We recently connected with Meliza Bañales and have shared our conversation below.

Hi Meliza, thanks for joining us today. We’d love to hear the backstory behind a risk you’ve taken – whether big or small, walk us through what it was like and how it ultimately turned out.

One of the biggest risks I took was leaving the comfort and community of the San Francisco Bay Area in 2011. While I am originally from Los Angeles, I built the first 15 years of my career in the Spoken-Word, Slam Poetry, and Queer artist communities of the SF Bay Area. I came to San Francisco when I was 18 on a Greyhound bus with only $500, a backpack, and a Smith-Corona electric typewriter in 1996. I knew one person that I had been writing letters to (pen pal) for four years and he always told me if I was in SF to call him. Within two hours of arriving in the city I had found this person, became his roommate, and even got a job (yes, a legal one!). That was the magic of 90s San Francisco. It was still an era of possibility. It was a big risk to get on that bus in 1996, an even bigger one to actually stay. But I did stay. I found countless stages to be on, countless writers and creatives that were all struggling but were also all serious, driven, excited, and talented. Many of us were the same age, so it felt like this really weird, cool, wild “high school” since we all lived in the same neighborhoods, toured together, performed in the same clubs, and yes dated the same people. There were no cell phones. There was no social media. There was no viable internet. You walked up and down the streets of neighborhoods like The Mission, The Castro, The Soma, and The Tenderloin to look for flyers stapled to light posts to find out about the cool shows in town. There was no Netflix or streaming. Instead of binge-watching shows we went to open mics, variety shows, slams, drag shows, punk shows, raves, and comedy nights. We often didn’t know a lot of mainstream or popular culture. We didn’t have to because we supported our friends, all of our friends were artists or creatives and everyone was doing something important all the time. It was a time when you would easily go to three different shows or events in one night because there were that many good ones happening. But that’s the thing about golden eras: they are rare, though you don’t know it yet. By 2010, the tech industry was bustling in San Francisco and companies like Facebook and Google set their sights on our city. I had moved into a tiny (325 sq ft!), but beautiful studio right on Lake Merritt in downtown Oakland, the city that made me a Slam Champion. I was comfortable, with an awesome girlfriend for a partner, loads of friends, lots of connections and three college degrees thanks to poetry. But the bay was shifting. More and more artists began to disappear. Tech companies weren’t just buying a few buildings or houses— they were buying entire city blocks and neighborhoods. My mother was also diagnosed with cancer. I had not lived in the city of my origin, Los Angeles, since I was 18. I was almost 32 by 2011. Everything I had built that truly mattered to me— coming out, being Queer, building Queer community as well as activism, building slam and poetry community, friends/chosen-family, my education, my voice as a writer— was in the tiny cities by the sea. But my mother was sick. I had managed to save money when the writing and performing was good and I had the chance to make an investment in a house in LA. This meant I had to return. It was a huge risk, because I was returning to a place that had also changed a lot. I honestly didn’t know anybody in LA anymore. I didn’t have a job in LA yet. The house I invested in needed work, needed support. My partner had to stay. All my beloveds, all the places that made me would have to stay behind. There was no one except my parents and three siblings who needed me and didn’t quite understand me. We were almost strangers, I had done a lot of growing on my own and that happens when you’re Queer and an artist, even today, we often navigate it all alone, without family of origin. I knew I would have to start over. I knew I would be proving myself a lot. I knew I would be defending myself a lot too. I knew I would have to learn how to ask for things again, especially ask for help. I knew I had to build trust all over again with new people and I knew it might not work out. I knew once I left the San Francisco Bay Area and my awesome, rent-controlled apartment I probably wouldn’t be able to return because the rents were already sky-rocketing and more and more of the Bay I knew was fading away. I knew it was going to be “good-bye” if I left and that scared me, it felt so final. But it was also a chance to start over. Going back to Los Angeles, I realized it was a chance to be whomever I wanted. I realized I would be brand-new and fresh to people and that would inspire me to give more and do more. I realized I would be able to create with few restrictions because I wasn’t a big deal there yet, no pressure. It was a career-makeover because I had been doing poetry and performance for a long time and I knew I wanted to write fiction, essays, and publish a novel. Los Angeles is a city of grinders, hustlers, people who make their own opportunities instead of waiting for them. This risk took time to become an achievement. I built slowly, steadily in LA. I did publish that novel, it remains one of my most successful books. My house is still mine and it hosts countless writers and artists, a dream I always had: to be a kind of ambassador for the underground and place of stability for LA artists who crave community and connection. I went from being a nobody to seeing my face on billboards, having the mayor attend my performances, and becoming a resource to the neighborhoods of my youth, like East LA, West Hollywood, and South LA. It’s been thirteen years and I’m still working hard to keep what I’ve built. Taking the risk was tough. I worked every job in LA! From coffee, to farmers markets, to dog walking, to house-cleaning, to tutoring— you name it! I was on food stamps for a time. I had a house but there were plenty of times it had no heat or cooling or a working sink or internet or food in it. I walked everywhere the first few years because I couldn’t afford otherwise. But I kept at writing and I nurtured the connections I made with people because in my line of artistry, it’s people that have been my wealth, not money, and those investments take time and faith. I failed some, but I also won some too. I’m so glad to be here in LA. My mom has also been cancer-free for twelve years.

Meliza, love having you share your insights with us. Before we ask you more questions, maybe you can take a moment to introduce yourself to our readers who might have missed our earlier conversations?

I started writing young, but I never thought it would be a career. I owe that to my time in CSSSA, the California State Summer School for the Arts at CalArts. I was 16 when I got a scholarship and it changed my life. I finally had access to working artists. When I came to the San Francisco Bay Area I got into my industry by performing, all the time, anywhere, any stage. I made it my priority to be on stage. I liked publishing and submitted work all the time. But there was nothing like the immediate response I got from being on stage. When I found out how many places had open mics and Poetry slams I made it my business to be there. When I was slamming and a champion, I slammed four times per week, new material for most, in four different Bay Area cities. This made me solid and built my confidence as well as my voice as a writer. I got a lot of traction and fame by being a touring poet and performer and this made me want to do more. I had built a strong audience that would regularly support my work. I spread myself around, artistically that is! I never only stuck to one community or genre. I dedicated my time to being a part of a few because there is definite cross-over and it helped because people could not put me in one box which allowed my writing to grow. I have 27 years as a professional writer, and 15 years as a touring artist. This is experience that I now share in workshops, as a university professor, and a member of thriving artistic collectives in LA. I still make zines and publish, which is also an industry of its own. I think it’s important to be on the page, on the stage, and in the community. Writing is useless or selfish if it is not doing something in culture. Now I spend my time helping others create culture by producing poetry events in LA like Lambda LitFest, supporting popular open mics like The Mic at Micky’s, as well as creating events that support our independent bookstores and BIPOC businesses in LA.

We often hear about learning lessons – but just as important is unlearning lessons. Have you ever had to unlearn a lesson?

The greatest lesson I had to unlearn was the “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” motto my parents and grandparents taught me. The truth is, you will need to ask for help. A lot. The truth is when you don’t ask for help, people think you don’t need it so they don’t offer it. The truth is when you act like it’s all chill, you got this, you are okay people take you for your word on that. I thought I needed to act chill and unphased by the stress of art or creating because I thought that showed confidence. I thought asking for help risked making me look like an amateur or weak. I thought asking for help would convince people that I was not as put-together as I seemed and I thought they would believe I was not worth their time. The truth is, if someone likes your art they also, usually, like you. The truth is people want to help people they like, even mentor them, but they’re not gonna try if you act like you don’t need it. One of my friends and mentors, writer, musician, and professor Anna Joy Springer, gave me the best piece of real advice, “The biggest myth about being rich and/or successful is this idea that those people didn’t have help or ask for help. They actually ask for help all the time! It’s a myth of classism that poor and working-class people shouldn’t ask for help, like it’s more noble to do it on your own. But it’s not really. As an artist in America you are really alone. If you apply this work-ethic of doing it all yourself to being an American artist you are actually falling behind, because believe me the rich and supported are not doing that. They ask for help, they have entire networks of people they only ask for things from. This is a big reason why they get ahead. So ask for help, Meliza. It’s good for you and your writing.” I realized she was right because it was the one thing I hadn’t tried yet. Knowing who I could be vulnerable with about my work, my ideas, my d fears and who I could trust also allowed me to unlearn this method. Now I ask for help when I need it. I don’t try to tough it out. That helps no one, especially me! It’s okay to ask, the worst they can say is “no” or “not right now”, and then you know and you can move onto another resource. Do not do everything yourself as a writer or artist! You need help as well as feedback/criticism to grow and not completely fall on your face if there is failure.

Let’s talk about resilience next – do you have a story you can share with us?

Look, I’ll be real as hell right now: being a writer and performer in America is going to be maddening, much of the time. You will have a big success and then nothing for years. You will love what you write and then you will hate it because it’s not as good as you think, not as good as the old stuff, not as good as someone else, or it simply isn’t feeding or housing you fast enough. You will watch folks who may not have struggled or even worked as hard as you get the biggest spotlights and opportunities. You will doubt your creative choices because you are making this a business now and you have to consider what sells rather than what the soul needs right now. You may become educated in your artistry at the best schools and it won’t matter to some people. You may get sick of your voice, sick of trying. I worked at a university for five years and I did not get tenure. But my novel was a finalist for a Lambda Literary Award. I still work shift-work and more than one job. But my face and poetry are on a billboard for National Poetry Month overlooking this beautiful city (LA). My most recent book has not been doing that well, no reviews, no talk or buzz. But somebody published another book of mine, my sixth book, and there are plenty of people still waiting at their chance for a first book. I still have to hustle. But I am still here, breath in my depressed body. I think of quitting all the time. It’s been 27 years and I still feel like I’m proving myself. But then I go to a slam, an open mic, a show and I don’t feel that anymore. I wake up everyday in LA, a city of dreams, people dream about living here, visiting here, and I live here. I wake up knowing that I am 45 years old and I’m still a writer. I think of how I was never awarded a single writing award in college or grad school. But I’m still a writer and the ones who won are not anymore. I think of how the entire act of being an American artist is about resilience, the point is to keep going, that is it. So many odds are against you here honestly. But you also live in a place and time where all kinds of creativity can be marketed and sold, quickly and easily. So simply continuing, keeping at it, nurturing your networks, can be enough. I’m writing this right now and after, I have to try and become a substitute teacher because I may be out of work again. But I’m also going to a poetry event tonight with the poet laureate and the mayor who are my pals and they have invited me to do big projects and I’m building a new network, again. I still get on stages and I can’t wait to impress people because I work hard to. I haven’t quit yet. I know there will be highs and lows. The trick is to keep looking for opportunity, find ways to like your work, and know that if you did it once you can do it again.     

Contact Info:

• Website: melizabanales.wordpress.com
• Instagram: @missyfuego
• Facebook: Meliza Bañales
• Twitter: @iammissyfuego
• Youtube: Meliza Bañales

Image Credits
Mathew Shoonmaker