Whether it is hurricanes, earthquakes, or bears, we are all at nature's mercy

Daniel Cano                                          The Bear
                                     

     When I first heard a voice call, “Over there!” my nineteen-year old grandson Anthony and I had just finished hiking five miles into the Sierras, a beautiful walk up the sides of solid rock mountains, through forests, and alongside the King’s River, to our destination Mist Falls.
   
                   

     I’m not a serious mountain climber, not at my seasoned age, but I figured I could handle a casual ten-mile hike. The entire way to Mist Falls, even the rock trails are safely marked. Still, we were high above the tree line and could see canyon walls on either side of us. I admit, it is a mesmerizing vista, looking down on massive pine and cedar trees as if they are blades of grass.

    Once we reached Mist Falls, Anthony decided to walk above the falls to get a better view of the canyon. I stayed beside the river, refreshed by the waterfall’s cool spray, and I ate half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Then came the second call, “Over there!”

     Leaning against an enormous rock, I looked along the riverbank and saw only one other person, a guy about fifty yards upriver. Annoyed by the people yelling, disrupting nature’s sounds, I finally turned around to look behind me. Across a dry, rocky riverbed, up on a ledge, in the tree line, five or six hikers were waving. I looked closer. Their lips weren’t forming the words “Over there!” but the word, “Bear!” “Bear!”

    At first, I thought they just wanted me to enjoy the sight of a bear, so I looked across the river and into the trees searching for the wayward omnivore (an animal that eats both meat and vegetation). I didn’t see anything, so again, I turned behind me. Now, the hikers looked desperate, on their tiptoes, waving their arms, still calling “bear” and motioning for me to retreat. I picked up my backpack and half-uneaten sandwich and started back.

     The rock to my right was so large I couldn’t see the other side. As I turned and walked beyond the rock, I stepped in front of a large, brown bear standing no more than five to ten feet away. (I wasn’t measuring.) All I saw were huge paws, a long, sharp snout, and black eyes. I imagined one quick move, and he’d have me by the throat. I think he (or she; gender didn’t seem important at the time) was as surprised as I was, but it didn't turn and run. It stood its ground. Then I remembered the half-eaten sandwich in my hand, and I froze.

   


    I wanted to run, but the rocky, dry riverbed under my boots nixed that idea. Besides, bears outrun, outclimb, and outswim humans. Then the voice inside my head told me, “Don't run. It will see you as prey.”

     My mind reeled. A ranger once said to throw rocks to scare a bear. Well, this bear had a big, hairy head. Did I really want to piss it off at this range? Then came another thought, “If attacked just fall to the ground and cover your head with your arms. Play dead.”

     Forget that.

    Okay, back to basics: rangers also say black bears don’t attack humans unless provoked. It is brown bears that are dangerous. Well, this was a “veterano” (maybe “veterana”). His (or her) hair was matted and faded from surviving--who knows how many brutal Sierra summers. If it was a black bear, it looked brown to me, maybe even reddish in spots. How do I know a black bear from a brown bear? Anyway, if you are face-to-face with a bear, do you start deciphering colors?

   I swear, the creature had its eyes on my sandwich. So, I tossed it to him; though, truth-be-told, like I said, it could have been a she-bear. Who knew?

     I began moving backwards, slowly, hoping not to trip. It took the beast about five seconds to finish the sandwich and turn its attention my way again. I stopped moving, just for a second, then I started backwards again, slowly. I didn’t realize that the bear probably figured if I had one sandwich, I might have more. Bears know if there are people, there is food.

    Now, this is where my memory gets hazy. I don’t know whether I spoke to the animal or to myself, but I remember saying (or thinking), “Take it easy, be calm, nobody's going to hurt you,” and I kept backing away, slowly, hoping for the bear to go on about his business. But he (or she) kept looking at me--bait dangling from a hook.

     I could hear the hikers behind me, “Keep coming. You’re almost here.” When I felt I was a safe distance from the bear, I turned and ran like hell, hopping over the rocks and up the embankment where the strangers grabbed me and pulled me onto the trail.

     “Man, we thought you were dead,” somebody said.

    “Yeah. That was close,” said another. “Didn’t you hear us calling?”

    I answered, “I didn’t understand what you were saying.”

    We stood on the trail for a while and watched the bear meander along the riverbank. Just then, the guy who had been standing upriver from me came running through the forest towards us. My grandson Anthony came down the trail calling, “Did you see the bear down there?”

    “Did I see it?”

    Somebody else said, giggling, “It almost ate him.”

    The other hikers didn’t want to hang around in case the bear came back towards us. They disappeared down the trail.

    The guy from upriver, said, “I left my backpack down there. It’s got my car and house keys in it. If I lose my keys, I won’t be able to get home.”

    I asked, “You got any food in there?”

    “Yeah, a sandwich.”

    We saw the bear edging towards the blue backpack, sniffing around, then tearing into the canvas bag and ripping it to shreds as if were tissue paper. The bear found the sandwich and began eating. “I guess he likes ham and cheese,” the guy said.

Fifteen minutes or so passed, but Anthony and I didn’t want to leave the guy alone.

     “I need to get down there and look for my keys. Can you distract the bear while I go search? Maybe you can throw rocks at him, you know, wave your hands around, just give me time to look around.”

    Anthony, lowering his camera, turned to me. “Sure,” I said. “Go ahead.”

    The guy sprinted up the trail. Anthony and I started yelling and throwing rocks. The bear saw us and lumbered our way. Just then, the guy jumped down from the embankment. He cautiously moved over the river rock to the different pieces of blue cloth that had been his backpack. Slowly, the bear kept coming our way. Each time it turned back to see the guy, we began yelling and tossing rocks. I saw the guy drop the last piece of blue material, and he leaped onto the ledge and came back up the trail. “I’ve got them,” he said. “They were tucked into a small pocket on the side.”

    “Look,” Anthony said. “The bear is still coming.” It was moving faster now. “Let’s get out of
here.”
                                           


                                           
                            
    We started running down the trail, the bear was hot on our heels. I read a story once where a bear chased two people for miles as they paddled a canoe down a river. Every time the canoers thought they’d lost the bear, there it came running around a bend, still chasing them, following the current. What a way to die, ripped apart and eaten by a wild beast.

     We warned hikers coming our way. Instead of turning to run, they excitedly took out their cameras and ran towards the bear. When we finally reached the trailhead, two hours later, we told a ranger about the bear. She just laughed and said, “Black bears won’t hurt you unless you provoke them. All you had to do was wave your arms and jump around. They usually just run away.”

    I said, “I stood right next to this bear. It was brown, and it wasn't running away.”

    She said, “Yeah, they all look brown, some gray and blonde ones too. But bears in California are considered black bears. Only grizzlies are brown bears. There aren’t any grizzlies in California.”

    “What about all those pictures at our campsites that show cars with their tops ripped off and ice coolers smashed?" I asked.

     “That’s why we have bear enclosures. It’s the food they want,” she said.

    “Don’t they see us as food?” I asked.

     “They like ham and cheese,” the guy said.

   “No, not black bears," said the ranger. "They will only attack if they feel threatened, especially if cubs are around.”

    “Then, they can attack people?”

    “It’s rare in California,” she said.

     So did I stand face-to-face with a peace loving mammal, a friend to wayward campers? Or did I encounter a father or mother bear with its cubs close by and ready to attack if threatened? I guess I'll never know.

    What I do know is when I see my grandson Anthony, I say, “Remember the day a bear almost ate me?” He laughs now. But he wasn’t laughing that day. He had me outrun by fifteen yards.

Daniel Cano

I try making it up (or down) to Kings Canyon and Sequoia every couple of years. I’ve been doing this since 1975 when my kids were still toddlers; though I may have gone as a child. Each year, my outdoorsman uncle, Mike, would take us into the mountains fishing, and we may have camped along the Kings River when my cousins and I were kids.


To reach the canyon, I first drive up from Fresno to Sequoia National Park, reach the 7500-foot level, and drop down into the canyon on a two-lane winding road as sheer canyon walls rise taller and appear to close in on me as I reach the canyon floor, where the wild Kings River tumbles outward, following its jagged path over waterfalls and through shale canyon walls on its way down into Kingsburg, crossing Highway 99, and filling the myriad of man-make canals, until it hits the All American Canal, which carries the icy water to the reservoirs, and into our homes, of course, with more complexity than I’ve described here.

A two-hour drive out of Kings Canyon to the east sits Sequoia National Park, home to the General Sherman tree, the oldest living creature in the world, and the largest, as well. Some scientists estimate that when Buddha and Jesus walked the earth, the General Sherman was already 1200 years old. Looking down a mountainside at the General Sherman, another mind-numbing sight unfolds before me, a near mystical experience, an entire forest of giant Sequoias.

The first time I stood under the massive arms of the General Sherman tree, I was eleven. My friends and I had joined the Boy Scouts, and to earn a merit badge, we had to hike into Sequoia’s backcountry for three days. For suburban kids, it was a humbling experience, trekking up to alpine lakes, cooking over an open fire, and sleeping in pup tents or beneath the stars.

I haven’t forgotten it, so each time I leave Kings Canyon, I take the long way across Sequoia, just so I can stand in the shade of the giant Sequoias, take in their energy, and listen to visitors from around the world “ooh” and “ahh” as they lift their heads to see into the branches, many the size of large city trees.
Sometimes I travel into the canyon with family or alone. This year I met my son, granddaughter, Celia, and my son’s friends, who stayed two days while I stayed a week. Once everyone has departed, I notice some campers who stare inquisitively at me, an elderly mestizo with a white beard and campesino hat, sitting alone in front of a campfire, stirring the embers with a long stick. I smile at them, but it’s only the flickering flames that burn my imagination. The crowds have grown and changed since 1973, a lot more raza crowding into the canyon, but the mountains and river have remained the same


I’ve travelled into the canyon to make some of the most important decisions of my life. Corny as it sounds, I’ve let the sounds of the warm wind, rustling leaves, and rushing water provide the answers I’ve sought. I sat on huge boulders beside the rambling river after I returned from Vietnam and needed mother nature’s purifying power to, if not heal me, at least offer a helping hand in my spiritual restoration.
This is my 70th birthday. I set up camp on a hill where I have a view of the solid rock canyon walls peeking through the tall pines and cedars. There I sit, sometimes for hours, and ponder God’s wonder. It’s difficult to be an atheist or agnostic before an artistic creation unimaginable by the human mind. Even our greatest art is but a bleak imitation compared to nature’s handiwork.

The greatest human minds, from our wise indigenous ancestors to the most ingenious among us, from Moctezuma to Sitting Bull and from Galileo to Einstein, bow before the Creator’s canvass. If I remember correctly, many of our greatest thinkers and artists admitted to rejecting theologians’ view of religion and God, but passionately believed in a higher power, a grand creator of the universe. How could I do any less.

Evening falls. Billions of stars appear. The wayward ones shoot across constellations and galaxies of which I possess little knowledge but an abundant appreciation. Tonight, they put on another dazzling performance.

While it seems as if we can't catch a break with the superstorm that is 45, and the back to back blow of hurricanes Harvey and Irma, discussing something as benign as eyewear has kicked La Bloga off the face of feisbook. For months, I've had to go back and label previous personal blog posts as "not spam," only to be told by the FB bots, a day or so later that I was indeed correct and that my posts were not spam and had met the "community standards" that fakebook upholds. Imagine my numb ire when I read in today's New York Times that Facebook indirectly assisted Russian intervention of the US democratic process by created accounts for fake Americans who stirred the pots of divisiveness and hate and emboldened racists to show us their true colors.

For those of us with real accounts, who are accountable to our art, I present some events I wish I were able to attend. I'm glad to know that these opportunities are available. On rare occasions, when I surprise my friends with my presence, it is a joy to know that the arts can serve as a springboard for resistance.






September 9, at 6pm, Tia Chucha's presents Juan Gonzales, who will read and sign his book, Reclaiming Gotham Bill de Blasio and the Movement to End America's Tale of Two Cities.





September 9 Avenue 50 Studio hosts Along the Border/ A lo Largo de la Frontera, from 7- 10 pm, free admission at Avenue 50 Studio, Los Angeles, CA 90042




Malaquias Montoya's politically oriented prints can be seen at Avenue 50 Studio from September 9th-October 7th . Malaquias grew up in the San Joaquin Valley raised by a single mother in a family of migrant farm workers (which includes brother, José Montoya). His work includes acrylic paintings, murals, washes, and drawings, but he is primarily known for his silkscreen prints, which have been exhibited internationally as well as nationally. He is credited by historians as one of the founders of the social serigraphy movement in the San Francisco Bay Area in the mid-1960's. Montoya's unique visual expression is an art of protest, depicting the resistance and strength of humanity in the face of injustice and the necessity to unite behind that struggle.

As Seen on FB, information is worth reading.

Daniel Olivas and Eloy Torrez

"El rey de risa" by Eloy Torrez adorns the cover of "The King of Lighting Fixtures"

Eloy Torrez and Juliane Blackmann

And finally, I want to thank the wonderful folks at the University of Arizona Press, my blurbers (Manuel Muñoz, Susan Straight, and Ilan Stavans), the press’s hardworking Rose Brandt, mi familia, La Bloga, Other Books, and everyone else who helped get make this book a reality. For other updates, visit my website.

Michael Sedano

It’s hard, thinking about the two hours I’ll never get back and how I left them at LA Plaza de Cultura y Artes, where the Latino Book and Family Festival occupied space for the second consecutive year. I departed two hours after stepping off the Gold Line surface rail, thankful travel to and from makes it cheap and easy to attend what could be my last LBFF, if there is another.

The LBFF is a project of a not for profit organization calling itself Latino Literacy Now. A 501(c)(3) organization. Edward James Olmos and Kirk Whisler co-founded Latino Literacy Now to promote literacy in the community in all forms. The 501C3 claims “over a million people have been impacted by our organization’s five program areas”. Attendance at this event topped twenty-five, by my rough estimate and seen in the vast spaces of the shady part of the LBFF.


Only a few people realize how dismal this year’s LBFF proved for exhibitors and at least one entertainer. A plurality of bookselling authors attended fresh from the prior evening’s International Latino Book Awards, their book covers now bearing the gold seal of award winners. The awards are Latino Literacy Now's most singular achievement. LBFF looks to be an afterthought and is killing itself through poor marketing. Used to be, LBFF brought in hundreds of people an hour. This iteration will be lucky if it brought 100 people to LA Plaza de Cultura y Artes.

I hope I'm wrong and that right after I left all those people at Union Station wearing football and baseball gear were headed to la feria with  feria for some books. While I was there, authors had ample time to carry on extended conversations about their stories, like Donna Miscolta holding her award-winning Hola and Goodbye Una Familia In Stories.


Catherine López Kurland has the dual pleasure of writing a well-received book and discovering family history,  Hotel Mariachi: Urban Space and Cultural Heritage in Los Angeles, the story of a street corner and a hotel. Kurland's great grandfather built the structure in 1889.


Pasadena author Randy Jurado Ertll has three titles now, in English and Spanish. His life of an activist memoir has sold out and gone out of print. His tee shirt is the cover of his latest Cipitío story.


Artist Ignacio Gomez had a prime location, two tables adjacent to the entry gate. The event advertised a ten a.m. opening, Gomez’ table was not quite laid out at noon but he was prepared with posters and prints of his distinctively stylized figures, like El Pachuco from the play Zoot Suit.

Kirk Whisler, the organizer from Latino Literacy Now, appears to be running a one-man operation. In the foto of Gomez' puesto, Whisler has brought Gomez a tripod. Whisler was videotaping the workshop I attended up on the third floor. Perhaps he's setting up the camera here?



The workshop I attended had nearly fifteen people. Ni modo a bunch were relatives of the two speakers. One read bilingual children’s poetry, the other recounted his determined march to seeing his book in print.

left, Dra Ma. Alma González Pérez, right Marcia Rodriguez

Only one publisher took a space, Del Alma Publications, LLC. Two representatives came from Texas, presumably to attend last night’s prize affair, and show two titles. Dra Ma. Alma González Pérez poetry collection, Cantos del alma y el corazón, Poesía Original, and a food-based abecedarian for Spanish English learners, ¡Todos a comer! A Mexican Alphabet Book. Del Alma Publications marketing director, Marcia Rodriguez, tells me the press has five titles in its catalog.

Latino Book and Family Festival used to be worthy of its name. Last year was no aberration. Marketing failed the Los Angeles audience. What could have been a family event, a book festival, was none of those. People talk. Word of mouth is critical to marketing success. I can't imagine anyone who spent a couple hundred dollars for a table will have much good to say. LBFF organizers are going through the motions to protect a brand name at any cost.


Early September On-line Floricanto
Rebecca Bowman, Jacob Moreno, José Chapa, Edward Vidaurre, Kai Coggin

“Tú Orelia” by Rebecca Bowman
“The Cacophony of Marching Monarchs Butterfly wings flutter” By Jacob Moreno
“Anchor” By José Chapa
“Through the Fence” By Edward Vidaurre
“hoUSton” By Kai Coggin


“Tú Orelia”
by Rebecca Bowman


Tú Orelia
Tú que caminas entre el barbecho
Que andas por los caminos olvidados
Que buscas la sombra, el anonimato
Que sólo esperas lo que tantos tienen
Tú Orelia
Fortaleza incarnada
Voluntad completa
Tú
Que no te pisquen
Que no te hallen
Que puedas seguir tu camino
Que puedas lograr lo que mereces
Que Dios te cubra
Que la Virgen te cuide
Que halles un lugar seguro
En donde estar



Rebecca Bowman nació en Los Ángeles; radicó durante muchos años en Ciudad Victoria, Tamaulipas. Fue becaria del CONACULTA y del Consejo Estatal para la Cultura y las Artes de Tamaulipas. Obtuvo el Premio Estatal Juan B. Tijerina en cuento, el Premio Estatal de Cuento del ISSSTE, y el Premio Internacional de Dramaturgia Manuel Acuña. Ha publicado varios libros incluyendo Los ciclos íntimos, La vida paralela, Horas de visita, Ink Reactions/Reacciones en tinta y Portentos de otros años. Sus cuentos se han incluido en antologías y sus obras de teatro se han puesto en escena varias veces. También escribe poesía y literatura infantil. Actualmente vive en San Marcos, Tejas.




“The Cacophony of Marching Monarchs Butterfly wings flutter”
By Jacob Moreno


Mariposas sin papeles
Without sin, sin vergüenza
I can hear them coming
In droves, sin miedo
They migrate to the sun
Sippin’ on nectared honey
In the land of milkweeds
In patterned flight
Of generational movement
Returning amidst bordered nets
There is strength in aggregation
As a swarming rabble moves
In the natural beauty of migration
From the shade of frightened shadows
They arise in majestic fortitude
I can hear them coming
As a mass of beating wings
They march upon sacred streets
Singing stories sin derechos
Chanting "¡Si, Se Puede!"
In synchronized solidarity
Grasping fire tinged flags
That flap in cold blooded winds
And dance on the breeze
Of hopes and dreams
In the open sky of opportunity
With fist held high
They scream in boisterous tone
Not voiceless, they roam
On the air streams of liberty
Holding hands and homemade signs
Designed to carry them to freedom
And I, can hear them coming


Jacob Moreno perceives poetry as a voice for the oppressed, the impoverished and the broken spirited of the world. He believes poetry to be an instrument of awareness, resistance, rebellion and civil disorder. As a young man growing up in Chino, California, he used poetry as a catalyst to find peace, love, hope and healing. His Chicano ideals motivate much of his work and are often reflected in his poems. Moreno received both his Bachelor of Arts degree in English, and his Master of Education degree, from the University of La Verne. He currently teaches English at a Southern California High School. His motto is, “I mold minds and write rhymes!”





“Anchor”
By José Chapa


The truly solitary
don’t know what to say to their mothers
in the sky´s cold rooms.
Secretly they tire of their own kids:
laughing water birds
that crash into walls and keep laughing.
They sacrifice everything to move away,
to the beaches and peaks and the quarries.
The solitary have lovers who ruin themselves
of reasons they should be together,
of nude selfies
sent nervously.
They don’t promise anything, but they feel a certain
warm emptiness.
The lone wolves show respect:
nod to police,
curse with coworkers,
look away from the beautiful.
Surrounded,
they only wish
to be truly alone.
Their hair starts to fade
and their family,
they are afraid
to be truly alone.
Perhaps their eyes move rapidly
in that dark electricity magenta and green,
towering visions.
Or perhaps they don’t sleep.
But the swollen hours of night
are their only freedom.
White noise
reverberates in their bones.
Wine or true mescal
defuse them.
Daybreak catches them biting
a hard coin.
They are the ones who think about crying
at funerals. Who become teachers, firefighters,
keepers of open land, dieticians and bankers.
Who only wish they were smart enough
for space exploration.
They’d strand themselves out there
but no further than the moon;
what would be life without view of the ocean?



Jose Chapa (Mission, TX, 1990) is an American poet raised in Mexico. His work has appeared in publications such as The Acentos Review, Central American Literary Review and Tierra Adentro. He authored "Pájaros de Pólvora" and "Sospecha de un Viaje Astral"; poetry collections published in 2009 and 2015.



“Through the Fence”
By Edward Vidaurre

I offer these medicine poems
I gather this sage for you poems
Teach me to pray the rosary poems
Let’s face the four directions together poems
In lak’ech- tu eres mi otro yo poems
Sweat together poems
Eres mi Yemaya poems
Floricanto poems
Don’t drown in the river poems
Altar for our ancestor poems
Sobadora curandera poems
Sana sana colita de rana poems
Drum beat poems
Conch shell poems
Cumbia poems y salsa poems
Hold my hand through the fence poems
Here’s some food for your journey poems
La Bestia at high speeds poems
You are my kindred poems
Bring me your Dreamer poems
Your fuck this border wall poems
Don’t worry about the orange guy poems
Don’t speak his name poems
Your existence is medicine poems
Help me uncelebrated Cinco de Mayo poems
ya basta! Poems
Grito poems
Indigenous wisdom poems
Palo Santo poems
You were here first poems
Decolonize your soul poems
Codeswitch poems
You belong poems
No more war poems
Son Jarocho poems de Resistencia
Corrido poems
Con safos poems
Flying chancla poems
Share this meal with me poems
Here! Drink some water poems
Let me die your death poems
One day at a time poems
Café con leche poems
Pan dulce poems
Pupusa poems
Guayaba poems
Mangüitos con alguashte poems
Raspa poems
Spiropapa poems
Platanitos poems
La Pulga poems
Molcajete poems

Pocho poems
Salvi poems
East L.A. poems
Valle poems
Gather in this embrace poems...
Crying poems
We’re waiting for you on this side poems
We have hot coffee and tamales poems
Recipe poems
Share my rebozo poems
Come, fall in love poems
You are worth more than any labor you do poems
You are him, her, they, them poems
Welcome home poems
Get some rest poems
Tomorrow we’ll plan the future poems
I love you poems.
Take with you these love poems...
You are not illegal poems
We’ll protect your women and children poems
You are not an alien poems
This is actually your land poems
You deserve so much more poems
Hide behind me poems
You are not merchandise to be locked up in container poems
Stay speaking Spanish, it is poetry
Warsan Shire home poems
Como la flor poems
Tanto amor poems
La Llorona poems
Elotero poems
Be my chola poems
Pan de polvo poems
Orale vato poems
Slow dance poems
Padrino de DJ poems
Kiss me when I’m asleep poems
Starsong poems
Deeptongue poems
Wildflower poems
Riversedge poems
Chicharra poems



Edward Vidaurre is the author of Chicano Blood Transfusion (FlowerSong Books), Insomnia (El Zarape Press), Beautiful Scars: Elegiac Beat Poems (El Zarape Press), and I Took My Barrio on a Road Trip (Slough Press). His new collection, Jazzhouse, is forthcoming from Prickly Pear Press. His work appears in Bordersenses, RiverSedge, Brooklyn & Boyle, La Bloga, Voices de la Luna, and Poets Responding to SB1070, among many other venues. He is the founder of Pasta, Poetry, and Vino, an ongoing poetry reading series in the lower Rio Grande Valley.



hoUSton
By Kai Coggin


In the middle of Houston, there is US.
My city became an ocean overnight,
floodwaters drowned thousands of homes,
swallowed whole neighborhoods with one rising gulp,
brackish brown bayous
and rain,
so much rain,
a trillion gallons
pouring from the broken open sky,
this is what unfathomable looks like,
6.5 million people wondering if they can float,
people swept out of their lives
in the currents of swirling water,
where do you go when your whole world sinks
to the bottom of a hurricane’s slow dance of doom?
In the middle of Houston, there is US.
I watched for days
from too far away
to do anything but pray
as the water rose over the places of my youth,
I put a golden dome of light around my mother’s home,
texted her through tornadoes overhead
as she hid in the closet,
visualized her safe and dry,
safe and dry,
safe and dry,
and she is...
but how do I not cry
for the 32,000 Houstonians sleeping in shelters tonight?
In the middle of Houston, there is US.
This indiscriminate life breaker of a storm
ravaged the poor, the rich, the middle class
with no thought of separation,
hispanics, asians, whites, and blacks,
christians, muslims, republicans, democrats,
these false lines we use to divide ourselves break down
until all we can see is human.
How can I help another human being survive?
Where can I take my boat, my canoe, my kayak and float
to a family with water rising to their necks,
arms flailing from water level rooftops,
street rivers, trapped cars,
and the mental emotional scars
that have not yet come our from under the rubble
of this unprecedented disaster.
In the middle of Houston, there is US.
A friend of mine lost 99% of her possessions
in a house she moved into two days before the storm.
She posts her gratitude on facebook for
the man she loves saving her and her three dogs.
Another friend’s little boy is always a little chatterbox,
she worries because he is so quiet since they were evacuated,
his eyes looking at the passing water.
Another friend walks five miles with her little girl in a floaty,
hitchhikes on the back of a truck,
jumps on a boat to get to a shelter accepting survivors, she praises dry socks.
Another friend, former student, is now a police officer,
teenage boy turned gladiator diving into harm to truly protect and serve.
Another friend and another friend and another friend
millions of stories because Houston
is a city of stories,
Houstonians helping Houstonians
now more than ever before,
a Navy of Neighbors knocking on every flooded door,
finding their own humanity on the other side.
In the middle of Houston, there is US.
There is a reflection of all of US in this tragedy,
it unfolds on this national scale
in the fourth largest city in the country
to remind us that we are stronger in our togetherness,
we are better when we care for our neighbors,
we are greater when we open up our hearts instead of build walls,
when we are stripped down of everything
but the rain-soaked shirts on our backs
drowning in overtaking oceans,
we reach out our hands from under the water
just wishing someone…
anyone…
another human being…
would grab hold and say
“I’ve got you.”
“You’re safe now.”
“You’re going to be alright.”
Our hands are out to you Houston.
In the middle of Houston, there is US.
*
Kai Coggin, 2017
#HurricaneHarvey #HoustonHarvey

This week, two items of business: 

First, a reminder that Daniel Olivas launches his latest collection of short fiction tomorrow.  The flyer, below, has all the details.  I am reading these tales, savoring each one, taking my time, re-reading parts that have amazed, amused, surprised.  Daniel is a master story-teller and The King of Lighting Fixtures is loaded with fine examples of a master at work.  The stories, many in the flash-fiction mode, are relentless in the impact they produce in a reader.  Three adjectives quickly came to me as I read this collection. Quirky, magical, intimate. A good short story offers nothing less than a passionate glimpse into the human heart.  The King of Lighting Fixtures  offers that passion and then doubles down.  Highly recommended.

Second, taking inspiration from Daniel, I present a short story I recently committed to the printed page. Hope you like it.

















The Parkinson’s could be fought with exercise. Sergio believed that. He walked at least thirty minutes each day and he often ended up at the Senior Center where he used a squeaky treadmill and an outdated cycling machine. The symptoms worsened with each week but it was a gradual decline. He still had his mind. The exercise always made him feel better.

His walks took him through the rapidly changing neighborhood. He had trouble recognizing some of the buildings because so much had been torn down and replaced with sterile boxes and ugly towers. He never saw anyone he knew. Young people crowded him as he walked. The sidewalks were a mad mix of dogs and baby carriages and cell phones. But they could not be avoided. He’d come to the conclusion that he hated what was happening to his hometown. There was nothing he could do about it.

One morning on his way home he walked in front of yet another construction project. The brick house where the Sandovals lived for more than fifty years had been smashed into oblivion. He stood at the orange plastic fence surrounding the project and imagined what the new building would look like when it was finished. Ugly. Not welcoming. An intrusion into the peace that his walks once had produced.

On the dirt near the fence he saw a large steel nail, at least four inches long. From his past life as a proud member of the International Laborers’ and Hod Carriers’ Union he knew the nail was used in concrete.

He picked up the nail and stuck it in the pocket of his baggy sweatpants. Sergio told himself that he would throw it in a dumpster to ensure that no one suffered a flat tire. He reasoned that he drove on this street several times each week so he was actually helping himself. Maybe not several times each week. But at least a few times each month. Sergio drove less and less.

The nail rubbed against his leg as he walked. After five minutes he realized that his thigh hurt.

“I’m such a weakling these days,” he thought.

A young man with a long beard and two large mean-looking dogs on leashes emerged from the garage of a recently completed and quickly sold condo. The man cursed the dogs and pulled on the leashes with such force that the animals whimpered. All three rushed down the driveway onto the sidewalk. They didn’t see Sergio or they didn’t care that he stood in their path. The dogs bumped into his legs and pushed him aside with growls and snapping jaws.

Sergio lost his footing and fell on his ass. The bearded man looked back at him and said, “Sorry.” The man and his dogs trudged on.

Sergio pulled the nail from his pocket. He’d felt the prick of the point when he stumbled. No blood on his pants so the skin had not been broken. He walked to the curb and carefully placed the nail precisely where any car leaving the garage would have to cross. He enjoyed the rest of his walk.

He experienced another sleepless night. Sergio tried various tricks for dozing off but his mind wouldn’t catch the sleep signal. His thoughts returned, again and again, to the nail he’d left in the street. He realized he was being silly, obsessive even, but the harder he closed his eyes, the more it bothered him. 

He put on a jacket over his pajamas, squeezed his feet into his walking shoes and grabbed one of his many small flashlights. 

The tremor in his left leg interfered with his thinking. Sergio was off-balance, more than usual. His weak eyes wouldn’t focus on anything specific.

He did not dwell on how he must look to anyone else, yet he worried that all the newcomers would still be awake, partying or walking dogs or feeding their babies or whatever they did at three in the morning. He imagined the bearded man and his dogs waited for him in the garage, sitting in the expensive car that must surely occupy the garage – the car with expensive tires, expensive wheel locks and expensive repair bills.

Sergio shuffled to the curb where he’d left the nail. His light exposed the stretch of street where the nail should have waited. Nothing. He moved the beam up and down the curb. Nothing. Maybe the nail had already done its work. Maybe the car had a flat?

He walked up the driveway. The door had a row of decorative windows near the top. Sergio was too short to see into the garage. He looked around the small but neat front yard. A large rock sat near the fence gate. A small boulder, really.

Sergio strained against the rock.  If he could move it he might be able to stand on it and look into the garage. He got on his hands and knees and pushed and shoved. He grunted. The flashlight rolled out of his jacket pocket and clanged against the fence.
 
Light flooded Sergio.  The front door of the condo slammed open. He heard the bearded man cuss and the dogs bark. He saw the first dog leap through the open doorway and turn towards him.



Later.


Manuel Ramos is the author of several novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction books and articles. His collection of short stories, The Skull of Pancho Villa and Other Stories, was a finalist for the 2016 Colorado Book Award. My Bad: A Mile High Noir was published by Arte Público Press in 2016 and is a finalist for the Shamus Award in the Original Paperback category sponsored by the Private Eye Writers of America.

Olga García Echeverría

Yesterday, somewhere in Arcadia, beneath the dappled shade of trees that I don't know the names of and large colorful dangling flores de papel, I ate hotdogs and tacos and drank lots of alcohol. It was Saturday, after all, and Lillian, who was sitting to my right, took it upon herself to become the bartender at our table. She's good. Armed with only Styrofoam cups filled with ice cubes, agua de piña, and Vodka, she whipped up (rasquache style) “fancy” mixed drinks on the spot, passing them along to anyone at the table who gestured for more – mostly me.

We were at a baby shower. Eva, the mother to be, looked very pregnant and beautiful in her light blue dress as she mingled with guests. I kept thinking that if I were that pregnant, I'd be in bed all greñuda, using my belly to coerce people to bring me things. Rumor had it that Eva stayed up till 3:00 AM the day before making some of the lovely decorations for the party herself. Hijole, where do pregnant women get all the energy?

There were kids running around, an all-you-can-eat candy table, cute newborn onesies hanging from a string, and some baby shower games that I completely blocked out due to both the Vodka and the conversation at our table that moved fluidly from issues of immigration, vile politicians we all despise, battles between Denisse and Sandra over what constitutes “authentic” chilaquiles, discussions about egg yolks and how very few places get "over medium" right, Rancho Cucamonga, Chino Hills and Chino (they're supposedly adjacent, but two different places).

As soon as Chino was mentioned, La Judy, who was sitting to my left, said she had a story about Chino and a chivo. This really perked my interest because although I didn't mention it to anyone at the table, I have had goats on my mind a lot lately. I blame my current fixation on goats on Graciela Iturbide, whose work is currently being displayed at the ROSEGALLERY in Santa Monica in an exhibit titled: PhotoGRAPHIC: The Life of Graciela Iturbide. You can see the exhibit from now until October 21st.

I visited the gallery last week both because I am a huge fan of Iturbide's photographs and also because the Getty Museum recently published a beautiful graphic biography on Graciela Iturbide (with the same title as the featured exhibit). I wanted to get my copy of Photographic and have the author and artist sign it.



In a mixture of prose, poetry, photography, and very cool graphic dibujos, award-winning author Isabel Quintero and illustrator Zeke Peña guide us in and out of iconic Iturbide photographs and defining moments in Iturbide's life. As readers, we are able to see how loss, passion, and search for self intertwine with art and Iturbide's lens. Lilliam Rivera, author of The Education of Margot Sanchez, writes about this new book, “It is a rare feat when a writer and illustrator are able to capture the creative magnitude of an iconic photographer...Photographic: The Life of Graciela Iturbide will guide readers through a compelling visionary journey.” This is a wonderful book for both YA and adult readers alike. You can learn more about and purchase the book at: https://shop.getty.edu/products/photographic-the-life-of-graciela-iturbide-978-1947440005.

Here's just one example of how the talents of Quintero, Peña, and Iturbide come together on the page. This is a blurry shot (disculpas), but you get the picture.



Each of Iturbide's photographs featured in the book is evocative in its own right. Whether she is photographing the Seris in the Sonora desert, the women and muxes of Juchitán, cholas and cholos from White Fence in East LA, birds and burials in Guanajuato, cotton fields in Texas, or Frida Kahlo's prosthetic pierna in a bathtub, Iturbide is forever capturing glimpses of a rich and textured América and beyond, as Iturbide's photography is international and ultimately sin fronteras. Isn't that what makes great art great? The removal of borders. The challenging or questioning of borders. Iturbides' work is great in its everydayness. Great in its ability to offer us a mirror, a reflection of a place or a people or simply a moment. This brings me to goats and the one picture in Iturbide's exhibit that keeps haunting me.



This picture captures a woman in La Mixteca region in Oaxaca, Mexico during an annual goat-killing ritual, La Matanza. I'm awed by the raw strength of this woman's barefooted, knife-clenched-between-the-teeth fierceness. I'm also a little frightened by it. There's blood on her skirt and I can only imagine the stench of fresh slaughter. I wouldn't want to cross this woman the wrong way. I wouldn't want to be that poor goat. At the same time it makes me thinks of things I'd like to slaughter with this type of brutal force. I do not consider myself a violent person, but the picture evoked (awakened?) in me a silent violence. As I took pictures of this picture with my Iphone, I kept thinking that this is what I'd like to do to White Supremacy and xenophobic bullshit in our country: slaughter the goat of hate with this level of intention. But these are thoughts warped by my filtered lens. I've never killed a goat or a chicken or any animal that I have ever eaten for that matter. At the core of what I may see or interpret as "brutal force" is just food and survival and ancient ritual. This is simply a woman in an indigenous town in Mexico killing a goat. I love me a good birria too, so why am I tripping? Which brings me full circle to Judy's goat story at yesterday's baby shower, which I loved so much that I asked for her permission to record it for this blog. "Yes, of course, mija! Do whatever you want with it." Below is a transcription of Judy's chivo story, including comments that people at our table interjected while she told it (because you know Latinos like to be interjecting). Enjoy, ponder goat (please share any goat insights with me), check out Isabel Quintero and Zeke Peña's new awesome graphic biography, and if you get a chance, visit the ROSEGALLERY to see some of Itrubide's fantastic photos up close.

Lovely Goat by Zeke Peña

Judy Perez' Goat Story

In the 1980's my parents, as all good Mexicans in LA did back then, went to Chino to buy goat for birria because if you wanted fresh goat meat you weren't about to go to the local carneceria. Whenever we had a bautismo or a party, our family would go to Chino to get our chivo. It was going to be my First Communion and my parents worked all the time, so we couldn't buy the chivo on the actual day of the ceremony, so they got it the week before, brought it home, and we had it there in our yard. 

“Not all Mexicans could afford to go to Chino and get fresh goat, you know.” 

Yes, true. I was very fortunate that my parents had a car to drive to Chino and that they could afford to buy a fresh goat. I know not everyone could do this. The chivo cost about $150.00 bucks back then. That was a lot of money. This was in 1985. My sister and I got really attached to the chivo in that one week. We treated it as if it was our pet and we kinda knew it was going to die, but we didn't really think about that. The day before my communion, we heard the neighbor yelling outside, “Señora, su chivo! Su chivo!” We ran outside and we saw that the goat, who had been tied to a rope by the neck had hopped the fence and was now hanging on the other side, choking itself. My dad was like, shit, we gotta make birria tomorrow and perserve this goat! 

“When you have stressed goat, the meat doesn't taste the same.” 

Exactly! My father ran over there and picked up the goat so it wouldn't suffocate or choke to death. He picked it up and was carrying it in his arms, but the goat was still tied to the rope and basically stuck. He called out to my mom, “Pancha! Cuándo yo te diga que le sueltes la rienda, la sueltas!” My mom was like, “Okay!” and she ran over there and there was some kind of miscommunication because my dad wanted my mom to untie the rope and hand it to him. 

“Why didn't he take scissors?”

He didn't take scissors. It was an emergency. The only thing he could do was throw the goat back over the fence and into our yard again or my mom could untie the rope and throw it over to my dad so my dad could then walk it back over like on a leash. But it happened very fast and instead of waiting for my dad to tell her when, my mom unleashed the goat prematurely and threw the rienda over to my father, who wasn't ready for it. So the fucking goat takes off and he runs for his dear life down Raver Street, makes a left on Avenue 56, keeps running down to Figueroa and makes a right on Figueroa. 

“If there were White people around they'd be saying, 'Oh my god!' That was before all the gentrification? Before White people in Highland Park?”

Oh yeah, yeah, in 1985, way before that. My dad played soccer at that time and he was very agile, so he chased down the goat until it tired and he finally caught it. He called my mom from a public phone collect, “Ven por mí. Estoy en la Figueroa y la Avenida 60.”

“Tengo el chivo!”

Yes, “Tengo el chivo! Ven por mi.” They brought it back in the car in the back of the station wagon, which they don't make anymore, huh? They don't make station wagons anymore.

“They make SUVs now, baby.” 

Yeah, it was not an SUV. It was a station wagon. Una Chevy. A Chevy station wagon. So they brought back the goat and the next day I had my First Communion and we had birria de chivo and everyone ate, including myself. I was kinda sad about the whole thing, but you know...

“It was delicious?”

Yeah, it was delicious and that was my story of my First Communion chivo that ran away. 

Magulandia Stops Time in Pacific Standard Time Exhibition
Michael Sedano

I wish I knew what Southern California did to deserve PST:LA/LA (link), so we could do more of it. Some possible answers: Maybe it’s a reward for being a sensible electorate. Maybe it’s global warming. Maybe it’s beyond fathoming.

Ni modo. The Getty Foundation, among the world’s richest-endowed museums, recognized it didn’t want to continue being an outpost of European civilization planted on the American west coast. Located in the heart of a region whose aesthetic character is sharply defined by its Latino and Latin American culturas, except in the fine arts, the Getty decided to open big doors to raza arte.

Pacific Standard Time: LA/LA represents a multimillion dollar investment into the local art community. With PST:LA/LA Getty offers its Los Angeles regional audience a spiritedly intensive survey of Latin American arte with emphasis on Chicanarte.

Per the Getty’s P.R. for PST:LA/LA:
Pacific Standard Time: LA/LA (PST: LA/LA) is a far-reaching and ambitious exploration of Latin American and Latino art in dialogue with Los Angeles, which takes place from Sept. 2017 through Jan. 2018 at more than 70 cultural institutions across Southern California. The presenting sponsor is Bank of America. 

You can see a list of all the grants awarded to LA/LA by the Getty Foundation at the organization’s website at this link.

Vitrine at Magulandia

With Fall a season of plenty, PST:LA/LA fits right in. From Ventura to Irvine, from the Westside to the East Side, PST:LA/LA’s cup runs over with some of the best events ever to happen for Chicana and Chicano artists, among numerous artists from both Americas. Dozens of Chicana and Chicano artists will find not only deserving audiences but also access to established art marketplaces, where museums and collectors go when they acquire work. Chacun à son goût and budget time, gente.

So many events, so little time. The first week of PST:LA/LA I was able to join two widely dispersed events. The week started down in Orange County. There was no way I would not attend the opening reception at UC Irvine for Aztlán to Magulandia: the Journey of Chicano Artist Gilbert ‘Magu’ Luján.  Magu is a good friend and I miss him, qepd.

In a different way, there are lots of reasons to attend the opening reception in Camarillo, California up in Ventura County of El Museo de Historia, Arte Y Cultura Latina Revistado (1995-2000), featuring work by Vibiana Aparicio-Chamberlin, Oscar Castillo, and Leo Limón. And that was it for me and my camera the first week of PST:LA/LA.

These, plus all the events I missed last week and am going to miss next week, have continuous runs, so visitors can plan leisurely visits strolling galleries, taking time as each piece deserves. Many are near enough to one another that visiting several can be an all day art holiday for familia or a group of compañeras and compañeros.

Vitrines and walls at UCI Magulandia

Cameras are ubiquitous, as are reminiscing people, laughing up a storm while others concentrate on a work.

Engaged people, Sergio Hernandez, Mario Guerrero, Barbara Carrasco

Exhibition postcard and souvenir button

After the dance teacher's remarks, the danzantes wrap the program in a procession across campus to the Napa Gallery, where Aparacio-Chamberlin, Castillo, and Limón show their work.
Below, Vibiana Aparicio-Chamberlin, left center, Jose Antonio Aguirre, right. Aguirre is nearing completion of a mosaic mural at the Azusa Gold Line surface rail station.

• Age Range: 7 - 12 years
• Grade Level: 1 - 2
• Hardcover: 40 pages
• Publisher: Children’s Book Press
• Language: English
• ISBN-10: 0892392754
• ISBN-13: 978-0892392759

        A Past Reflection
        Daniel Cano                                  
 
                                 From LAX to Jose Marti Airport, Direct

     August 2000. It was difficult boarding one of the first authorized flights direct from Los Angeles to Havana. Hours of waiting in long lines, standing, sitting, leaning on walls, U.S. customs officers’ interrogations, rummaging through my bags and suitcases, questioning my friends about extra towels or too many clothes, then the x-ray machines, and the agents’ suspicious eyes. Even the balding Cuban grandfather on his way to visit his family shook his head and whispered to me over his shoulder, “Absolutamente absurdo.”

    Finally, we made our way up the ramp and onto the plane, twelve in my group on a cultural excursion, including teachers, counselors, and an independent book store owner. A few weeks before, a colleague at work, upon hearing the U.S. government was allowing direct flights to Cuba, asked me if I wanted to join him and his friends. How could I refuse?

    The people from the travel agency told us we couldn’t visit for pleasure or even as tourists, so we had to claim some type of cultural-educational mission to appease the U.S. Treasury Department, so my friend coordinated a full calendar of lectures and tours.

     “Save your documents, in case the U.S. government questions your trip later,” the travel agent had advised after we received approval for our trip. “I know Americans who travelled illegally from Vera Cruz, Mexico, just for the fishing. When they returned, the feds hit each of them with a $20,000 fine.”

    I walked alongside the Cuban grandfather and asked why he was going to Cuba if he was so anti-Castro. He said he was taking clothes and money to his wife and children. He also hoped the family would be reunited within a year, before the newly elected Republican president clamped down even harder on Cuba. He told me the U.S. current law allowed him to visit his wife and child once every three years.

     I said, “I thought Americans couldn’t visit Cuba or take anything to the island.”

    “No, no. People don’t know the laws. They just believe what the television tells them.”

    As we waited to board our flight, he told me how he had left Cuba because of trouble with the government. He didn’t elaborate. They let him take his two oldest children but made his wife and youngest child to stay behind. He spoke bitterly, accusing both Cuba and the U.S., especially the Miami Cuban-American lobby, of cold-hearted political tactics. “Now that things are getting better,” he said, “this new president could ruin everything for us.”

    “So, you want the U.S. to normalize relations with Cuba?”

    “No, no. Castro is a beast. I still want the Americans to punish him, make him pay for his sins. But, they could make it easier for us to visit our relatives.”

    And there was the contradiction. I didn’t know how to answer. “Good luck,” I said, “and have a nice visit with your family.”

    After passing through Customs, we gathered outside Havana’s Jose Marti terminal. Lines of vintage Chevrolets, Fords, Chryslers, and Pontiacs filled the parking spaces along the sidewalk. At first, I thought it was a promotion for tourism, as if Cuba knew tourists expected to see old American cars, so the Cuban Department of Tourism hired drivers to show off the classic autos. But no, the old American cars were everywhere, picking up family and friends. Between them came the sputtering, drab compact cars from Russia and Eastern Europe, like exotic metal insects, cutting through traffic.

     An hour later, a van pulled to the curb. We loaded our suitcases in the back and onto the roof. I perspired heavily, yet, the evening tropical air invigorated me. In Southern California, there was no equivalent except, maybe, the dry, warm Santa Anas, but they aren’t sultry like the Caribbean breezes.

    Our van moved onto a lone highway. I wasn’t sure what I expected to see, perhaps, a land under siege, military barracks, and checkpoints along the way. But no, nothing like that, only our van’s headlights lighting the road, and an occasional building with a marker Escuela or a sign Hasta La Victoria Socialismo.

     Weeds and tall grass grew along the roadside. A few scattered lights dotted the landscape, random settlements, mostly in darkness. I looked for signs of torture or brutality, a dead body hanging from a lamp post, an official whipping some poor soul, or hungry people tearing at a fallen animal? Instead, I heard the laughter of our driver as he made jokes about my companions’ sad attempts at Spanish. He corrected them, patiently, like a teacher. Someone pulled me from my reverie and asked me to translate.

     The driver dropped us off in front at our hotel, the ultra-modern Habana Libre. After checking into our rooms, we met outside, and hit the streets. It was Carnival.

     Cubans danced and sang, crowding the streets. Youngsters lined up to get onto the rides. Young men shared plastic half-gallon containers filled with beer. I might have been in Africa or Brazil. I saw some light-skin and white Cubans but most were black. How could this be? In the U.S., the Cuban actors, musicians, and business people who railed against Castro were white. Castro himself, of Spanish lineage, is white. So, had a white man led a revolution of blacks over whites? Was the Cuban revolution about race?

    We walked along the famed Malecon, the ocean waves surging against the ancient concrete wall. Young Cuban men approached us and offered us beer. They placed their arms over our shoulders and asked from where we’d come. Unsure of my U.S. standing in Cuba I said, “The United States” but quickly added, “My grandparents were born in Mexico.” To the Cubans, it didn’t seem to matter.
                                     

     They asked about rock music and American movies, baseball players and hip hop. They asked if we wanted to buy Cuban cigars or eat a traditional Cuban meal in one of their homes. They followed us along the Malecon until we excused ourselves and told them we’d just arrived and wanted to move on before it got too late. “It’s already too late,” said one laughing, his white teeth gleaming in the night.

     It was after midnight. I studied them through my writer’s lenses, a hard-to-break habit. Though dressed mostly in simple tank tops, t-shirts, and shorts, they all appeared healthy and vibrant, thin but not skinny.

    We entered a bakery, young Cubans crowded in. The shelves behind the counter were near-empty, but the waiters served plenty of coffee and cool drinks. Salsa blared through the speakers. Many of the Cuban women, caramel skin and light eyes, a mix of European and African features, were stunningly beautiful. I looked at one. She saw me and confidently held my gaze until I uncomfortably turned away.

    Around 4:00 A.M. and tiring, I excused myself and headed back to our hotel, the streets still bulging with life. Men sat on benches under lamplights and played guitars as couples danced around them. I passed a jazz club, La Vela, a line of people, speaking German, Dutch, and Italian, waited outside for the next show. I saw a policeman, a baby-faced young man, leaning against a building, a lowered carbine strapped over his shoulder. He was talking to two young women. They stood in the shadows. I moved close to eavesdrop. Their Spanish way too fast for me to understand. They nodded as I walked up the sidewalk. I made my way to the room. I undressed and showered. I fell into bed. Outside, the carnival showed no signs of letting up soon.

     What I would see and experience in the next week confirmed the adage that, as always, the truth lay somewhere in between.

The panel took place at Peaches Record Shop, formerly a Woolworths.

A happy fan moment with Margie Perez.

This week, Blogistas, I have the honor of interviewing the current Poet Laureate of Albuquerque, Manuel González. This is a writer passionate and generous in word and deed. His efforts to deepen and broaden who hears and makes poetry makes him one of my favorite poet/organizers. 

What is also worthy of note is his commitment to educate communities about poetry's capacity to transform and heal. I have personally experienced the kind of heart salve his writing and performing offers.

You can reach Manuel via his email - xicanopoet@yahoo.com 


Manuel González is the Current Poet Laureate of Albuquerque, NM. A performance poet who began his career in the poetry slam, Manuel has represented Albuquerque four times as a member of the ABQ Slams team at the National Poetry Slam. Manuel has appeared on the PBS show, Colores: My word is my power, and is one of the founding members of the poetry troupe The Angry Brown Poets and People of the Sun-Performance Art Collective. Manuel teaches workshops on self-expression, through poetry, in high schools and youth detention centers. He has also facilitated art therapy programs, to help at risk and incarcerated youth find an outlet through art.

Manuel has coached and mentored multiple youth slam teams throughout northern New Mexico. Manuel’s connection to his poetry and culture helps him connect with students. By teaching poetry, his students are given the opportunity to explore their own culture. Building up self esteem, finding something to say, figuring out how to say it eloquently, and letting their voice be heard. These are just some of the benchmarks in Manuel’s workshops.

Manuel was born and raised in Albuquerque, New Mexico. His mother’s family is from the historic Barelas neighborhood in Albuquerque and his father’s family is from the small Northern New Mexico town Anton Chico. Manuel’s father (Manny González) was the founder of the band Manny and the Casanovas, pioneers of traditional New Mexico music. Manuel’s Chicano roots, history, culture, and spirituality are among his inspirations for his work and poetry.

"I'm proud to be from New Mexico!” says Manuel. “And to me, it's more than just green chile and desert. It's seeing the value of our familas, our community, our traditions, and our culture. It's the Rio Grande valley and Santuario de Chimayo. It is feasts, dance, poetry and prayer."








Talk about your journey as poet. You have an upbringing with strong roots in music, particularly, New Mexican music. Talk about that influence on you personally and in your work.  Do you feel there is a musicality to your poetry? 

My father was leader of the band “Manny and the Casanovas” which was one of the originators of New Mexico Music. I never really got to know my father, because he passed away when I was 18 months old, but I feel the music of his blood that pumps through my heart. Music has helped me figure out who I am and has helped me learn how to feel. I have and do use music to get me through some of the hardest and joyous times of my life. It makes the pain, heartache and struggle that we go through on a daily basis bearable and the beauty, magic and joy we share unforgettable.

I am not a trained musician like my father and his family are, but I did find my light in spoken word poetry and performance art. I know the power of self-expression and how much emotion can be used to move and change people in deep personal ways. Poetry and music  help you connect with people to raise vibrations!   

You are the current Poet Laureate of Albuquerque. What do you see as your central responsibilities? What would you say are your accomplishments, and what impact would you like to make? 

Being Poet Laureate of Albuquerque is more about our beautiful city’s accomplishments than my own. I want to be the “ambassador” for an artform that most people overlook or have never been exposed to. I try to do more writing workshops than strictly performances because in those workshops we write together, cry together, and see each other as beautifully imperfect human beings.  Albuquerque is a unique and magical place where culture and history are at every corner in this city. Poetry is a means for us as a community to tell our stories, heal our wounds, and show Albuquerque for the magical place that it is.  With the three volcanic sisters to the west and that majestic mountain to protect us on our East and this river carries our dreams to the sea.  Poetry abounds here in Albuquerque we just have to look and nurture the future generations of this legacy.

Who do you like to read/hear and why?

I guess the beginnings of metaphor that I heard growing up were the “dichos” or mexican sayings I would hear.  People would always say things like “El que con perros se acuesta con garrapatas se levanta.” (He who lies down with dogs wakes up with fleas.) Or, “El que con lobos anda aullar se enseña.” (He who goes around with wolves learns how to howl. These sayings taught me to see the world in a different way.  When I reached adolescence I got into hip hop.  That’s where I first found my love for words and rhyme. 

But hip hop was like cotton candy.  It tasted good, It just didn't have any the nutrients I needed in it.  It wasn’t until I went to my first “Poetry Slam”  did I get my first real experience with poetry.  So when I started to get serious with this artform I was obsessed with spoken word poets who are still alive.  

I’d say my first influences were the poets from Albuquerque who changed the way I looked at what was possible with words and emotion.  Poets like Kenn Rodriguez, Maria Leiba, Danny Solis, Matthew John Connely, and Sarah Mckinstry Brown.  These poets danced, sang, and bled on the stage with their words.  They shared and connected with the audience in deep and personal ways.  I was hooked.  Then i got to go to my first National poetry slam ane I met some of the most incredible spoken word artists in the world.  Poets like Shane Koyzcan and Saul Williams,  or Amalia Ortiz and Joaquin Zihuatanejo.  Some performance poets who have influenced me are Guillermo Gomez Pena, Gil Scott Heron, The Last Poets, The Taco Shop Poets, and Culture Clash.   These poets helped shape my performance style and the energy I bring on stage.  

As far as “written” and “classic” poetry goes  my all time favorite poet is Pablo Neruda.  I also love poets like Federico Garcia Lorca,  Audrey Lorde, Naomi Shihab Nye, mary oliver and especially Rumi.

I guess I look for art that touches me deep in my soul.  It has to be more than beautiful, more than tragic, more than flowery language.  It has to move me and leave a lasting mark on my heart.


There is a lot of discussion about slam/performance poetry vs. poetry for the page. How do you see those distinctions? Do you feel there is a bias at work against performance poetry, and if so, how would you characterize it?  What you feel is the relationship between performance poetry and community? How do you see development as a poet/writer in this context?

My first introduction to poetry came from hip hop and spoken word.  I approach this artform from the perspective of someone who was not brought in through academia, or the written word.  My experience comes from the way I’ve felt sitting in a huge audience and feeling like the poet was speaking directly to me.  I’ve shed tears and found forever stains on my soul from poetry.  I’ve also been the poet on the stage and saw time stop and words hang in the air similar to the feeling of “duende” that flamenco dancers attest to.  I think we lose out on experiences like this with the written word.  When we add the energy of our voice, the movements of our bodies, and the expressions on our faces poetry comes alive.  In those instances it can ignite fires and change lives.  We come together to share our innermost thoughts, emotions, ponderings, and tragedies.  We support each other and cry together.  I think that’s why our community here in Albuquerque is so tight. 

Through my journeys I found the “authentic” people.  “Genuine” artists and people who actually love and appreciate culture and art in this way.  Poets like Levi Romero who gave me words of encouragement when I really needed it at the beginning of my career.  
Danny Solis who mentored me and introduced me to spoken word poetry.  People who understand that art is the best way for marginalized people to express themselves and find their voices.  People of Color, LGBTQ, people with emotional scars, socially awkward, and people who feel outcasted find open minded acceptance in our poetry community here in Albuquerque.  

It wasn’t always that way though.  Poetry used to be the sole property of ivory tower academics who had rigid definitions of and elitist interpretations of this artform.  The “old guard” loved their Frost, and Shakespeare, but poets of color, poets who are still alive, and poets from those marginalized groups were mostly overlooked.  I think that is what stifles the growth of a living breathing artform that needs our blood and tears to survive.  

There is definitely a rift between “academic” poets and “performance” poets.  

I’ve been in audiences where there was a famous academic poet on the stage, and i was thinking. Wow, I really enjoyed this poet’s books! Too bad they can’t recite their own work. And i’ve seen poets on the stage who are just telling a story or making a speech.  
Calling it “poetry” doesn’t always make it so.  


Your practice is rooted in bring groups and people together. How would you describe your experience community building with what I would characterize as the the Anglo/Old guard? 

Being Chicano I found myself  the “token” in many poetry events.  I’ve had to do the “dog and pony show” for rich Anglo donors in mansions in Santa Fe, with my culture all over the walls and a huge Buddhist fountain in the back.  I’ve sat in the audience when Anglo poets get up and recite poetry riddled with my slang.  Codewords we used to identify “real gente.”  It’s always disconcerting to hear someone talk like your uncle in jail, or using the words we only hear when the men drink by themselves.  They are not meant to give you more street cred, or show how down you really are.  You have to be where we’re from and do what we do to use the words that are ours. “¿Que no?”

But our poetry community here in Albuquerque is “All inclusive”  The only prerequisite we have is that you are honest, sincere, and respectful.  I think the two APLs before me and I have done a lot of work to cross pollinate the different poetry scenes and communities we have here in albuquerque.  I’ve gone to events for the transgender community, the New Mexico Poetry Society, the United Way, UNM Chicano Studies, and I try to bring poetry into our communities and invite the people to begin creating, writing and speaking their truth.  That’s how we build community, fight racism, homophobia, and misogyny.  This is how we push the gospel of poetry throughout the barrios and pueblos of New Mexico.


Not  a lot  of people know that an indigenous Mejicana healer, Maria Sabina, profoundly influenced the Beats - Kerouac, Ginsberg, Waldman.  Her "poetry" was, in fact, her sacred prayer chanting. How do you see poetry as a tool for healing?  For empowerment?

Poetry heals.  When we express ourselves with genuine sincerity, the metaphors we use can become like prayers, or better yet incantations.  

We can speak these worlds into existence.  When we look within ourselves and confront our inner demons and convert the pain we carry into art we heal the wounds and bruises we all have on our hearts.  I’ve seen performance poets whose movements and gestures become dance and the metaphors make the room vibrate with magical intentions.  Some poets conjure when they’re on the stage. Creating moments that leave marks on us.  

They wrestle themselves with words and win. They publicly heal themselves and giving us permission and example to heal ourselves. Once we go through the journey of mending our scars we can then begin to work on society.  We use our words to expose injustice when we see it.  Give greed, racism, and misogyny an emotional face.  Holding up mirrors to the powers that be hoping to change the way they think by forcing them to feel.  This is how we heal our world.  The artists, shamans, poets, dancers, and creators must become louder than the constant drone of negativity that bombards us from every direction.  That’s why my favorite places to run my workshops are the jails, foster care centers, detention centers, homeless shelters, and places where people really need healing.  I give them a paper a pen an ear and a heart. 


Describe the creative life in your own family, particularly as the parent of a young poet. What words of advice do you have for her?


Sarita grew up in the poetry community.  She was at poetry slams before she could talk.  I remember her first attempt at spoken word poetry when she was five years old.  It was a long and meandering freestyle about her adventures with her best friend Sam.  

I tried to be sure not to push poetry onto her.  I wanted her to find her own path, but the poetry came out of her naturally.  She titled her first chapbook “Solita”  because she wanted everyone to know that she wrote all her poems by herself.  She’s growing up to be a radical Xicana feminista poeta and I couldn’t be more proud of her.  Her politics came from listening to all of Burque’s best poets and a few nationally renowned poets have taken the time to mentor her. They’ve coached her on her writing and her performance so now she’s an unstoppable poetic force to be reckoned with.

Where do you see yourself creatively ten years from now?

I’m very interested in incorporating spirituality into my poetry and performance.  I’ve witnessed poets and performance artists who almost conjure on stage.  They take their art to the level of ceremony and ritual.  I’ve only experienced this  a few times in my life. Times when I’m in an audience and it feels like the poet is speaking directly to me and saying exactly what I need to hear.  
And I’ve been on stage when it feels like time stops and the audience goes on a journey with me.  Flamenco dancers call it “duende.” That moment when we connect with our ancestors and orishas and the spirits that whisper to us when we quiet our thoughts.  I want to figure out what it is and how to make it happen.  I’m sure that it begins with authentic and genuine expression.  After that I’m still trying to understand.  I’ve also seen the healing powers of poetry.  When we write something real and sincere about the pain we carry it helps to heal those bruises on our hearts.  When we stand up and share that poetry with others that healing can become contagious.  I want to spread the healing powers of poetry and create magic when I perform.  

Duende.


What's something not in the official bio?

Something you don't know about me: I graduated high school from New Mexico Military Institute in Roswell, NM. I went all 4 years of high school. No comment, lol!

The actor Alex Di Dio hanging out as guests begin to arrive.

Sally Shore doing a little Q&A with me.

Signing!

Before the signing, my books waiting to be taken home by some lovely people.

Siguenza Breaks Leg In Picasso One-Actor Gem
Michael Sedano


“One-man Show” is parlance of an earlier day, when gendered slurs were lingua franca. I've learned not to allow my language to set the limits of my world, because the best One-man Show I’ve ever seen featured Siobhan McKenna doing Irish women. After McKenna’s work, the short list for second-best brings to mind immediately only Jack MacGowran’s Beckett monologues. I am a Beckett fan—once called Beckett a Chicano and riled up the MLA world--so I have a triumphant feeling welcoming a Chicano to the “best-ever” One-man Shows. Move over Beckett and McGowran, a genius is at work at Casa0101. The virtuoso performance of Herbert Siguenza in A Weekend with Pablo Picasso provides matchless entertainment for a critically limited period. The show closes October 8.

Standing ovations are de rigueur for Los Angeles audiences. The roaring ovation Siguenza received Friday night came with sincerity and gratitude, palpably out of a shared sense of achievement, “One of us did this!” “One of us did this!” is a kind of pride that counterbalances a common reaction among raza when reading disgusting news about a crime, “Don’t let it be a Chicano…” This time, it is, and unsurprisingly.

Audiences know Siguenza has it in him. Years of scene-stealing and spotlighting with Culture Club honed the actor’s ability to slip in and out of character, do voices, be silly. At Casa0101, Siguenza inhabits his Picasso over 90 minutes, embodies in the personality a sense of practicality—the art worker has to finish a commission to complete a sale—while holding onto one’s personal aesthetic. Picasso the character is doing art, the business of art is making work for sale. Siguenza the actor is making art, voicing Picasso’s notions of essences of Art, simultaneously producing original art, painting and sketching live. Telling, showing, in a masterful demonstration of both.

Casa0101 is a place to run into friends, like this late arriver who will find seats in the nether regions.

A few years ago, Siguenza’s two-actor monologue spotlighting Mario Moreno--Cantinflas out of character---offered eye-opening evidence of the actor’s multifaceted dramatic skills. That captivating performance in the enchanting environs of Ford Theatre was in Spanish, and a limited run at that. Everyone in LA who could have seen it didn’t get the chance. Those of us who attended, even English-only companions, found Siguenza’s portrayal riveting. (The Ford is LA’s best-kept secret for theatrical performances.)

Siguenza’s Picasso speaks in code-switching English-Spanish, tossing in a soupçcon of le Français for flavor. The actor’s rich baritone embodies a larger-than-life persona in this Picasso. I didn’t know Pablo Picasso, but this one’s a good version ni modo. The actor projects power that at times overflows with charisma, compelling the audience to get wrapped up in the character’s process of creation, holding attention on substance, even through long speeches.

Artists Margaret Garcia celebrates her birthday at a special place, Casa0101. Bonnie Lambert, left, and Rhett Beavers will join Siguenza and others at Casa Fina for birthday cake and post-performance partying.

The script offers a show-not-tell psychological biography of the artist, goaded by the agent, forced to whip up a handful of paintings and three vases; production for commercial ends, not genuine art. Picasso spends one weekend just whipping out the paintings while reflecting on his connections as a sexual man and artist. The scenes devoted to the painting Guernica include some of the evening’s more arresting thoughts.

I confess that fatigue forced my eyes closed. I listened with one ear and phased out only a couple of times. So I feel pangs of guilt for how the actor must have felt, seeking eye contact with gente in the intimate confines of Casa 0101’s auditorium. He would scan the house to the aisle where he’d catch my chin resting on my chest. I apologize, that makes a tough audience. But in consolation, I sleep at the Opera and the Taper.

Audience and Art Collector Tip: Choose the front row center seat. Picasso addresses the audience needing a model. “I’ll draw you,” he says. At the conclusion of his bows, the artist Herbert Siguenza presents the audience member with the portrait Picasso sketches in the performance.

Watching the artist making art adds an aesthetic dimension theatre allows only rarely. Siguenza draws on a transparent window, a paloma, after daughter Paloma. It comes to life and flies away via imaginative use of projections. In one scene, Picasso selects a model seated in the audience and Siguenza draws her while declaiming the lines. In the climax, Picasso gives himself a few minutes to paint a  canvas to fulfill the order.

Siguenza whips together a Picassoesque bull fighter in rich black, rough, broad strokes. A perfect pastiche of a Picasso torero impression. Picasso Siguenza garnishes the bull’s blood with fiery red strokes. Picasso pulls the canvas off the easel, offers it to the audience as an illustration of what he’s said about art-on-purpose, not the accidental crap Jackson Pollock sells for big money in New York.

Casa0101 auditorium rises steeply so there's not a bad view in the house.

The auditorium at Casa 0101 is only a few rows deep and inclined steeply against the hard-upon rear wall. Everyone’s seat is close to the stage. The sound and projection systems are first-rate. Worn and compacted chair cushions make bringing a personal cushion a matter of importance.

Like the Cantinflas show, Casa 0101 plans a limited run of A Weekend with Pablo Picasso.  I hope, with enough advance notice, everyone in LA who deserves to see Herbert Siguenza in A Weekend with Pablo Picasso will line up for tickets or click the teatro’s website here. The performance runs weekends at accommodating hours, now until October 8. The production last played in 2014, Siguenza tells the house in his curtain call speech, intimating a demora of unknown duration until the next.

Teatro 0101 founder Josefina Lopez makes an important contribution with this space, and the nearby Casa Fina Restaurant. Culturally, Casa0101 extends professional theatre into Boyle Heights on a permanent basis. Audiences here enjoy popular fare such as Hungry Woman in Paris, rare performances as Siguenza’s Picasso, local-origin one acts about Frida Kahlo, and original work such as Lopez’ upcoming An Enemy of the Pueblo, opening October 20. Plans are afoot to bring Beauty and the Beast to Boyle Heights. Extending the reach of professional theatre into the community, Lopez teaches writing workshops and regularly presents student work on stage.

Director Josefina Lopez thanks audience and asks them to bring groups like several tonight.

A short walk to the west from Casa0101, Casa Fina Restaurant fills the void emptied when La Serenata de Garibaldi abandoned its wonderful location across the street from Metro’s Gold Line Mariachi Plaza Station. The theatre offers a pair of dinner and show options worth considering. Exceptional service and upscale but not hoity-toity comida make for pleasant dining. Being Mexican food, the menu offers lots of gluten-free choices. As usual, ask the waiter to let the chef know.

Eastsiders, particularly gente in Boyle Heights, are vehement protestors of gentrification. Iconic Mariachi Plaza, for example, threatens to disappear except by name, if developers plant condos in Metro-owned land adjacent to the plaza. Exogenous art galleries have taken space, one bragging the danger of Boyle Heights enlivens visits to the place. Where developers see profit for themselves, locals see a park, or affordable housing for all.

The clash of money versus pueblo will play out in coming months now that voters gave Metro a blank check to build and develop like urban robber barons. Change comes inevitably, but it doesn’t have to be at the business end of a wrecking ball. Josefina Lopez defines a useful model of change without gentrification. Raza-owned, razacentric establishments like Casa0101 and Casa Fina enrich not only the local economy but also give la cultura wider reach into the larger region’s sense of place and cultural space. In Boyle Heights, visitors find SoCal's most precious amenity, the unequalled pleasures of free parking to go along with great theater and fine dining.

A WEEKEND WITH PABLO PICASSO
September 16, 2017 - October 8, 2017
Fridays at 8 PM. Saturdays at 3 PM & 8 PM and Sundays at 5 PM

2102 E. 1st St.
Los Angeles, CA 90033
Phone: (323) 263-7684

Email: info@casa0101.org


Carlos Almaraz: Chicano Genius Subject of Film & LACMA Exhibition Through December 3



I was stunned meeting Carlos Almaraz. I forget the course, perhaps Intercultural Communication but could have been Oral Communication. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to let the student invite a Chicano artist friend who lived in her neighborhood to share slides of his work. Chicano art was few and far between in those days.

The unassuming artist presented slides that knocked me out of my desk. His description of context and technique melded social awareness with fine art sensibilities. For the students, the forty-five mintues with the artist gave them a graduate seminar in Chicano painting. For a nascent collector, I coulda bought a painting. I shoulda bought a painting. I wish I'd bought a painting. "Broke" has different meanings at different times, and back then I needed a better dictionary.

I suffer from anomia, inability to capture names, so I forgot the artist's name as soon as I met him. His images indelibly etched themselves into not just memory, but awareness. I knew my Janssen, and this disremembered artist gave lessons in art to the best textbook on art appreciation. When I finally connected his art with that fellow in the Speech building at CSULA long ago, my heart sang and broke.

Almaraz was a member of Los Four, the foundation group of Chicano art whose members included Magu, Judithe Hernandez, Carlos Almaraz, Beto De La Rocha, and Frank Romero. Carlos Almaraz is  currently the focus of an exhibition at Los Angeles County Museum of Art, home of The Rock, and a set of videos.

Latinopia shares this teaser on one of the Almaraz films.





Bins'nPieces
Latinxtalk New Current Affairs Kid on the Virtual Block



When I was deejaying at KCSB, getting a PSA spot assigned to the playlist was a bummer. Public Service Announcement, PSA, inevitably meant a poorly-recorded classroom lecture on an important issue droning from some remote college out there in the U.S. of A. Someone thought its message and I was chosen to promulgate it. I wanted to talk, play jazz, and avoid PSAs. That's what newspapers and libraries were for.

Now in those days, KCSB wasn’t the FM powerhouse of Santa Barbara. Programming went out via carrier current. That means the signal arrived via the power lines in dorm walls. The Casitas, the old military cardboard barracks near the swamp where I bunked my first semester at UCSB, didn’t get KCSB. My audience was the late-night studiers living in the big new cinderblock buildings with poor broadcast reception. Until 1:00 a.m. sign-off, I was the only choice.

I dredge up my fame as a radio DJ because it seems to me the Internet has become one big PSA, with a difference. Messages come from the mass, initiated at no one’s will but the producer’s. Audiences flit from channel to channel yet will never land on any particular digital screen because the Internet is like the carrier current. It goes to limited places and only those who seek out the signal get to be its audience. If they're not turned on by what they get, they flit away. A dog eat digit world.

Enter Word-of-Mouth. In Sales training, WOM is the best gossip a sales organization can promote. Marketing and advertising messages inundate merchants, urging they spend money and buy stuff. All other things being equal, one marketer’s message is as good as another. The theory's familiar, an opinion leader's recommendation, even a casual observation or attitude, about the product or company can be pivotal to placing the order. Nothing happens in an economy until someone places an order.

This comes up because I came across a new PSA spot for Raza the other day. My friends, and you are my friends, as LBJ used to say, Latinxtalk is worth a couple of inspection visits. The site comes with clean layout, good white space, legible fonts, readily identifiable text holes.

The editorial board comprises a cross-country team of academics; professors and Ph.D. types. I'm not sure what the actual name is, Latin X Talk, or LatinXTalk, that's probably still up in the air so they use all caps.

Places like LatinXTalk can be vehicles for making academic research accessible to everyday readers. The journal is refereed. This may let academics get over the “publish or perish” hump and feel free to contribute publicly instead of behind the paywall of academic journals. The web PSA demands the kind of writing that seems in the offing at Latinxtalk: seminar speculations, protreptics, sociocultural analysis composed a few degrees above lowest common denominator, and who knows? The endeavor launched only recently and has yet to bring a second issue. So, a ver.

The inaugural issue comes with lively text and a compelling headline opining on a racist Arizona sheriff getting a “pass” from a pendejo with authority to do that.

Click here to visit LATINXTALK.



Tía Chucha Celebrates Chicana Chicano Arts • Benefit in October

Yesterday, Daniel Olivas shared details of the Tía Chucha fundraiser scheduled for LA Plaza de Cultura y Artes in the heart of el pueblo de Los Angeles and the shadow of City Hall. Click this link for details. One seat is $80, when purchased right now. The meal and event go up to cien bolas soon. Hope to see hundreds of people at La Plaza. Save the twenty to pay for parking, buy now.


Details.

Wrapping September's Songs: On-line Floricanto

“In America*” By Daniel García Ordaz
“Big City, Glass Skyscape: Everything that sings” By Marian Haddad
“Mother Is Mad” By Andrea Mauk
“Reflecting in a Storm” By Anne Apfel
“Huelga” By Aideed Medina


“In America*”
By Daniel García Ordaz

technology has evolved
racist people have not

super imposed images on maps
they created of lands they did not

real people have also appeared
on this continent

a regular paradise
in the Land of the Gorch

with no puppeteer in sight
no papers

only their underwear and hopes—
the Electric Mayhem continues




“Big City, Glass Skyscape: Everything that sings”
By Marian Haddad

I remember I was six-
teen when I first stepped
off a plane, into Houston’s

Intercontinental. The Big
-ness of it all, sixteen and my
first time there, the city, the airport,

the bustling masses; I heard languages
I had not heard before on El Paso’s streets;
yes, of course, our English, our Spanish—but I

heard the British inflections, the soft rounded
mouths around letters, the formality of it all; I heard
what I’d come to know as Venezuelan or the Brazilian
implementations of Js instead of the breathy Hs, Jah, Jah—
for yes, yes. South American accents, my uncle and cousins
had raised up before. Women in red kimonos, the gold-intricacies,

walked along husbands who spoke while walking, everyone making
their way to Baggage Claim; German woman speaking to her man, liebling,
schatzi; the French lilt and sway of words—the Italian fervency, prego, prego,

the opera of hand and mouth—and never had I heard our familiar family-language
spoken so naturally outside our house; Arabic, the idioms, prevalent here. New families,
seemingly stretched out among this Internationalism, in-deed, which Intercontinental claims
—so rightly; it felt as if I were being pulled up into it, immediate-ified; and mystified. Every framed, imported, into our Texas. Two blood-brothers made their marks here,
in this big Chicago
of our wide state—in this Houston hustle. And oh, the downtown mirrored buildings, smoky,

or blue—city of glass, sky-line that seemed futuristic and beautiful; I remember
the night—brother graduated from South Texas School of Law, the masses at
the ceremony, the black, proud robes draped on young women, young or not

-so-young men. City which made them all; fast-paced, fast-thinking. Fast.
Turbo-charged at-once and elegant; Father housed the party, a pretty
penny, at Vargo’s—over what seemed a small makeshift river,

and the piano bar before; the meal, white linen and fine
crystal, fluted glasses of champagne, the braised duck.
Where were we? Far away from our west Texas

chiles rellenos, the scent that spun up
in our kitchens, the melted asadero
that filled our homemade red enchiladas,

our Arabic ground lamb or fat kabobs
grilled, smoking—above charcoal briquettes
in our backyards, this—was different, this

was Big City, crystal and silver, lobster and veal,
silk, satin—dim-lit jazz bars overlooking Houston lights,
fine Italian wines and real Italian restaurants, streamed along,

strip malls and quaint villages; yes, there was a way to get the Mex-
ican food we felt at-home with, Ninfa’s forever, or the very Arabic Fadi’s
—Phoenicia, where we could buy a durbukee, too, goat-skinned drum; the

clatter of plastic cassette covers as we’d pour over Wadi il Safi, Sabah, and the up-
and-coming contemporary voices—too westernized for me. I wanted—the authentic.
I remember the blue green seemingly velvet lush gardens, the landscapes, rich and
verdant,

almost-blue. This was not green. Something about a tropical, humid sky. I
remember Thanks-
giving and wearing a sleeveless shirt, late November and humid, warm. Dank. Driving into

The Woodlands to visit friends, whose wide windows all about their house, proclaimed

the waxmyrtle, yaupon, pines, the deep and towering evergreens shading the drive.
But I remember most, the down-town miracle of it all, the congested streets,
futuristic, somehow—The night my brother took me to see—Lynn

Redgrave, Shakespeare—for My Father, Jones Hall,
the large, inviting sweep of building facing
Louisiana. And to our left, facing up

into it, Capitol. And to our right,
Texas. The familiar
mouthy name

—Milam, behind it all.
I remember stepping up
the recollected many stairs,

the dim-lit wide entry, the red hue
of it all—I recall finding our chairs, the black
turtleneck Lynn wore—the black leggings, fire-red hair;

the stage-sized-large-as-living Michael Redgrave, facing us,
black and white sketch of him as Hamlet, the prince, behind her,
in front—of us, large as our lives—Truly, I was somewhat disappointed

when—I’d found out there were not more actors, not more pomp, in this
show my dear brother took me to; I wanted flash and fandango—
but, I entered there, this one-woman playing many roles, ingenious

script—unfolding, how often had To be or not to be
filtered into—our ears, our eyes, as Hamlet
wondered if life should—go on—

the drudge and moan of it,
the clopping unfairness
of a life—ah, but

something like The Lord’s
Prayer, or—The Pledge of Allegiance, the rote
recitation of words we did not stop long enough
to ever really hear—that night, became real, became
clear, as Lynn, mid-show, or nearer-closing, turned her back
to us, faced—her father, Hamlet—begged his wisdoms. And I heard,

as if, for the first time, real, alive—Father, I want to be—an actor!
Father! And she prodded him, almost god-like, for answers, quiet image bearing
more weight than a body, wanting him to give and be given—to answer; to be—or
not to be

—Father? And the same small, but wide, words welled up inside me, outside me, the breath
in my body heaved and rose, for the beauty of understanding—
for the very first time, a meaning I might make clear, hear. TO BE

—OR NOT TO BE
—FATHER? An actor. An any-
thing. That, my blessed master, is—
the question. I almost did not hear

the remaining words; caught up,
still, in the newness
of the old words,

the way poetry, itself, makes
something new—Lynn bowed, was done,
we rose with the power of our bodies, with the open-

ness of lungs, wanting to find ways to clap louder, to rise
up—to levitate, and we did, somehow, into the wide and high rafters;
my brother, fast-stuck two fingers, wide, into his mouth, whistled like a train searing

the night, the masses, thunderous in their applause, the baritone voices echoing,
BRAVO
and BRAVA!!!!! That night, the city, forever
sent me—singing.

II.

And there was always Rice Village, where decades later, I’d
recognize the almost sci-fi silver or platinum circular street
signs, hung in the middle of intersections, flaunting

their street names near the Galleria: Post Oak
and its boulevard, San Felipe. Westheimer.
The many familiar names, shiny big

-city contemporary street
signs stirred me,
somehow,

big and singular,
in their presence,
on my way to

The Village to meet
my Annie, who will always be,
my Annie, walked from her place

near Rice, we met on the Boulevard,
Croissant Brioche, for coffee, for tea, sweet
pastries in sun-light beaming through glass walls, mimetic of

French doors, frames painted sea-green, the cozy wicker French
country chairs; we poured over poetry, again, spoke of music and
cadence and language, of yoga, of where we should meet more—

of my friends, young girl who’d written a fantasy love—story, Nicole—
her mother, Sue. Annie and I walked under the dark green awning, entered
Café Mogador, where we’d sit, the four of us, loving the speaking about literature
and

writing—of characters, fantasy—and possibility; the Brazilian waiter, so kind, we took pictures
of him, and he took pictures—of us, and with full smile, came up to embrace, stopped,
in his tracks, You have, a very good—energy, a light—sounding rich as his country’s

sea, even the service in this city, so often, seems, international
—the almost-European sensibility. I remember the same
elegance, this grace, the first and second time

my brother drove me through River Oaks,
to see—such sprawling homes—past
Memorial—drove from his place

on Voss, where music
played large: drums,
dumbek, guitar.

And after
reading poetry
with poets who’d invited

me—to Texas Southern University,
preceded first, by an Iraqi oud master,
who sang as well for us—about love

and war, where I spoke about Lebanon’s dark
summer, 2006—of Palestine, pronounced it, Philistene—
and my Hebrew friend who came, when afterwards, we late-night

ed in our American camaraderie, House of Pies, Upper Kirby, talking, fore
arm to forearm, at the counter, all night, into the late hours, into morning, and when,
having flown back from Syria, once, I stopped off in Houston, spent—one night at
his

historic house, out-skirts of downtown, cardamom bush, dark wood kitchen, glass.
He gave me a Khamsa, Jewish, five-fingered Eye of God, for protection
on roads, maybe, as a gift, maybe just because; and as I drove back,

through Katy, to my central Texas Hills, I wanted the furthest East
Texas Piney Woods, sensed a hint of that lush leaving. Houston land
scape, the way the verdancy seems blue as velvet; miles later, blue

turns to green, the green that is left when blue fades out of blue,
that green before yellow, chartreuse—the different geoscapes
we travel through, leaving the Big City, and driving I-10

through Katy, then a way after that, the long hours
of blueless shades of green—that city, in spirit, in
memory, in-waiting, always larger—than it seems.



Twice-Pushcart-nominated poet and writer, Marian Haddad, MFA, is a private manuscript and publishing consultant whose clients have won book and chapbook contests such as The Ashland Poetry Prize. She earned her B.A. in Creative Writing from The University of Texas at El Paso and her M.F.A. in Creative Writing at San Diego State University. She studied The Prose Poem at Emerson College and earned graduate hours in philosophy as an NEH recipient at The University of Notre Dame. She holds a teaching certificate in secondary education and founded and directed The Writing Center at Bowie High School, five minutes from Mexico, in El Paso, Texas. Her work has been featured on The Hallmark Channel, in The Huffington Post and various media venues.



Mother Is Mad
By Andrea Mauk

I slept alongside the ocean last night, the faithful roar of waves hitting shore, the moon grazing the surface, the depths harboring dark secrets, stars batting their coy eyelashes, saying now you can see me. In the city, you forget to look.

I stare.

The mathematical regularity of gravitational pull, like a watch with Swiss engineering. The sky: the biggest blanket ever told, but the ocean says that's the problem. Our metaphors are self-centered and backwards. It asks me if I feel the awe.

I do.

I am calm and afraid at once. I look at the the thin row of cars parked along the PCH, and think, were there always so many lining the highway? Do they even have somewhere else to call home? We would not be parked here if this were the Atlantic, we would not be dozing alongside the shores of Lázaro Cárdenas or Zihuatanejo. The waves remind me that they aren't always this friendly.

I know.

I look to the hills. We are parked at the place where the people run down, the sandy white slide, the twinkle of transmission towers at the top sending red light messages to the sky, whether urgent or risque, and I remember, those could be flames and we could be running. Those could be one-minute warnings and we could be mourning our dead and digging out.

We're not.

There are mad men aiming missiles and we are parked in the crosshairs. There are causes worth fighting for and we take our stands. There are hateful outbursts, distractions which flibber our twitter and gnaw at our bowels. There is science silenced by economics. There is the immenseness of earth and the smallness of us which can only be felt in the dark, on a night when the ocean obscures the overwhelming detail, when it assures us that she is the strongest, and mother is mad.

We listen.



Andrea García Mauk grew up in Arizona, where both the immense beauty and harsh realities of living in the desert shaped her artistic soul. She calls Whittier, CA. home. She sells real estate, fights against gentrification, and teaches theatre there. She 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, writes and produces plays for children, and has completed 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 are included in the 2011 anthology, Our Spirit, Our Reality, and her poetry ishas been featured in Hunches de Poesia and in several issues of Mujeres de Maiz “‘Zine.” Her poetry is also published in Poetry of Resistance: Voices for Social Justice and Sonadores: We Came to Dream. She has also been a moderator of Diving Deeper, an online workshop for writers, and has written extensively about music, especially jazz, while working in the entertainment industry. She has a cookbook project on the back burner. When she is not writing, she loves to take road trips, sing in front if an audience, and spend time with her dogs and horse.






“Reflecting in a Storm”
By Anne Apfel

Is a hurricane our collective anger
Is a fire our collective pain
We are all one...On this universal plane
What happens when we tip the scale
From looking away too long
What happens when we forget ourselves
Our pain and anger becomes strong
Taking off with the wind and rain
To remove with a cleanse our universal pain
We shake it off deeply in the earth
Rumbling and Quaking to destroy its girth when we become too fat
Tomorrow is a new day the sun will rise anyway
The moon will set weather we are here or not
Say a prayer for the wind and rain
Say a prayer to release your pain
Let go of your fear and hate.
As we all know, it’s never too late
Ask the wind not to blow and the rain to make the fires slow
The storms will dissipate if we promise to abate
See my hand making this first .. I open it I don’t resist
I just take myself away. I will not add to corporate greed
And then the fire I will not feed as my heart slowly burns away
Watching the storms recede.
Plant a tree and you will see..what happens when you give
Give back to the earth she is our mother
Pray for her every day and then I promise
When we are well the storms will go away....



Anne Apfel is a writer. poet and meditation instructor from Western, New York. Her books of poetry include "HerStory" and "Infinity Entwined." Both are available on amazon. Anne teaches poetry through meditation and visualization, allowing students to color different pictures that surface their own words. Her style of poetry writing is called two voices falling into one; calling on the spirit of the energy to form into words for the poet. In her books, she speaks with a spirit that helps her write. Notice if the spirit speaks to you? Enjoy her children's books, "Introducing Ellie!" a book about a sidewalk chalk girl finding a spider and her journey to kindergarten and "Bestify the Fairy," a book about a fairy a magician and a frog prince. For meditation, pick up a copy of "12 Weeks of Meditation." By Anne Apfel.




Huelga
By Aideed Medina

We are family ,
you and I,
children of one heart,
one cause.
The spirit recognizes family
even before introductions are made
and lives are explained.
Tu gente y mi gente ,
somos una sola fuerza,
un latido,
Magandang corazon.
We
are gathered at the Filipino hall,
at sunset.
The sweet smelling ladies
of The Society of Mary ,
cooing motherly
to a chicanita
in Tagalog.
No translation needed,
I understood the words
and the sound
is a soothing call
from
childhood.
I am learning
yet
another
crucial piece of my history,
of our story.
I am learning
about
the shaping of my consciousness.
This is the beginning of my spirit,
years before
I was conceived
or imagined.
I am feeling the tearful happiness,
the sense of something lost,
of stolen time.
Our story,
our heart,
two siblings separated at birth,
and here we are
embracing ,
finding each other
at last.
Time is of the essence,
stand with me,
solidarity without hesitation,
we are on a journey
started by our fathers,
Itliong and Chavez.
Hermanos.
My heart
sings , sings, sings,
chains of flowers
to lay upon the grave
of Itliong.
I am finding myself,
the whole heart ,
the entire story ,
a looping band of blood,
started by a man
denied a family,
Seven Fingers,
a day my course was set,
a day my father's course was set.
Remember the day hermanos,
remember the day my children,
September 8, 1965.
The spirit of one,
the courage of one
reaches out to another,
the blood calls.
We are one people.
You come for one ,
you come for all.
My rebellion ,
born in the heart of Larry Itliong.
Fathers.
Itliong and Chavez.
I am a woman made stronger with knowledge.
We are a people made stronger in this knowledge.
Un solo corazon.
This is your daughter,
blooming in your work,
generations later,
cooing the words in English and Spanish,
across time,
my Tagalog song.
Magandang Corazon.



Aideed Medina, poet and spoken word artist, creates and performs poetry in English, or Spanish, as dictated by the inspiration of each individual piece.

She writes about the human experience in relation to nature, love, and family, as well as social justice issues that are close to her heart.

Medina first published in the CSUF Spring 1998 Chicano Writers and Artists Association Journal, "Flies, Cockroaches and Poets".

After a thirteen-year hiatus from writing she began to create poetry again and went public with her work as the host of Every Day Fiction, a multi-lingual poetry open mic in downtown Fresno.

She marked her return to the literary scene in the CSUF Spanish literature magazine, "Austral" in 2014.
Her poem, "In Honor of the Women of the Trail for Humanity", was included in US Poet Laureate Juan Felipe Herrera’s celebration of unity poems that marked the end of his tenure as the California Poet Laureate.
Her latest collaboration with The Fresno Grand Opera and composer Nathaniel Díez Musso produced an original art song entitled, “The Wilting”.

Currently, she is coaching high school students under the direction of the Fresno Poet Laureate, Bryan Medina, with the Poetry Out Loud Program, and for youth slam competitions.

2017 Representative for the Loud Mouth Poetry Slam at the Women of the World Poetry Slam DTX.
2017 Fresno Arts Council Horizon Award recipient.

•             Age Range: 8 - 12 years
•             Grade Level: 3 - 7
•             Hardcover:256 pages
•             Publisher:HarperCollins (August 29, 2017)
•             Language:English
•             ISBN-10:006239214X
•             ISBN-13:978-0062392145

To illustrate further, East L.A. born Ernest Hogan, author of the seminal Chicano science fiction novel, High Aztech (1992),wrote ten years after its publication in his blog on Latino science fiction, La Bloga, “I’ve always been more interested in science fiction as a confrontation with changing reality rather than escapism. And as a Chicano, I’m plugged into cultural influences that most science fiction writers don’t have access to.” Three years later, after participating in “A Day of Latino Science Fiction” symposium at UC Riverside, he wrote in another La Blogapost: “One difference between Anglo and Latino science fiction is that making it to the future is something that can’t be ignored. The future isn’t a given, it will have to be fought for. And if you don’t fight for it, you might not get there.”