by Sally Matheny
 |
| Surely they served with our children in mind. |
Those who have served in our Armed Forces, during times of peace and times of war, have surely done so with our children in mind.
From the Revolutionary War to the latest war on terrorism, our service members have fought to protect our freedom and way of life.
Many hoped that what they were doing would provide a better life for the next generation.
Not only do I want to express my appreciation, but also I want to remind veterans why our children still need you.
*****************
We recently attended our first Veterans Day Parade. A chilly breeze blew the little, American flags we brought as we eagerly waited for the parade to begin. Alternating the hand in the coat pocket with the hand holding the flag, we tried to stay warm.
When the parade began I quickly realized I did not come prepared.
The cold air wasn't what jolted me. It was the row upon row of fresh-faced students of the JROTC represented by various branches of the armed services. I’ve never seen so many at one time. The image reminded me this could be the next generation to defend our country and the freedom of our children.
 |
| This could be our next generation of freedom fighters. |
Then, I noticed the mentors marching beside their students. They are retired veterans of the military.
Thank you, mentors, for investing your time and skills into the next generation. Our teens need veterans who serve and teach with honor and integrity.
After the JROTC, came an even bigger surprise. It wasn’t the awesome cars or the cool motorcycles the veterans were driving.
The faces of the veterans amazed us.
Their eyes gleamed with pride—not a pride in themselves—but in their country. Some of the veterans’ grins reminded me of how a dad grins the first time he watches his child ride a bike. Eyes glistened watching their fellow Americans lining the streets, waving flags.
Their expressions seemed to convey this thought: They get it. They love their country and freedom as much as we do. They get it.
 |
| The veterans were shouting, "Thank you for coming!" |
Then, the veterans went beyond their call of duty.
With outstretched hands, they shouted to the crowd.
Thank you for coming!
Thank you! Thank you!
My throat tightened. They were thanking us. We, who quite often take our freedoms for granted and who can’t possibly have a full understanding of the sacrifices many have endured on our behalf.
I could not let them pass by without shouting a thank you to them, but all I could manage was a mouthing of the words. I looked at my husband. His words were trapped as well. He was nodding his appreciation towards the veterans.
Eventually, our voices made it over the lumps in our throats and we were shouting our thank yous as we held our flags high.
 |
Some veterans seem uncomfortable with all the
hoop-lah. |
Some veterans seemed uncomfortable with all the hoop-lah. Nonetheless, they answered the call. Perhaps, only to represent those veterans who gave everything for their country.
One soldier, wearing a huge smile, stood up to salute to anyone who saluted him. His face messaged You’re saluting me. I want to salute you for coming.
I wish I knew the proper way to salute. Next time, I’ll be ready. Until then, all I can say is I get it. I’ll never fully grasp what you sacrificed, what you endured, what you had to do for me and my children. But I get it.
 |
| The veteran at the back returned the salute to those saluting him. |
The parade had a good turn-out of folks and yet, if we really knew what some of the veterans have endured and still suffer from today, I think the streets would flood with well-wishers.
I heard a veteran say once, “I wasn’t trying to be brave. I was trying to survive.”
I hear what you’re saying but I still think all those who answered the call to military duty were brave.
In wartime or peacetime, you had to be brave to go into the unknown, understanding that everything could change in an instant.
I’m blessed to know several veterans. The ones I know are humble and quiet about their service in the Armed Forces.
Veterans, people needed you at the time you served. We still need you. Our children need you.
Let me tell you why.
To a young student, history may be a bunch of facts and dates memorized for a test and nothing more.
You make history come alive. You evoke thoughts of faces and lives from the past. You show them that the names in their history books (and so many, many more not recognized in a book) are not just names. They were real people—someone’s son, husband, or dad.
 |
| Some endured frightening situations so our children wouldn't have to. |
When you speak to a class or volunteer at an event, our children see people serving others.
They hear about men and women, not desiring to, but willing to die for a just cause. They learn of service members sacrificing the comforts of home so America’s children can enjoy those comforts.
They listen to how some endured frightening situations so our children would not have to.
When you share your knowledge, you present an opportunity for youth to understand how the military strives to bring peace in the midst of chaos.
Veterans who volunteer for reenactments also make history come alive. It’s no longer a bunch of dates and information. Youth learn the reasons behind those battles and their expense. Perhaps the wisdom our youth gain from you will promote more peaceful negotiations in the future.
Honorable veterans, you set an example of respect for your country, a love for life and a passion for liberty.
Our children need you.
We all need you.
Thank you for what you did then and what you do today.
Veteranspeak, or 5 Questions To Ask a Veteran
Michael Sedano
 |
| MiG Alley below, Homing All the Way Killers above |
I’ve been a Veteran since August 1970, forty-four years since I walked away from Ft. Lewis Washington, discharge in hand but still in my Class A uniform. In a curious parallel, that was early in the predawn darkness, just like that January day in 1969 when my busload of inductees stood in the predawn fog of Ft. Ord.
Ever wonder what to say when you learn someone was once boots on the ground? Veterans of my era will spin you some memories to one or more of these conversation ice-breakers. I was Army, other services have similar answers. Kids from Bush and Obama’s Iraq and Afghan wars are likely to understand the questions--the answers are the cement that links a majority of Veterans with one another.
What was your MOS?Military jobs have code numbers, the Military Occupational Specialty, M.O.S. The best known is eleven-bravo, 11B, Infantry. Me, I was trained as an oh five bravo intermediate speed morse code radio operator, a defunct trade in military communications, even then. Assigned to a rugged anti-aircraft missile site guarding MiG Alley at the Korean DMZ, I worked an oh five charlie field wireman's job. Mid-tour I lucked out and took a job in the Colonel’s office, writing military propaganda as an acting 71Quebec Information Specialist.
 |
| Short and Shorter. Sedano 3d from right, with shades. |
When did you DEROS?Short, short-timer. We counted the days until we would “get back to the world.” Upon arrival overseas, clerks calculate your Date Estimated Return from Overseas. If all goes as planned, you’ll be heading for the airport on your "dee-rhos" date. Not every Veteran served overseas. A stateside post meant serving the full two year hitch. Draftees doing one of the hardship tours—Vietnam and Korea—often put in a thirteenth month in order to earn discharge upon DEROS. I put in thirteen months, two weeks, three days, seventeen hours seven minutes and thirteen seconds in Korea, but who’s counting, que no?
RA or US?Did you sign up, or were you Drafted? Draftees were assigned US serial numbers, volunteer tipos were Regular Army. On the sidelines were ER and NG, Enlisted Reserve and National Guard. The latter pair did Basic Training then went home. Everyone in today’s military are RA, or in barracks vernacular, Lifers. For a long time I knew my serial number by reflex. It was stamped on the dog tags to identify our bodies. I've forgotten the number now, and that's a good thing.
Would you want to see your grandchildren in uniform?Not involuntarily.
Would you do it again?Gente I know, to a man and woman say, Yes. I told an Army recruiter friend that I would go if I could take the place of one of the kids he was signing up. No way in Hell would I volunteer for the Draft, but if they called me again, I'd go.
Veterans and active duty wearing a uniform get free chow at a number of chain restaurants today. A DD214 gets you fed, too. So there's that.
Veterans get to understand important yet amorphous concepts like Duty and Honor. I remember telling a friend about my
cannon fodder post had the north invaded. The friend asked why I would hold my ground instead of running before it was too late? I told him it was my Duty. His eyes told me I was a fool. Así es.
 |
| Not short. |
Take This Man Grossly Captivating MemoirReview: Brando Skyhorse.
Take This Man. NY: Simon & Schuster, 2014.
ISBN 9781439170878
Michael Sedano
Take This Man, along with its author Brando Skyhorse, occupy a unique spot along the continuum of U.S. ethnic literatures. These people, Brando and his mother, aren’t chicanos, but could have been. And they aren’t Indians, but they’re passing. His mother prefers fantasy history and invented Indianness, she becomes Running Deer Skyhorse, her son Brando Skyhorse, son of a chief. This is Identity run awry.
Take This Man revolves around Maria Skyhorse’s story, but at the memoir’s core lives a boy looking for a father in the men his mother regularly brings home. They all leave. Then she finds a replacement. Herein lies a challenge for readers: don't judge.
Maria’s acts gouge with such ferocity they steal the spotlight from Skyhorse’s more intimate explorations, overwhelming the author’s memories in his struggle to sort out identity and family and fatherness from his mishmash of an upbringing.
Skyhorse engrosses his reader with sordid details that make it tough to like that woman, Brando’s mother. While disgusted readers will grow furious at events, the author denies them an ally in their feelings. Skyhorse's tone is nearly emotionless, he refuses the reader's escape valve for the horror. The only release is turn the page, there's more.
It’s hard not to judge the people Skyhorse had in his life, not to want to spread chisme about those lowlife fathers, so consistently awful the child’s memory of fathering is a guy ferreting out hiding places, robbing piggy banks to buy a night’s drinking and gambling. Mother's not dumb but the easy way out is her route, such as her work-at-home telephone sex worker job. It brought in good cash and she didn't have to give up her food stamps. Marie laughed, ate well, and grew fat.
The little boy’s life is so gutwrenching I find myself wondering that people like this live among us, asking myself, he can’t be making up this stuff, can he? Skyhorse pulls off a tour de force voicing disarming neutrality. Animated wit and punch-line paragraphs add depth to the mostly fast-moving account. It’s a challenge separating the creative from the nonfiction. Just turn the page.
The crud just piles up for this boy. Five husbands, lots of boyfriends, flings on the road, Vegas, Reno, Tahoe, ritualized humiliations. One example suffices to illustrate the savagery of Brando’s mother, her insanity, and Skyhorse’s own neutrality as he recounts a time he couldn’t produce some coupons to pay for a bus.
The mother shouts,
I’ll just leave you here! You’ve taken enough of my life from me! Mother’s fury and hatred for men finds at-hand Brando easy pickings, normally with her mouth. In this instance, however, Maria gets lethally physical.
My mother grabbed my throat. Then she pulled me across the trailer the way a girl would drag a lifeless doll up a flight of stairs. She threw me shivering onto the bathroom floor and then snatched one of Nakome’s leather knife holsters and stabbed at my neck with it…. My mother wrapped her hands around my neck again and pushed my face in the toilet water while I flailed my short arms trying to reach the flush handle.After Maria locates the boxtops she explains to the son how his carelessness led to the bathroom incident. Skyhorse matter-of-factly clarifies her logic for the reader,
Not being given the box tops wasn’t an excuse; I should have asked
for them.The slight bitter aftertaste here is among the few instances where the memoirist’s otherwise controlled voice deviates from its straightforward, low-affect style. This son does not judge his mother. The author, ever a good son, won’t have readers criticize her, either. That’s just the way she was, this is what is available to remember.
Which, of course, is not what happens. Brando Skyhorse, the writer, isn’t disingenuous in what he’s chosen to recall and detail. That mother so burdens his life it takes over the book. The son-writer runs out of room for his main goal, and only skims the surface of the boy’s understanding of fathering and his relations with his biological father and daughters. Then again, the author notes, he hasn’t got this worked out yet.
With
Take This Man, Brando Skyhorse should have exorcised the demons of his mother and fathers. He said good things about most of the men. He was kind to his mother and in that way gets back at her. Now the author can rekindle the spark seen in
Madonnas of Echo Park, and hinted at in the Bukowski homage of this memoir, to drop the "creative non-"and get on with it.
On-line Floricanto for November 11, 2014Elizabeth Cazessús, Henry Howard, Ashley Garcia, Jackie Lopez, Iris De Anda
Los Rehenes, Elizabeth Cazessús
Guilty of Being Brown (Showdown in Arizona), Henry Howard
Illegal, Ashley
Blessing for James' Place, Jackie Lopez
#bringbackourgirls, Iris De Anda
Los RehenesPor Elizabeth Cazessús…el viento del crimen a la altura del delirio. Rodolfo Hasleres la hora de escribir un poema acerca del mundo
de diagnosticar las formas en que amedrenta
con su odio y deslava el rostro de la sinrazón
para justificar mil malabares políticos
es hora de escribir que estamos al acecho
de ladrones, de gangsters, de la avaricia
de la falta de libertad y la zozobra
de la mezquina relación de las entelequias
es hora de callar lo escrito
aquello que no tiene razón en la sobremesa
congestionadas las entropías mediáticas
ante verdades telúricas y tan llanas
es hora de nombrar en lo oscuro
la íntima ejecución de los días
la denuncia, el porvenir y la esperanza
con un silencio atroz que no deje dudas
es hora de contar metrallas, muertos, a los que corren,
de ver la película en las calles y al desnudo
dilucidar acaso en la espesura
de ciertas e inexplicables densidades
es hora de escribir un poema acerca del mundo
de éste y no del otro repleto de metáforas
ya no podemos escapar, no hay letras de salva
Somos rehenes de la impunidad que nos cohabita.
(del libro Hijas de la Ira)Guilty of Being Brown (Showdown in Arizona) By Henry HowardI had a nightmare the other night.
I dreamed I went to buy the morning paper,
And the headline screamed
For all the world to see,
“SB1070 Declared Fully Legal!”
And I cried, because I knew
I was now legally unwelcome here.
My mother took the paper and milk from me
With trembling hands,
And told me in her soft Mexican voice
That Papa had been arrested on his way to work.
For the crime of driving without a Green Card,
He was found Guilty of Being Brown.
We did not have time to kiss him goodbye,
Or even make him a sandwich
On his way back to a country he had not seen
In twenty years.
I woke with my heart pounding,
And my eyes full of tears.
I slowly relaxed,
Realizing it was just a dream.
Then I drove to the store in my first car,
And the morning paper screamed
For all the world to read,
“SB1070 Declared Fully Legal!”
It was my 16th birthday,
and now I, too,
Had been found Guilty of Being Brown.
I am a Los Angeles activist and Peace Poet, whose literary focus has been on human rights since 2001. Published most notably as a featured writer on Quill and Parchment.com, and the legendary Sam Hamill's global anti-war poetry protest, Poets Against the War (beginning in February, 2002), my most recent work was published as a full-length compilation of peace and justice poetry called "Sing to Me of My Rights: Poems of Oppression and Resistance" (editor/publisher Mark Lipman, Vagabond Books 2014). Immigrant rights have been a focus of my street-level activism since 1980, when I learned in college of the murder of El Salvador Archbishop Oscar Romero--followed, of course, by the rape/murder of the four U.S. churchwomen that December. I was active in the Sanctuary Movement from 1984-98, and a member since 1986 of Refuse and Resist! and La Resistencia. I have never been to our Southern border, but it looms large in my consciousness. The horror of our country's involvement in the collective Central American slaughter, and the residual xenophobic policies towards immigrants, both documented and undocumented, reflected in legislation such as SB1070, haunts me to this day, and inspires me to take to the streets. I have one philosophy that sums up all my activism, including my writing: NO HUMAN BEING IS ILLEGAL!
Contact me about the poem or order my book. I am also available for readings at public and private events, and will travel to Arizona, Northern California or Nevada to share my work at open-mic events. EL PUEBLO UNIDO! JAMAS SERA VENCIDO!
IllegalBy AshleyYou say I am illegal because of my flesh,
Racism-pigmentocracy,
Separation-marginalization,
Apartheid, a race apart.
Even after the laws change,
Discrimination still exists
Cradling fear and fight of flesh-hood
Same flesh, different color.
Illegal,
So is it my flesh, my body, or my being?
You say I am illegal because of the land I stand on.
I do not belong here.
The land sits underneath the sky,
Shall we fight over clouds?
However, this is no different than the land I was born from.
Migration to illegal immigration,
I am, me, the im- in immigration,
The prefixed knot in the rope,
The prescribed not of ‘im’ and ‘il’
Illegal,
So is it the land, my body, or my being?
You say I am illegal because of love,
An endearing criminal at best,
Same heart, different passion,
Love is not a crime.
What matters is within:
not the shape of our skin
377: I went sleep in 2013 and woke up in 1860,
Illegal,
So is it my heart, my body, or my being?
You say the I of me, the me of I is- Illegal.
The law versus: Land, love, and life,
No! No being is illegal,
Neither my body, flesh, nor heart,
Not even my soul,
It is time,
To set my soul afire and let it free.
This poem was first published on Orinam on Dec 20, 2014 at http://orinam.net/illegal/ and is being republished with permission of the authorAshley was born and raised in Southern California. Her parents are from Mexico. Ashley has been published both online and in-print. A poet, aspiring writer, and is currently learning classical dance. This poem "Illegal" was first published on
Orinam on Dec 20, 2014 at
http://orinam.net/illegal/ and is being republished with permission of the author
Blessing for James' PlaceBy Jackie LopezJames, I bless you from the tip of my hat to the bottom of your feet.
James, never covet another’s house because your place is blessed for having feasted.
I do believe you are entitled to a blessing.
I do believe you become disjointed at the ends when I don’t come around.
Don’t worry.
I will come around every Thursday night at 7 in between meals.
I happen to have happiness around.
I happen to have a misnomer claiming that I am “mad,” but that is how it should be
because I am quite the crazy little pajama party girl.
The mockingbird is singing outside of your studio.
The melancholy moon is twisting in her bed.
She heard you have blasted fun.
The pavement to your studio has been watered by daffodils.
The encouragement of the nonchalant is ever present.
There’s an artistic renaissance running around naked in your studio.
There’s a show girl at your doorstep.
There’s a criminal lurking around, but you know better, there is never a love that can be considered a crime.
If you watch your watch words, you will find me misbehaving.
When I was lost and had no matrimony to offer,
you took me in.
When the painters, poets, musicians, prophets, dancers, and one-night-stands came by,
you gave them an apple dessert to eat.
It so happens that I have come a long way from my home,
and I am able to salute you on a happening basis.
When the ticket to the train I was going on fell through,
I took to hiding in between the sheets.
Now I have you to call friend.
If ever you need a helping hand, if ever you are lonely and blue, call me telepathically.
I shall send the angels to rescue you because you deserve it, James Watts-and you, too, Juan Pazos.
Thursday night dinner is for dancing and being ludicrously in love.
It is for harnessing a misbehavior and going about town.
It is for the young at heart and for the philanthropists.
I summon all the powers of the Universe Complete to bless your studio now
and forevermore or for as long you endeavor to stay home.
When I saw your rocket scientist artwork, I became a lucid woman.
Simple things mean so much more when they are shared with friends.
So, keep on trucking.
I shall meet you on the other end of a transcendence.
Jackie Lopez is a poet and writer from San Diego. She was founding member of the Taco Shop Poets and has always pursued a study of history of which has influenced her writing. She has taught in San Diego City Schools and has been published in several literary journals. She has just finished her Magnum Opus titled “Telepathic Goodbye” described as a long poem of 25, 333 words. She is now looking for a publisher for this. You can catch her work on facebook under “Jackie Lopez Lopez” where she shares her work with a daily poem. She has a radio interview that will come out later this year. Her email:
[email protected]#bringbackourgirlsBy Iris De Andaruby rage shouts escape
as our young girls disappear
there is no sleep
when night falls without them near
days and days and days have passed
can you remember their bright eyed brilliance
forsaken flowers with petals that wither
under boots of beatings and men with guns
they are killing them softly
raping them daily
silencing their spirit
every time one of them dies
can you feel it in your body
walk around so heavy
carry unseen sadness
on the bridge of our backs
they are our future failing
mountains crumbling
deserts flooding
stars extinguished after lightyears of shining
blood moon tainting the night sky
mothers wailing to the goddess
bring back our schoolgirls
bring back our daughters
they are the martyrs of this modern plague
where men get away with murdering women
while the world looks away
closed eyes to our girls plight
makes the whole world blind
you do not want to see
what you would rather neglect
because it’s not your daughter, sister, or niece
you pretend to respect
can you protect morning dew from the blazing sun
the young woman from the older man
a system that teaches a girls life is worth less than his pen
there is no gentle here where our daughters cry
only rivers of pain
flowing back to the Niger
years of disdain
growing darker by the hour
bring back our sisters
bring back our feminine
bring them back
backdrop of africa
blackout of femicide
backbone of generations
backyard of transgressions
giveback our girls
payback our pain
paperback our stories
comeback our angels
we are waiting
arms wide open
feet tired from running with you and for you
tongues chanting
all the ways we could pray for you
hearts broken
night and days we wait for you
bring back our girls
bring back our girls
bring back our girls
Iris De Anda is a writer, activist, and practitioner of the healing arts. A womyn of color of Mexican and Salvadorean descent. A native of Los Angeles she believes in the power of spoken word, poetry, storytelling, and dreams. She has been published in Mujeres de Maiz Zine,
Loudmouth Zine: Cal State LA, OCCUPY SF poems from the movement, Seeds of Resistance, In the Words of Women, Twenty: In Memoriam, Revolutionary Poets Brigade Los Angeles Anthology, and online at La Bloga. She is an active contributor to Poets Responding to SB 1070. She performs at community venues and events throughout the Los Angeles area & Southern California. She hosted The Writers Underground Open Mic 2012 at Mazatlan Theatre and 100,000 Poets for Change 2012, 2013, and 2014 at the Eastside Cafe. She currently hosts The Writers Underground Open Mic every Third Thursday of the month at Eastside Cafe. Author of CODESWITCH: Fires From Mi Corazon.
www.irisdeanda.com
The 
0 Comments on Veterans Day: 11-11-11 as of 1/1/1900
This week many countries will be honoring their war dead. Called Veterans Day in the U.S., November 11th is referred to as Remembrance Day in Canada and Armistice Day in the UK. Although there are many fine books for children on the subject of war, the wordless picture book 
era and a substantial reminder why one enjoys reading printed books in a cozy chair. Undeniably, portability is one advantage electronic devices have over the printed page. Whip out that iPhone while waiting for the bus and read to your heart’s content. Your heart. Me, I’m sure if I haul around this volume I either will forget my reading anteojos at home, or remember the lentes but set the book down somewhere and forget it. They say the memory’s the second thing to go and I do not remember the first.
I’m pretty sure his name has been on Agents of SHIELD since the beginning.
Another sign that things are all sunshiney and birght btw Marvel and the Kirby heirs: Kirby’s son also appeared on last week’s “Marvel 75 Years” television special.
Marvel also published this, back in the day, in hardcover!
http://www.comics.org/issue/42312/
Did Jack Kirby ever create comics about his war experience?
Torsten,
If you mean. did he create comics that accurately matched his real-world experiences, no. I imagine that his war comics of the 1950s– which I haven’t read– draw upon those experiences. I’ve seen a review or two arguing that these are more realistic fare than, say, SGT. FURY, which was meant to be wild escapism from the get-go.
Also, Kirby’s ’70s run on DC’s Our Fighting Forces is a remarkable span of war comics. It includes the magnificent and brutal story “Ivan” (#160). Mind you, it also includes a stout lady smuggler called Panama Fattie because, well, he was The King. Tonally it is very playful but clearly informed by (bad) front line experience. DC collected all the issues between two covers as JACK KIRBY’S THE LOSERS – don’t ask, just buy! Hell of a book, Hell of a guy!