Biography of Gary Soto
Gary Anthony Soto (born April 12, 1952) is an American author and poet.
Soto was born to Mexican-American parents Manuel (1910–1957) and Angie Soto (1924-). In his youth, he worked in the fields of the San Joaquin Valley. Soto's father died in 1957, when he was five years old. As his family had to struggle to find work, he had little time or encouragement in his studies, hence, he was not a good student. Soto notes that in spite of his early academic record, while at high school he found an interest in poetry through writers such as Ernest Hemingway, John Steinbeck, Jules Verne, Robert Frost and Thornton Wilder.
Soto attended Fresno City College and California State University, Fresno, where he earned his B.A. degree in English in 1974, studying with poet Philip Levine. He did graduate work in poetry writing at the University of California, Irvine, where he was the first Mexican-American to earn a M.F.A. in 1976. He states that he wanted to become a writer in college after discovering the novelist Gabriel García Márquez and the contemporary poets Edward Field, W. S. Merwin, Charles Simic, James Wright and Pablo Neruda, whom he calls "the master of them all.
Soto taught at University of California, Berkeley and at University of California, Riverside, where he was a Distinguished Professor.
Soto was a 'Young People's Ambassador' for the United Farm Workers of America, introducing young people to the organization's work and goals. Soto became the sponsor for the Pattonville High School Spanish National Honor Society in 2009.
Soto lives in northern California, dividing his time between Berkeley and Fresno, but is no longer teaching.
Gary Soto Poems
A Red Palm
You're in this dream of cotton plants. You raise a hoe, swing, and the first weeds Fall with a sigh. You take another step, Chop, and the sigh comes again,
Saturday At The Canal
I was hoping to be happy by seventeen. School was a sharp check mark in the roll book, An obnoxious tuba playing at noon because our team Was going to win at night. The teachers were
Mission Tire Factory, 1969
All through lunch Peter pinched at his crotch, And Jesús talked about his tattoos, And I let the flies crawl my arm, undisturbed, Thinking it was wrong, a buck sixty five,
How Things Work
Today it's going to cost us twenty dollars To live. Five for a softball. Four for a book, A handful of ones for coffee and two sweet rolls, Bus fare, rosin for your mother's violin.
The Jungle Café
We could wipe away a fly, Drink, and order that yellow Thing behind the glass, peach Or sweet bread. Sunlight
Making Money: Drought Year in Minkler, C...
"It's a '49," Rhinehardt said, and slammed The screen door, then worked his way around The dog turds in the yard To the Buick gutted from firethe gears
Because there are avenues Of traffic lights, a phone book Of brothers and lawyers, Why should you think your purse
The clouds shouldered a path up the mountains East of Ocampo, and then descended, Scraping their bellies gray on the cracked shingles of slate.
Wedding night Graciela bled lightly But enough to stain his thighs And left an alphabet Of teeth marks on his arm.
Monsignor, I believed Jesus followed me With his eyes, and when I slept, An angel peeled an orange And waited for me to wake up.
Self-Inquiry before the Job Interview
Did you sneeze? Yes, I rid myself of the imposter inside me. Did you iron your shirt? Yes, I used the steam of mother's hate.
There is the one who turns A spoon over like a letter, Reading the teeth-marks Older than his own;
The Tale of Sunlight
Listen, nephew. When I opened the cantina At noon A triangle of sunlight
When the sun's whiteness closes around us Like a noose, It is noon, and Molina squats In the uneven shade of an oleander.
Saturday At The Canal
I was hoping to be happy by seventeen.
School was a sharp check mark in the roll book,
An obnoxious tuba playing at noon because our team
Was going to win at night. The teachers were
Too close to dying to understand. The hallways
Stank of poor grades and unwashed hair. Thus,
A friend and I sat watching the water on Saturday,
Neither of us talking much, just warming ourselves
By hurling large rocks at the dusty ground