. David Meischen explores New Mexico, and Brooke Sahni delves into Arizona. Gerry Rodriguez and Larry D. Thomas present poems focused on Texas. On top of that, this issue has numerous reviews of the latest novels, essay collections, and memoirs.
The Southwest has a plethora of voices. This issue of Southwestern American Literature tries to gives all of those voices a place to speak, to be heard, and for other voices to say back, “Hello.”
Stay a while. Talk with your new friends. We’re all friends here at Southwestern American Literature.
