Momaday Named Anaya Lecturer


The fourth annual Rudolfo and Patricia Anaya Lecture on the Literature of the Southwest comes September 26 in the Grand Ballroom of the University of New Mexico Student Union Building. The English Depto sends along this enticement:

N. Scott Momaday is one of the most distinguished writers of our time. His first novel House Made of Dawn was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1969, an event that brought new visibility to American Indian literature and literature of the Southwest, a landscape that has inflected his fiction, poetry, and paintings for decades. Momaday is a Stanford Ph.D.

Momaday’s writing celebrates the power of language and the richness of oral tradition in works that invoke historical memory and often exceed the boundaries of genre. He has published more than 15 volumes of fiction, poetry, and drama, including The Way to Rainy Mountain (1969), The Names (1976), The Ancient Child (1989), In the Presence of the Sun (1992), The Man Made of Words (1997), and Again the Far Morning: New and Selected Poems (2011). An accomplished painter in watercolor, he often illustrates his own texts.

N. Scott Momaday has taught at the University of Arizona, Stanford University, the University of California-Berkeley, and the University of California-Santa Barbara, and has been an invited speaker at dozens of universities and colleges across the globe.

The UNM English Department established the annual lecture series on the literature of the Southwest in 2010 through a gift from the renowned fiction writer Rudolfo Anaya and his late wife Patricia Anaya.

The English Department cherishes the fact that Emeritus Professor Rudy Anaya was on our faculty for so many years. A founder of our distinguished Creative Writing Program, he still inspires us with his joyous approach to life, sense of humor, and eloquent articulation of culture and the beauties of the Southwest, says Professor Gail Houston.

The annual Rudolfo and Patricia Anaya Lecture on the Literature of the Southwest features foundational figures such as Acoma Pueblo poet Simon Ortiz (2010), Las Cruces writer and playwright Denise Chávez (2011), and Taos writer John Nichols (2012).

UNM Co-sponsors for the event include the Center for Southwest Research, the Center for the Southwest, the Department of English Language and Literature, the Department of History, the Honors College, and the Institute for American Indian Research (IFAIR).

For further information, contact the Anaya Lecture Committee at [email protected] or the UNM English Department at (505) 277-6347.


First On-line Floricanto in 9th Month
Iris De Anda, Ramon Piñero, Ama Luna, Irma Guadarrama, Bulfrano Mendoza

Odilia Galván Rodriguéz and her co-moderators of the Facebook group, Poets Responding to SB 1070 Poetry of Resistance, launch the final quarter of 2013 with a powerful collection of poems.

"Chelsea I See" by Iris De Anda
"It's All Good" by Ramon Piñero
"Mis enchiladas" por Ama Luna
"No Picnic" By Irma Guadarrama
"blood like water" by Bulfrano Mendoza


Chelsea I See
Iris De Anda

from sea to shining sea
stripped of liberty
I see her standing there
spirit bursting in air
her stars and stripes
strangle her voice pipes
how free is she?
or you or I to be
to question authority
this is not a conspiracy
she pledges allegiance
to higher truths
holds accountability
denounces unjust moves
she is us searching
beyond the news
we open our eye
control of the masses
she takes off her glasses
to see more clearly
whether man or womyn
Manning is human
waking up from sleep
struggles to stand
so we take her hand
time will be on our side
eventually all darkness
comes to light
complete the circle
because now it is her
but it could be us
Chelsea swims in circles
of constant change
despite rumors and blame
she dives deep ocean blue
the skies will reflect
this hologram too
an elaborate program
set in place long ago
yet now we know
the fall will be hard
they have no more cards
the deck is exposed
light decomposes filth
artificial reality
can no longer hold us
we break free
every moment
leaving thought dust
rethink our separation
this builds trust
we put a hole in the matrix
going back to the basics
she represents choice
let us make some noise
whether her or you or I
they can no longer scare
those whose spirits burst free
from sea to shining sea



It's All Good
Ramon Piñero

It’s all good
except when
it’s not

I hear the same
phrase from
the newly minted
upper classes

It’s all good
except when
it’s not.

When eight year old
babies shoot
ninety year old
women cause
they can

It’s all good
except when
it’s not.

The newly
crowned
flaunt their
wealth
rocks on
their hands
golden chains
draped down
in between
the cleavage
barely dressed
in designer
dresses
enough to
feed a small
lunchroom
in Appalachia

It’s all good
except when
it’s not.

in and out
of rehab
making their
babies new
income streams
auctioning pictures
of their
newborns

It’s all good
is what I
hear from
the myopic
few
the privilged
so-called
upper classes

except when
it’s not

Except when
children are
stacked
like so many
Legos
head to toe
to toe to
head
vacant eyes
and all the
holy men
prattle on
about
a prosperity
gospel
or the
hidden Imam
when rebes
rock back
and forth
and forth
and back
and their
mazuzas
prayer beads
rosaries
hung on their
doors
or dangle
from their
fingertips

It’s all good
except when
it’s not

except when
the new
patricians
hoist their
Cristal
to toast
one
another
and the
false prophets
preach a
song of
sixpence
a pocketful
of rye
four and
twenty
little boys
were never
seen again

It’s all good
except when
it’s not

It is all good
except
it’s not




MIS ENCHILADAS
Ama Luna

Mi abuela, MamaTila
tenía
detrás de la casa
sembrada una mata
de chiles
chiletepes

Cuando comíamos
en la mesa no debía faltar
una ramita de chiles
chiltepes

Con ellos la comida
se hacía más real

Yo era una niña
y frecuentemente
me solía enchilar

“Toma agua niña”
mi abuela decía
sin cesar

Crecí
y aprendí
a valorar
mis chiltepes

ahora me enchilo con gusto
me enchilo con ganas
me enchilo con deseo
me enchilo con sabor

con calor
de amor
de pasión
de mujer




No Picnic
Irma Guadarrama

Any other river like this one
would invite the locals
for a fun-filled picnic.
Instead, the Rio looks Bravo and
desolate against the trappings of
steel posts, wired fencing, and
concrete military mesh.

Pedestrians on the Mexican side of the
bridge pour out into an open plaza,
darting cars, waiting for city buses.
Folk women utterly
exhausted as they console their
young, grab on to bundles
of bulging plastic shopping sacks,
bearing names of gringo
stores from the other side of the rio.

When the border wall is erected
we won’t be able to see these
retail gobblers but, who cares.
As long as the money flows;
globalism seeps through
impenetrable walls;
A preponderant fact for
the countless that dare to
cross into the land of promise,
the purgatory of uncertainty;

We hear stories that make your head spin
like the one of how pets
are treated with dignity
unlike our brothers; and
the earnings, no matter how long,
how hard the work, barely enough to
put bread on the table.

At the Mexican side, a
welcome-home flag awaits
those who gambled wrong,
big enough for the world to notice
how it flies
more boldly, bigger, and proudly than
the American flag behind them.




blood like water
Bulfrano Mendoza

i see blood like water
it no longer scares me.
war is all around me
and death is always near.
i have no toys to play with
and most of my friends are dead.
bombs explode where we used to play
and i wonder if they do target children?
drones follow our fathers
and whole buildings fall
just to kill one man..
entire families lived in those buildings,
and are counted among the dead.
while you sleep safe in your bed
and your children are near
remember....
i see blood like water
and death is always near.

dedicated to the children of war....

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Linda Ronstadt recently with Santana

Linda Ronstadt's memoir will be out September 17th

Linda Ronstadt dressed as una Adelita

Billboard in downtown L.A. announcing her concert, "Living in the USA" at The Forum

The album title "Simple Dreams" is now the title of her memoir

Still beautiful and strong!

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Melinda Palacio

Jessica Ceballos at the Bluebird Reading photo by Michael Sedano

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by Ernest Hogan

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La Palabra Poetry Reading Features Thelma Reyna

Michael Sedano

Karineh Mahdessian, who hosted, welcomes Thelma T. Reyna to La Palabra

La Bloga friend and Latinopia book reviewer Thelma T. Reyna put on a reading that became a reading your stuff aloud clinic during Reyna’s Sunday reading at La Palabra, one of two poetry series sponsored by Avenue 50 Studio.

It was an all-around effective presentation. Holding the text and walking held the packed gallery’s nearly full attention and encouraged the poet’s use of eye contact and interaction with seated guests. Reyna’s oral interpretation shines as a model for readers in three basics of oral expression: making pace fit the words, developing a meaning-based rhythm, vocalics and projection so audiences can hear and understand.

Thelma Reyna keeps gestures up high.

Reyna the conversationalist speaks with a hushed, calmed mien. One has a difficult time imagining her shout boisterously. She didn’t need to shout. Thelma projected her voice effectively, I discerned a slight tension under her breaths that suggests controlled force. One audience member complimented Reyna’s voicing of words and phrases but called that "acting." Not acting, reading, as one should honor one's work, Reyna read fit to the time, the people, and the poet.

Poets struggle against the written rhythms of their words as laid down in short lines on paper. Anapests and dactyls. One line is pretty much the same as the next, short phrases, one or two ideas, pocas palabras. Poets read such lines infected with that grammatical pattern of repetitive five- and seven-word clauses, the beat on the same measure almost every single time for thirty lines. A drumbeat of monotony is poor motivation for a listener to seek out more.

Poet Thelma T. Reyna respects her words, she lets ideas and images speak for themselves. Her reading escapes the tight syllabic emphasis of soft-soft-accent-soft-soft-accent, breathe, repeat to the end of the line.

Thelma Reyna

Regardless of what word ends a line of poetry or metrical scan, Reyna reads the words within the thought or image, emphasis falling subtly on key words. Pairs of things and things that come in three abound in Reyna’s poems. She reads the dysjunction into one’s ears.

The packed house, presence of familia and colleagues, a photographer in the front row, all contribute to add stress to the situation. In such events, many readers rush through their work, swallowing words, becoming inaudible if not inarticulate. And it doesn’t take much rushing to make unrecognizable sounds. Reyna did not allow the moment to speed up her pace.

Pronunciation and enunciation happen at instantaneous speed. The lips move, the mouth opens the lungs push out air, the tongue forms the sound and you hear what you hear. Reyna speaks at a word-respecting rate, allows each word its aural space, loud enough even when street noise competed. She pronounces each syllable fully until the word emerges into the flow of concatenating syllables. And the audience doesn’t sit there asking “what did she just say?”

Reyna’s time on stage followed La Palabra’s Open Mic feature. Readers exhibited a wide range of comfort and skill in front of an audience. Poets shared touching heartfelt pieces for a parent, one played harmonica and sang his words. Three poets, Joe Kennedy, Jeffrey Alan Rochlin, and Vachine

Top: Flor, Maria Ruiz. Bottom: Aaron Higaweda, Abram Gomez

provided remarkable readings. Vachine and Rochlin shared thoughtful, powerful works that their presentation enhanced, while Kennedy’s intense reading of his edgy stream-of-consciousness noir poetry would be enhanced with eye contact. Kennedy's rapid-fire pace works, for him. Rochlin committed a cardinal sin of an open mic. Given two poems, he declared he would do a third. And it was not a knockout. If you’re going to do that, knock it out of the park, at least change the pace, do a funny one, mejor, do an hommage to a miglior fabbro, mentiendes?

Joe Kennedy, Jeffrey Alan Rochlin, Vachine

Following an assortment of community poets raises the spirit of the featured poet to be reading with her gente after an hour's open mic. Reyna would have won a larger piece of our hearts had she made the painful decision to cut a few titles, move the unpublished pieces earlier in the program, then end the reading on a life affirming poem, like the “she still has it” piece, or the being pregnant poem. That one is a knockout.

Thelma Reyna takes questions

Here’s a small but important issue.Nearing the end of a reading, audiences hear “four more” and begin counting; their attention split between the poem and the count. “Last one” is the magic phrase and the only time to advise audiences of the countdown.

After the lively Q&A session, Thelma called me out as a speech coach who’d listened to her read and offered an observation. Today’s column reflects the goals Thelma set for her La Palabra audience: Pace, say each word as itself, slow down. Rhythm, read the ideas and structure, not the meter. Projection, sustained breathing control produces the volume and pitch you want.

Thelma Reyna, Painting by Margaret Garcia

Have a plan, work the plan, succeed on purpose. Plan: sustain existing comfort level and focus on 3 specific behaviors others will see or hear. Reyna worked her plan and it worked for her. La Palabra’s audience enjoyed their afternoon time and Thelma Reyna showed how poets win on purpose.



El Horno

Real Estate Ad:  Home for Sale. Charming hilltop with maximum view and solitude. Adobe dome horno and xeriscape just two of limitless small delights on this one-owner 60s bargain.

Real Estate Agent: You can knock that thing down and put in a spa.



I am away at Santa Barbara when my dad tells me he is building an horno to replace the pit barbeque. And he does. With help from an older friend, dad digs and sifts the red land of his yard, uses local rye grass augmented with Live Oak Canyon cow pies and makes adobe block. He plasters the outside with finely sifted mud.

A few days in advance of a barbacoa, my dad starts pulling leña for the horno. He prefers orange wood for its smoke and long-burning hardness, and because he'd been an orange-picker. Chamizo and stone fruit wood go in, too. No eucalyptus nor elm. Starting with the biggest limbs on the bottom, he stacks the firewood so the nearest at hand will be the first-to-burn twigs that kindle the fire.

Hours before sunrise dad starts a few twigs with newspaper to get a fire crackling. He feeds larger and longer lengths of wood until the growing flames fill the horno and it pulses with fire. Twenty minutes later, the flames ebbing to hot glowing orange, dad builds a new fire. When a fiery foot-deep heap of radiating coals fills the horno's floor, we set out for the kitchen. Smoke escaping myriad cracks in el horno glows in the day's first light.

The previous day, my mother rubs the huge beef roast with dried chile powders, then sets it to marinate in citrus juices and her own mixture of garlic, spices, salt, and herbs. While the boys are outside starting the fire, Mom works the kitchen, wrapping the carne in banana leaves and aluminum foil. With the roast on a rack in the bottom of a tina, she drapes wet burlap bags across the tina, lays down several layers of tinfoil which she crimps to the rim.

I shovel clear a spot in the middle of the horno, tossing the coals and ash to the back. We slide the tina into the middle of the horno. Dad fits the wet hatch cover to the opening and we mud over the entire surface with gloved hands. At 600 p.m. with a whoosh of aromatic steam, we crack open the hatch and it is time to eat.

After dinner, the familia huddles near the open hatch to stay warm. People play guitars and sing. They take requests. They sing together, sound gritos. Primos and sisters reminisce about lumbres in other days, stories overheard in other campos, heard from voices no one here has ever heard. Kids peek in from the dark periphery where chavalitas chavalitos lurk, taking in their story, inhaling the legends and names of their family, catching warm gusts of alma from around the horno.


Real Estate Agent: Oh, I'm sure the former owner will share recipes with you.




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Exploiting an Opportunity, or an Opportunistic Exploitation?


I felt the poet’s once-in-a-lifetime effervescent jubilation when I read his news: the California poet landed a college booking across country.

Then an email. “I can’t afford the trip. Any amount will help.” The organization will reimburse expenses, the poet tells me, but he doesn’t have money to get there.

I advise him to go to the organization and ask them to go through channels and secure an advance. Failing that, and absent some rich, generous friends, this poet will have to pass on the job because he cannot afford to get there. How disappointing that something that sounded like a fabulous opportunity turns out to be only a definite maybe.

Something is fishy in the state of Florida--the practice is probably endemic across higher ed.--that this is how its universities train students to run organizations in today's economy. Policies in play reflect outmoded practices for modern arts marketing, particularly for hiring emerging artists whose natural audience is college and university students.

Movers and shakers in student organizations need to understand economics peculiar to emerging artists and clear institutional hurdles. Such organizations may even be the sole route open to poets of their own generation finding audiences. Unless they can not pay in advance.

Student leaders need to take meetings, do press releases, convince administrators and bean counters of the appropriateness of cash advances. No one needs cash advances more than an emerging artist, yet the university rules insist on treating emerging artists like a poet travelling on the academic dime, spend then reimburse.

I’ll wager the university President’s office has funds to correct this student organization’s mis-step; or the English Department, or the MFA program can partner and co-sponsor the reading. I’ll wager also that a determined student committee can wend a request through the bureaucracy of their institution, and learn important lessons about organizational communication, blazing trails, and accountability.

I would be overjoyed if a southern California organization steps forward and fronts this poet the thousand dollars a trip like this should cost. He should have comfortable accommodations; not be sleeping on the floor of a student apartment, sneaking into the dining commons for meals, making baloney sandwiches in the car.

I don’t have the poet’s approval to share his plight. Click here if you're an angel. I’ll forward your email.



Email bag • Internet radio
Glut of Raza Writers Not Flowing Past Gatekeepers

"We have more than enough Latina Latino writers." Wait for the punchline. "What we need are raza book acquisitions editors."

That is the premise of a useful internet radio talk between La Bloga friend Marcela Landres and Jeff Rivera. Landres, hersel a former acquisitions editor, co-founded Las Comadres and Los Compadres Writers Conference, coming to the New York area in the Fall.

The radio talk, Why We Need More Latino Acquisition Editors is not for people looking to become writers. The talk focuses on the completed novel's most crucial obstacle--getting book-ready work into the business of publishing.

Marcela Landres drives home her point in a seminar at the National Latino Writers Conference in 2012.

What that looks like is landing a meeting with an individual paid to be "a perpetual graduate student, always reading always learning," in Landres' words. The gatekeeper who brings some writers inside, and keeps out everyone else.

Be that acquisitions editor, Landres suggests. It's the publishing equivalent of being a starving artist, except the pay is better. A helpful lifeskill, Landres emphasizes, is knowing how to be poor. Learning to enjoy working in big publishing offers pluses and minuses for Latina Latino workers. Landres has broadcast time only to outline some consequences of employment in book companies. For a fictive insight, Elizabeth Nunez' novel, Boundaries, sets a passionate publishing professional's plan to open the doors, against the demands of competitive book publishing values.

The central premise of  Why We Need More Latino Acquisition Editors is a view only raza editors will open the doors for more published Latina Latino writing. Not even a raza editor will give a break to a book just because the writer and editor are both Chicanas. Landres hammers home the point that talent alone does not get a book into print. The book and the writer have to be ready to go to print.

Listen at the link to gather details on readiness from Marcela Landres in Why We Need More Latino Acquisition Editors. Let this link load into memory and be patient with this large file, here.

Marcela Landres' most exigent argument points to gente's reading habits: people love to read raza literature but they don't buy what they read. What does it tell a publisher that Fulana de Tal has a million readers but sells only 100,000 copies?



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Crawling to Los Angeles to be Born

La Bloga friend and spoken word OG Sally Shore has entered final planning for the debut in Los Angeles of Lit Crawl. Here's hope raza poetry and literary communities heeded Sally's call to register for performance space at what's sure to be a memorable showcase for new and emerging writers. Sally's heads-up:

Lit Crawl L.A.: NoHo hits the streets of the NoHo Arts District, Wednesday, October 23, 2013 from 6:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m.

Lit Crawl L.A.: No Ho is an evening of thrilling readings with the best of L.A.’s writers in a sampling of some of the greatest ongoing readings series and multiple literary genres spanning fiction to poetry from throughout Los Angeles County. Multiple literary genres will be represented spanning fiction to poetry, including presentations by Los Angeles Review of Books, Black Clock magazine, Beyond Baroque, The World Stage, Red Hen Press, GetLit Ignite, The New Short Fiction Series, Tongue and Groove, and more.

Participating venues include The Federal Bar, Bow and Truss, Skinny’s Lounge, Pitfire Pizza, Republic of Pie, Bob’s Espresso Bar and other hip NoHo venues, with a closing fundraiser party at The Hesby. Audiences will wine and dine their way through the NoHo Arts District walking route, with two rounds of readings held in each participating venue between from 6:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m. The evening’s final celebration fundraiser will take place at The Hesby, NoHo Arts District’s newest lifestyle residential complex, from 9:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m.

Lit Crawl LA: NoHo, a project of the EMERGE fiscal sponsorship program of The Pasadena Arts Council and the Litquake Foundation, is presented in cooperation with the NoHo Business Improvement District.

Lit Crawl is a literary pub crawl founded by Litquake, San Francisco’s Literary Festival. Often referred to as “literary mayhem at its very finest,” the concept encourages a broad and often sophisticated gamut of literary expression and has been successfully franchised to Manhattan, Brooklyn, Los Angeles, Seattle, Austin and Iowa City, with London, England also coming on in 2013. Each location organizes its own version of the Crawl, one that reflects the unique literary makeup and talents of their city.



On-line Floricanto At the End of August 2013
Josh Healey, Sherry Peralta Trujillo Carbajal, Tara Evonne Trudell, Francisco X. Alarcón, Jeff Cannon/Alfonso Maciel Sr. trans.

"A Dream Detained (after Langston Hughes)" By Josh Healey
"Brown" by Sherry Peralta Trujillo Carbajal
"Woman of Experience" by Tara Evonne Trudell
"Tanka To The Bloody Hands Indifferent To Human Plight / Tanka A Las Manos Sangrientas Indiferentes Al Dolor Humano" by Francisco X. Alarcón
"Liberating Jeweled Tears / Lágrimas enjoyadas liberadoras" by Jeff Cannon; Spanish translation by Alfonso Maciel, Sr.


A Dream Detained (after Langston Hughes)
Josh Healey

For the Dream Defenders, occupying the Florida state capitol, for Trayvon Martin and racial justice.And the #Dream9 immigrant activists, who were detained at theborder and won their freedom

what happens to a dream detained?
does it wilt like a rose
in the Arizona sun?

does it sink into the ocean
as water fills its lungs?
or does it fight to come home,
cross borders and spread hope
until it has won?

this is not a weak dream
a beach margarita dream
a suburban house and two car garage dream

this is an American dream
call it Aztlán
call it the hood
call it the walled-off ghetto
of Beverly Hills

we call it home

so bring them home
bring our youth back to us safe and breathing
with a bag of Skittles and a smile

I have a dream
that one day Martin Luther King
will not be misquoted
by Bill O’Reilly on national TV
fake colorblind fallacies
affirming misplaced actions
tel lme, what is so conservative
about killing a young black boy
walking home to watch
the all-star game with his dad?

where are the family values
in deporting the only mother
a teenage girl has ever known?
her name is Mia, she loves to skate
and write and come to my workshops
but there is only one poem she wants to write
these days and it is gone, shipped to Tijuana
like unwanted merchandise

America, when did you stop dreaming?
where are your open arms
that reached for the stars and imagined?

you sing Lennon’s lyrics
then shoot him in Central Park
blame it on a black man in a hoodie
and go on with your day

America, whose ground are you standing on?

this dream is black
and black is beautiful
so this dream is fucking gorgeous
and young and brown
and white, too, if you’re down
to get dirty and and listen first
and never bring tofu
to the meeting ever again

like ever. for real.

because this is a feast
for the Dreamers and the Defenders
enchiladas and shrimp gumbo
soul food with pico de gallo
this is the new America
same as the old America

can you taste it, Arizona?
you can’t eat fake ass Taco Bell forever
if no one is there to serve your chalupa

how will your picket fences stay so white
if no one is there to paint them?

and Sheriff Arpaio, mi amigo,
who is going to take care of you
in your nursing home next year?
better learn some Spanglish
if you want something more
than jello for desayuno

that’s why we are here
true education at its best
starts with the students
bold youth with old souls
who know their history
enough to repeat it, remix it
into something fresh and free

what happens to a nightmare ignored?

does it hide
and shrink from the sun?

does it race
to pick up the gun?

does it sit back
and watch the throne?

or does it sit in
and make itself known?

take over the palace
shout loud and strong
and beautiful, a butterfly
shedding its cocoon

how does a nightmare become a dream?

lay your head down, America
get nice and comfortable
close your eyes
and tell us what you see





Josh Healey is an award-winning writer, performer, and creative activist.

Fusing his distinct storytelling style with a subversive humor and fiery love for justice, Healey has been featured in the New York Times, San Francisco Chronicle, and is a regular performer on NPR’s Snap Judgment.

He has performed and led workshops at UC-Berkeley, Harvard, and over 200 colleges, high schools, & conferences across the country. Find out more at joshhealey.org





BROWN 
Sherry Carbajal

Of the earth. The dirt that when mixed with straw and water and when added to walls made of logs, formed the foundation of the adobe home of my mother. The dirt of land worked on by my ancestors who were sheepherders, farmers, loggers, and copper miners.

Of the wood. The wood that formed the rulers used by school teachers and principals to smack the hands of my father who forgot that he could not speak in his native language while at school. The wood that was chopped for warmth even by my grandmother in her 80’s, wearing a dress and an old, thinning coat. The wood of the outhouse that was used because indoor plumbing was too expensive for the widow, my grandmother, left to raise her young children alone.

Of the food. The food that was not always abundant but that fed a large family. A poor man’s diet of pinto beans, potatoes, and tortillas made of corn and wheat.

Of the hands. The hands darkened by many long hours working in the sun, the hands that provided, that comforted, that helped, that held the new babies and the hands of the children, that taught, and that disciplined when the children were out of line.

Of the eyes. The eyes that showed fear for the children living in a world that did not always understand, pride in children who succeeded when many doubted, and love, always love.

Of the graves. The final resting place of my grandmother and ancestors who believed in hard work and in God, and who did their best to ensure a place of love, safety, comfort, and pride for their families.


Sherry Trujillo Carbajal was born in Reserve, New Mexico, and raised in Morenci, Arizona, where she teaches culinary arts at the local high school and where she resides with her husband of 25 years, Arnold, her daughter, Ashley, and her younger son, James.

Her older son, Christopher, is a 4th generation copper miner who also resides in Morenci with his fiancée and children.

Family has always been important to Sherry because her maternal grandmother, Pablita R. Peralta, lived with her family growing up, and taught her the values passed on by many generations, especially the importance of family, God, and hard work.





Woman of Experience
Tara Evonne Trudell

wild times
feeling true
nature
unleashed
unapologetic
for being
a woman
of experience
having others
misjudge
based on societal
standards
on how to act
like a lady
to be dainty
in my expression
low voice delivery
to contain
my enthusiasm
making them
uncomfortable
with my kundalini
energy
wild resisting
since day one
never really there
for them
from the start
young girl
growing up
knowing wild
woman at heart
spilling out
indicating
what’s going on
inside
too many years
trying
to mislead
not wanting me
to connect
with nature
energy experience
misunderstood
falling tears
acting out
a free
woman spirit
not trying
to hide
ache living
in root
chakra
soul journey
life line
scars
life time
healing
discovery
in memory
of ancestors
finding time
to create
offerings
from scratch
pan dulce
y cafe
de Chiapas
dripping
tres leche cake
y chili colorado
cultivating brown
growing green
milpas
on my path
enlightening shadow
explaining light
my needs and wants
learning
to accept
unapologetic
spirit rising
to the surface
surviving
the wild
times
of being
a woman
of experience
traveling
to get back
to the
beginning.


Tara Evonne Trudell, a mother of four, is full-time student at NMHU working on her BFA in Media Arts with an emphasis in film, audio, and photography.

It is through this expression of art, combined with her passion for poetry that she is able to express fearlessness of spirit for her family, people, community, social awareness, and most importantly her love of earth.










TANKA TO THE BLOODY HANDS
INDIFFERENT TO HUMAN PLIGHT

o blind, deaf, mute
heartless bloody hands—
cause of so many
deaths of crossers
by the Southern border

© Francisco X. Alarcón
July 2, 2013


TANKA A LAS MANOS SANGRIENTAS
INDIFERENTES AL DOLOR HUMANO

oh manos ciegas
sordas, mudas, sangrientas
sin corazón—
causa de tantas muertes
en la frontera al Sur

© Francisco X. Alarcón
2 de julio de 2013



Francisco X. Alarcón, award winning Chicano poet and educator, is author of twelve volumes of poetry, including, From the Other Side of Night: Selected and New Poems (University of Arizona Press 2002), and Snake Poems: An Aztec Invocation (Chronicle Books 1992)  His latest book is Ce•Uno•One: Poems for the New Sun (Swan Scythe Press 2010). His book of bilingual poetry for children, Animal Poems of the Iguazú (Children’s Book Press 2008), was selected as a Notable Book for a Global Society by the International Reading Association. His previous bilingual book titled Poems to Dream Together (Lee & Low Books 2005) was awarded the 2006 Jane Addams Honor Book Award. He has been a finalist nominated for Poet Laureate of California in two occasions.  He teaches at the University of California, Davis.
He created the Facebook page, POETS RESPONDING TO SB 1070





LIBERATING JEWELED TEARS
Jeff Cannon

may your words fall jeweled tears
wash those around your feet with wisdom for bold standing
courage to march with every breathe against ancient tyrannies

those fiery stars ascending to destroy beauty with their demon eyes
then descend with full bellies faint embers hidden in the dark
the ones chained to sickness orbiting round and round
slyly waiting to burst over each new generation chained to the place
learning forgets experience
cast a greater shadow
more ferocious than the one before

may your words from humble throne stream down to form firm hands
strong as mained rivers splashing free to lift creation's sore blood
to speak where it left off
let heart wisdom gently flow over faces, chests
let its moisture sink deep
awaken bones to release from sleep the history they carry
the stories they bear
for compassion to walk the earth protected

keep alive the original task
the only labor for heart drenched eyes and hands
ears and lips, entire holy bodies
to give with earth touch kind
affection liberated from fear
care released from prisoned silence
so the shaman's dream does not die
the elder's cry finds salvation
aware the gorgeous seed sprouts up secure
dances love's authority
dances unconditioned care wide-eyed, ever mindful
to confront what small perversions
still creep in jungle shadows
behind slender warm armed light

LÁGRIMAS ENJOYADAS LIBERADORAS
por Jeff Cannon, traducción al español por Alfonso Maciel Sr.

que las lágrimas enjoyadas de tus palabras caigan
lavando aquellas alrededor de tus pies con sabiduría para mantenerse firmes
valor para marchar con cada aliento contra antiguas tiranías

esas fulgurantes estrellas que ascienden destruyendo la belleza con sus ojos demoniacos
luego descienden con oscuros rescoldos ocultos en su vientre ahíto
los encadenados al mal girando y girando en sus órbitas,
esperando taimadamente estallar sobre cada nueva generación
encadenados al lugar donde el aprendizaje olvida la experiencia
proyectan una sombra mayor
más feroz que la de más antes

que tus palabras desde el humilde trono fluyan a formar manos firmes
fuertes como ríos con crestas como crines salpicando libres
para elevar el decir de la sangre llagada de la creación
para que hable ahí donde se quedó
que la sabiduría del corazón suavemente fluya sobre los rostros
pechos, que su humedad penetre profundamente
despierte huesos para liberarlos del sueño de la historia que acarrean
las historias que cargan por compasión
caminar la tierra protegidos
mantener viva la misión original
la única tarea para los ojos empapados de corazón, orejas y labios,
santos cuerpos enteros
a dar con el amable toque de tierra
afecto libre de temor
cariño liberado del aprisionante silencio
para que no muera el sueño del chamán
el clamor de los viejos encuentra salvación
sabiendo que la maravillosa semilla germina segura
danza la autoridad del amor
danza incondicional y pasmada
siempre escrupulosa
a confrontar aquellas pequeñas perversiones
que aún reptan en selváticas sombras
tras esbelta y cálida luz armada


Jeff Cannon is the author of three books of poetry: Finding the Father at Table and Eros: Faces of Love (2010, published by Xlibris Corporation), Intimate Witness: The Carol Poems by Goose River Press, 2008, a testament to his wife’s courageous journey with cancer.

He first appeared in the anthology celebrating parenthood, My Hearts First Steps in 2004. He has been a featured poet at Manchester Community College, CT and at local Worcester poetry venues as well as in New Hampshire. From 2007-2008, he was the spoken word component with singer song writers John Small and Lydia Fortune as part of Small, Fortune and Cannon. He was published in Goose River Anthology: 2009 and started at that time to write monthly essays and poetry for the “Sturbridge Times” of Sturbridge MA. He is the father of two daughters, retired and “can’t stop writing” although he does not read out as much as he would prefer.

Alfonso Maciel (translator). Born in September 7, 1944 in Tamazula de Gordiano, Jal., México.
Moved with my family to Guadalajara in 1950 and then to San Francisco, Calif. in 1964. First worked as a warehouseman in The City, where I helped organize the workplace as a Teamster Shop.
Member of Local 2 Foodservice/Hotel Employees Union.
As one of the founders of the Mission Cultural Center (now MCCLA), I organized and run the Graphics Dept., now Misión Gráfica. Later served as Director of the Center and organized the non-profit Friends of the MCC as its fundraising arm and governing body. Went to serve as Director of the SF Arts Commission's Neighborhood Arts Program where I oversaw the City's separation from programming matters at four Cultural Centers, while maintaining housekeeping responsibilities.
Served for many years in the Community Arts Distribution Committee of the Zellerbach Family Fund; As advisor to the W.A. Gerbode, Columbia, and San Francisco Foundations in matters of Community Arts. Several times as Panelist of various programs of the California Arts Council. Served in the Editorial Committees of Editorial Pocho-Che, El Pulgarcito and Gaceta Sandinista. Started A. Maciel Printing in 1984, even today the only printing shop certified by the SF Dept. of the Environment as a "Green" shop. It also is a Union Shop. Living in retirement in Cuautla, Morelos, México for approximately 2 years I am active in the local arts and culture communities. Self described as allergic to official disciplines, I also call myself a "Furiously committed Latino Anti-imperialist".

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Jack Kerouac

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Don Ignacio "Nacho" Rivera

The Molinars, the Riveras, the Botellos, the Holguins, each of these families represent the Salt of the Earth of Johnstown. The roots of these families, which began in Mexico, are now firmly planted in the small northern Colorado town destiny chose for them. Fleeing poverty and the economic displacement that resulted from the Mexican Revolution of 1910, these families sought refuge in another Ellis Island. And like the twelve million German, Italian and Irish immigrants who fled to the United States between 1892-1954, they crossed borders, their hearts filled with hopes and dreams of a better life for themselves and their children: Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

The life story of Don Ignacio Rivera reflects the journeys of these huddled masses seeking freedom and the pursuit of the American Dream. Don Ignacio Rivera or “Nacho,” was born in Chicago, Illinois in 1923 to Juan and Martina Rivera, who had crossed the border from Mexico into the United States seeking employment. Don Nacho spent the first four years of his life experiencing first-hand his parents’ search for socioeconomic betterment in the United States. He would later return with his parents to San Ignacio, a small pueblo in the state of Chihuahua, Mexico, where he would spend the first twenty years of his life. “It was a small, peaceful life, though sad. We lived in a small adobe house, very poor,” Don Nacho explained when I interviewed him. It was there in a small ranchito that this proud humble man would learn the value of hard work, helping his father plant corn and cotton. “My father was very hardworking. Era pobre como yo.”

It was also there in San Ignacio that Nacho fell in love with Maria Francisca Nevel or “Kica,” creating a love that would endure the test of time amidst economic difficulties. A love that would produce ten children—Leo, Jesse, Lupe, Socorro, Tony, Gloria, Johnny, Olivia, Irma, Sally and an adopted son, Adam. A love that would transcend time, transcend borders. In 2011, Nacho and his wife would celebrate their 70th wedding anniversary in Johnstown, Colorado, surrounded by thirty-five grandchildren, fifty-nine great-grandchildren and sixteen great-great grandchildren. “Era mi primer amor. She was fifteen and I was eighteen. I knew I wanted to join my life with hers. We fell in love. I asked her if she would go with me and she said yes. So we went the first night to stay with friends in San Ignacio, then we went to Juárez for a few days. Then we went back to the ranchito. Luego nos casaron. That was the custom back then. The girls would go with the man, then they would marry.”

Don Nacho and his young bride would spend their first seven years of marriage in San Ignacio. Nonetheless, the economic hardships of the post-revolutionary era in Mexico would force Nacho and his family to leave their beloved ranchito. “A lot of people left San Ignacio when they didn’t have any water to work the land. We didn’t have any work, so I came to the U.S. to work. We didn’t have anything, not even water.” Nacho first crossed the U.S. Mexican border into Fabens, Texas where he worked for a rancher picking cotton and alfalfa. His wife and children would join him several weeks later. They lived in Fabens for almost a year and a half, returning to San Ignacio one more time, then crossing the border again into Denver City, Texas. Nacho would stay in Denver City with his family for three years, working in the cotton fields.

It was then that destiny intervened in Don Nacho’s life, taking him to the small northern Colorado town of Johnstown where he would remain with his family until his death on January 20, 2013. Upon visiting with his parents who had moved from Mexico to Johnstown, Nacho made the decision to move his family there in order to be closer to his parents. “Kica didn’t like Johnstown, but I did. I still do. This is where we’re all buried. My parents, uncles, aunts, cousins, everyone is here now.”

Nonetheless, the pursuit of the American Dream during the 1940s and 50s proved to be difficult for Don Nacho and countless other Mexicans living in the small agricultural towns of Northern Colorado. Like my own parents and those of many other Mexican and Chicano families whose roots are embedded in Johnstown, Nacho joined the marginalized groups who became a source of cheap labor for the local farmers. They lived in run-down shacks, making only enough money to support their families. “We all worked in the sugar beets. We lived in different ranches. I remember the snow would come in through the holes. No electricity. Wood stoves. We went to the bathroom in tinas or outside. I would get up at 3:00 a.m. to start the stove. The first house was real bad. In the second house it was better. All the workers were mexicanos. We were paid $200 a month. That was enough to eat on. And with my Amá and Apá, we were around thirteen and we all ate. I don’t know how, but we did.”

Times were indeed hard back then if you were a Mexican. Not only did Don Nacho work seven days a week, barely earning enough to feed his family, but he endured the discriminatory attitudes of the time. “Tenían al trabajador como a nadie. Some discriminated. Some were good. They paid very little. They didn’t speak any Spanish. We had to go cut wood, we’d cut branches. We would sometimes go to the dump to get wood. It was very difficult. They didn’t even know if people needed wood. It was all about work. They would give us credit at the store. Every two weeks I would buy food. Sometimes I wouldn’t have any money left, but I would still pay them.”

Despite the intense anti-Mexican sentiment of that era, Don Nacho would remain in his beloved Johnstown until his death. He eventually left farm labor, working seasonally at the local Great Western Sugar Factory and later at the Johnstown Feed and Seed, where he was employed for ten years. “I learned to work hard from my parents. I didn’t have any education, any schooling here, a little in Mexico.” Yet, Nacho never forgot his life on the ranchito in San Ignacio. “I loved being out doors, the fresh air. In the sugar factory it was indoors all the time, noise from the factory, the smell. I still like the rancho. My daughter, Gloria, came out like me. She lives on a rancho.”

Like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and César Chávez, the humble beginnings and life story of Don Ignacio Rivera have influenced the lives of many. Nacho’s legacy will remain in the historical archives of Johnstown. Virtually uneducated and speaking very little English, Nacho has contributed significantly to the history and local economy of Johnstown. During his many years in Johnstown, he purchased several homes as well as an apartment building. Nacho’s children would go on to model their father’s hard work ethic and entrepreneurial skills, developing their own local businesses--Leo’s Place, Kica’s and Nacho’s, Lozano Insurance and Ultimate Style--which have contributed to the local economy of Johnstown. There is no doubt that Don Nacho’s tenacity and his endless pursuit of the American Dream embody the spirit and greatness of a true American hero.

At the end of our interview, when I asked Don Ignacio what his greatest accomplishment was, he did not hesitate. “Tener una familia como ésta. My family is my greatest accomplishment. My children’s success. I never had money to give them, but I taught them to work, to be hardworking. I get sentimental. Muy unidos, día y noche. They have to work, but as soon as they get out, they come to the house. They all come to eat. They talk, they shout. I get so happy.”

Hasta pronto, Don Nacho. Until we meet again….

Gloria L. Velásquez is an internationally known writer and poet who graduated from Roosevelt High School (Johnstown) in 1967. She is also Honored Alumni from the University of Northern Colorado in Greeley where she became the first Chicana to be inducted into their Hall of Fame in 1989. In 1998, Stanford University honored Velásquez with the “Gloria Velásquez Papers,” archiving her life as a writer and humanitarian.








I received the following press release from the Beatrice Kozera estate through Tim Z. Hernandez, La Bloga friend who has a book coming out about "The Mexican Girl," Manana Means Heaven. Tim's book is getting a lot of buzz and sounds like a great read.  The heroine of the book lived long enough to see it become a reality through Tim's hard work.









Fresno, CA. (August 19, 2013) — Beatrice Kozera, a.k.a. Bea Franco, a.k.a. “Terry” of legendary American author Jack Kerouac’s magnum opus, On the Road, died of natural causes on the morning of Thursday August 15, 2013 in Lakewood, California.

In her own words, her life was “nothing special.” Which might be true, if you do not count that her role in the author's career was important enough to include her name in over twenty biographies on Kerouac, and that she had amassed a literary cult following for the past 56 years, all unbeknownst to her and her family. In late autumn of 1947 she met the young Kerouac in Selma, California where she was living in the farmworker labor camps with her family. The two struck up a relationship that lasted fifteen days, which he chronicled in his book On the Road— a novel that sparked the counterculture generation and was recently made into a movie featuring Brazilian actress Alice Braga in the role of “Terry.” What has been largely unknown is that after six years of rejections it was the story of “Terry, the Mexican Girl” that opened the doors for the publication of Kerouac’s novel.

The timing of her death was unfortunate, considering that later this month a book based on her life and written with her participation, Mañana Means Heaven by author Tim Z. Hernandez, is being released. “My mother hung on just long enough to see and hold the book in her hands,” her son Albert commented.

Beatrice Kozera was born Beatrice Renteria in Los Angeles, California in 1920, and spent most of the early part of her life following the seasons with her family, picking cotton, grapes and other crops. She eventually settled down in Fresno, California with her husband LeRoy Kozera, who in her own words, “Was a good man who gave me a good life.” She is survived by her son Albert Franco and her daughter Patricia Leonard, along with several grandchildren and great grandchildren.

Letters and condolences are being accepted at: The Beatrice Kozera Estate, 596 Palo Verde Drive, Bullhead City, Arizona 86442. For information or interview requests contact: [email protected].




Again for the First Time
Rosemary Catacalos
Wings Press - October, 2013
[from La Bloga friend Bryce Milligan, the publisher]

Again for the First Time was originally published in 1984 by Tooth of Time Books in Santa Fe. It received the Texas Institute of Letters Poetry Prize. The book went on to achieve near-legendary status as one of the best books of poetry ever by a Texas poet. Wings Press is proud to publish this 30th anniversary edition. It was the first full-length collection of poetry by Rosemary Catacalos, who went on to become a Dobie-Paisano fellow, a Stegner fellow, a recipient of an NEA creative writing fellowship, and numerous other honors. The book is unique in that it pairs and often plays against each other the mythologies of Catacalos's mixed Greek and Mexican backgrounds. At the same time that it is populated with characters like Ariadne and Theseus, it is also very contemporary in its settings and the issues it addresses, including San Antonio street life, racism, mass killings, and foreign wars. It is a strongly feminist work as well. Rose Catacalos is the 2013-2014 Poet Laureate of Texas -- the first ever Latina Poet Laureate of Texas.

Rosemary Catacalos is the eldest grandchild of Greek and Mexican immigrants to San Antonio, Texas, where her extended family has made its home since about 1910. Her work is deeply rooted in place and in the classical myths, folklore, family stories, and history of both cultures. Her writing has been translated into Spanish, Italian, and Greek. A former literary arts administrator, Catacalos has been executive director of San Francisco's Poetry Center and American Poetry Archives, and the San Antonio literary center, Gemini Ink. She lives in San Antonio.






_______________________________________________________________

Later this year I'll be making presentations about writing and my books in Minnesota, Texas, California, and Colorado. Stay tuned for details.

Later.

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Stop the Presses!
The Gluten-free Chicano Eats Bread

Michael Sedano

It was my inattention and poor stocking by Whole Foods Market in east Pasadena that got me. I bought a bag of sugar cookies and failed to notice the gluten-free products shelf had stopped, and I’d taken a bag of wheat-based cookies whose packaging appeared identical to the good stuff.

Once home, I tore open the package and devoured two cookies. 59 minutes later, I was sick as a dog with fleas. I stumbled to bed and passed out. Three days later, I’d fully recovered.

Sabes que? The Gluten-free Chicano has no fear of stuff that scares others: critters, big angry people, the cucui--some of my best friends are cucui, sabes? But wheat, wheat makes my knees shake, wheat scares me to death, as do barley and rye.

Gluten-free analogs of bread are really awful. Some beers are great, but bread, no. Typically made with heavy proportions of rice and bean flours, GF breads' texture is dry, grainy and unpleasant, like sawdust. The xanthan gum manufacturers add also lends a disagreeable taste that shouts out loud, “Analog! Will Robinson, Analog!” Sometimes it sucks to be me, especially in restaurants where people slather sweet butter on warm sourdough loaves or  artisan crackers, bring the morsels to their lips, and chew in exquisite delectation.

Then last week, my friend Mario Trillo returned from a COSTCO in Sparks NV where he found Essential Baking Super Seeded Multi-Grain Gluten-free bread. This is fabulous, but, regrettably unavailable in Southern California. Nonetheless, the Gluten-free Chicano unqualifiedly endorses Essential Baking Super Seeded Multi-Grain Gluten-free bread.

In the past, I’ve spent money on always-expensive bread analogs, only to eat one slice then give the remainder to La Chickenada, who aren’t particular, though even they curl their lips at the stuff.

How does Essential Baking do it? Filtered water, mixed seeds (sunflower & flax seeds), rice flour (white, brown & sweet rice), egg white, hi oleic safflower oil, tapioca flour, sugar cane fiber, granulated sugar, yeast, pear juice concentrate, plum puree (prune juice concentrate, dried plums), modified cellulose, salt, potato flour, baking powder (glucono delta lactone & calcium carboate), cellulose gum, orange citrus fiber.

Gluten-free eggs on toast

This week, thanks to Mario’s thoughtfulness, I’ve eaten toast for breakfast, toast for lunch, and old-fashioned grilled cheese sandwiches. Each meal was a great big thanksgiving day dinner that couldn’t be beat, if you know what I mean.

If you’re in Reno NV or points north, and afflicted with Celiac disease or some variant of gluten intolerance, do yourself a flavor favor and buy a package of Essential Baking Super Seeded Multi-Grain Gluten-free bread. Take a few slices to restaurants, make sure you’re the first to the butter before the wheat-eaters contaminate it, and munch away, just like them.

The Gluten-free Chicano promises to follow Essential Baking company’s website and Facebook page to be first with the news when distribution reaches western Aztlán.


Mira que ya amaneció 

The couple fell madly in love and then more deeply so. He found a shanty in a chicano neighborhood whose slanty roof was sound enough so long as there was no weather. The previous welfare tenants hadn’t left it too smelly, so he cleaned it up, painted the walls, laid some carpet, and they moved in together to start the summer. It was June 1968.

In the evenings she would read while he did push-ups, sets of 25, then 30, then 50. “Why are you doing push-ups?” she asked. “I want to be in shape when I get drafted,” he replied. “You’re not going to get drafted!” she insisted, anger restrained by fear. Every evening, television news showed the relentless arrivals of flag-draped coffins from Vietnam, in sets of 25, then 30, then 50, then hundreds, and thousands.

August 31, 1968 arrived. It was his 23d birthday, and the date they’d selected for the Nuptial Mass. “Marriage is like a barbeque,” the Monsignor pronounced on the hottest day of the year as they kneeled sweating through the ceremony. The Msgr. enjoyed his metaphor and elaborated. The coals grew hot, the coals cooled, the coals reignited, they glowed cherry-red. And they knelt in miserable synaesthesia.

View from the mailbox. "I'll drive," she said. Bumper stickers are UCSB staff parking, "Bring them home alive," and "McCarthy for President."

One fine day in October they were headed to Santa Barbara Botanical Gardens. It was their kind of place—free--and they’d packed a picnic.

She said she’d drive. He said he’d get the mail.

"Get the mail when we get back."

“Don’t,” she said, “we’ll get it when we get back.”

He opened the mailbox, as he did every day, looking for it. It was there, the manila envelope.

I checked the mail and the envelope had arrived.

“Greeting: From the President of the United States...” and he thought of that song, “and then my Uncle Sam, he said ‘a knock-knock, here I am.” Ordered to report for induction Thanksgiving week, he, along with his mother and his employers petitioned the draft board to let him be. The draft board relented and gave him until January 15, 1969 to report.

Memories of that time hit me hard every year at this time. Forty-three years ago today, I’d been discharged after 19 months and three days in uniform. Barbara met me in Washington state, from where we took a bus toward Southern California on a second honeymoon. It was like a really good blind date.

We arrived in Temple City on August 28, 1970. I did not know where “East Los Angeles” was, but I sorely wanted to go to that “Chicano Moratorium” antiwar march the next day. I went into the Army because I thought being a Veteran would legitimize my protest.

Geographical ignorance saved my life. Had a cop attacked me at Laguna Park, I would have attacked right back. I had not yet shed my military bellicosity. Still haven’t.

Next week’s August 31 marks our 45th anniversary, give or take nineteen months and three days, and my 68th year. Happy anniversary to my first wife, felicidades and apio verde to me.

Levántate de mañana mira que ya amaneció.


The Four of Us Rode the Streets of Aztlán

It was the evening before I was to report for the bus taking me to the Induction Center. Our friends Bryan and Mike climbed in the back seat of the Valiant, Barbara shotgun. We cruised slowly through campus, the bustling streets of Isla Vista, then headed back for one last, slow cruise of Santa Barbara's darkened streets.

Near midnight, it was clear tomorrow would, indeed, arrive. The light turned green but we were laughing at something and had not noticed. The next right turn would put us on State Street, then a left on Haley St, and a left on Milpas, a right and we’d be back at the Ortega Street shanty. Then we’d have to say goodbye, perhaps forever. It was that ominous and dreary.

A raggedy beat-up pickup truck behind us honked its horn. In the rearview mirror I saw the turned-up brim of the driver’s cowboy-hatted silhouette. Cowboy backed up, honked again, and slammed his pickup truck into my rear bumper, hard.

As he screeched around us, he bravely yelled out, “Fuck you, Four F!” The pendejo made the turn and disappeared down State Street. People unfit for military service were designated “4-F.” What an ugly irony, que no? Tomorrow I would be a soldier, and cowboy would still be driving the streets, hating long-hairs like me, assuming we were unpatriotic 4-Fs.

I didn’t want to cry, so I laughed instead.


I have three friends whose Vietnam experience put them in body casts for a year or more out of their lives. Other men I knew didn’t come home.

When I think of what it means to be drafted out of grad school as a newlywed, Franz’, Ray’s, and Mario’s experiences put mine into perspective. Shoulda woulda coulda, but it wasn’t. And so it goes.




Mailbag
UCSB Has A Job for You

The phone call came the same day I'd signed and mailed off the contract committing me to a one-year jale at Cal State LA. It was Rollin Quimby, my MA adviser. "We have a one-year appointment for you," Dr. Quimby delightedly informed me. So it goes.


Click here to go to the C/S Depto's website for details on the jale.



Cultural Tourismo: la Habana
Tom Miller Has A Tour For You

Will January 2014 see you strolling el Malecón, drinking mentiritas, meeting Cuban writers, and reciting Martí poems in colorful sodas? It will, if you have the lana and ganas to join La Bloga friend Tom Miller on one of the top travel bargains in las Américas and the Caribe.



For more information contact Tom Miller at 520-325-3344 or [email protected], or Cuba Tours and Travel at 888 225-6439 ext 802. You may wish to visit http://tourinfosys.com/signup/lit_hav where you can sign up for the viaje.


Late-breaking news
UCLA Hosts Writing Conference

La Bloga friend, Liz Gonzalez, will present a capstone workshop at this weekend's Writers' Faire. The all-day event ranges from screenwriting to one-on-one conferences with coaches and the connected. Liz' contribution wraps up the day for gente just getting their fingers wet in the writing industry. At 220 to 300 p.m. Liz and colleagues delve into beginning steps.

Getting Started as a Writer
How do you find inspiration, learn the writers’ discipline, and acquire techniques for transforming your ideas and fragments of stories into artistic, compelling pieces of writing? Start here. liz gonzález (chair), Aaron Shulman, Nancy Spiller

Here is the complete program in PDF. General info is here. Other than parking and lunch, the event is free.


August’s Penultimate On-line Floricanto
Ralph Haskins Elizondo, Juanita Lamb, Lois Chavez Valencia, Bulfrano Mendoza, Andrea Mauk

"El molcajete de mi abuela" by Ralph Haskins Elizondo
"Window shopping dreams" by Juanita Lamb
"Deported" by Lois Chavez Valencia
“Ya Basta" by Bulfrano Mendoza
"The world and its people" by Andrea Mauk

El Molcajete De Mi Abuela
Ralph Haskins Elizondo

After serving faithfully for five generations, I retired my grandmother's/mother's molcajete. I dedicate these words to it, and to all who came before me.

What once was a proud, sculptured Mexican mortar,
strong, and chiseled to last a thousand years,
is now a small humbled grey-pit shadow
holding a tiny pebble of a pestle on its concaved lap.
Eons of ornery stone, born to grind
into submission decades of unrepentant
peppers in my grandmother’s long kitchen,
she milled her seasons of salsas there,
since beyond the revolution; every chile-tomato taste,
an explosion of Villa’s armies taking the field.
My grandfather’s cavalry, charges again
to quell the uprising taking place
on the battlefield of my tongue.
The pits and pores hang on to all
the memories of flavors ever pressed.
I can still taste my childhood, and my mother’s childhood,
both intertwined in cilantro,
but like my grandmother, time grinding away
at her skin, her organs, even stone wears out.
You rest now, old friend. You rest.


Ralph Haskins Elizondo was born and raised in Monterrey, Mexico.

His family moved to South Texas during the social turmoil of the 60’s.

Many of his poems touch the cultural and political issues of our times.

Today, Ralph lives in McAllen, Texas where he supplements his poet’s income by moonlighting as a science teacher at a local high school.








Window Shopping Dreams
Juanita Lamb

(Reading of Oprah's handbag racism reminds me of a family story.)

My grandmother—Mama Sarita—
would take my sister for walks downtown,
"window shopping.” A little girl could entertain
fantasies of wearing beautiful clothes on display
while she played with her blue-eyed
golden haired doll.

Passing the "Anglo" bakery,
Mama Sarita and my sister talked
about the fancy wedding cake displayed
and dreamed aloud of hundreds
of wedding guests in attendance
at my sister's fairy tale wedding.

And so it went, grandmother and child
passing a fanciful hour or two
spinning dreams and wishing wishes.
One day they were at the windows
of a very expensive department store
gazing at the beautiful high heels adorned
with jeweled buckles, satin bows
and criss-crossed straps as thin as angel hair.

But their daydream was shattered
when a store clerk came to the door
of the shop and called out to them
"no zapatos for you Madama. Vamos".
And shooed them away
with sweeping hand gestures.

How do you explain to a child
that some people think even dreams
are not for them? How do you explain
the unexplainable?




Deported
Lois Chavez Valencia

I need to see my mother.
Working,crying I want to rest
but my thoughts turn to nightmares,
and my pain makes me suffer.

They sent you away from me.
I can’t see your face,
I can’t see your beautiful smile,
nor feel your hugs that
made me feel safe and loved.

I'm alone in this land
without support or family,
dreaming of days
when you were with me.

Day by day, year by year,
you gave me all you could
without complaining,
with all the love
only a mother can give.

I need to see my mother,
deported so far away from me.



Ya Basta!
Bulfrano Mendoza

In memory of David Silva, 33 year old husband, and father of four murdered on May 8, 2013, by 9 racist Bakersfield, California Sheriffs Deputies, Sworn to Serve and Protect...
All that remains of him, the story
in the newspaper said, is that his
blood stains are still on the corner
of Flower Street and Palm Drive.
Another Mexicano, father of four,
beaten to death by nine white
gestapo California Sheriffs deputies,
who claim he was resisting arrest.
He begged, " Please spare my life! "
Instead, he was murdered in front
of his children and his wife!
And those witnesses who filmed
his murder on their phones,
were threatened by these sheriffs,
then they confiscated their phones.
The gestapo tactics perpetrated
by these racist deputies on our
raza must come to an end.
Time for a new revolution for
our freedom to begin!
These white chotas must leave
all of our brown gente alone,
so we can feel safe on our
streets as well as in our homes!


Rick " Bulfrano " Mendoza is the founder of Poet Warriors, and one of the regular poets at Gallist Galleries, in San Antonio, Texas. Rick has a Masters degree in English Literature from UCLA, and has been writing poetry for a couple of years now. Poetry speaks to me on so many levels, and in so many voices, and at the oddest times. I remember writing poems in Miss Trudes 3rd grade class, in my Big Chief tablet, and now at fifty nine years old, I am writing poetry that is tender, loving, sad, visceral, and most of all immediate. Poetry has changed my life. And if you want to feel the power of the written word, read your poems out loud. You transform the experience into something memorable. A good poet is attuned to the way he reads the words he writes. The emotion I put into reading my poems
comes from a special place. I want my audience to feel, I want to mesmerize, to catch the world through my eyes. A poem is only as powerful as the voice behind it.

'The World and Its People
Andrea Mauk

In this world
There are people who wake up
Smile at the sun
Stretch to exchange energy (a scary thought)
Kiss their children's cheeks
Their wives' hungry lips
Pick up their briefcases
Drive to the office
Receive clearance
And oversee the slaughter
of innocentes in far off lands.

These kind of people never blink.
They don't feel the need to wash their hands.

There are people who wake up
with rumbling pangs in the pits of their stomachs
Smell the rot that squelches their hunger
Bathe in rivers streaked blood red
(Blue Bloods never bleed)
Raise their arms
Their need for change
And march in step.
Sometimes their bullets pierce the skulls
of their brothers.

Their tears flow through lands and songs.
Somehow
They have not forgotten how to smile.
These people must always wash their hands
But soap is no match for centuries
Of collective memory.

There are people who wake up
Turn off the coffee maker, pour a cup
Sit down to listen
To the morning news
Grab their keys
Hit the freeway
Wait in traffic
Cuss a little
Get to the job
Help someone somewhere
To turn a profit
And everything is okay
Because their heart flutters
Red, White and Blue
And they do everything they've
Been raised to do.

Their songs are anthems, rock and roll
And they proudly wash their hands
Throw the paper napkin near the can.

Then there are people
Who suddenly wake up
Only to realize
That everything they've ever been told
is an orchestrated fantasy
And anything they think to do
Seems immensely small
So they cry inside
And they go on with a chip on their shoulder
'Cause they know it's all a lie.

These people raise their hands to the sky.


Andrea Garcia Mauk grew up in Arizona, where both the immense beauty and harsh realities of living in the desert shaped her artistic soul. She currently calls Los Angeles home, but has also lived in Chicago, New York and Boston. She has worked in the music industry, and on various film and television productions. She writes short fiction, poetry, original screenplays and adaptations, and is currently finishing two novels. Her writing and artwork has been published and viewed in a variety of places such as on The Late, Late Show with Tom Snyder; The Journal of School Psychologists and Victorian Homes Magazine. Both her poetry and artwork have won awards. Several of her poems and a memoir will be included in an upcoming anthology, Our Spirit, Our Reality. She participates in the group, “Poets Responding to SB1070” on Facebook, a page dedicated to peacefully protesting the Arizona immigration laws through poetry. She is also a moderator of Diving Deeper, an online workshop for writers, and has written online extensively about music, especially jazz, while working in the entertainment industry.

Andrea also teaches 5th grade in downtown Los Angeles. She is a dedicated and creative educator who incorporates the arts and project-based learning into the curriculum. She has completed extensive training in teaching gifted and talented students. She recently enjoyed choreographing 100 5th grade students in a performance of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.”

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by Amelia M.L. Montes (ameliamontes.com)

So many great books!

Tamarindo pods hanging from tree

Just peel off the outer layer and eat!

1. It’s sticky pulp is a rich source of non-starch polysaccharides or dietary-fiber . . .
2. Dietary fibers in the pulp bind to bile salts (produced from cholesterol) and decrease their re-absorption in the colon; thereby helping the excretion of “bad” or LDL cholesterol levels from the body.
3. While lemon is composed of citric acid, tamarind is rich in tartaric acid.  Tartaric acid gives a sour taste to food but is also a very powerful antioxidant. 
4. This prized spice is a good source of minerals like copper, potassium, calcium, iron, selenium, zinc, and magnesium. 
5. Tamarindo is also rich in many vital vitamins, including thiamin, vitamin A, folic acid, riboflavin, niacin, and vitamin-C.  Much of these vitamins are antioxidants, and co-factor functions for enzyme metabolism inside the body.

cactus paddles ready to prepare

I wear gloves to cut off the spiny thorns

After you cut off the thorns and cut them up like this, then either stir fry or boil for just about 5-8mins.

Here's a delicious dish with cactus, chiles, goat cheese, tomatoes

close-up of tepary beans

There are so many great ways to include cactus in your breakfast, lunch, or dinner dishes.  You can mix it with eggs in the morning (like my grandmother used to do), add it into your salsa recipe, stir fry it with your main dish for dinner.  The possibilities are endless and so delicious!  

Tepary beans soaking in water. Soak overnight and then cook!

Another excellent food is the tepary bean.  
Out of all the beans we know, this bean has the lowest carbohydrate count.  And it is an ancient bean.  Read here all about the tepary: click here! 
There are so many foods from our antepasado to recover and include in your dishes. 

I am wishing all of you a health-filled, delicious week!  Enjoy!     

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In front of a banana tree on S. Cortez Street in New Orleans

Octavia Books

Octavia Books on Octavia Street is a great bookstore that supports poetry and local authors. I've had the pleasure of reading and signing books at Octavia Books three times. Even though I read my poem, "

With El Buitre at the Ogden Museum

She and my nephew also had a couples' piece at the UNO gallery on St. Claude.

Last Thursday, Little Freddie King played at the Ogden Museum.

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• ISBN-13: 9780823426324
• Publisher: Holiday House, Inc.
• Publication date: 8/1/2013
• Age range: 2 - 5 Years

Reviews

... [Readers]  will enjoy learning the names of the animals in both English and Spanish and comparing the onomatopoeia in each language. Chock-full of bicultural fun on the farm. -Kirkus Reviews

This is an excellent choice for read-alouds, but it also includes a glossary and pronunciation guide, making it useful in one-on-one contexts for young readers looking to develop Spanish vocabulary. -School Library Journal


Señor Pancho Had a Racho but he also has an acticity sheet at Holiday House. You can get yours at http://www.holidayhouse.com/docs/HH_Senor_Ver2.pdf



Enjoy,

René Colato Laínez

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Portrait of the Apprentice with the Artist

Michael Sedano

Fortune smiles on the serendipitous photographer. In one of the busiest arts weekends of 2013, tough choices forced me to abandon plans for a big Saturday with the lens.

Poesia Para La Gente had commandeered a pedestrian tunnel in Cypress Park for a major poetry reading with art show and musical entertainment, scheduled for 6 pm. At 7, Avenue 50 Studio would be opening a pair of gallery shows, "Chispas" & "Mt. Washington Plein-Air Painters." I had plans to flit from event to event, camera in hand, continuing with my ongoing project to photograph writers reading to audiences, in search of the perfect public speaker portrait.

Six o’clock came and passed and I was homebound. Things cleared up and I was able to make a quick get-away and headed to Avenue 50. It was well past seven. As usual for late arrivers, parking was a challenge. As delightfully usual for the early or the tardy, Avenue 50 Studio was packed shoulder to shoulder.

The women’s show, “Chispas” hung impressive work. Priced in the thousands, collectors with the lana will be rewarded in a few years as artists like CiCi Segura Gonzalez gain added fame. Segura’s abstract work ranges from the sublime to the super intriguing. Margaret Garcia had a very large interpretation of a repeating figure from her oeuvre. Margaret was not present, she is mourning her mom’s death, qepd.

In the Annex gallery, the plein air show displayed dozens of masterfully rendered impressions of the bridges, craftsman architecture, river and mountain scapes that give Highland Park and Mt. Washington their visual character. My head was spinning at the quality in both exhibitions.

But the best element was serendipitous. I wandered into Two Tracks Studio where Pola Lopez and Heriberto Luna work. Pola was surrounded by admirers so I nodded her way and walked over to greet Heriberto. He stood in front of several works in progress, and next to him was a teenager. The girl stood quietly, drinking in the busy scene as artists and collectors exclaimed over the work. Luna introduced me to her with pride, telling me Catalina Bolivar “can draw you right now.” That’s how good she is already, at 15.

Catalina lives next door to Avenue 50 Studio, in a two-story stucco warren with no yard, no play area for all the kids growing up there. One day, 12-year old Catalina wandered into Two Tracks Studio looking to sell a drawing she’d produced. It didn’t sell, but Luna saw something in her work and in her determination. He invited her to hang out, learn art by doing studio chores.

Today, Luna praises Catalina's work, confiently assigning her layout and detailing tasks on Luna's magnificently intricate canvases, like those in progress being prepared for several major museums and galleries. Catalina’s is the classic apprentice tale. One day, she’ll return the favor as an accomplished artist and mentor other kids who wander in from the block looking for respite.

I love this foto of Catalina and Heriberto, their look of mutual respect and personal pride. The portrait stands as a reminder that, beautiful as all that art on the walls, the most genuine beauty is the love Pola Lopez and Heriberto Luna share with Catalina and, over the years, lots of neighborhood kids who’ve come to the studio, joined mural projects, prepped canvases, brainstormed ideas. Kids who learned that arte is not about the brush strokes or pallet, it’s all about love, and in fact, is puro alma for one’s gente and ideas.



E-mail Bag
Workshopping Writers



La Bloga friend Marcela Landrés, Cofounder of the 2013 Comadres and Compadres Writers Conference, reminds gente that Wednesday, August 14, is the cut-off date to receive an earlybird discount to attend the conference scheduled for Medgar Evers College, Brooklyn, NY on Saturday, October 5, 2013.

The conference provides Chicana Chicano Latina Latino writers access to published authors like the keynote speaker, Reyna Grande, as well as agents and editors with proven track records publishing Latina Latino books. Participants this year include Erin Clarke, Executive Editor, Alfred A. Knopf Books for Young Readers; Adriana Dominguez, Agent, Full Circle Literary; Toni Kirkpatrick, Editor, Thomas Dunne Books; Nancy Mercado, Executive Editor, Roaring Brook Press; Andrea Montejo, Agent, Indent Literary Agency; Lukas Ortiz, Managing Agent, Philip G. Spitzer Literary Agency, Inc.; Jeff Ourvan, Agent, Jennifer Lyons Literary Agency; Diane Stockwell, Agent, Globo Libros Literary Management; Johnny Temple, Publisher, Akashic; and Stacy Whitman, Publisher, Tu Books.

The Pitch Slam, described in the program as “Writers will have thirty seconds or less and get instant feedback from agents and editors”, is the kind of on-your-feet training absent from many conferences. The session prepares a writer for the most important half minute of one’s career, a make-or-break first impression. A good 30 seconds makes the difference between “thank you for coming” and “tell me more.”

Landrés refers the eager, the curious, the prospective attender, to visit Las Comadres’ website for additional details and applications.

Absent from the Comadres Compadres program is training I think urgent for writers: a session on reading your own stuff. This is the big lacuna in a writer’s career training, and an achilles' heel of a writer's marketing efforts. Congratulations, you've been published. How are you going to sell those books? People hate to be sold, but they love being helped to buy. Reading your own stuff to that bookstore crowd is the key.

You’re on a panel of five authors. Fifty people are in their seats. One person in the audience is going buy all five books. Six people will buy one book, their friends’. How does a writer convert the forty-three nonbuyers into readers, buyers tonight? Do a “knock their socks off” reading and a writer achieves the purposes of the appearance: people notice your work and want more. Those are the gente who buy the book.




Latinopia Update
Francisco X. Alarcón On Poetry


Reading Your Own Stuff: David A. Romero

Over the past few years, I've had the honor of conducting "reading your own stuff" workshops at the National Latino Writers Conference. As part of my preparation and followup from those, I've posted lecture notes for three oral performance topics, "Reading off the Page" for manuscript dependent events, "Memorization" as a strategy for improving effectiveness, and "Delivery"to address voice, posture, gesture, eye contact, confidence and poise.
La Bloga friend and poetry impresario David A. Romero’s video of his superb poem, Undocumented Football, stands as a model for poets who want to improve their own oral performance. The most important elements are Romero’s careful articulation and deliberate, but varied, rate. Every word, every phrase arrives clean and crisp, never a moment’s pause to ask “what did he say?” He’s not rushing through the words but gives each expression time to make its impact and fit into the fabric of the piece.

Note the poet’s use of vocal variety achieved through five- and seven-syllable phrasing, dispersing emphasis throughout the lines, sometimes hitting first words, sometimes the middle, often at the end of a line. That phrasing establishes a pleasing rhythm that sets up aural expectations. Approaching the climax, he abandons heavily accented syllables, adopts a conversational style that relies upon subtle emphasis while providing respite from expectations. This contrast heightens the impact when he repeats the opening spondee, “don’t. drop. the ball.” And segues smoothly to the closing phrases and its terminating molossus, “so. darn. hard.”

Significantly, Romero ends the recitation right. Instead of saying it, “thank you,” the poet nonverbally thanks the audience with his eyes and an acknowledging nod of the head. The technique honors the poem by allowing the last words their own space, free of the distraction of extraneous crap. Romero then pauses, a signal the performance has concluded, silence allowing the poem to sink in. In a live performance he would stand in silence, and only then walk off stage. Likewise the opening; in a live performance, the poet takes the stage, gets to the starting spot, polarizes the audience (I’m the speaker, you’re the listener) with eye contact and attitude, and only then begins to speak.

Sadly, You Tube ruins the effect of closing silence by tagging Romero’s video with an invading soundtrack from some other poet whom I did not choose to hear but is forced upon me by You Tube. How sad that You Tube ruins the impact and effectiveness of Romero’s reading with this irritating tag. It’s the media equivalent of walking off stage still talking, puro distraction and disrespectful to your art.

Meet the Poet
David A. Romero is a proud Pocho/Chicano spoken word artist from Diamond Bar, CA. He is the host of Between the Bars Open Mic at the dba256 Gallery Wine Bar in Pomona, CA. He is the second poet to be featured on All Def Digital, a YouTube channel from Russell Simmons. Romero has opened for Latin Grammy winning artists Ozomatli and Latin Grammy nominated artists La Santa Cecilia. His poetry has been published with poet laureates Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Jack Hirschman and Alejandro Murguia.

Romero is the author of Diamond Bars: The Street Version and Fuzhou, two collections of poetry released by Dimlights Publishing. His forthcoming book, My Name is Romero, is due in spring 2014. Romero teaches writing and performance workshops on spoken word poetry.

Romero has led workshops for the Say What? Teen Poetry program of the Los Angeles Public Library, high school activists at the Santa Monica Mountains Peace Camp and students at the Juvenile Detention and Assessment Centers in San Bernardino, CA.

Romero is an artist affiliate of the Poor People's Economic Human Rights Campaign (PPEHRC) and a member of the Revolutionary Poets Brigade. "I enjoy performing funny poems, but I hope that after the laughs, people can stay and listen to the messages that I am spreading with my poetry against racism, against prejudice, against imperialism, against labor exploitation and against economic injustice. Romero is a graduate of the University of Southern California (USC), a double major in Cinema-Television and Philosophy.

For booking, contact: [email protected] Visit www.davidaromero.com for more poetry and enjoyment.


La Bloga On-line Floricanto
Francisco X. Alarcón, Maritza Rivera, Irma Guadarrama, tara evonne trudell, Tina Subia

For this antepenultimate in August La Bloga On-line Floricanto, the moderators of the Facebook group Poets Responding to SB 1070 Poetry of Resistance send along six lovely pieces illustrating a rich variety of styles from  five poets.


"Borderless Blue / Azul sin fronteras" by Francisco X. Alarcón
"Stand Your Ground" por Maritza Rivera
"Our Birth Rite (for Gloria Anzaldua)" by Irma Guadarrama
"Untitled"  by tara evonne trudell
"What Do You See?" by Tina Subia


BORDERLESS BLUE
Francisco X. Alarcón

blue
like the sea
at dawn

blue
like the sky
at dusk

blue
like sadness
loneliness

blue
like hope
happiness

blue
like White
Black, Brown

bonding
borderless
blue

blue
like the little
blue dot

seen
from afar
in outer space—

Earth jewel
shinning
blue

amidst
the vast
darkness

AZUL SIN FRONTERAS
Francisco X. Alarcón

azul
como el mar
al amanecer

azul
como el cielo
al atardecer

azul
como la tristeza
la soledad

azul
como la esperanza
la felicidad

azul
como blanco
negro, café

azul
sin fronteras
unificador

azul
como el puntito
azul

visto
desde la lejanía
sideral —

la Tierra
joya reluciendo
azul

entre
la vasta
oscuridad

© Francisco X. Alarcón
July 28, 2013


Francisco X. Alarcón, award winning Chicano poet and educator, is author of twelve volumes of poetry, including, From the Other Side of Night: Selected and New Poems (University of Arizona Press 2002), and Snake Poems: An Aztec Invocation (Chronicle Books 1992)  His latest book is Ce•Uno•One: Poems for the New Sun (Swan Scythe Press 2010). His book of bilingual poetry for children, Animal Poems of the Iguazú (Children’s Book Press 2008), was selected as a Notable Book for a Global Society by the International Reading Association. His previous bilingual book titled Poems to Dream Together (Lee & Low Books 2005) was awarded the 2006 Jane Addams Honor Book Award. He teaches at the University of California, Davis. He created the Facebook page, POETS RESPONDING TO SB 1070 . http://www.facebook.com/pages/Poets-Responding-to-SB-1070/117494558268757?ref=ts







Stand Your Ground
Maritza Rivera

La poesía
alimenta el alma
dándonos fuerza.



MARITZA RIVERA (aka Mariposa) is a Puerto Rican poet who lives in Rockville, MD.  She has been writing poetry for over forty years and is the creator of a short form of poetry called Blackjack. Maritza is the author of About You; A Mother’s War, written during her son’s two tours in Iraq; Baker’s Dozen; Twenty-One: Blackjack Poems and her work appears in literary magazines, anthologies and online publications. Maritza is a contributor to Poets Responding to SB1070, a supporter of the Memorial Day Writers Project (MDWP) and participates in the Warrior Poetry Project at the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, MD.  She was the recipient of a 2012 BID International Writing Fellowship in Bahia, Brazil and has been accepted to attend the 2013 Bread Loaf Writers Conference in Sicily.  Maritza also serves on the Board of Directors of Split This Rock in Washington, DC and hosts the annual Mariposa Poetry Retreat at the Capital Retreat Center in Waynesboro, PA.





Our Birth Rite (for Gloria Anzaldua)
Irma Guadarrama

Pieces of earth puzzled into
mosaic revelations of
gaps and stops;
the human stride hampered
by a matching duo of
transnational bridge and border wall;
for every bridge a wall and still,
migration rebounds like
the ebb and flow of relentless
time and space, and
the rebirth cycle of
day and night. Never stopping:
like a lake that cradles
the spewing brew, or
a river that collects cascading water,
or fresh sprouting trees
fused with fossilized stumps.

Humans’ undeterred spirits
run their gamut like water flowing,
roots reaching, and rivers
morphing into oceans,
deep, vast, and free.

Featherless flying beings we are,
embracing the essence
of our birth rite.

Copyright 2013 Irma Guadarrama. All rights reserved.

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Olga García Echeverría

As soon as 19-year-old Rachel Jeantel hit the witness stand, everything about her was up for grabs—her blackness, her education, her English, her weight, her facial expressions, her tweets and posts. Isn’t it mind boggling to consider that during the televised State vs. George Zimmerman trial there seemed to be much more discussion and debate about Rachel Jeantel’s character and credibility than there was about George Zimmerman’s?

1. to make slow; delay the development or progress of (an action, process, etc.); hinder or impede.
2. to be delayed
3. a slowing down, diminution, or hindrance, as in a machine.
4. slang. Disparaging.
1. a mentally retarded person.
2. a person who is stupid, obtuse, or ineffective in some way

I grew up hearing and saying the word retarded. When something was so stupid that it was ridiculous, we used the word retarded. East LA is full of nothing but gangsters. That’s retarded. Mexicans are lazy and sleep under cacti with giant sombreros on their heads. That’s retarded. Marc Anthony can’t sing God Bless America at a baseball game because he’s a brown-haired Latino and real Americans are blond and blue-eyed and don’t have Spanish surnames. That’s very retarded. Don West asks Rachel Jeantel in English if she understands English after hours of cross examining her in English. That’s outrageously retarded.









I am so grateful to Gurba for the Triscuit metaphor. I feel it empowers us to be able to discuss the complexities of race and power on another level. One of Gurba’s most interesting observations in the Zimmerman case is actually a question: what allowed Zimmerman, who is technically not White to access White privilege? Did his last name erase his “Other” half in this courtroom? In another context, had Zimmerman attacked a White youth, for example, he might have been cast into the role of the aggressive "Other.”

Over coffee yesterday, as I shared the Triscuit metaphor with two young brilliant minds, Jorge and Leslie, we pondered the deeper meaning of the actual colored cracker. Jorge winced and wanted to know what the intricately weaved Triscuit is made of. Leslie wondered if perhaps there is a new generation of people of color who aspire so much to be part of White America that they eradicate (via self-hate and denial) their color and colored history. Not everyone can do that, of course. Not everyone can bleach themselves and pass. But for those who do, may they suffer, said Leslie, “from some kind of Triscuit complex?”
 
So while Mr. Triscuit sat quietly in the courtroom like a coward, Miss Rachel Jeantel was thrown into the lion’s den with Don West asking a series of retarded questions that were loaded with subtext. Rachel Jeantel might not read cursive, but she sure knows how to read and respond to subtext, insinuation and bullshit. Don West can hide behind legal jargon and “legitimate” English all he wants, but his courtroom tactics and his role in this case stink of old, systematic “creepy-ass cracker” politics that aim to criminalize/dehumanize Black youth everywhere and that ultimately retard justice in America.

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Scar
I have a white scar that creases the back of my skull, probably two inches long. I’ve never measured it but I’ve looked at it using a couple of mirrors. When I was a child my mother told me that the scar resulted from a fall out of a second story window at my grandmother’s house. Apparently I landed on a rock. I vaguely remember pointing out the jagged stone to my cousins as the “rock where I hit my head.” I always wondered how I got up to the second floor of the house and then through the window, and who was the adult who was supposed to be watching me. I wondered but I never asked. Now that I’m older I wonder about the long term effects of such an injury. I wonder but I’ve never asked.

The Raft
One day many summers ago, I was on a makeshift raft with my pal “Chuckie.” We were goofing off in the Arkansas River. We might have been in the sixth grade, or thereabouts. I don’t know who made the raft. Back then, when a group of Florence kids went to the river for swimming or fishing or just messing around we used whatever the previous group of kids had left behind. Rafts, makeshift shelters, diving boards, homemade flags. For Chuckie and me that day it was a raft made out of soggy tree limbs and crooked boards held together with string, mangy rope, and odd pieces of wire. We launched the craft in one of the slow moving pools along the edge of the river. I can’t remember how long we lounged on our custom vehicle but eventually the raft broke apart and we were dumped in the water. I couldn’t swim, still can’t, so I’m not sure why I didn’t drown or get swept away into the faster moving current of the real river. Chuckie and I went under but we quickly bobbed to the surface. It must not have been too deep – maybe I touched bottom with my feet. Chuckie flopped around, waving and slapping his hands on the water. He shouted, “I can’t see! I can’t see!” I watched him panic for a second or two. Then I said, “Open your eyes.” He did. The flopping stopped. “Thanks,” he said.

Cry Me A River
I heard La Llorona at the same river that almost claimed Chuckie and me. It might have happened the same summer. Florence was a great place to be a kid, especially in the summertime. I still get flashes of my childhood summers in that town:  incredibly hot, lazy days, buzzing insects, bike caravans at night with my friends, stealing green apples from the various apple trees that grew in the yards of several different houses. When the moaning and crying started by the river, some of the kids were scared off, others made it their mission to find the source of the sounds. The adults eventually inserted themselves into the adventure. Crowds started showing up on the river banks at dusk. They were never disappointed. The river did a better business than the drive-in movie over in Cañon City. Extended groans and cries echoed across the water and through the trees. The more adventurous hunted down the source, without luck. My grandmother (she of the house from where I tumbled) knew what was going on – La Llorona, of course. We learned that story from her, which was then embellished by my aunts and my mother. The river could be spooky and dark in the middle of the day, so it was not difficult to imagine a crazy woman wandering and crying along the weedy, rocky banks at night, looking for drowned children. The noises continued for a good stretch of the summer. Shortly after they stopped someone found the body of a crane or some such strange bird that did not belong in the woods along the river. For everyone except the rag tag bunch of wild things I hung with, the dead animal explained the mournful music that had turned our river into a sad setting for an ancient legend come-to-life.

Blackie    
The Florence populace consisted of a mix of Mexicans, Italians, Eastern Europeans, and a few "others." The families ended up in the small town mainly because of the coal mines that surrounded the area. When the mines petered out the men found jobs in the Pueblo steel mill or construction work in Colorado Springs. The mix created the tensions you might expect. I recall a story that one of my aunts was denied her homecoming queen crown, even though she had been elected by the student body. Her boyfriend was the captain of the football team, so that got straightened out quickly. I heard other stories like that.

For me, the tensions started in junior high and escalated through my freshman year in high school. My tormentor – a short but solid Italian kid who decided that I was competing with him for whatever prize he expected in life - gave me the nickname “Blackie.”  He and his friends thought it was funny. Some of the teachers, too. (I once wore a powder blue sweatshirt to class. The basketball coach asked me why people with the most color wore the most colorful clothes. He didn’t say it in a friendly way.)

My nemesis was very proud of his thick, light brown hair. He smothered it with Butch Wax and combed the sides back in severe wings that made him look like the rear end of a 1956 Cadillac. The front wave rose majestically over his pale forehead. He absolutely hated it if anyone touched his scalp. We eventually had our fight, after basketball practice one night. He was very riled up about something; I, on the other hand, didn’t quite get it that the dance we were doing on the high school lawn was serious. He landed the first punch, right on the top of my left eye. We wrestled around until we were separated by some of the other students. I remember him saying, “I’m not afraid of you.” And I retorted with something like, “Me too.”  He combed his hair, laughed, and sauntered into the darkness with his friends. My eye swelled up into a magnificent ball that turned purple, black, and then yellow over several days. I carried that black eye with shame and embarrassment. Anyone who saw me assumed I had been beaten up, including my father’s mother, a kind and gentle woman who tried to reduce the size of my shiner with various herbs and smelly concoctions. Looking back I have to admit I lost the fight. The other guy walked away basically untouched. And although he landed only one punch, it did the job. It still is.

Hollywood
The colonia around Florence carried the fancy name of Hollywood – and it was anything but. The dozen shacks clustered across the tracks that cut Florence in two. The inhabitants were all Mexicans, and their primary language was Spanish. Bunches of children roamed the dusty hills where they grew up among cactus, lizards, and well water. My father’s uncle and his family lived there in a small house that butted up against a scraggy hill. They were dark-skinned, like me, hardworking, and carried that Ramos reticence that some of you know all too well. Their story was filled with tragedy. The eldest son died from Leukemia. He was a young boy and I don't remember him – I was either not born yet or very young when he died. Another son died in a coal mine cave-in shortly after he graduated from high school. Yet another son did his duty in Vietnam only to come home to die from his own troubled hand. A daughter married and moved to Pueblo. Her husband died in a construction accident, leaving her with young children. The sons I grew up with were excellent athletes. Speedy runners, skillful basketball players, and touchdown-making halfbacks. In that small town high school sports accounted for much of the community’s identity and pride. For a brief time my cousins were local heroes.  I could never keep up with them, and I don’t mean only in running. They always appeared older than the other kids; more aware; more in tune with the secret workings of a world that remained beyond my grasp. The feeling that comes over me when I think of that family is – grace. The family perseveres. I visited with the daughter at my father’s funeral last year. She seems to be doing fine.

Death of the Cool
I was ready for the adventures my pals and I had talked about for years – driving to the Pueblo parties; dating the Pueblo girls; camping trips with just the gang; being the cool guys. We all had nicknames, except for Frank, who was simply known as Frankie. The rest of us went by Doc, Chopper, Mazola, Salvy. We were the guys ready to step into the roles created by our uncles, older brothers, big city cousins. Sharp dressers, smooth talkers, world-wise and hip. On the edge of our teen years, eager to take over the world. It was not to be.

Fifty years ago my parents moved us from Florence to Colorado Springs. The family had to follow the work my father needed to do. It made no sense for him to drive every day from Florence to Colorado Springs and then back again. He was a hod carrier, so he had to be on the job before the bricklayers, ready with their mortar and bricks. That meant he was on the road before dawn, and never home before dark. We moved to a new development with only five houses on the southern edge of Colorado Springs. My father wanted a lawn surrounding the house so we dug up alfalfa plants, carted away rocks, and added manure to the soil. Until I did construction work with him a year later, planting that lawn was the hardest labor I had ever attempted.

I ended up in a city high school completely different from Florence High. Friends told me, years later, that when I first appeared at Harrison High, they formed a conspiracy to beat me up (never brought to fruition, thankfully) – they didn’t like the way I walked. It was my Florence walk. My last year in Florence was also the year of slow dancing with the girl from Pueblo. Soldier Boy, He’s So Fine, Be My Baby. We strolled and wiggle-wobbled. I never danced with her again.


Las canas no quitan ganas.

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From Kirk Whisler:

The Latino Books Into Movies winners will be announced on September 21st at the University of La Verne during the 2013 Latino Author Summit.

The event, organized by Latino Literacy Now in conjunction with the University of La Verne, is in Los Angeles county. Latino Literacy Now was co-founded by Edward James Olmos and Kirk Whisler in 1996. Since then the organization has produced 52 Latino Book & Family Festivals with just under 900,000 in total attendees and 15 International Latino Book Awards that have honored over 1,400 authors and publishers.

Copies of these winning books will be presented to key motion picture studios, producers, and other key entertainment industry insiders. It's Latino Literacy Now's goal through these awards to help foster the creation and production of more movies about and by Latinos. For too long Latinos have been underrepresented within the industry and appropriate scripts is one of the weaker links.

The finalists are:
A Song in My Heart, Roma Calatayud-Stocks, Beaver's Pond Press
Blues for the Buffalo, Manuel Ramos, Northwestern University Press
El Caracol: The Story of Alfonso, Labor Camp Child, Yolanda Espinosa Espinoza, Mill City Press, Inc.
LightKeepers to the Rescue!, Marisa de Jesús Paolicelli, A Caribbean Experience Con Amor
Maidin Iron, Ana Padilla, Author House
Mortal Flesh: The Last Hero of Pompeii, Ana Costa Alongi, Sigillum Publishers
Spirits of the Ordinary: A Tale of Casas Grandes, Kathleen Alcalá, Chronicle BooksThe Encounter (El encuentro), Rita Wirkala, Pearson Educacion
The Witch Narratives Reincarnation, Belinda Vasquez Garcia, Magic Prose
Walking for Peace: An Inner Journey, Mony Dojeiji and Alberto Agraso, Booklocker.com, Inc.

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Blues For The Buffalo was originally published in 1997 and reissued by Northwestern University Press in 2004. It's probably my best-reviewed book and I think it is very visual, ready-made for a movie. The opening sequence, in fact, was designed with a camera frame in mind.

"What an ugly scar."
I opened my eyes into the brilliant Mexican sun. The details of her face were masked in a numbing combination of light and more light created by the sun and the white beach that curved against the turquoise lagoon.
"It must have hurt."
I shielded my eyes with the flat of my hand. Her skin recalled the café con leche I had nursed at breakfast. She wore a white two-piece swimsuit that was less than a bikini and she looked hot and sweaty.
"It hurt like hell. I was in the hospital for weeks. I still limp."
I raised my beer to my lips. My empty hand slipped from the handle of the cooler and grazed the hot sand and recoiled automatically. Her feet were naked, exposed to the sand.
"Is the bullet still in your knee?"
I did not ask how she knew it was a bullet wound. Maybe it was obvious.

Later.

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