Remembering Paperbacks y Mas, its iconic owner
Back in the late 1970s and into the ’80s, not many bookstores owned by Chicanos existed in San Antonio. But one, Paperbacks y Mas, on the corner of Lynwood and Blanco Road, stands out in memory. It was a well-stocked bookstore with choice selections of first editions and a wide array of Latino literature.
Few remember that the bookstore was stocked, owned and maintained by Ricardo Sanchez, a boisterous and iconoclastic poet of protest literature. His groundbreaking “Canto y Grito mi Liberacion” was published in 1971 His signature poetry also reflected the cadence and beat of his close friends, who included Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso and Gary Snyder.
Paperbacks y Mas bookstore, on 1819 Blanco Road, should have been preserved by the Conservation Society of San Antonio since the place was not only iconic for San Antonio but influential for Latinos taking up the pen. Sadly, not even a historical marker documents its existence.
Sanchez was a towering individual who had enormous gravitas and was a columnist for the San Antonio Express-news from 1985 to 1990 and the El Paso Herald-post from 1988 to 1991. His bookstore attracted a coterie of poets, artists and writers who influenced other Chicanos during his Sunday afternoon readings of established poets and up-andcoming authors.
One Sunday afternoon, I went there with my John Carranco, even though he was skittish about going inside the store. I wanted to expose him to the cultural and intellectual development of Chicanos in Texas and California. A clerk greeted us but not before the pungent scent of patchouli mingled with a hint of garlic arrived before him.
“Peace, bro. May I offer you some suggested readings?”
He was wearing bell-bottoms and a psychedelic shirt.
“Nah, we’re good,” John said smiling.
The bookstore had stacks of books, on every subject, crammed in bookcases. Pamphlets, monographs and huge posters of Emiliano Zapata and other 1910 Mexican revolutionaries were displayed as guardians of Paperbacks y Mas. And, of course, the looming pictures of the frazzled-bearded Ricardo Sanchez as de rigueur.
As we walked around, John turned and whispered.
“I don’t read Spanish, and I haven’t read much poetry.”
“Don’t worry. Most Chicano poetry is bilingual. Enjoy the moment,” I quipped.
John had a passion for books on Aztecs and the history of colonial Mexico. He was fiercely independent in his readings, and he judged books on their first page. He’d scan the pages waiting to feel inspired by sentences or paragraphs, like a cold splash of ice water on a hot day.
That Sunday, Jesus Cardona, a friend and English teacher at Kennedy High School, was scheduled to read some of his poetry to a large gathering. We were impressed with his and a voice that clearly enunciated the beauty of Spanish mixed with English.
John was so impressed with the reading that he bought an armload of books on anything written about Chicanos by Chicanos. Back then, minority literature was not represented within the hegemony of American literature. And John was on the path toward enlightenment and reeducating himself about the world.
We sat upstairs in an area reserved for poetry reading with wine and cheese available to guests and participants. Sanchez usually served as master of ceremonies. After the reading, we were introduced to Sanchez, and John gave him a strong
Leaving impressed, we got into John’s blue Malibu and turned on the radio. War’s greatest funk hit, “The Cisco Kid,” blasted away.
Paperbacks y Mas is gone, but Chicano literature has evolved and secured a place in the canon of American literature. Across the Atlantic, Oxford University Press established a website listing its historical beginnings and contributors. My friend and I visited Paperbacks y Mas one last time during its “End of Store” clearance.
As for Sanchez, a New York Times obituary on Sept. 9, 1995, truly celebrated his achievements.