Being ignored and being not ignored, ignorance is still not bliss. But Chick Lat Lit has possibilities.

Michael Sedano

Payback is not sweet. Last week, after I'd gotten word that PBS has funded Ken Burns to ignore Chicano and other Latino soldiers in PBS/Burns' seven-part film essay on World War II, I got an email from MoveOn.org begging my support for PBS against some cretin in Congress who wants to cut off funding for PBS. I used to sign that petition in knee-jerk reaction time. I no longer find myself moved by MoveOn's plea. Not that I support the ignorant rightwing pendejos who want to foment culture war, but I figure if PBS intends to ignore me, I shall now ignore PBS and its supporters on grounds that the WWII series shows PBS' true colors. (I have word that a meeting of some sort will take place between raza activists and PBS representatives in Washington DC on March 6, to discuss the Burns series. I’ll update you if there’s anything to report.)

Paranoia strikes east. The Los Angeles Times has an irritating pattern of ignoring arts events that take place on the city's east side. Sounds like PBS all over again, but unlike TV, I read the Times every day. Reading the Sunday Times' gallery openings, one gets a sense that art stops at La Brea Avenue, no culture exists east of that dividing line. The Times seems to be moving easterly, however. But I worry about the implications. Sunday's Times (2/25/07) featured two, count 'em, two Chicano artists. In West magazine, Artemio Rodriguez gets five pages. Rodriguez creates in the spirit and mold of Jose Guadalupe Posada. He's an outstanding artist whose linocuts decorate the cover of Gilb's Woodcuts of Women, and several of my walls. In the Calendar section, Gronk (also on one of my walls) gets a below-the-fold page one feature. Given the Times' west side bias, these two pieces showing up on the same day make me wonder if maybe the Times reached its annual quota for east side coverage and the two pieces write finis to the Times' coverage of art on our side of town?

Dirty Girls Social Club Writer Takes Ambitious Third Step
Review: Make Him Look Good. Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez.
St. Martin's Press. April 2006. ISBN: 0312349661

Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez' first novel, The Dirty Girls Social Club, made for an enjoyable romp through the trials of an assorted handful of Latinas. Each of las sucias faces commonplace issues like infidelity, abuse, stereotyping, bilingualism. In addition, Valdes-Rodriguez uses her characters' ethnicity to help draw parallels and distinctions between Cuban, Mexican, and Puerto Rican latinhood. All in all, Dirty Girls filled a useful space in U.S. latina literature.

There's no good reason I missed Valdes-Rodriguez's second novel, 2005's Playing With Boys. However, because her first was enjoyable and well-written, when I happened across her third novel, Make Him Look Good, I opened it eagerly.

Then nearly put it back. The style–adolescent diarist replete with italics for emphasis-- just about gags me with a spoon, you know what I mean? Persistence offers some reward, however. As with Dirty Girls, the author finds resources in fluff to weave a solid enough fabric to make it worthwhile to read all the way to the 376th final page. This hidden value starts to reveal itself when the story introduces a Serbian teenager named Jasminka, who narrates the shelling and rape of her Bosnian village. In a refugee camp, her beauty and thin frame attracts the eye of a recruiter and she soon finds herself a runway model in Paris. Jasminka's, sadly, is the weakest voice in the story because the writer unsuccessfully mimics the clipped syntax of Jasminka's second language English. Internal monologues would take place in well-developed grammatical sentences. Fortunately, Valdes-Rodriguez can’t keep it up and Jasminka’s speeches become increasingly fluid and standard as the story weaves to its close.

Valdes-Rodriguez undertakes an ambitious task of fleshing out a myriad of distinctive characters, using first-person narration that grows a bit confusing after a while, and a standard third person voice to move along the story. In addition to Jasminka, the cast includes the two sisters of the Cuban well-to-do refugee Gotay family, the twenty-something live-at-home Milan, the central character who opens the novel, and her wildly successful, gorgeous and boyfriend-stealing sister Geneva, with their mother and father to add texture. Then there's Ricky Biscayne, Mexican-Cuban sex object Latin pop star making a cross-over to big market pop. Jasminka is Ricky's neglected wife, starved for food and starved for love, haunted by the ethnic cleansing of her village and Ricky's regular forays into other women's beds. Add to the mix the incredibly slimy Jill Sanchez, fading movie star cosmetics-clothing entrepreneur who's been using Ricky as a sex toy for many years.

Then there's Ricky's secret of success. Matthew Baker, a low self-esteem college pal, whom we initially meet as a mystery man playing the backgrounds at Ricky's Tonight Show performance. Ricky's gotten rich off Matthew's talent. Matthew writes the songs and his powerful voice sweetens Ricky’s vocals, carrying the load. Poor Matthew burns a candle for a beautiful woman who's dumped him three times already, coming back to Matthew's arms on the rebound from one or another fling. Now she’s married a musician and earns her living performing with her husband on cruise ships sailing out of Miami. Matthew knows he’s a loser, but admits he would take her back in a heartbeat. In fact, the songwriter has moved to Miami not to be near his job with Ricky Biscayne, but to be able to catch a glimpse of the bandsinger, when she hits port.

The Gotay girls’ mother, a noted Miami talk show radio host, sees the tension between her daughters and coerces the two of them to take a sisterly peacemaking cruise. Milan, Geneva, and mom arrive at the berth just as Matthew is there to catch a forlorn glimpse of his unavailable love. Milan and Matthew collide, the chanteuse notices the commotion and calls down to Matthew, “Loser!” Milan is on the phone, her bookgroup has selected a title that Milan shouts out, it’s a novel called Loser. Matthew thinks Milan directs that at him. This is the cute meet that eventually brings Milan and Matthew together to live happily ever after.

But Valdes-Rodriguez has a lot more up her sleeve than Milan and Matthew. There’s the story of Irene and Sophia. Irene’s a single mother of the beautiful, talented Sophia, who, it develops, is Ricky’s unacknowledged daughter. Then there’s Nestor, Irene’s co-worker and the only one who supports her when word gets out Irene will sue the fire department for gender discrimination.

Nestor’s story, although minor, offers the most delightful handful of pages in the book. Nestor lives alone, nurturing the memory of his dead wife and daughter. As Nestor’s love for Irene grows, his dead wife’s spirit recognizes he’ll finally release them. Nestor’s cats tell the story in conversation with the ghosts. “Why is he so nervous?” asks the cat. The woman strokes his shiny black fur. “He’s going on a date,” she says. Chester doesn’t know what a date is, and says so. “He’s found a woman he really likes,” says the woman. “They’re having dinner tonight, alone.” “We’re glad,” says the little girl. “Why are you glad?” asks Chester. . . . “Oh, Chester,” says the woman, “We have places to go. And we haven’t been able to go yet because Nestor has needed us.” This section, coming in the last 25 pages of the novel, is absolutely brilliant and earns Valdes-Rodriguez tons of tolerance in my book.

In the end, Make Him Look Good is a revenge comedy. Slimy Ricky and slimy Jill get their delicious comeuppances, the Gotay sisters become genuine friends, Irene and Nestor settle down, Sophia gets Ricky’s money and a sister, Jasminka’s daughter Danijela. Jill becomes a laughingstock, Ricky climbs on the born again wagon to rekindle his career—Jill told him to cut a religious album and that’s what he’s done. Those are not spoilers, by the way, they're reasons to turn the page and read on!

Jasminka gets one of the last speeches watching Ricky on television with all his phoney expressions shilling the new album. “I look at Alma. Alma looks at Irene. Irene looks at Sophia. Sophia looks at Milan. Milan looks at Matthew. Matthew looks at Geneva. Geneva looks at Violeta. And then, as everyone looks at everyone else, and as if guided by spirit greater than ourselves, we all begin to laugh.”

I remember reading Alisa Valdez-Rodriguez’ stories in the LA Times when their now-faded Latino Initiative was going great guns. She had a wicked insightfulness that skewered her subjects, but always with the restraints imposed by a big time newspaper editor. I miss some of that editorial oversight in Make Him Look Good, but it’s encouraging seeing her unleash that wit with almost total abandon. I don’t remember what Maureen Dowd complained about chick lit, and I don’t care. Judging by Make Him Look Good, I’m on the lookout for Valdez-Rodriguez’ number four. You go, woman.

Uau. Can you believe it’s already the end of February, 2007. A month like any other month, except we were there! See you next week.

mvs

GUEST WRITER: JORGE CORRAL

Jorge Corral, born in Los Angeles, attended Loyola University for both his undergraduate and law degrees. He is an attorney in private practice in Los Angeles and Las Vegas. Corral attended the MFA International Program in Creative Writing at UNLV until his son, Gabriel el huracan, was born. He is currently working on a novel about the Zapatistas, the 2001 Zapatour, Cuba, and jumping the Tijuana border. Corral participated in the 2001 Zapatour, and provides translation for escuelasparachiapas.org – and of himself, he says: “Soy adherente a la Sexta.” Corral can be reached at ezlnunlv@yahoo.com. We’ve been treated before to excerpts from his novel-in-progress, Zapata Vive, Dude! Below is another excerpt. At the end of the excerpt, I post a few literary news items. --DAO

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: EL JUGLAR DE LOS CAMINOS

An indigenous woman cursed and laughed as she boarded the van to Las Margaritas. She traveled with an older man, a mestizo with a thick mustache, wearing a straw hat, with several red handkerchiefs around his neck, a pack on his back, holding a guitar, and pulling a radio and speaker system on a small dolly. They sat with Martin and Paloma.

"Where are you going my friend?" asked Andres Contreras, famously known among los jodidos y los olvidados de Mexico as the Minstrel of the Roads.

"Las Margaritas," said Martin.

"What's there to do in Las Margaritas?" asked Andres.

"Just visiting," said Martin.

"On your way back make sure you go to Ocosingo, near there is the archeological zone of Tonina, it used to be a city, a Mayan necropolis, a collection of pyramids ninety-two meters high, seven levels, with internal galleries and passageways. After that you can have lunch at the edge of the Tulija river, then see the waterfalls of Misol-ha, then you can visit Palenque and sleep there so you can take a tour of the jungle the next day." Andres removed a worn handkerchief from his neck and polished his guitar.

"Thanks," said Martin.

"I've been all over this crazy planet called Mexico, from California and Texas, where I worked picking fruit and bussing tables, I worked for a lot of tyrants and assholes while I was on the other side, to Mexicali, where I was born, Tijuana, Juarez, Tamaulipas, all across this country to the very tip of Chiapas, to Tapachula to be precise. My name is Andres Contreras."

"Martin Saucedo and this is Paloma."

Martin shook hands with el Juglar de los Caminos.

"This is Bertha, but she's known in the highlands of Chiapas as la Chamulita."

Paloma and la Chamulita smiled at each other.

"Are you two from San Cristobalito?" asked la Chamulita.

"Oaxaca," said Martin.

"But you live on the other side, I knew it the moment I saw you," said Andres.

"You're right, I was born on the other side but I've been living in Chiapas for a while."

"And you?" asked la Chamulita, looking at Paloma.

"Near Tapachula, in the hills, it's a small village near the border."

"You have to be careful around here, Paloma. You sound a little like you're from Guatemala, which is normal since you are so close to the border, but there are many army checkpoints in Chiapas and they are always looking for young girls that cross the border to work in brothels." La Chamulita removed a long orange veil wrapped around her waist and placed it on Paloma's head. "There, now you look local, just cover up a little, you're showing too much skin."

"Thank you." Paloma obeyed and searched in her bags for a longer skirt and a long sleeve shirt.

"Here, take these so you can get an idea of what happens on this side of Mexico." Andres handed Martin three CD's of his music.

Martin reached into his pocket for money.

"No, we are friends, it is a gift." Andres held onto Martin's arm, not allowing him to reach for his money.

"Thanks." Martin looked at the CD's, then put them away in his backpack.

"Where on the other side were you born?" asked Andres.

"Las Vegas."

"I have never been there. So you speak English," said Andres.

"Better than Spanish."

"Your Spanish is fine, your accent is not so bad." Andres tied the handkerchief around his neck and began tuning his guitar.

"I don't have an accent," said Martin.

"You do, you can't hear it yourself but it's there. It sounds like it has a little north and some south in it, like you haven't really lived in either and your accent fluctuates -- it goes from north to south and back. It's not bad but we can tell a Chicano when we hear one. And it also has much to do with your selection of words and sometimes your facial expressions...you make gringo expressions when you speak," said el Juglar.

The Chicano from Vegas frowned and Paloma from Tapachula placed her hand on his thigh.

"I don't want to offend you but you think in American first then translate into Mexican, right? And thinking in American is not the same as thinking in English because the English think European, just like thinking like a Spaniard has little to do with thinking Mexican...and the Mexican way of thinking has nothing to do with the way of thinking of the indigenous -- they are on a different level, a higher plane, another dimension, really. It's all very beautifully simple and complicated."

"What do you sing about?" asked Martin.

"Injustice." Andres tapped his guitar and studied Martin. "I've been looking for someone like you to translate a song of mine, El Mono de Alambre."

"Okay, let's do it," said Martin.

"Now?"

"Why not? We have two hours until we get to Las Margaritas."

"The way this conductor drives this van it will be three or four hours. Okay, let's get started," said Andres, then addressed the other passengers in the van, "If anyone is offended by the truth set to music, please speak now."

The passengers, mostly poor Chiapanecos and European tourists, kept silent.

"Okay, good. Ready?" said Andres.

"Ready." Martin opened his notebook to a clean page.

"The title would be translated to 'monkey of wire', correct?" asked Andres.

"Monkey of wire?" Martin looked up from his notebook.

"Mono de alambre," said Andres.

"No, monkey of wire won't work. In English the word is puppet."

"Puppet?"

"Yeah, like a puppet on a string, right? That's what you mean."

"Like the dirty politicians in Mexico, the ones at the bottom are handled by those at the top and the bigshots in Mexico are handled by the top dogs in the United States or druglords," said Andres.

"Okay, that's what I thought you meant. go ahead," said Martin.

"Buenos días señores, somos agraristas."

"Good morning people, we are farmworkers."

"Chinguen a su madre los latifundistas."

"Wait, 'fuck your mother' is kinda strong," said Martin.

"It is supposed to be strong."

"Yeah, but I think that in Mexico you can say that phrase much more casually, like saying 'oh shit', right? And in English 'fuck your mother' sounds too literal."
"I want it to mean what it says," said Andres.

"How about 'go to hell' instead?"

"Let's move on, write down 'fuck your mother' and next to it 'go to hell'." Andres strummed his guitar. "Por todo el país venimos cantando y a los vendé patrias la madre mentando, vamos a bailar, vamos a bailar el mono de alambre."

"Hold on, throughout the country we come singing and to all the traitors cursing their mothers, let's dance, let's dance the song of the puppet."

"Y los diputados y los senadores chinguen a su madre. Chinguen a su madre todos los priistas, chinguen a su madre también los panistas..."

"Wait, is that a chorus? How many times can we write 'fuck your mother' in one song?" asked Martin.

"As many times as is necessary, I haven't even started naming individuals yet, like Salinas de Gortari, Ernesto Zedillo, Televisa, Jacobo Zabludosky, Cardinal Geronimo Prigione..."

"Cardinal? You mean like a bishop?"

"Higher than a bishop, almost the pope. Can we continue?" Andres tapped his guitar three times.

"Okay." Martin shook his head and turned over to a clean page in his notebook.

"What we are doing with this song is pointing out the contrast between the good people and the oppressors, praising some and cursing others while showing there is a need to fight for change for the benefit of humanity, all that expressed in the most common vernacular. And the translation into English is for the Chicanos on the other side, so they will know their history and our struggle. But we need to change the people in the song, instead of Salinas and Zedillo we put in Bush and Cheney, and instead of Zapata and Villa we can use Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King."

"How about Cesar Chavez?" asked Martin.

"Or Reverend Jesse Jackson," said Andres.

"No, I think he's a millionaire. Malcolm X is better."

Large green trucks from the federal army appeared on the side of the road. Soldiers held rifles and stood at attention several feet from each other.

"We are going to be inspected," said Andres.

"We are all traveling together, sightseeing," said la Chamulita, then turned to Paloma and whispered, "Don't be afraid, they are only here to intimidate us."

"Is this going to be a problem?" asked Martin.

"Only if they recognize me," said Andres.

"Let me hold your guitar," said Martin.

"No, they may consider you my accomplice," said Andres.

"Accomplice? I'm a musician from Las Vegas."

"Can you play that thing?"

"Okay, let me hold your radio."

El Juglar laughed and looked ahead to the soldiers. The road through the Sierra of Chiapas was winding in a steep ascent and improvised speed bumps were frequent. Indigenous women and children carrying firewood wrapped in leather straps on their back and held against their foreheads walked past the soldiers, who held their rifles and stared ahead, oblivious to the presence of their brown sisters and brothers marching past with bundles of wood. Several vehicles formed a line, waiting to pass the federal army inspection.

"Who do you have inside?" asked a young soldier holding a rifle against the side of his leg.

"Tourists," said the driver of the van going to Las Margaritas.

"From where?" asked the soldier.

"Some are from Mexico, there is a couple from France and I think there is a man from Canada."

"And him?" The soldier pointed at El Juglar de los Caminos.

"Which one?"

"The man with the guitar."

"I don't know, looks like he's from around here."

"You there! Next to the man with the guitar, come outside!" The soldier looked at Martin and motioned to other soldiers to open the side door of the van.

"Who me?" asked Martin.

"Stay here, I'll go," said Andres.

"No, I'll go, I'm a tourist from the United States, what can they do to me?" Martin climbed over his backpack on the floor and over Andres's radio and speaker system and stepped down from the van.

The soldiers were all young and indigenous.

"Where are you from?" asked the soldier in charge.

"Las Vegas."

"Identification and passport."

Martin handed the soldier his U.S. passport and Nevada driver's license.

"What are you doing with that man with the guitar?"

"He's my friend," said Martin.

"Do you know his name?"

"Andres."

"Andres Contreras is a troublemaker."

"Yes, sir."

"Has he been talking about the Zapatistas?"

"No, we were talking about Las Vegas. He wants to go."

"Where are you going?" The soldier pointed at Andres and yelled, “Get him out here!"

Two soldiers placed their rifles across their backs and pulled Andres out of the van.

"Wait my friends, I'm coming out, just let me put down this guitar," said Andres.

"I asked you where you are going," said the soldier.

"Las Margaritas, then Ocosingo, the archeological zone at Tonina, the waterfalls at Misol-Ha, then Palenque," said Martin.

"This van is not on a tour," said the soldier.

"He's taking me," said Martin, referring to Andres, who was standing next to him.

"Now you do tours?" The soldier turned to Andres.

"Well, you know how it is my friend, just trying to make a little extra for the tortillas and this young man said he didn't like the tours with all those damn foreigners so I told him I would give him a real Mexican tour -- not a European tour, or an Asiatic tour, or a tour from the Taliban, I said to him, "I have been up and down these beautiful sierras and deep in the Lacandon jungle' and I could show him our true and authentic Chiapas. Wouldn't you agree?"

The young soldier in charge stared at Andres, then turned to Martin and returned his ID and passport.

"Thank you," said Martin.

Andres and Martin boarded the van and the trek to Las Margaritas resumed. The road became more narrow and the Sierra of Chiapas swallowed the van. Martin listened to the jungle through an open window.

"You should roll up your window," said Andres.

"It's so big and green and it smells so clean," said Martin.

"A monkey could come flying through that window, they know tourists always carry delicious snacks."

Martin rolled up his window and stared into the vastness of the Lacandon Jungle.

"Why were you so friendly with those soldiers, like you knew them," asked Paloma.

"Underneath that green uniform they are men but they are trained to act like animals. If you talk to some of them the right way they will see that they are simply serving the oppressor while punishing the common decent citizen," said Andres.

"I was a little nervous." Paloma folded the orange veil and handed it to la Chamulita.

"I have been arrested over fifty times and slept many nights in jails all over Mexico," said Andres.

"For what?" asked Paloma.

"For singing my songs." He picked up his guitar and handed Martin his pen and notebook.

The van passed cornfields and rows of agave planted along hillsides. Homes made of cement blocks with laminated roofs appeared on the side of the road. A sign advised that they were entering the municipality of Las Margaritas. The van parked near a small market. Young men sat playing dominos in front of the store. They stared at Paloma as she got out of the van. Martin and Andres went into the store and bought drinks. La Chamulita went across the street to make a phone call.

"Hey Andres, Paloma and I are actually going into La Realidad," said Martin.

Andres took a long drink from his orange Fanta and smiled. "I knew there was more about you and Paloma than just sightseeing."

"I have a package to deliver for Subcomandante Marcos and Paloma would like to request some assistance from him."

"We also need to speak to Sup, I just wrote a song that requires his consent and la Chamulita has a message from a woman's collective in Guerrero. It won't be easy locating Marcos and it will be even harder to actually see him, but I'll see what I can do."

"So we can all go together," said Martin.

"Yeah, but Marcos is not in La Realidad," said Andres.

"But that's where I was an instructor for a Zapatista school and where Captain Hilario gave me my assignment."

"What assignment?"

"I went to Cuba to translate for some Irish insurgents."

"Nice job," said el Juglar.

La Chamulita crossed the street and said," We have a ride into the jungle."

Martin picked up his pack and Paloma's bags and followed la Chamulita and Andres down a dirt road. A lime Volkswagen bug was parked in front of a two-storey brick residence. Barefoot children kicked an old flat soccer ball in an empty dirt lot among chickens and pigs. Andres whistled at the brick home and made room for his equipment under the hood of the bug. A young man came out of the house and shook hands with Andres and La Chamulita. Paloma and Martin stopped playing with the kids and shared the backseat with la Chamulita.

The bug climbed deep into the jungle and handled dangerous curves without protective barriers. The impressive precipices took Martin's breath away. An hour later he saw huts and cornfields in a green valley and noticed a large sign along the road, which advised: "YOU ARE NOW IN ZAPATISTA REBEL TERRITORY; HERE THE PEOPLE RULE AND THE GOVERNMENT OBEYS."

"Where are we going?" asked Paloma.

"Where rain, mud, corn, tears and hope are abundant," said Andres.

Rain fell from the heavens and mud began to cover the road as Tzotzil and Tzeltzal children carrying bundles of corn ran past the lime bug.

◙ My review of Daniel Alarcón’s novel, Lost City Radio (HarperCollins), appeared in Sunday’s El Paso Times. I note, in part: “Alarcón's narrative has the ebb and flow of a dark dream. With a fluid chronology that curves upon itself and doubles back effortlessly, he allows the past to mingle and compete with the present. There are no false steps or strained sentences. Lost City Radio is, quite simply, a triumph. Alarcón has created a sublimely terrifying, war-ravaged world populated by unforgettable and fully realized characters. But at the novel's core is a story of hope, one that renders the resiliency of human nature in all its imperfect glory.”

Alarcón is also burning up the literary journal world. He has a short story in Swink and he edited a portfolio of Peruvian writing in the new issue of A Public Space.

◙ Alex Espinoza continues to collect praise for his debut novel, Still Water Saints (Random House) including Adam Hill’s review in yesterday’s San Francisco Chronicle. Hill notes, in part: “Most readers know a few of the common problems of first novels written by graduates of master's of fine arts programs. Some dazzle with ambition and ideas but are lacking in pure narrative pleasure, and some seem like formulaically fictionalized memoirs of people who haven't lived long enough to offer us much in the way of wisdom and a deeper understanding of life's continual complexity. Happily, Still Water Saints, the first novel by Alex Espinoza, who earned his degree from UC Irvine, suffers from none of those shortcomings. That doesn't mean it's a perfect book, but it certainly is an enchanting one.”

More news regarding Espinoza:

* The Spanish version of Still Water Saints is called Los Santos de Agua Mansa, California, translated by Liliana Valenzuela, has gone into its second printing. In fact, it went into a second print run even before it was released on January 30, 2007!

* Espinoza has an essay in the LIVES section of the New York Times Sunday magazine yesterday. Read it here.

* Espinoza will be in Texas this week then he has three Los Angeles area readings in March: Borders in Chino (March 4 at 3 p.m.), Skylight Books (March 10 at 5 p.m.), and Vromans in Pasadena (March 13 at 7 p.m.).

* Finally, Espinoza will be doing a live radio interview on AIRTALK with Larry Mantle on KPCC 89.3 that will run on March 13 from 11:30 a.m. to 12:00 noon.

◙ Mario Acevedo will be touring California for his new novel, X-Rated Blood Suckers (HarperCollins/Rayo), the sequel to last year’s wildly successful debut detective-vampire novel, The Nymphos of Rocky Flats (HarperCollins/Rayo). Here are some dates:

Friday, March 9, 2007:
7 p.m. Mysterious Galaxy
7051 Clairemont Mesa Blvd.
San Diego, CA 92111

Saturday, March 10, 2007:
1 p.m. Dark Delicacies
4213 W Burbank Blvd.
Burbank, CA 91505

and later that day:

5 p.m. Mystery Bookstore
1036-C Broxton Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90024

Sunday, March 11, 2007:
2 p.m., M is for Mystery
74 East Third Ave.
San Mateo, CA 94401

◙ News from UCLA’S Chicano Studies Research Center Press: The new issue of Aztlán is rolling off the presses and should be in subscribers’ mail boxes in the next two weeks.

If you are not a subscriber, you will miss the following wonderful articles: Paul Allatson on the poetry and prose of the late Chicano author Gil Cuadros; Steven S. Volk and Marian E. Schlotterbeck on three cultural responses to the femicide of women in Ciudad Juárez; Susan Rippberger and Kathleen Staudt on public schooling on both sides of the U.S.-Mexico border; Robert Chao Romero on Chinese-Mexican intermarriage during the early twentieth century; and Tara J. Yosso and David G. García on a critical race theory framework for reading literature. The dossier section includes personal essays on the year 1972 and Patssi Valdez is the cover artist. If you would like to subscribe, you can go to the Center’s store to buy a current subscription or send them your postal address by email so that they can send you a subscription package. The Center is also selling full sets of the journal in hard copy for $100. Just email them.

◙ That’s all for now. Until next Monday, remember: ¡Lea un libro!

LOTERIA MEXICANA

René Colato Laínez

La lotería was my favorite game when I was growing. La loteria arrived all the way from Europe to Mexico more than two hundreds years ago. It was Don Clemente, a man from France, who created the images of the game using Mexican colors, flavors and traditions.Children and adults love to play lotería.

Enjoy this video,

René

Oldies But Goodies

Manuel Ramos

These reviews were first aired on Denver radio station KUVO, 89.3 FM, back in 1993 (Drink Cultura) and 1997 (Woman Hollering Creek). Must be feeling nostalgic, but sometimes you just have to look over your shoulder to see what lies ahead. Some of the observations in my reviews may be dated, but the books remain essential reading and core items in the Chicano Literature canon.

At the end I have an announcement about an opportunity for a scholarship to a writers' conference this spring at the legendary Algonquin Hotel in New York City.

DRINK CULTURA: CHICANISMO
José Antonio Burciaga
Joshua Odell Editions, Capra Press, 1993

This book is a quick tour through Chicano history, mythology, politics and food. The chapter titles hint at the broad nature of the writing in this collection: The Joy of Jalapeños, All The Things I Learned in School Weren't Necessarily True, A Mixed Tex-Cal Marriage, Piñatas, and The Last Supper of Chicano Heroes. Each chapter is a concise treatise on its chosen topic. With personal observation, family stories, and humor, these essays are tidy snacks of Chicanismo laid out for the reader to breeze through quickly and then ponder for as much time as required.

Burciaga treats with respect even mundane elements of life in the Southwestern United States. By doing so he provides a valuable document on the attitudes of people who, as he says, fought the yoke of the gringo oppressor while aspiring for equal opportunities.

For example, his chapter on The Great Taco War is, at first glance, only a short and funny commentary on the plethora of fast food outlets that have turned to offering Mexican food. Burciaga is initially amazed that a Taco Bell would open in the Mission District of San Francisco. The Mission is an enclave of Mexican and Latino influence and the home of world-famous taquerias that offer exquisite tacos and burritos to hordes of customers who often wait in lines that twist out the door and around the corner. But, according to Burciaga, the Taco Bell is doing quite well. He is put off by the strange menu that was created exclusively for the restaurant chain -- Enchiritos, Mexican Pizza, and Cinnamon Crispas. But he also notices that there are a large number of poor and low income people enjoying the creations, including seniors on fixed incomes, young vato locos, a nursery school class, and immigrants who speak not a word of English. The food is cheap and, as he notes, different and tasty in a funny sort of way. There is something important about the fact that fast food chains have recognized the drawing power of Mexican food and that almost all of them now offer a burrito or taco item.

Burciaga compares the Chicano people to the Aztecs, who have a saying: The Spaniards conquered us, but our culture conquered them. He also observes that there is passive resistance to the loss of our mestizo culture at almost every level of Chicano life, even if it is something as benign as defending the Mexican national character at a time when it is clear that Chicanos are no longer Mexicans. Burciaga concludes in one of his stories that to live on the border is to inhabit two worlds, two cultures, and to accept both without diminishing the integrity of either. He goes so far with this idea that he states, without embarrassment, that, culturally, he has as much of the gringo in him as he does of the Mexicano.

Drink Cultura is a friendly, funny, literate reflection of Chicano life in North America. I found it informative and educational, as well as authentic. I believe that any one, of any race or culture or generation, can enjoy this book. It provides insight and, in a curious twist that I doubt Burciaga intended, it also sheds much-needed light on the commonalities of human nature, rather than the differences that too many of us dwell on when we become embroiled in discussions or race, culture or nationalism.


WOMAN HOLLERING CREEK
Sandra Cisneros
Random House, 1991

Sandra Cisneros's first collection of short stories, The House on Mango Street, was published in 1984 and immediately secured her place as an important writer. Her lyrical prose and intensely personal voice captured the very human qualities of her colorful characters, especially those of Esperanza, the young girl modeled after Cisneros and her childhood in Chicago and on annual family treks to Mexico City.

Cisneros has a sense of irony and a wonder about life that fill her pages with emotion, melancholy or joy that rings true in the heart of her readers. Her stories are imbued with cultural references but they are accessible to all readers, simply because they are so well-written.

Woman Hollering Creek was published in 1991, more than seven years after her first collected effort at short fiction. She has said that her writing takes a long time, and that if it were easy, then she must be repeating herself, something she struggles to avoid. I try with every book, she says, to push myself to new heights, which also means that I've got to stumble and fumble and learn, knock my head against the wall doing it. For readers, the result of all this stumbling and fumbling is an exciting short story mix that stirs up the right feelings.

Cisneros excels at character sketches drawn with an exquisitely fine line and soft touch. Her characters dwell in the world of the mundane and routine until her prose turns them into symbols for all that is basic in us, all that is real.

There is, for example, in the story entitled Mericans, Micaela, the young girl who waits with her brothers for their grandmother outside an old church in an ancient Mexican village. The grandmother, the awful grandmother as she is known to the children, painstakingly prays for everyone in the family, including those who long ago gave up on religion. Meanwhile, the children have a little fun with some North American tourists who mistakenly think the children are Mexicans, only to be abruptly surprised when they hear the children speak English.

And then there is the tragic Cleofilas, the heroine of the story Woman Hollering Creek. Cleo is a woman from Mexico who was transported to Texas by her new husband, where she quickly became a victim of an abusive marriage. Cleo escapes only when a young Chicana givers her a helping hand and who, along the way, redefines the myth of La Llorona, the woman who for centuries has cried for her murdered children. In this story, Cisneros has given us a new image and posited an entirely new question that twists the old myth until it is almost unrecognizable: What if La Llorona isn't crying, but hollering for joy? The story asks why it is that for so many Latina women the only choices seem to be pain or suffering? Cisneros answers that question with with and pathos. She refuses to accept old and stale versions of life and, instead, offers her own unique vision. She reveals to us our own humanity in terms that we have not always been willing to accept.

Woman Hollering Creek is not a replay of House on Mango Street, nor is it the longer novel many of her readers were eagerly anticipating. Woman Hollering Creek stands on its own as an excellent collection by one of the best short story writers in North America.

BACKSPACE WRITERS CONFERENCE
Thanks to an extremely generous anonymous donor, two full-tuition scholarships to the 2007 Backspace Writers Conference will be awarded to writers whose work shows exceptional promise, and who have completed a novel and are actively seeking an agent to represent their work.

Tuition scholarships cover the conference registration fee, travel expenses to and from New York City, and hotel accommodations (May 30 - June 1).

Applications must be received between January 15 and March 1, 2007. Winners will be notified by April 15, 2007.

Applications will be accepted via email only. Get all the details on this page.



Next week, something new.

Later.

Out of the Confessional, Demetria Martinez Steps into the Light

Confessions of Berlitz Tape Chicana
by Demetria Martínez
University of Oklahoma Press, 2005
ISBN: 978-0-8061-3722-3
ISBN(10): 0-8061-3722-3

“We’re everywhere, and it’s time to come out of the closet: I speak of the tongue-tied generation, buyers of books with titles like Master Spanish in Ten Minutes a Day while You Nap. . . . We grew up listening to the language—usually in the kitchens of extended family—but we answered back mostly in English.”

Demetria Martínez wields her trademark blend of humor and irony to give voice to her own “tongue-tied generation” in this notable series of essays, revealing her deeply personal views of the world. Martínez breaks down the barriers between prayer and action, between the border denizen and the citizen of the world, and between patriarchal religion and the Divine Mother. She explores her identity as a woman who has within her the “blood of the conquered and the conqueror,” and who must daily contend with yet a third world—white America. (from the publisher)

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This is a deceptively thin volume, but don't let the size mislead you. Martínez demonstrates both a depth of feeling and a fine mind at work. Why I mention this at all is that very often, women's writing is described as 'heart-felt,' ignoring the intellectual foundation at work. Confessions demonstrates how the two are meshed together to produce a must-read social commentary and memoir.

In Confessions, Martínez offers laser beam observations on a variety of topics: identity, female beauty, the fear of violence, the need for spirituality, with a clarity, directness, and a sense of groundedness that is compelling and intimate.

Early in the book, in an essay entitled, Lines in the Sand, on the real meaning of never finding the right shade of makeup, Martínez deftly lays bare the insidious everyday way in which Latinas find themselves forced to look in a distorted mirror; how much the world needs us to embrace the beauty already there, to shift our energy away from the beauty trap in order to remake the world.

In A Call To Arms, Martínez writes about the fantasy of owning a gun, of knowing and agreeing with all the anti-gun politics, but owning that deep and naked need to feel impervious in a world where women's physical safety is always in question.

Martinez speaks truth to power, and her essay, Night, shows us the inner workings of her psyche and spirit, as she challenges the reader to take a long, raw look at the Iraqi invasion, and the cost of silence in the face of the war.

In Birth Day, Martínez also is forthcoming about her manic depression, about its tolls on her life, but also its blessings. In a critique of the 'romance' of mental illness, she writes that she takes her meds, choosing a place of more balance, instead of dis-ease. But she also has this to say:

"...I realize that my calling--the human calling, is to embody the light in my life, especially when I cannot see it. And to to try to embody it my my writing as well."

Such light, such light indeed.

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Demetria Martinez is an author, activist, lecturer and columnist. Her autobiographical essays, Confessions of a Berlitz-Tape Chicana (Univ. of Oklahoma Press), winner of the 2006 International Latino Book Award in the category of Best Biography, is now out. Her books include the widely translated novel, Mother Tongue (Ballantine), winner of a Western States Book Award for Fiction, and two books of poetry, Breathing Between the Lines and The Devil’s Workshop (Univ. of Arizona Press). (Martinez reads a sampling of poems from Breathing Between the Lines on her new CD, with music by Devon Hall.) She writes a column for the National Catholic Reporter, an independent progressive newsweekly. She currently resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Because I do hope to turn Aged Eagles' honor...

Michael Sedano

I am not a television watcher so it came as a surprise to me that the Public Broadcasting System has sponsored a documentary series on World War II that will ignore the role Chicanos served in what one writer calls, with unintended but bitter irony, "the greatest generation."

Ignored. As in, a seven part television series and not a reference to the guys like my father who left Redlands, California in 1944, to train at Ft. Knox, then ship over to England, then drive a tank in George Patton's armored corps from France to Leipzig. My dad's stories bring him nightmares, sadness, and names. Many of them raza. Ignored by PBS. Ignored by Ken Burns.

Ignored. As in the Chicano Felix Longoria, who died in the Philippines. His remains recovered and returned to the United States in 1948, his family was forbidden burial of their son's body in his hometown of Three Rivers, Texas. The soldier was, in life, a Mexican, all the reason needed to deny the family access to their hometown funeral chapel. Through the intercession of the American GI Forum and Lyndon Johnson, Longoria's final resting place is Arlington National Cemetery. But not his hometown. Ignored by PBS. Ignored by Ken Burns.

Ignored. As in the bloody crossing of the Rapido River in Italy, 1944. German artillery and machinegunners enjoyed the killing. Wave after wave of Texas National Guardsmen paddled their rubber boats into the river, to be cut to pieces. 2100 GIs died. Ignored by PBS. Ignored by Ken Burns.

So this Ash Wednesday, as I read again T.S. Eliot's poem for the day, I think about the hubris of PBS and film maker Ken Burns and wonder why they do not hope to turn again, to tell the world some of our story, too, and not just their chosen few?

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Does Eliot want me to be so hopeless? I refuse. I don't want Ken Burns' conscience. I sure would like to see my dad's generation of aged eagles stretch their wings with pride and joy that their contribution has been acknowledged, remembered. But not ignored. Yes, I'd love to see the usual reign of PBS and the selective memory of Ken Burns vanish. Let him construct something we can all rejoice in.

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

Today, I honor the men of the Rapido River, Felix Longoria and our thousands of war dead wherever they may lie. The guys I was in the Army with. I acknowledge and honor the men who fought with my father, who sits at home in Redlands. He hasn't forgotten, nor does he hope to turn again.

I share two poems with you. I hope you'll read these and think about writing PBS and Ken Burns a letter, asking them why, with all their media power, couldn't they make a greater effort?

Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Robstown.
Omar Salinas.

La llorona
is in town
by the river
or so the people
say.
Tomorrow
the sun
of Robstown
will rise
at 6:15
and if we catch any
of you drunk Mexicans
on the street
we’ll drive you out of Town.
1947.
Mother, why do they look
at us like
that?
We’ll go to
the rosary
at San Antonio
and pray.
Anita’s brother
has a Congressional
and they
wouldn’t serve him
at Texas
restaurant.
We’ll go to
the rosary
at San Antonio
and pray.
San Antonio
Is the Catholic
Church in Robstown.

In Voices of Aztlan. Chicano Literature of Today. Ed by Dorothy E. Harth and Lewis M. Baldwin. NY: New American Library, 1974. 188-189

To brothers dead crossing the rapido river…194?

in a day
in an afternoon
in a night
in years of fury
and tears
alone and far from home
away from familiar sounds
tender arms
you fell on the earth of italy
blood of mexico
blood of the northern
deserts
blood of the bitter border
spilled on earth of italy
on the earth of italy
hope of america
the vain hope of america
never realized hope of america
against a wall of teuton steel
you waded the chilling river
waters tasting of death
far from home
tasting of sudden death
left your dead on the river banks
tears of mothers on the river banks
hopes of sweethearts on the river banks
left tomorrows on the river banks
bitter yesterdays on the river banks
for a hope
vain hope

Anonymous pp 42-43 in Antonia Castañeda Shular, Tomás Ybarra-Frausto, Joseph Sommers. Literatura Chicana. Texto y Contexto. Englewood Cliffs NJ: Prentice Hall, 1972.

CON TINTA AT AWP

The following is an open letter from Lorraine M. López, author and member of Con Tinta.

Friends:

I am writing to extend warm wishes for the New Year and on behalf of Con Tinta, an organization in support of the Chicano/Latino literary community. Con Tinta is hosting an event during the Association of Writers and Writing Programs conference in Atlanta, Georgia on March 2, 2007. This annual event provides a critical opportunity for our writing community to share time with colleagues and supporters. In addition to celebrating of our growing community, Con Tinta sponsors this get-together during the conference as a way to introduce our organization to a community at large.

La Mitra, a restaurant located nearby the conference hotels, has agreed to host our event from 6:30 to 8:30 pm on Friday, March 2. For more details about this space, please visit their web site: http://www.mitrarestaurant.com/.

This celebration will feature an award presentation, readings, and a tapas buffet/cash bar. This year’s recipient of Con Tinta award will be Judith Ortiz Cofer. A longtime resident in Georgia, Judith Ortiz Cofer is being recognized in her home state for her remarkable and prolific contribution to Latino literature in all genres and her tireless support and advocacy of emerging writers. The event will include a celebration to mark the publication of The Wind Shifts: New Latino Poetry—a new Camino del Sol title from the University of Arizona Press. Brenda Cárdenas, a contributor to the anthology and Con Tinta Advisory Circle member, will MC a collective reading featuring a number of the twenty-five poets in the anthology—poets who, at the time of selection, had no more than one book in print.

At this time, Con Tinta is accepting donations to offset costs for this event. We ask your help in fundraising. While your private donations are welcome, we are also looking to approach others who would be able to lend their financial support. Please feel free to circulate the details of this event to potential donors or send me their information. Rich Yañez is collecting funds on behalf of Con Tinta. His contact information follows.

Please consider yourself invited to the second of what we hope are many Con Tinta celebrations. We look forward to sharing this special evening with you.

Prospero año nuevo,

Lorraine M. López

Contact inoformation:
Rich Yañez
P.O. Box 1025
Santa Teresa, New Mexico
Phone #: 915-831-2630

CON TINTA is a coalition of cultural activists (Chicano/Latino poets and writers) who believe in affirming a positive and pro-active presence in American literature. We come together in the spirit of intellectual exchange, of creating dialogue with our communities and beyond, of recognizing our literary and social histories, and of establishing alliances with other cultural and political organizations. Our mission is to create awareness through the cultivation of emerging talent, through the promotion and presentation of artistic expression, and through the collective voice of support to our members, our communities, and our allies.

Con Tinta Advisory Circle:
Kathleen Alcalá
Brenda Cárdenas
Lisa Chávez
Rigoberto González
Lorraine López
Daniel A. Olivas
Richard Yañez

◙ Alex Espinoza continues to get some great ink for his beautiful and potent debut novel, Still Water Saints (Random House). Rigoberto González profiles Espinoza in the latest issue of Poets & Writers (sadly, the article itself is not online but you can pick it up at most bookstores). And in the Daily News, Richard Irwin offers his take on Espinoza in a piece that begins:

ALEX ESPINOZA never planned on becoming a writer. He sort of fell into it because of some very special teachers. Espinoza is the youngest in a family of 11 children who grew up in La Puente. He was born in Tijuana, Mexico, and moved to the San Gabriel Valley suburb when he was 2 years old. The 35-year-old author recently had his first novel, "Still Water Saints," published by Random House. And Espinoza is already working on a second book.

Read the entire Irwin article here. Espinoza will discuss and sign his book at 7:00 p.m. this Thursday at Borders, 8852 Washington Blvd., Pico Rivera. (562) 942-9919.

◙ An essay of mine was published online with CaliforniaAuthors concerning my leap from short story writer to (attempted) novelist. Take a peek.

◙ It’s a short post today…trying to catch up with life. Hasta. --DAO

THE ART OF TRANSLATION

René Colato Laínez

Due to high demand for Spanish literature in the United States, many books written originally in English have been translated into Spanish. However, translating a book into another language is not an easy task. Problems with names, idioms, rhyming text, and too literal word for word translation complicate the process. What does a translator need to take into consideration? What are the necessary elements to do a great translation and make everyone happy? Let’s look at the English and the Spanish versions of AMELIA BEDELIA by Peggy Parish.

AMELIA BEDELIA is a classic in children’s literature. Amelia Bedelia is a housekeeper who takes her instructions quite literally. She works with Mr. and Mrs. Rogers. The Rogers make a list of chores and tell Amelia to just do what the list says. She does everything she is told but the wrong way.

This is a difficult book to translate because it uses idioms that are very hard to translate from English into Spanish. The editors picked the well-recognized translator Yanitzia Canetti. Because Yanitzia had to change entire phrases in the Spanish version, the editors also hired a new illustrator, Barbara Siebel Thomas.

Yanitzia begins her changes on the first page. She changes the names of Amelia Bedelia employers. Mr. and Mrs. Rogers are now Señor and Señora López. This make sense, López is a very common last name in Spanish, just like “Smith” in English. Children will relate more to López than Rogers. However, Amelia Bedelia remains the same, because Amelia is a name used in Spanish. Yanitzia keeps Bedelia because it rhymes with Amelia. The combination of both names Amelia Bedelia sounds good in Spanish as well as in English.

The text at the beginning of the story is very similar in both versions. There is only a change in the illustration. In the English version Mr. and Mrs. Rogers get into the car and drive away but they are not alone, they take their dog with them. In the Spanish version the dog is missing. This does not make sense at first. The new illustrator has to eliminate the dog from the car because the dog will appear later in the story.

The text is similar in both versions until Amelia Bedelia reads the first thing on the to-do list. In the English version, Amelia Bedelia reads, “Change the towels in the green bathroom” . Amelia changes the towels by cutting them with scissors. It would be very easy to translate the original text “Change the towels” to “Cambia las toallas,” but in Spanish there is no confusion with this phrase. It only means, “take the towels and put new ones”. Yanitzia changes the text to “Cambia la cama” . This phrase can have two meanings, “Change the blankets” or “Move the bed to another location.” Amelia Bedelia moves the bed next to the door.

The same happens with the second item in the list, “Dust the furniture”. In Spanish it is used to say “desempolva los muebles”. An employer would never say “empolva los muebles,” because it means literally “dust the furniture.” Amelia Bedelia can make the mistake in English of dusting the furniture with dusting powder but in a Spanish it will not work at all. Instead, Yanitzia writes “Busca el periódico”. Amelia looks for the newspaper everywhere in the house and makes a mess. This phrase does not work very well in the Spanish version because it does not have a double meaning, but it works better than “Dust the furniture.”

Yanitzia does a great job with the next item in the list. Perry Parish writes, “Put the lights out when you finish in the living room”. You cannot translate this literally in Spanish. The best you can do is “Apaga las luces cuando termines en la sala”. The confusion in Spanish does not exist. In the Spanish version the dog comes back into the story. Amelia Bedelia reads “Dale una vuelta al perro” . This phrase can mean two things, “Take the dog for a walk” or “Flip the dog around.” Amelia Bedelia gets the dog that is sleeping in a sofa and flips him upside down.

For the last item on the list, the illustrator does not create a new illustration; she just alters the existing illustration. “And please dress the chicken” will have no meaning in Spanish. “Rellena el pollo,” does not have a double meaning. Instead Yanitzia writes, “Y ten listo el pollo para la cena de gala de esta noche”. Amelia Bedelia prepares the chicken by dressing him with an elegant tuxedo, a bow tie, and black shoes.

AMELIA BEDELIA was very hard to translate. Luckily this will not happen with every book. If the book in English is written without wordplay or rhymes, it will not have to go through all this process. The translator only needs to use the right words because a word that is funny in English is not necessarily funny in another language. Sometimes an innocent word in English can be a bad word in another language.

I had the opportunity to translated my picture books from English to Spanish. I started WAITING FOR PAPA with “I wish Papá could be here with me.” I translated it literally to, “Deseo que Papá esté aquí conmigo”. I showed it to the bilingual children’s literature author Alma Flor Ada. She told me that it did not sound so good in Spanish. She suggested changing it to “Como quisiera que Papá estuviera aquí conmigo.” Both sentences in Spanish are very similar. The first one is closer to the English version but the second one has more child’s language. “Deseo” (I wish) is a word for an older child. Instead small children say “como quisiera”. Also, “como quisiera” has a more emotional impact in Spanish and it works better as the first line of the story.

Alma Flor Ada told me, “The best translation is the one not similar to the original text.” I understand this to mean that when you translate something you have to have a clear understanding of both languages. You cannot translate word for word because you change or lose the meaning of the text. There are syntactical rules in languages that have to be followed, and you have to be sure that you are honoring those rules in both languages.

Parish, Peggy. Amelia Bedelia. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 1963.
- - -. Amelia Bedelia. Trans. Yanitzia Canetti. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 1992.

The Scent of Terrified Animals

Manuel Ramos

This week La Bloga turned into Love Bloga -- in that spirit, here's un cuento de amor.

THE SCENT OF TERRIFIED ANIMALS
by Manuel Ramos
First appeared in Saguaro (University of Arizona), 1990
All rights reserved.

“I hate the mountains." Her back rested against a faded, splintered corral fence.

The smell of burning pine clung to the tourist ranch. Smoke floated across the sky, hiding the scenery and corrupting the air.

Irritation slipped into his voice. “How can you say that? You told me you loved the outdoors, hiking. Christ! If I'd known ... if you had said anything before ... damn, we could have gone to L.A., Vegas, any place. You hate the mountains? Good God, you hate the mountains!”

He stepped back from her and rushed away to their cabin.

She could only stare after him. She should have said something. That was easy to see.

She should have told him many things and she wondered when she would. The bank, her friends, the party, the wedding -- it all happened so fast and, she had to admit, she had been swept up in the flow of events and the energy of her office romance -- the famous affair. She could not resist Philip. And now she was in the mountains, surrounded by smoke and fire and she had no idea what she was doing.

The ranch's owner invited them to his cabin for drinks the night they were the last remaining guests. They sat on rickety wooden chairs the old man spread among the weeds and cacti.

“This is a shame, folks, what with you on your honeymoon and all. 'Course, young people like you got a lot of other things to do 'sides hiking around these hills, eh?” He chuckled, amused with his brashness. Mary and Philip ignored his remark. He shrugged and poured more drinks.

“The forest won't recover, least not for me to ever see it. Have to pack it in, try to sell. Don't see how, though, not with the park burned out.”

“I had hoped we could come back next year,” Philip said. “But I guess there won't be much to see. Not much point.”

Mary groaned. “Oh, Philip. Don't be an idiot. Of course there won't be much around here, the whole miserable place is burning down! Can't you see what's happening? Can't you smell it?”

Calhoun clucked his teeth. He waited for the man to respond.

Mary kept at it. “There might be some fish in the ranch pond. They're put there every year just for the tourists -- right Calhoun? You said you always wanted to catch a fish, Philip. Won't your man, what's his name ...”

Calhoun answered, "Montoya."

“Yes. Montoya. Won't he stock up your little lake so that Philip can catch his fish? You can do that next year, even without trees, without anything else around here. Just you and your fish, Philip, you and your fish.” She presented her empty glass to Calhoun and he filled it with whiskey.

The smoke carried the scent of terrified animals. The fire's dull roar served as background for all other sounds. They drank without speaking, watching the moon appear for a few minutes and then succumb to the smoke. The mountains were dim, weak silhouettes.

The old man spit in a rusted bucket. “This is the worst one I've ever seen, and I've been in mountains and woods and forests most of my sixty years. A careless tourist did this. What a waste.” He might have been giving a tour of the ranch, pointing out the sights.

Mary tilted her glass to her lips and the liquor rolled down her throat. “Yes, Calhoun, a waste -- a lousy, goddamned waste. Good night. I'm going to bed. Philip?”

“Go ahead. Don't wait up.”

She stood and knocked back her chair, and it lay on its side in the dirt.

“I apologize for my wife, Mr. Calhoun. The fire ruined the trip for us. She needs to do something. She gets bored easily. Women? What can you do? Guess we'll go on into the city. She'll be all right as soon as we get away from the smoke.”

Many years earlier Calhoun would have told Philip what he thought. But now he was a good businessman and he offered Philip only more whiskey.

They finished the bottle and started a second one. It was too much for Philip. He passed out and Calhoun left him slumped in his chair. His thin jacket flapped with the night wind. His hair and skin soaked up the smoke. Mary did not come looking for him.

***

Calhoun sat on the steps to his cabin. The hazy, gray sky had slowed him and he had slept later than usual. His throat was parched from the smoky air that surrounded his land. He heard Mary and Philip shouting until one of them slammed against the cabin's wall.

Philip slowly emerged from the cabin. For a minute he stood motionless, undecided about his next act, lost as surely as if he had been dropped from the sky into the most desolate area of the park. He saw the crude, hand painted sign with the word Fishing hanging over the shed where Montoya drank coffee and read the newspaper.

“I want to fish. I'll rent equipment, buy a can of worms. Whatever I need.”

Montoya had been taught by Calhoun to overlook the quirks of the tourists. He needed the job and he learned quickly. He grunted in the direction of Philip. “Any fish you catch will cost you a dollar an inch.”

Mary strode from the cabin a half hour later, her eyes musky and red, her skin as clouded as the smoke-ringed sun. She wore shorts and a halter top in the coolness of the overcast day. She stood near the corral and watched the horses.

***

The breeze picked up dust from the corral and blew it across her face and into her eyes. She closed her eyes suddenly and hard, to make them water, but the dirt held fast. She frantically rubbed her eyes, her face, the skin on her arms. She was caught in the panic of the dust.

A rough hand grabbed her. She smelled the horses. The hand pulled her fingers away from her face.

“Here, let me help. You could scratch an eyeball, rubbing like that.” He held her face and she was locked in his grip. He said, “Open your eyes, slowly. I'll hold your eyelid open, you move your eye, slowly, up and down, side to side.”

He held her thin eyelid with the tips of his fingers. The delicate touch surprised her. She followed his instructions and the dirt moved then fell out of her eye. Her eyes watered again and tears flowed down her face.

“That was horrible. Thanks.” She twisted her face away from him and he dropped his hands, awkwardly, away from her body.

She was almost as tall as Montoya. His black eyes and hair blended with the sunburnt darkness of his skin and she thought he was nearly as dark as the Puerto Rican teller who helped her close up the bank.

“It'll be sore for a few minutes. You'll be okay.”

His Mexican accent was different from the teller's. Slower, she thought.

“I'd like to go for a ride on one of the animals. If you're letting the horses out?”

“I can give you one of the older ones, but you can't go far. The horses are spooked by the smoke. They won't go in the direction of the fire. They smell the smoke, hear it burning. Around the ranch, on the path, that's fine.” She nodded agreement.

He climbed the fence and jumped into the corral. He inched his way to the four horses huddled against the far end and talked gently and softly to them. They were unsure. The year was too young for the gray sky. They shied away from Montoya and he had trouble catching one. He lunged at them until he managed to grab a tail. He patted the horse and rubbed her flanks to calm her.

Mary watched him ready the horse. He was steady and deliberate. The horse grudgingly permitted the saddle and bridle. Montoya led the horse through the corral gate.

“Lady will take you around the ranch. She could do it blindfolded. Just let her have her way. Don't make her run, she's too old, and she doesn't like kicks or shouts. You'll have an easy ride.” He handed the reins to Mary.

“Won't you ride, too? I could use the company.” She climbed on the saddle.

“No. Calhoun's rules. When you're back, find me and I'll cool her down and put her with the others. I'll be around.” He slapped the neck of the horse to start her trotting along the deeply rutted path.

***

Philip had caught more than a dozen fish. The overstocked pond rippled with fish as they struggled for food. His catch lay twisted on the shore, a cord strung through their gills, their bodies half covered with water. The bundle of fish squirmed in the water as they slowly died.

Mary rode by on the plodding horse. She didn't look at him. He waved at her and pointed at his fish and started to lift them for her to see but she rode over the small rise that separated the pond from the cabins. She kicked the horse to make her run. Philip threw his line back in the water.

***

Montoya found Lady outside the couple's cabin, saddled and hot, standing alone, her flanks wet with foam. He led her to the corral where he did his best to cool her. Philip strolled up to him, dragging his line of fish, uncleaned, stiff from death.

“Son-of-a-bitch! Man, you got to gut those fish. And that's a hundred bucks, easy, maybe one and a half. Haven't you ever fished?” Before Philip answered, Montoya blurted out, his voice high and tight, “And your wife! She almost killed this horse, running her into the ground, and then leaving her hot. I told her to find me. What's wrong with you?”

Philip's eyes glanced away. “She knows about horses. She's been around them. Maybe you better tell her how she screwed up.” His words came slowly, wrenched from him with an effort he had trouble finishing. “I'm going to fish again, try for two hundred dollars.” He walked back to the pond.

Montoya turned to the horse. He brushed and patted her and listened to Philip walking out of sight. The hired hand finished with the horse and then he returned to the cabin. He stood by the door for a few seconds, opened it and walked in.

Calhoun watched from the steps. He spit in the bucket. He did not want to have the talk with Montoya but it had to be done. Montoya had to go. The only question for Calhoun was whether Montoya would leave the cabin before Philip reappeared.

The smoke billowed over the mountains and rolled into the valley and Calhoun's eyes stung from the smell of dead, burning earth.

END

The top photo was taken by Steven Smith. It was the 2003 first-place winner (Wildland Fire category) in the annual photography contest sponsored by Fire Management Today.

Middle photo by John McColgan.

Bottom photo by Ben Northcutt of the International Erosion Control Association.


Later.

Pues, mi amor, just a few more words....

For those of you still in a love poem state of mind, three works of genius, and a small burnt offering from me.


Don’t Go Far Off, Not Even for a Day

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?


Pablo Neruda
From his book, Cien sonetos de amor (100 love sonnets),1986
Translated by Stephen Tapscott
University of Texas Press
ISBN: 978-0-292-76028-8


You Bring Out the Mexican in Me

You bring out the Mexican in me.
The hunkered thick dark spiral.
The core of a heart howl.
The bitter bile.
The tequila lágrimas on Saturday all
through next weekend Sunday.
You are the one I’d let go the other loves for
surrender my one-woman house.
Allow you red wine in bed,
even with my vintage lace linens.
Maybe. Maybe.

For you.

You bring out the Dolores del Río in me.
The Mexican spitfire in me.
The raw navajas, glint and passion in me.
The raise Cain and dance
with the rooster-footed devil in me.
The spangled sequin in me.
The eagle and the serpent in me.
The mariachi trumpets of the blood in me.
The Aztec love of war in me.
The fierce obsidian of the tongue in me.
The berrinchuda bien-cabrona in me.
The Pandora’s curiosity in me.
The pre-Columbian death and destruction in me.
The rainforest disaster, nuclear threat in me.

The fear of fascists in me.
Yes, you do. Yes, you do.

You bring out the colonizer in me.
The holocaust of desire in me.
The Mexico City ’85 earthquake in me.
The Popocatepetl/Ixtaccíhuatl in me.
The tidal wave of recession in me.
The Agustín Lara hopeless romantic in me.
The barbacoa taquitos on Sunday in me.
The cover the mirrors with cloth in me.
Sweet twin. My wicked other,
I am the memory that circles your bed nights,
that tugs you taut as moon tugs ocean.
I claim you all mine,
arrogant as Manifest Destiny.
I want to rattle and rent you in two.
I want to defile you and raise hell.
I want to pull out the kitchen knives,
dull and sharp, and whisk the air with crosses.
Me sacas lo mexicana en mi,
like it or not, honey.

You bring out the Uled-Nayl in me.
The stand-back-white-bitch in me.
The switchblade in the boot in me.

The Acapulco cliff diver in me.
The Flecha Roja mountain disaster in me.
The dengue fever in me.
The ¡Alarma! murderess in me.
I could kill in the name of you and think
it worth it. Brandish a fork and terrorize rivals,
female and male, who loiter and look at you,
languid in your light. Oh.

I am evil. I am the filth goddess Tlazoltéotl.
I am the swallower of sins.
The lust goddess without guilt.
The delicious debauchery. You bring out
the primordial exquisiteness in me.
The nasty obsession in me.
The corporal and venial sin in me.
The original transgression in me.

Red ocher. Yellow ocher. Indigo. Cochineal.
Piñon. Copal. Sweetgrass. Myrrh.
All you saints, blessed and terrible,
Virgen de Guadalupe, diosa Coatlicue,
I invoke you.

Quiero ser tuya. Only yours. Only you.
Quiero amarte. Atarte. Amarrarte.
Love the way a Mexican woman loves. Let
me show you. Love the only way I know how.


Sandra Cisneros
From her book,
Loose Woman, 1994, Random House
ISBN: 978-0-679-41644-9


WILDFLOWER

Yesterday, you called me wildflower,
and I knew what you meant; a free spirit
blooming outside domestic gardens,
precious for that, bursting with color,
but destined to be always and irrevocable other.

Perhaps you were imagining the field
by your house where wildflowers struggle
up upon their roots, despite harsh winds
and human traffic, or how, in the wild
flowers use their softness to crack through rock,
thirsting deep to hidden springs.

Because the wild flowers inside you,
your eyes sometimes melt,
and I feel awe washing over me
as you savor the iridescent wildflower
perched on a leather outcropping
only a few feet away, in a Byzantine land
where winds brawl, tempests toss,
and driven wild, flowers fly in all directions.

After hours, when time crashes down,
I wonder, do you sit below the cauldron
of night, watching the moonlight spill
onto the savage farm and wildflowers appear
as if by incantation, to beguile you
with their slow recital of dreams?

There, a chaotic winds whisper
over the cold lips of the wilderness
faint clues to life's exuberance
and reach, I know you're searching
for lost words of redemption, and hope
you find some with me, where the wild flowers.

Diane Ackerman
From her book,
I Praise My Destroyer, Vintage, 2000
ISBN-10: 0679771344

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

PAST ALL THAT

I have loved you
past the place where
we were good poetry.
Past the Coltrane courtship songs,
past the stories of the ones that didn’t work out;
the ones we could have never loved like this.
I have loved you past the giddy laughter
right before you kiss me.

I have loved you to this place.
The place where we hold on;
trying not to forget.
Where we tell each other
everything will be alright.
When we know there's no money,
and sometimes you go away.
We drink our coffee
as a sacrament.

It was all scented skin
in the beginning.
We have transcended all that.
We are ordinary.
We are bedrock and cool earth.

We are married.



PASO VERDE

I am dreaming
dreaming a world
soft
green
flowing
world is word
word is my body
I am flowing
I am flowing to the place
where I meet myself
where the body is earth
there is no difference
I am curving
curving upward
arcing
I carry a green cup
I drink from it
evergreen
It holds water
a promise
I need this water
to live
all that lives in me
needs this promise
I am curving
I am arcing
I am flying
to my completion
to you, my love
the sky.

Take another piece of my heart

Michael Sedano's St. Valentine's Day 2007 Valentine and wishes for us all.

Here are three of the best love poems I've read.

Yeats' "When you are old", already holds a place in most readers' repertoires. I like the contrast in his second, coming as it does a decade later, a decade wiser. Had Maud gone? The third, Ina Cumpiano's "Metonymies" will be new to many readers. The first time I read it, I was electrified, especially in the final stanza. I hope you'll relax and let the intensity of this lover's emotions rule the moment of its reading and afterglow of contemplation.

I'm sure you have your favorites, too. Share them with people you love! And maybe, just maybe, you'll click on the Comment link and share your favorite Valentine-appropriate poems with La Bloga. Maybe next year, I can share four.

Gracias de antemano, or is that antecorazon?

mvs

WHEN YOU ARE OLD

WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

--William Butler Yeats, 1893

SWEETHEART, do not love too long,
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.
All through the years of our youth
Neither could have known
Their own thought from the other's,
We were so much at one.
But O, in a minute she changed-
O do not love too long,
Or you will grow out of fashion
Like an old song.

--William Butler Yeats, 1904

Metonymies / Ina Cumpiano

1

LAST JULY, they loosened their grip, let go--
plum, sweet plum--until the grass
was bloody with the warm flesh. Months later
the finches, purple fruit, hide in what's left of leaves
so that only when they fly off,
when the branches bounce back to true
is their presence known. They will not outstay
the leaves, the thin white light disclosing
those empty hands, the tree, against the sky.

2

This trip south, the egret questions the lagoon:
the white curl of its own back is the answer.
No matter how many times I return, this shallow inlet
to the sea will be here; and the egret, long gone,
will grace it with presence.
In "The Blind Samurai" the camera zooms
to the old man's clever ear: a double metonymy
that links our deafness to his danger. By the time
we catch on--snap, snap, footsteps
in the underbrush--
he has done battle and
bandits litter the forest like cordwood.

3

The camellia loses its head
all at once; it does not diminish
petal by petal
so for weeks the severed blossom lingers
as moist as pain, at the foot of the bush.

4

If the police ordered me to evacuate,
what would I take with me?
Baby pictures, computer disks, the silver,
proofs of birth? The sun
would hang like old fruit until the smoke
gathered it in. Then: night in day, sirens,
and knowing that whatever I took
would hold in its small cup
everything I had ever lost.
So if the police ordered me to evacuate during a firestorm,
I would write your name on a slip of paper,
light it, and--
in those few hurried moments allowed me--
watch it burn, brush the ashes into an envelope
which I would seal and keep with me, always.

The Floating Borderlands, Twenty-five Years of U.S. Hispanic Literature. Ed. Lauro Flores. Seattle: UofW Press, 1998, pp. 390-391

Blogmeister's note: Click here, or on the title, to view this page with a special musical accompaniment.

GUEST WRITER: JORGE CORRAL

Before leaving the La Bloga stage for our guest writer, Jorge Corral, I wanted to let you know that on Friday, February 16, I will be one of the two featured poets at the Eccentric Moon Poetry Series held at the Sunland-Tujunga Library, 7771 Foothill Blvd., Tujunga, CA 91042. I will be sharing the podium with James D. Babwe. The reading starts at 7:00 p.m. with an open mic and then James and I will follow with our readings. Due to my work and family commitments, I haven’t been doing many appearances in the last year so please try to come by particularly if you have any poetry to share for the open mic portion of the evening. Hasta...Daniel Olivas

GUEST WRITER: Jorge Corral, born in Los Angeles, attended Loyola University for both his undergraduate and law degrees. He is an attorney in private practice in Los Angeles and Las Vegas. Corral attended the MFA International Program in Creative Writing at UNLV until his son, Gabriel el huracan, was born. He is currently working on a novel about the zapatistas, the 2001 Zapatour, Cuba, and jumping the Tijuana border. Corral participated in the 2001 Zapatour, and provides translation for escuelasparachiapas.org – and of himself, he says: “Soy adherente a la Sexta.” Corral can be reached at ezlnunlv@yahoo.com. We’ve been treated before to an excerpt from his novel-in-progress, Zapata Vive, Dude! Below is another excerpt. Enjoy.

CHAPTER SEVEN: LA HABANA

Yanelis Ferrer was born in Centro Habana, where she lived with her lovely grandmother, Flora Cortes. After Fidel's Revolution, Flora was assigned a narrow two-storey unit on Avenida Infanta, a wide, busy avenue. Her front door opened to a bus stop, a natural point of loitering for chulos, guapos and jineteros, all eager to separate dollars from tourists.

Yanelis slept through her grandmother's gentle coaxing from downstairs. Flora no longer climbed the winding, unsteady stairwell and no one had ever bothered to build a rail for her support. For many years, she'd slept on her antique Spanish couch; sturdy, elegant and dusty from the constant foot and car traffic on Infanta.

The roar of a bus encouraged Flora to pull herself from the couch. She put water to boil for tea and began toasting a piece of bread over the stove. Her steel pan hissed and an egg broke over it. It was Monday, December 17th; Yanelis's 18th birthday. Flora dabbed extra oil on the bread.

Yanelis worked as a dancer for the Havana Night Dance Company and was a student at the Escuela Tropicana. Soon she'd decide between Havana Night and the world-famous Cabaret Tropicana. Havana Night was new, managed by a German woman, and traveled often, while the Tropicana was more prestigious. Yanelis was also a member of her neighborhood's Comite de Defensa de la Revolucion and the Union de Jovenes Comunistas.

Flora stirred chocolate powder and milk powder in a tall plastic glass filled with water, then returned the silver can of chocolate to its secret place in her kitchen. The fried egg was pushed off the steel pan and onto the center of a small blue dish. Flora banged her pan against the concrete kitchen counter. Roaches flinched, then scrambled, most up to the three rows of wooden shelves above the sink, while others retreated inside the portable gas stovetop, defying the pot of boiling water above them.

Flora's couch was two small steps from her kitchen and four long steps from the bathroom. She very seldom walked out of her home. She was often heard talking to herself, disillusioned, that there was nothing outside worth watching anymore. She did, however, spend her days on her couch, her gaze oscillating between the television and the sinners outside. At least once a day, she stepped into her kitchen and performed a small delicious miracle. Her cinammon skin, long delicate nose, and coarse straight hair revealed some Taino ancestry. She had haunting, beautiful gray-blue eyes, and bore Spanish and French surnames -- but insisted she was una negra.

Her bad temperament had worsened over the years, similar to the deterioration of her home. Her six sons had failed to perform their duties of bleaching her walls and fumigating her rooms. Now, the walls held gray handprints and roaches roamed, mostly unimpeded, from the kitchen to Avenida Infanta.

Upstairs was a large room with a concrete floor and brick walls. A bed occupied each corner, and an old brown bureau and two short tables stacked with empty shoe boxes, old school books, and neglected photo albums acted as barriers in the middle of the room, simulating privacy.

Most nights, Yanelis slept with her little sister, Yayi. Their older half-brother, Vladimir Inocencio, and his girlfriend, Isvel, stayed over whenever. Their mother, Malena, usually lived with her husbands, but spent a lot of time at Flora's home. This morning it was quiet, just Yayi, Flora and Yanelis.

Malena was not good with words, so she beat her children. She raised her son to be a hustler and to aspire to marry a tourist. At night, he and Isvel patrolled the Malecon, the long seawall and boulevard running along the ocean, satisfying needs of tourists. Resolviendo.

Yayi was fourteen years old and wiry, almost invisible sometimes. She had long black hair, usually in ponytails because of the dust, and she was several shades darker than Yanelis but insisted she was una tremenda mulata.

Yayi was up first and dressed in a red plaid skirt and white school shirt. She pulled Yanelis out of bed. Yayi knew Yanelis worked until midnight, then took a bus home, but she liked being walked to school by her big sister.

Yanelis kept her clothes in a large suitcase, which had a tiny lock for security, as her things occasionally disappeared. She put on yesterday's white capri pants and a mint green top, which she rolled up, exposing ripped abs and a perfect navel over a faint trail of peach fuzz.

Downstairs, Flora had prepared bread with oil for them, and a fried egg, chocolate milk and a birthday song for Yanelis, sung softly and with love. Yanelis made Yayi eat the egg and they shared the chocolate milk. Moments later, the Ferrer sisters bounced out onto Infanta, out of Flora's sight, and melted into La Habana.

"Why do you look so pretty today?" Yayi noticed Yanelis wore her white Nikes with the red swoosh, which were reserved for Fidel's marches and anti-imperialist demonstrations.

"I have a meeting this morning," said Yanelis.

"At the Tropicana?"

"No." Yanelis turned to the heavy traffic on Infanta, found a gap between cars, and pulled Yayi across the street.

"Your skirt is too high," said Yanelis.

"Where is your meeting?"

"At the University."

"With the Young Communists? Malena will beat you," said Yayi.

"Nobody is beating me anymore and Malena won't know about it."

"She hears everything, you know someone will see you near San Lazaro and nine or ten people later, the crazy old woman that sells bird seeds on the corner will be telling Malena that someone saw you near the University and she will beat you and I don't want her to beat you." Yayi fought back tears. "Can't you just dance? Sometimes I think you go to meetings and marches just to make Malena angry. Why do you want to fight with her?"

Yanelis looked at her watch and accelerated along 23rd, past E street. She put her arm around Yayi and wiped away her tears. Yayi had her sister's features, a high forehead, long face, strong pout, sad eyes, and a reluctant smile, but many said she was prettier than Yanelis.

"Can you spend the night at aunt Mayra's tonight?" asked Yanelis.

"Why! What happened?"

"Stop asking questions."

"What are you going to tell Malena? You're quitting Havana Night! A woman who has a neighbor with a nephew that works as a waiter at 1830 Restaurant told Malena that Havana Night is going to Las Vegas soon."

"That is just a rumor." Yanelis squeezed her fingers into a pocket of her capri pants and pulled out a dollar for her sister.

"It doesn't matter, Malena heard it," said Yayi.

They were in front of Escuela Saul Delgado. Yayi accepted the faded bill, hugged her sister with all her strength and reached up to kiss her.

"I will be home this afternoon, I have the night off and Livan is coming by to take me out for my birthday."

"Livan the mulatto?" asked Yayi.

"Yes."

"He can't come over!"

"Why not?"

"You know why! Because he's Cuban and he's Black. Do you want to start a war with Malena?" Yayi placed her hands on her hip with authority.

Yanelis spanked Yayi, smiled, pushed her into the schoolyard, and waited until her little sister walked inside. Yanelis wandered through Vedado, her favorite neighborhood, and sat on a bench in Don Quijote de La Mancha park. Across from her were three elderly gentlemen in fedora hats, clean ironed wife-beaters, suspenders, and smoking thick cigars. Old men's cigars seemed to burn especially long. Yanelis hated the smell of cigars but liked old people.

Tonight she had a date. Everyone knew Malena was violent and chased away local admirers but Livan Campoverde was a man and said he wasn't afraid of her. He had been modeling for several years, dressed like a star, and had invited Yanelis to the Habana Libre Hotel for dinner. Yanelis had walked by the Habana Libre's restaurant a million times and the idea of dining there had never occurred to her.

A bead of sweat ran down her honey-colored face and long muscular neck, and disappeared into her light-brown cleavage. Yanelis was lost in thought: Havana NIght or Tropicana? Havana Night paid better and worked less. Cabaret Tropicana was a dream since childhood.

Yanelis had to choose carefully because her mother made bad decisions for her. At age four, Malena made her a gymnast. By nine, Yanelis nearly qualified for an international gymnastics competition. Malena accused her of sabotage and beat her accordingly. Later Yanelis enrolled at Escuela Antonio Guiteras, an accounting school, forging her mother's signature because Malena prohibited careers that paid in national currency. Halfway into the semester, Malena discovered the fraud while waiting in line for bread, then promptly pulled her daughter out of Marxism class and beat her all the way home.

The wind shifted and cigar smoke blew in her direction. She smiled at the old men and walked out of Don Quijote park under a sun that had begun to punish the young mulatta. It was almost 9:00 a.m., an hour and a half to kill. Yanelis walked toward the Universidad de La Habana, anyway.

The university sat on a hill in Vedado, overlooking Centro Habana, along a street named San Lazaro. Her gait was quick and boyish as she crossed busy streets, dodging vehicles like a rodeo clown. She was an easy mark in a crowd -- tall and lean, strong thighs, thick buttocks, the kind that made the Tropicana famous.

As a dancer under the lights with full make-up, hair extensions, high heels, and inviting smile, she was, as the Italian spectators would say, Magnifica! This morning, her hair in a bun, a clean face, wearing old Nikes scrubbed white to its core, she was simply spectacular.

Yanelis walked past the long clean rows of steps leading to the university, thinking about strawberry ice cream. Down the hill, just a few streets away, Coppelia's opened at 10:00 a.m.; even at that hour there would be a line.

Yanelis noticed a man lift himself from the steps as she walked by, then felt him behind her. His steps sounded heavy, like wood being chopped, then faded. It was Martin Saucedo. She looked back, identified him as a tourist, and instantly increased her speed; it had been her experience that foreigners did not like to work so hard. American vintage cars slowed next to her, offering rides, but Yanelis ignored them. Would-be passengers, women of all ages and colors, scattered along edges of sidewalks and corners, waited for a botella, a
gratuitous ride, and stared at the proud mulatta.

An old bus, too full to stop, was ambushed by young boys in tattered school uniforms. Many of them climbed through open windows, while others held tight grips, supported from inside by good citizens. A space opened on San Lazaro so Yanelis stepped into a hole between vehicles and moved along the faded median like a ballerina on a tightrope. Martin watched her negotiate the loud hot vehicles with the skill and timing of a matador. They walked almost parallel on opposite sides of San Lazaro. After a block and a half uphill, near the entrance to the Habana Libre Hotel, her long strides turned into a trot, then a gallop across Rampa on a yellow light. Martin stood at the intersection of 23rd and L, famously known as la Rampa, his favorite corner in the world. Five young women, dressed provocatively and communicating in sign language, came up behind Martin and stood next to him, waiting for a green light. They checked out his blue Dodger cap and black cowboy boots. One, a blonde in a turquoise mini-skirt, laughed and fanned herself. On the green light they all walked across the street. He tried keeping the sexy deaf-mute girls in front of him, but they meandered.

Coppelia's wasn't open yet, but Yanelis stood in line.

"Hola," it began.

"Hola." Yanelis refused to turn around.

Her taut slender frame was wrapped tightly in her arms and she tapped her white Nike against the pavement.

"Hola," repeated Martin.

She ignored him.

"I'm from Mexico and ..."

Yanelis left the line.

"I'd like to ask you something."

She walked across the street, through teens congregated in front of Cine Yara, and into Dino's Pizza. A slice of pizza was better for breakfast, anyway.

Three girls, two peroxide blondes and a true redhead, sat a table with a half-eaten cheese pizza. They were from around the way, Infanta y San Rafael, and knew Yanelis but ignored her. Most neighbors and loiterers on Infanta hated Yanelis for her job, because she was too poor to be so arrogant, and she was a good communist.

A hot slice of pizza with ham was served on a paper plate. No napkins. Yanelis took it to go.

At 23rd and L, officers of the peace occupied three of the corners of the intersection. Despite police presence, illicit commerce on Rampa was good. She stepped off the curb, wiped grease from the pizza and smeared it on the paper plate.

"Excuse me, could I ask you a question?" Martin stood on the curb behind her.

"What!" Yanelis turned to face him.

"Where did you purchase that pizza?"

She pointed back at Dino's and continued downhill. She did not look back.

At the corner of San Lazaro and San Miguel, Yanelis considered visiting her aunt Odalys, who lived nearby on the fifth floor of an elegant, deteriorated colonial building. Every floor was partitioned into several dwellings and the doorway leading to the stairwell was where Nana, Centro Habana's premier dopeman, did business; one U.S. dollar per Cuban joint. Yanelis slowed her pace, looked at the yellow cheese detaching from the crust of her pizza, then at Nana's customers going in and out of the doorway like conscientious ants. Grease dripped from her pizza and the tomato paste looked more orange than usual. A layer of sweat covered her neck and back and she felt dizzy. Her pizza had wilted under the magnificence of the sun. She looked back at San Lazaro. No Mexicans. Yanelis handed off her slice to a small child running by. She entered the dark stairwell and took three steps at a time, as she'd done since the age of six, always stepping on the corners, the sturdiest part of the rotting stairs. Today the stairwell seemed more like a tunnel. She intensified her march to the fifth floor and pushed the door without knocking, anxious to stand in the balcony.

Yanelis interrupted a spiritual mass. Odalys was also her godmother and a popular santera. Several santeros and godchildren sat in a circle in the living room, around a short wooden table with seven goblets of clear water. Nobody looked up as Yanelis walked to the balcony. Her godmother was in a trance, chanelling the dead. A client had sought the services of Odalys for the removal of a harmful spirit, allegedly cast upon her by her estranged common-law husband. The distraught woman sat at the end of the table, near a goblet with bits of white rock resting at the bottom. Underneath the table was a bowl of holy water.

Two years earlier, Malena and Odalys had decided Yanelis was much too thin, sickly and sad, and would therefore never find a tourist boyfriend, and was thus similarly cleansed of malevolent beings. Shortly after, she was admitted to Escuela Tropicana, then hired at the Havana Night Dance Company.

The balcony was narrow and had a view of Infanta falling into the sea, a strip of the Malecon, a piece of Rampa, the steps leading to the University -- the Mexican. Yanelis turned toward the ocean, contemplated its vastness, and said a prayer to Yemaya, the maternal force residing in the sea. Her prayer included, as it often did, a wish that she could disappear.

A voluptuous black woman dipped the tips of her fingers in the bowl of holy water, then swung her hand around her head, like a cowboy with his lariat, and brought it down like a whip, snapping her fingers at the end of it. She made a cross with alcohol on the floor near the front door. Participants mumbled "Our Fathers" and "Hail Marys," sang in Yoruba, urging Odalys's orisha to mount her, eliciting the aid of Chango. Odalys's tall thin frame was covered in a long flowing white dress and her mellifluous jet-black hair was tied in a bun atop her head, which was always held high and back, so that her chin pointed at visitors. She began breathing deeply, tilting her head, shaking and swinging her shoulders, and her speech became gutteral in broken archaic Spanish, interspersed with African words. The black woman lit a cigar, then touched the cross of alcohol on the floor with it and handed Odalys a bottle of rum and the burning cigar. The cross of fire came to life as Odalys became possessed by her santo. The rum went down like water and the fire on the floor grew higher and higher, almost touching the celing. Odalys sucked on the cigar and was handed another bottle of rum.

Yanelis focused on the part of the horizon where the blue sky touched the bluer ocean. She thought she could hear the crackle of the fire amid the praying, singing, and screaming. In a voice not her own, Odalys shouted repeatedly, "You! You! You!" and looked to the balcony.

Yanelis stepped back, trying to move from her godmother's line of sight.

"You! Daughter of Oshun! You will leave us soon, you will fly away and go to many worlds, a green world from the past, a distant island with millions of light, a world of the future, and you will witness grand marvels and a man will take you there..."

Odalys smoked, drank and distributed prophecies around the room. The front door was three or four steps from the balcony. Odalys tipped back the bottle of rum and Yanelis was gone. In a moment or two, Odalys would be her usual self -- sober and mean.

A salty wind came up from San Miguel and traveled west on San Lazaro, sweeping over Yanelis as she came out of the tunnel of stairs. She was really hungry now. She sprinted across San Lazaro with minimal effort. Martin stood near a wall along the steps in dark shades, holding two heavy slices of pizza, like a sandwich, over a greasy paper plate. He held the slices, squeezed some grease off, and paused to watch Yanelis climb the long white steps in a flurry of sharp elbows and knees pumping high.

Yanelis reached the top of the stairs at 10:15 a.m., per instructions, and waited for fellow Young Communist and best friend, Kenia Portuondo. They'd been told to make contact with Irish nationals at the top of the stairs of the university.

"Hola." Martin wiped his hand on his blue jeans, preparing for a handshake.

Yanelis crossed her arms.

"I'm supposed to meet people from the Union of Young Communists today at the top of the stairs and you're the only person here," he said.

"Where are you from?" she asked.

"My name is Martin and I came from Chiapas, that's in Mexico."

"I know."

"But I was born in Las Vegas, that's on the other side."

"I know, the empire."

"The what?"

"The empire, the United States."

"I've never heard anyone call it 'the empire.'" Martin smiled and stepped closer to her.

"Maybe you've only been associating with worms and prostitutes."

"Worms?"

"Traitors." She uncrossed her arms and looked for back-up.

"Oh, okay...prostitute is such an ugly word," he said.

"What do you call them?"

"Sex workers."

"And you like the company of sex workers?"

"No, not me...not that there's anything wrong with it," he said.

Yanelis elevated on the tips of her toes, showing off years of ballet training, trying to look over him. A young woman walked up behind Martin, gave Yanelis a kiss, and turned to take in the foreigner, who didn't look Irish.

"Kenia, this is Martin, he's from the empire," said Yanelis.

"I was born in the United States but my mother is from Oaaa--"

"Where in the empire do you live?" asked Kenia.

"Las Vegas."

Kenia looked him over, then at Yanelis and raised an eyebrow. Yanelis rolled her eyes.

"He says he's here to meet with the Union of Young Communists. Were you told anything about an American from Mexico or a Mexican from the empire?" asked Yanelis.

Kenia didn't answer, she was still observing Martin. Yanelis grabbed Kenia's wrist and pulled her away.

"I was sent here by the zapatistas to help translate between the Irish and the Cubans," he said, in pursuit.

"Some Cubans speak English very well," said Yanelis without turning around.

"What are zapatistas?" Kenia yanked Yanelis to a stop.

"The Zapatista Army of National Liberation," he said.

The pretty young communists looked blankly at him.

"The indigenous movement in Chiapas...led by Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos," he said.

Kenia and Yanelis looked at each other.

"The guy with the mask and the pipe," he said.

"Oh, Marcos! Yes, we know about Marcos," said Yanelis.

"Well, he sent me here to facilitate the meeting between the Irish and the --"

"You know Marcos? And what makes you think we can't speak English?" asked Yanelis.

"What? I don't know..."

"You don't know Marcos?" Yanelis took Kenia's arm and turned to walk away.

"Well yes - no, not personally - but a captain from the Zapatista Army told me that the Irish asked Marcos to send an interpreter to Cuba and I'm an instructor in English in the rebel zone in Chiapas and I had asked for more work within the operations of the zapatistas so a lieutenant in La Realidad - where I teach - told this captain, a friend of mine, that I had been to Cuba and that I was interested in working as an intepreter so I was selected to come here to work with you."

"That all sounds very strange," said Yanelis.

"It does?" Martin began to perspire.

"Maybe you should talk to one of our leaders, wait here." Yanelis dragged Kenia. "And if you see some Irish that look lost, tell them we will return shortly."

Martin sighed deeply, and for the first time in a long time it was not about Lupita.

Juan Felipe Herrera Interview on Authenticity

By René Colato Laínez

This interview was part of my Thesis: The Authentic Latino Immigrant Experience in Picture Books

René: Immigrant children go through stages of uprooting to adapt to a new country (mixed emotions, excitement or fear in the adventure of the journey, curiosity, culture shock that exhibits depression or confusion and assimilation/acculturation into the mainstream). I know that you were born in the United States. What was your experience as a child of immigrants? Did you go through some of these stages?
Juan Felipe: I was pretty insulated-- living on the outskirts of cities, in small, tiny towns, mountains, rancho and lake communities. When I did enter school, the big shock did come -- however it was a muted shock; how do you talk about it, what is it that is happening; it's like losing your voice when you are thrown into an opera on your life. My imagination flourished; I became a passionate observer and dreamer, I created a parallel universe.

René: How are these experiences reflected in your books?

Juan Felipe: With subjects, language, landscapes, stories, word-names, from my experience, family and communities; in some cases the books are more like memoir-diaries, in others I am finishing and extending life-chapters which were left undone.

René: What is the message in your books you want to give to immigrant children and their families living in the United States?

Juan Felipe: Own your experience, it is your source of inspiration and healing. Expand your conversation with the experience of your communities and world, put yourself in the shoes of everyone else around you and far from you and you will walk with many friends and families and create a bigger and better world.

René: What elements does an immigration story need to have in order to be authentic?

Juan Felipe: Honesty at all levels, real words from real people and incidents, crises and transformation, suffering and joy. The book must have a kind mind and warm giant heart.

Juan Felipe Herrera has received numerous awards and fellowships. With twenty-one books in total Juan Felipe Herrera's publications include fourteen collections of poetry, prose, short stories, young adult novels and picture books for children. He is the author of The Upside Down Boy/ El niño de cabeza .

Altar Girls To Chicano Blues

Manuel Ramos

AWARDS
A recent press release announced the Mountains & Plains Independent Booksellers Association 2007 Regional Book Awards.

The Awards will be presented and the authors will speak at a banquet at the Doubletree Hotel in Austin, TX on March 30, 2007. The banquet is open to the public.

The 2007 Regional Book Award for Adult Fiction is Cottonwood Saints, Gene Guerin, UNM Press. This book recently also was awarded the Premio Aztlán.

The Spirit of the West Literary Achievement Award will also be presented at the banquet. This Award is given to an author whose body of work captures the unique spirit of the Mountains & Plains region. This year's winner is Linda Hogan, a Chickasaw poet, novelist, essayist, playwright, and activist. Ms. Hogan is widely considered to be one of the most provocative and influential Native American figures in the contemporary American literary landscape. She is the author and editor of numerous books including The Woman Who Watches Over the World: A Native Memoir; Power; Solar Storms; Intimate Nature: The Bond Between Women and Animals; The Sweet Breathing of Plants: Women Writing on the Green World. Mean Spirit was the recipient of the 1991 MPIBA Regional Book Award in the category of Fiction. Ms. Hogan has also been the recipient of an American Book Award from the Before Columbus Foundation, an NEA grant, a Lannan Award, and a Guggenheim Fellowship, among many others. She is currently a professor of Native American studies at the University of Colorado in Boulder.

The Mountains & Plains Independent Booksellers Association is a non-profit association formed over 40 years ago with the primary purpose of supporting independent bookstores and raising awareness of the value of independent businesses within our communities. The Regional Book Awards were instituted in 1990. For more information or to order tickets for the banquet in Austin, TX, visit the website at www.mountainsplains.org or call 1-800-752-0249.

As noted by UNM Press, Cottonwood Saints "chronicles the lives of a New Mexico woman and her son, Michael. Margarita Juana Galvan was born in a lumber camp in 1913 and is brought up like a little princess in her grandparents' hacienda. In contrast, Margarita's adult life is spent in depression-ridden Las Vegas, New Mexico.

Told through Michael, Margarita's story embodies the challenges faced by an intelligent, independent-minded girl maturing in a man's world. Margarita and her family's lives intersect with the prominent events of the century: the influenza pandemic of 1918, the rise of the Ku Klux Klan, the Great Depression, and World War II.

Based on the life of Guerin's mother, Cottonwood Saints connects the lives of the poorest citizens of New Mexico to the local power structure."

EVENTS
Tia Chucha's 5 Year Anniversary Celebration
The website for Tia Chucha's Cafe & Cultural Center includes a message from Luis J. Rodriguez about the ongoing struggle to preserve the center and all that it stands for. Here's some of that message:

"This is a time to come together, strategize, and work to keep Tia Chucha's viable as a cultural center while we explore our options. We will not give up. We will find a temporary space; we will also curtail our retail operations while we concentrate on our programming, events, outreach, fundraising, and growth."

Part of the fundraising strategy includes an upcoming anniversary party. The details:

February 17
12737 Glenoaks Blvd., #22Sylmar, CA 91342
Live Performances, Presentations, Guest Speakers, Food, Raffles, Vendors, Book Sale

12 - 5pm
*Children's Author Reading w/ René Colato Laínez
* Teatro
*Shadow Puppet Show
*Children Songs

5-11pm
Performances by:
*Big Joe Hurt
*Alfredo Hidalgo
*Noxdiei
*El Vuh
*Mezklah
*Very Be Careful
*Aztlan Unearthed
*Hijos De La Tierra

Come and celebrate -- and help out at the same time.

Líbrería Martínez February Schedule
This from Rueben Martínez of Líbrería Martínez:
"Greetings,
We are very excited to start February off with two fantastic events for our young adult audience and our teachers. Michele Dominguez Greene will present Chasing the Jaguar, the first book in a series featuring a modern day Mexican-American teenaged sleuth. We will also be hosting a reading of the book Bridge to Terabithia. The Walt Disney movie - with the same name - will be released on February 16th. Parents, bring your children and teachers, recommend these events to your students. - Rueben Martínez"

Presentation/Workshop and Book Signing
Michele Dominguez Greene Chasing the Jaguar
Santa Ana Location
1110 N. Main St., Santa Ana, CA 92701
714 973 7900
Thursday, February 8, 2007 6:30 PM

Lynwood - Plaza Mexico Location
11221 Long Beach Blvd., Suite 102 Lynwood, CA 90262
310 637 9484
Thursday, February 22, 2007 6:30 PM

Bridge To Terabithia Reading
Santa Ana Location
February 10, 2007 1:00 PM
Featuring Radio Univision personality Marcela Luevanos, narrating the book. There will be a raffle for books, posters and screening passes for children to watch the movie.

YOU'RE NOT INDIAN, YOU'RE NOT MEXICAN
You're Not Indian, You're Not Mexican is the title of a new book by Vivian Delgado, who will speak Tuesday, February 13, at the Word Is Out Women's Bookstore, 2015 10th Street in Boulder, CO. The book, whose author is of Yaqui descent, discusses various indigenous identities, common stereotypes, legal status and other factors impacting the lives of indigenous and immigrant populations. No time noted in the announcement I saw -- call the bookstore at 303-449-1415.

ALTAR GIRLS
February 16, 2007 – June 10, 2007
OPENING RECEPTION: Friday February 16, 5pm-9pm
Museo de las Americas

861 Santa Fe Drive, Denver, CO 80204
HOURS: 10am-5pm Tuesday-Friday, 12-5pm Saturday-Sunday

CLOSED MONDAYS Phone: 303.571.4401

Altar Girls examines women’s complicated attributes of sanctity and strength viewed from historic legends and traditional media to post-modern insights and materials. The juxtaposition of women saints with contemporary views of coming-of-age girls conveys the fundamental female aspects of purity and courage. Whether they are inspired by the women of the heavens or the young women of this world, the artists of Altar Girls offer stunning depictions of the miracle of the feminine.

Artists in this amazing exhibit include:
Charles M. Carrillo (New Mexico), Marie Romero Cash (New Mexico), Alex Chavez (New Mexico), Gloria Lopez Cordova (New Mexico), James M. Cordova (New Mexico), Lawrence Cordova (New Mexico), Flavia Da Rin (Argentina), Meggan DeAnza (Colorado), Monica Dower (Mexico), Teresa Duran (Colorado), José Raul Esquibel (Colorado), Martha Varoz Ewing (New Mexico), Roxanne Shaw Galindo (Colorado), Goldie Garcia-Star (New Mexico), Gustavo Victor Goler (New Mexico), Roberto Gonzales (New Mexico), Grupo Mondongo (Argentina), Nicholas Herrera (New Mexico), Estela Izuel (Argentina), Sylvia Martinez Johnson (New Mexico), Cristina Kahlo (Mexico), Judy Varoz Long (New Mexico), Felix Lopez (New Mexico), Mario Prieto Lopez (Colorado), Marion C. Martinez, (New Mexico), Ronnald Miera (Colorado), Christina Miller (New Mexico), Judy Miranda (Colorado), Carolina Rodríguez (Colombia), Carlos Santisteven (Colorado), Catherine Robles Shaw (Colorado) and Jerry Vigil (Colorado)

21st ANNUAL VALENTINE'S DAY OLDIES DANCE - TRIBUTE TO RANDY GARIBABY
February 11, 7:00 PM - 11:00 PM at the Guadalupe Theater, 1301 Guadalupe Street, San Antonio. Tickets are $20 pre-sale and $25 at the door. MC is Wild Bill Riley and the music includes Ernie Garibay & Cats Don't Sleep; Sauce Gonzales & the Westside Horns; Michelle Garibay-Carey & Planet Soul; Rocky Hernandez & the OBG Band; Stone Groove with Randy Garibay, Jr.; and more.

DOCUMENTARY FILM PROJECT - WESTSIDE RHYTHM & BLUES
Chicano filmaker Efraín Gutiérrez is making a documentary of the origins and history (30s through the 90s) of the San Antonio Westside Rhythm & Blues sound, with a focus on Chicano Bluesman Randy Garibay. Efrain is looking for photos, video or film and he is willing to make copies of these items for his project at the Guadalupe Theater on February 10 from 1:00 PM to 4:00 PM or February 11 from 4:00 PM to 7:00 PM.

OPPORTUNITIES
Oceanview Publishing is currently accepting submissions of book-length adult fiction and non-fiction from new and established authors. Send a 750-word synopsis and the first 30 pages of the manuscript by email and follow the guidelines on the publisher's website. Reviews take 90 days.

Authors Ink Books will accept email queries but sample chapters will be accepted only in hard copy. By mail, send a query letter with the first three chapters, or 50 pages of printed text plus a chapter by chapter summary. Six weeks turnaround. Check the website for more details.

Finally, in the spirit of this little guy:


Later.

Re-Vamping the World

In the 1985 August/September issue of the Utne Reader, in an article entitled Revamping the World, Deena Metzger puts forth an challenging concept to consider in a post-feminist context. She challenges both men and women to consider the body and eros as a vehicle of communion, restoration, and redemption instead of merely recreation, or anesthetization.

Metzger decries the limits of the last wave of Western feminism, stating it negates women's inherent power in its disavowal of female body itself, its inherent receptivity. She is disturbed by what she views as the attempts of women to refashion themselves using traditional male, Western models of power and achievement. She believes that women, trying to access a kind of power based in patriarchy, are losing their inherent strength. It is a strength of intuition, and connectivity, a strength that Metzger herself struggled to embrace.

This is not a new belief for us. Our roots, our spirituality before the conquest is rife with images of cosmic coupling. It is a spirituality based on a cyclic wisdom, linked to eternal regeneration contained in bodies of our dioses y diosas, and within ourselves.

Metzger's idea of female power is one that is frankly, clearly sexual. It is not ashamed of the body and its uses, but rather uses that body as the primary vehicle for reconnection and redemption. A very different notion for the traditional ideas of female sexuality I encountered through a Catholic upbringing. Metzger finds it ironic, and somewhat dangerous that women are trying to fashion themselves into men, rather than men and women reconnecting with a holistic view of the body, the spirit and the planet.

According to Metzger, what is necessary is a vision that re-sanctifies the body of woman, both literally and figuratively. I was deeply moved and challenged by Metzger's assertion that a return to the body and its rhythms that will have a global impact on consciousness and society; that once reconnected, we must be charged with nurturing and protecting our communities and the larger world beyond.

In describing a meditation in which she encountered an image that forever altered her life, Metzger writes that she was irrevocably altered by an image that appeared in a guided meditation. In it, she confronts her own dread in encountering a large, luminous, all encompassing image of a goddess figure. This following quote reveals what this encounter made her realize. Metzger states it is precisely the role of women to embrace their sexuality, not only for themselves, but as a tool of revolution, healing and social change.


It means that we must become vamps again, sexual-spiritual beings, that we must act out of eros. This means we must alter ourselves in the most fundamental ways. We cannot become the means for the resanctification of society unless we are willing to become the priestesses once more who serve the gods not in theory and empty practice, but from our very nature. It means that we must identify with eros no matter what the seeming consequences to ourselves. Even if it seems foolish, inexpedient, even if it makes us vulnerable, it means that we cannot be distracted from this task (of re-feminizing the planet) by pleasure, power, lust or anger. It requires a sincere rededication.


As contradictory and difficult a commitment it may be, she calls upon women, (I would also argue that men must consider this as well) to become Holy Prostitutes, reconsecrating their bodies to vamp and revamp the world.

What are the implications of such a stance? What call to action is Metzger making? What does it mean to revamp a society?

First, I think it means we ask ourselves with whom are we having sex, and why? Is it pleasure alone, is it distraction, is it sedation, is it a way to control? For our young people especially, is it sport sex, trophy sex, where the physical, emotional and spiritual stakes are high? But I think we would be doing Metzger and ourselves a deep, deep, disservice if this article were read as a call to harken back to the sixties, seeking the answer in a massive love-in of sorts, some narcotic tidal coupling that will magically cures all ills.

What does Metzger mean by transforming one's self into the Holy Prostitute? What is the connection between her assertion and our daily lives? Again, Metzger throws down the proverbial gauntlet.


It is to commit to eros, bonding, connection, when the (Western) world values thanatos, separation, detachment...So it is not sex we are after at all, but something far deeper....The task is to accept the body as spiritual, and sexuality and erotic love as spiritual disciplines, to believe that eros is pragmatic. To honor the feminine even where it is dishonored or disadvantaged.


As an artist and writer, I was moved on the deepest level by her challenge to 'Re-vamp' the world. 'Re-vamping' calls us to use the power of the body, free from the shame of patriarchal culture to change the world. It is the supreme play on words, with Metzger throwing down the gauntlet to readers, challenging us to rededicate ourselves to eros. It requires fully reclaiming sexuality as vehicle of connection, not merely in the literal sense, however. It means merging body and spirit and in some way developing a personal practice that we must we offer to the community-at large.

This idea of revamping the world has inspired me to explore movement-based ritual pieces where I examine, exploit, recover, and reveal my own physicality and sexuality. To begin to reconnect with eros in these pieces has meant taking my personal story, distilling it and recasting it with poetry, spoken word and dance. Metzger mentions thanatos, separation, and detachment as the benchmark of Western culture. These ideas are precisely what I want to contradict. It has forced me to more deeply connect with my body, its sensuality, to sharpen and hone that sense of physicality in order to use it as a conduit for narrative. Each of the pieces has some element where I ‘vamp’ the audience, communicate with them in a visceral, voluptuous way.

It has also influenced me to write work that is explicit, where sex is a metaphor and a commentary, and to risk being vulnerable in other work, in the rest of my writing, and my personal life.

Metzger closes her article with a series of questions that I'm enclosing, hoping it will fire your imagination as it did mine.

Whom do I close myself against?
When do I not have the time for love or eros?
When do I find eros inconvenient, burdensome, or inexpedient?
When do I find eros dangerous to me?
When do I indulge in the erotic charge of guilt?
Where do I respond to, accept, provoke the idea of sin?
When do I use sexuality to distract rather than commune?
When do I reject eros becuase I am rejected?
When do I abuse the body?
How do I reinforce the mind/spirit?
When and how do I denigrate the feminine?
When do I refuse the gods?
When do I pretend to believe in them?
When do I accept the gods only when they serve me?
How often do I acquiesce to the "real world?"


It's been over ten years since I first read this article. I won't pretend to agree with all of it, or have fully integrated the things that resonated with me. In that respect, I'm still a work-in-progress. What I do know is this: I'm interested in waking up, in staying awake, in connecting with others personally and within the body politic. I want to talk about storytelling and its healing potential, and the communal experience of the body. Metzger's article shook me up, challenged me, made me think, and I hope it's the beginning of a conversation between us.


A post script from Deena Metzger's site: "Re-vamping the world: On the return of the Holy Prostitute." Utne Reader, Minneapolis, Minnesota, August/September 1985. Reprinted in: To Be A Woman, The Birth of the Conscious Feminine, ed. Connie Zweig, Jeremy P. Tarcher, Inc. Los Angeles; Critique, ed. Bob Banner, P.0. Box 91980, West Vancouver,B.C., V7C 4S4. #33, Spring 1990; Enlightened Sexuality, Essays on Body-Positive Spirituality, ed. George Feuerstein, The Crossing Press, 1989; Iron Mountain, Florence, Colorado, Spring 1986, Vol. 1, No. 4; Reprinted (in expanded form) Anima, Chambersburg, Pa., Vol. 12, No. 2, Spring equinox 1986. Green Egg, 1996

Pre-Valentine's Day: One man's eros is another's ...

Michael Sedano

It was eighty four degrees in Los Angeles yesterday, Monday, a week and two days away from St. Valentine's day. Our national annual celebration of eros. How fitting, then, that last week a kind of erotic resentment came up in a La Bloga discussion. Anonymous2 took exception to a description arising from a remark about the confluence of John Rechy's The Coming of the Night and a story in Dagoberto Gilb's Woodcuts of Women.

Regretting Anonymous2's unintended affront, I decided to take another look at the issue, thinking one man's eros is another man's ...what? Disinterest? Distance? Dismay? Something with a name, but not homophobia, as Anonymous2 accused. Something to discuss, yes.

Gilb's story, "Bottoms", coincidentally happens on a hot day like Monday in El Lay. The heat of the day overlaps the character's reading-induced heat, and heat emanating from a bikini-clad man in the pool. Without identifying the novel, the character is writing a review of The Coming of the Night.

"The book is as explicit as I have ever known, one page after another. I have never read so much about cocks and pecs, the hard and soft, big and small. And it had never occurred to me to consider people as bottoms or tops--that is, ones who want it put and the ones who want to put it. I can't say I'm shocked by the novel's details, nor am I particularly bothered by their modus operandi, but I am on alert. A little touchy, if you'll excuse the expression. For example, a man with a stylish bald head, thick gray hairs on his chest, nipple rings, who I find next to me on the grass, who I bet is top or bottom oriented, who I probably would have never noticed before, for whatever reason has made me uncomfortable, in a synchronicity sort of way--he has put that towel too close to mine and has smiled at me."

It's clear Gilb's alluding to the opening pages of Rechy's novel. The opening story "Jesse, Morning" talks in third person about Jesse's planned celebration of "one glorious year of being gay". Jesse is thinking about his body, about all the sex he's going to have cruising from place to place, reminiscing about a recent night with two men Jesse played sex games with, alternating sex with the one then the other. "In his bedroom in his neat apartment in a court of units surrounding a pool in West Hollywood, Jesse became hard thinking about the prospect. He sat on the edge of his bed wearing only white briefs, now being punched by his aroused cock."

The first time I picked up The Coming of the Night, that paragraph led me to set down the book and not pick it up again for a few days. It has similar impact on Gilb's character, sitting poolside, synchronicity starting at that poolside apartment. A page later, Jesse looks out at the swimming pool and Gilb's story merges: "A man was lounging there. From here all Jesse could see were his long bare legs. The man stood up, to oil himself. From the back, he looked fine--broad shoulders, tapered waist, dark hair. Masculine, so far. Sometimes you couldn't tell until they started talking and ugh, what a surprise. Safe to assume, too, with that bikini he was wearing, that the man was gay."

Gilb's character makes that assumption about his poolside male companion. As an antidote, the character flees into the arms of the woman on his other side. In all likelihood, Gilb's character would have made a different pass at the woman and their affair turn out no differently than it develops. The friendly man simply filled geography and provided the hook-up strategy of the moment. Is Gilb's character homophobic? He confesses otherwise: "I want to be a stereotype: Man sees woman. Thinks woman. Thinks tops. Has woman. Satisfies self." The preference for one is not defined as the absence of the other, it simply is a preference.

I've been ruminating over the issue since that colloquy, and raised the issue with Kathy Gallegos, who runs Highland Park's Avenue50 Studio. Kathy's about to host a wonderful show featuring erotica by women called "Beautiful Deceptions".

Kathy showed me a beautiful photograph of a crouching woman. To Kathy, it has erotic power. I saw a well-printed photo, the first thing I noticed is the model's body outlines an abstract valentine heart. On closer look--her nipples--it's clear it's a crouching woman.

Because the photo displays the woman's nipples, Kathy decided she could not mail that image on the gallery's publicity, electing the image at right. Photographically, not as well-printed as the crouching woman, I'm glad Avenue50Studio uses this image. I find it erotic and a little deceptive, perfectly fitted to the show that runs February 10 through March 4, 2007. Is it a woman's body? Are those female breasts, or a soft man's chest? To echo Rechy, (and doesn't Kathy's photo echo the cover image on Rechy's novel?) I see the photo and I think, feminine so far, but I won't be able to tell until (s)he sits up.

We chatted for a while on why the crouching woman is not as erotic, to me. Perhaps the image is too complex. It doesn't take much to arouse a man's eros, I claimed. Aside from that, there's a lot of androgyny in the crouching woman's face, reminding me of what David Bowie looked like in the 1970s, and I'm not sure some men would be comfortable with the danger the woman's pose suggests. I love the photo though, and agree it should be printed much larger than 8" x 10", maybe in platinum.

Gente in LA will have the opportunity to see these powerful images for themselves when the Poli Marichal curated show opens. There's to be a discussion and a dance performance, too. Ave50 is a cultural hotbed that, sadly, the Los Angeles Times routinely ignores. The penalty of being on the Eastside. I hope you'll click on the link and tell your friends about the show, and the gallery.

Not sure where this discussion's been, or where it's headed. I suppose that's up to you. Next week, look for my, and the other La Bloga Blogueras' Blogueros' Valentine wishes for you. For now, I'm sure it's safe to say, Make Love, Not War.

mvs

Blogmeister's Note: If you have thoughts to share on this post, or any subject you feel brings interest to La Bloga, send it along with a click. La Bloga welcomes, urges, encourages, guest columnists. We love our guests, but we'll consider this agape for the moment.

SPOTLIGHT ON DANIEL ALARCÓN

Monday's post by Daniel Olivas...

Daniel Alarcón’s fiction and nonfiction have been published in The New Yorker, Harper's, Virginia Quarterly Review, Salon, Eyeshot and elsewhere, and anthologized in Best American Non-Required Reading 2004 and 2005. He is Associate Editor of Etiqueta Negra, an award-winning monthly magazine based in his native Lima, Peru. A former Fulbright Scholar to Peru and the recipient of a Whiting Award for 2004, he lives in Oakland, California, where he is the Distinguished Visiting Writer at Mills College. His story collection, War by Candlelight (HarperCollins) was a finalist for the 2006 PEN/Hemingway Foundation Award.

Alarcón’s first novel, Lost City Radio (HarperCollins) was published February 1st. He will be doing a series of readings in support of the novel, beginning in Oakland, and then throughout the Bay Area, as well as Chicago, Iowa City, Madison, Milwaukee, Boston, New York, Portland, Seattle, and Los Angeles. For a complete schedule of readings, visit Alarcón’s Web page. My interview with Alarcón appeared last week in The Elegant Variation. Scott Timberg, writing for the Los Angeles Times, offers a thoughtful profile on the author. Lost City Radio is Release of the Week over at CaliforniaAuthors. Yesterday, the Los Angeles Times reviewed his novel calling it a "bravura performance." Finally, there’s a fascinating interview of Alarcón by Favianna Rodriguez on Hard Knock Radio, KPFA 94.1 FM in Berkeley.

◙ To kick off a new exhibit at the Hayden Library on Arizona State University’s Tempe campus, Latin American & Iberian Studies Librarian Claude Potts joins Fred McIlvain to interview Regents’ Professor Dr. Gary Keller the Director of the Hispanic Research Center about the internationally renowned Bilingual Review Press (BRP). Dr. Keller is a writer, educator, publisher, and art collector who mentors graduate students in the area of Chicano Studies at Arizona State. He is the author of numerous works regarding Mexican-American and Latino art, film, literature, linguistics, and language policy. In addition to the BRP, Potts and Keller discuss the concept of code-switching, independent publishing, social/noble bandits, centenial of the Mexican Revolution, U.S. Latina/o Literature in Spanish, the Transborder Library Forum, and the art collections of both Dr. Keller and Mexican American actor Cheech Marin. The exhibit “Publishing on the Borders: 30 Years of Latina/o Publishing by the Bilingual Review Press” showcases a broad selection of books published by and artwork commissioned by the Bilingual Review Press which publishes literary works, scholarship, and art books by or about U.S. Hispanics. The exhibit coincides with ASU Libraries’ hosting of the 2007 Transborder Library Forum/FORO Transfronterizo de Bibliotecas from February 20-24, 2007 on the Tempe campus.

◙ We get this news from our favorite magazine:

The February issue of Tu Ciudad, the English-language guide to Latino L.A., marks a new beginning for the magazine. As a result of overwhelming demand by both readers and advertisers, the Southland’s favorite bi-monthly magazine will now become a monthly that will publish 10 times a year. “We’re really proud to produce a magazine that has become an important part of the media landscape in Los Angeles, and grateful for the reception that both readers and advertisers have given to Tu Ciudad,” says Jaime Gamboa, the magazine’s Founder and Publisher. “Our change to a monthly will allow us to become more relevant and current, and help us better serve both our clients and readers.”

The new issue hits newsstands with an in-depth look at racially and culturally mixed Latinos in Los Angeles. The cover story, written by author and Mount St. Mary’s College professor Marcos McPeek Villatoro, explains how the offspring of mixed marriages are transforming what it means to be Latino in L.A., and why these new Angelenos may hold the key to racial harmony in our wildly diverse, and often times, divided city.

The article features several personal testimonies from contributing Latino writers who are mixed with Anglo, Jewish, Irish, Asian and black blood. They’re stories are insightful, touching and sometimes painful. And in Los Angeles — they’re increasingly common. “This city has the largest Latino population in the country,” says Tu Ciudad Editor-in-Chief Oscar Garza, “and with each generation it is inevitable that more and more Latinos will partner with non-Latinos and have children. And when these kids grow up, as we see in this story, they have a completely different way of looking at the world from a cultural and racial prism. They can’t help but change the city.”

Copies sold at stores throughout Southern California including Ralphs, Albertson’s, Vons, 7-Eleven, Rite-Aid, Barnes & Noble, Borders and newsstands throughout Los Angeles and Orange counties.

◙ Speaking of Tu Ciudad, I was thumbing through the new issue and noticed a nicely-written profile of Alex Espinoza regarding his debut novel, Still Water Saints (Random House). Yesterday, the Los Angeles Times gave Espinoza's novel a rave review noting that "[h]is style is ominous, layered and clean -- reminiscent of a Hieronymous Bosch painting." La Bloga made note of this new book last week. I hope to get my hands on it soon.

◙ And some news from the UCLA Chicano Studies Research Center: CSRC Press is excited to announce that the first book in the A Ver book series, Gronk, will be released in March. This book on the extraordinary artist Gronk launches a new era in the study of Latina/o art. Latina/o artists have received too little recognition, especially given their impact on the arts. The books in the A Ver series, each devoted to an individual artist, are designed to rectify this oversight by providing biographies, analysis, bibliographies, and full-color illustrations of the artist’s works. The series will be distributed through the University of Minnesota Press. To buy advance copies, go to their website. A DVD on Gronk and his works and two online resources—a teacher’s guide, and an extensive digital archive related to the book—will soon be available through the press.

◙ In Googling around the Internet, I found this wonderful resource from Columbia University: it’s a compilation, with links, to the various academic programs dedicated to Latino studies and Latin America and Caribbean studies both inside and outside of the United States. Check it out.

◙ That’s all for now. Until next Monday, remember: ¡Lea un libro!

Guest: René Colato's Saturday Children's Books Column

Blogmeister's note: This marks René Colato's third guest column. Next Saturday, La Bloga looks forward to welcoming René as our regular Saturday children's literature columnist, joining Gina MarySol Ruiz' Wednesday children's literature and other stuff column.


Children’s Books for February
By René Colato Laínez

February is the month of el amor y la amistad, love and friendship. Before presenting the books for this month, let me share my favorite poem written by the Cuban poet, José Martí.

Versos Sencillos
Tiene el leopardo un abrigo
en su monte seco y pardo;
yo tengo más que el leopardo,
porque tengo un buen amigo.

Tiene el señor presidente
un jardín con una fuente,
y un tesoro en oro y trigo:
tengo más, tengo un amigo.

Simple Verses
The leopard has a coat
in his mountain dry and brown;
I have more than the leopard
because I have a good friend.

The highness president
has a garden with a fountain
and a treasure of gold and money,
I have more, I have a friend.

And here are the books for February:

Lover Boy/Juanito el cariñoso written by Lee Merill; illustrated by Francisco Delgado: Cinco Puntos Press.
Four-year-old Johnny loves to dish out kisses, and he counts them in both English and Spanish.

Friends written by Alma Flor Ada; illustrated by Barry Koch: Santillana.
The triangles, squares, rectangles and circles learn that by joining together, they can have more fun.

The Woman Who Outshone the Sun/ La mujer que brillaba mas aún que el sol, a poem from Alejandro Cruz Martinez ; illustrated by Fernando Olivera: Children’s Book Press.
This book retells the Zapotec legend of Lucia Zenteno, a beautiful woman with magical powers who is exiled from a mountain village and takes its water away in punishment.

Lupe Vargas and her super best friend / Lupe Vargas ysu super mejor amiga written by Amy Costales ; illustrated by Alexandra Artigas : Luna Rising.
After playing games, super best friends Lupe and Maritza have a disagreement and must figure out how to make up.

Friends from the other side/Amigos del otro lado written by Gloria Anzaldúa; illustrated by Consuelo Méndez: Children’s Book Press.
Having crossed the Rio Grande into Texas with his mother in search of a new life, Joaquín receives help and friendship from Prietita, a brave young Mexican American girl.

Frog and Toad are friends written by Arnold Lobel: Harper Trophy
Five tales recounting the adventures of two best friends - Frog and Toad .

The gold coin written by Alma Flor Ada ; illustrated by Neil Waldman: Atheneum.
Determined to steal an old woman's gold coin , a young thief follows her all around the a Spanish-speaking country.

What is your favorite book about love and friendship? You can add it in the comment area.

Saludos,
René Colato Laínez

Crucigrama

Manuel Ramos

LA BLOGA CROSSWORD
I must have had some time on my hands because I came up with a crossword puzzle for La Bloga readers. It's all about the literature, of course, so if you are a regular visitor to La Bloga or have more than a passing interest in Chicana/o and Latina/o stories, characters, writers, publishers, and reviewers, you should breeze through this puzzle.

I can't figure out how to paste the puzzle directly onto the La Bloga pages, so you are going to have to click on another link to see the grid and the questions. There are two versions: the first looks oversized on my screen but loads up quickly, the second version fits better on my screen but it may have too much black for some printers and it takes a bit more time to load. The questions are the same in either version.

In any event, if you have the inclination, check out the puzzle of your choice, print it, solve it, and let me know what you think about this diversion. I hear that solving crosswords is good for keeping the brain cells young and vigorous; too bad I can't do crosswords with my back. I think I killed a few thousand brain cells putting the puzzle together so it's a trade off for me. Here are the links:

La Bloga Puzzle Version 1

La Bloga Puzzle Version 2

And the answers are here.

BOOK AND WRITING NEWS
NEWN is now open for submissions. Visit the website for complete guidelines:

http://www.newnmag.net/guidelines

NEWN accepts submissions in all categories ONLY between January 1 through March 31.

Fiction: Open to all genres and types of previously unpublished fiction up to 3,000 words. NEWN encourages submissions of novel excerpts. NEWN will note that the excerpt is out of context and requires a little more understanding from the reader. Pick no more than 3,000 words of your novel that can semi-stand alone and show off your novel.

Pay: $10 and one copy for short stories or novel excerpts.

NEW STUFF
Quotes from the publishers

The Savage Detectives, Roberto Bolaño
Translated from the Spanish by Natasha Wimmer
Farrar, Straus and Giroux - April

"New Year’s Eve, 1975: Arturo Belano and Ulises Lima, founders of the visceral realist movement in poetry, leave Mexico City in a borrowed white Impala. Their quest: to track down the obscure, vanished poet Cesárea Tinajero. A violent showdown in the Sonora desert turns search to flight; twenty years later Belano and Lima are still on the run.

...The Savage Detectives follows Belano and Lima through the eyes of the people whose paths they cross in Central America, Europe, Israel, and West Africa. This chorus includes the muses of visceral realism, the beautiful Font sisters; their father, an architect interned in a Mexico City asylum; a sensitive young follower of Octavio Paz; a foul-mouthed American graduate student; a French girl with a taste for the Marquis de Sade; the great-granddaughter of Leon Trotsky; a Chilean stowaway with a mystical gift for numbers; the anorexic heiress to a Mexican underwear empire; an Argentinian photojournalist in Angola; and assorted hangers-on, detractors, critics, lovers, employers, vagabonds, real-life literary figures, and random acquaintances.

... The Savage Detectives is a dazzling original, the first great Latin American novel of the twenty-first century."

Lost City Radio, Daniel Alarcón
HarperCollins - February

"For ten years, Norma has been the voice of consolation for a people broken by violence. She hosts Lost City Radio, the most popular program in their nameless South American country, gripped in the aftermath of war. Every week, the Indians in the mountains and the poor from the barrios listen as she reads the names of those who have gone missing, those whom the furiously expanding city has swallowed. Loved ones are reunited and the lost are found. Each week, she returns to the airwaves while hiding her own personal loss: her husband disappeared at the end of the war.

But the life she has become accustomed to is forever changed when a young boy arrives from the jungle and provides a clue to the fate of her long-missing husband.

Stunning, timely, and absolutely mesmerizing, Lost City Radio probes the deepest questions of war and its meaning: from its devastating impact on a society transformed by violence to the emotional scarring each participant, observer, and survivor carries for years after. This tender debut marks Alarcón's emergence as a major new voice in American fiction."

Still Water Saints, Alex Espinoza
Random House - February

"Still Water Saints chronicles a momentous year in the life of Agua Mansa, a largely Latino town beyond the fringes of Los Angeles and home to the Botánica Oshún, where people come seeking charms, herbs, and candles. Above all, they seek the guidance of Perla Portillo, the shop’s owner. Perla has served the community for years, arming her clients with the tools to overcome all manner of crises, large and small. There is Juan, a man coming to terms with the death of his father; Nancy, a recently married schoolteacher; Shawn, an addict looking for peace in his chaotic life; and Rosa, a teenager trying to lose weight and find herself. But when a customer with a troubled and mysterious past arrives, Perla struggles to help and must confront both her unfulfilled hopes and doubts about her place in a rapidly changing world.

Imaginative, inspiring, lyrical, and beautifully written, Still Water Saints evokes the unpredictability of life and the resilience of the spirit through the journeys of the people of Agua Mansa, and especially of the one woman at the center of it all. Theirs are stories of faith and betrayal, love and loss, the bonds of family and community, and the constancy of change."

Flight, Sherman Alexie
Grove Atlantic - April

"[Alexie's] first novel since Indian Killer is a powerful, fast, and timely story of a troubled foster teenager—a boy who is not a legal Indian because he was never claimed by his father—who learns the true meaning of terror.

The journey for this young hero begins as he’s about to commit a massive act of violence. At the moment of decision, he finds himself shot back through time and resurfaced in the body of an FBI agent during the civil rights era. Here he will be forced to see just why Hell is Red River, Idaho, in the 1970s. Red River is only the first stop in a shocking sojourn through moments of violence in American history. He will continue traveling back to inhabit the body of an Indian child during the battle at Little Bighorn and then ride with an Indian tracker in the nineteenth century before materializing as an airline pilot jetting through the skies today. During these frantic trips through time, his refrain grows: Who’s to judge? and I don’t understand humans. When finally, blessedly, our young warrior comes to rest again in his own contemporary body, he is mightily transformed by all he’s seen."

Dancing to "Almendra", Mayra Montero
Farrar, Straus and Giroux - January

"Havana, 1957. On the same day that the Mafia capo Umberto Anastasia is assassinated in a barber's chair in New York, a hippopotamus escapes from the zoo and is shot and killed by its pursuers. Assigned to cover the zoo story, Joaquín Porrata, a young Cuban journalist, finds himself embroiled in the mysterious connections between the hippo's death and the mobster's when a secretive zookeeper whispers that he knows too much. In exchange for a promise to introduce the keeper to his idol, the film star George Raft, now the host of the Capri casino, Joaquín gets information that ensnares him in an ever-thickening plot of murder, mobsters, and finally, love.

The love story is another mystery. Told by Yolanda, a beautiful ex-circus performer now working for Havana's famed Sans Souci cabaret, it is interwoven with Joaquín's underworld investigations, eventually revealing a family secret deeper even than Havana's brilliantly evoked enigmas. In Dancing to "Almendra," Mayra Montero has created an ardent and thrilling tale of innocence lost, of Havana’s secret world that was the basis for the clamor of the city, and of the end of a violent era of fantastic characters and extravagant crimes. Based on the true history of a bewitching city and its denizens ... ."

Man, all of those sound good.

Later.

O Taste and See: These Roots Run Deep

Carnival of the Spirit
Author: Luisah Teish


Publisher: Harper Collins;
1st edition (September 1994)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0062508687
ISBN-13: 978-0062508683

How many of us have an ofrenda in our homes, pictures of santos, or sought out ways to revision a spiritual practice that soulfully incorporates our mestizo/indigenous roots? We are finally beginning to acknowledge and honor the part of our history that also includes our African brothers and sisters, and I am happy to offer my week's book recommendation, Carnival of the Spirit.

This is a tremendously useful book for those who want to create ritual rooted in the earth itself and its seasons--a perfect choice for me as I consider how to work my own legacy into a new personal spirituality. Teish wrote an accessible and poetic guide to seasonal ritual based on Yoruba tradition, but inclusive of many indigenous practices. She honors and appreciates the fact that las indigenas also revered ancestors, saw the universe as divine cosmology; believing that human life and all life on earth was divine, protected by divine law.

(After all, what are our santos, really, but syncretism, stand-ins for the older gods and goddesses that ruled over all people, places and things?)

Here's a quote from Teish that sheds additional light on her approach and her beliefs: "Somewhere in the distant past our ancestors observed certain truths about the activities of Nature and the behavior of human beings...they created songs, dances, rituals with the intention of attuning with, and celebrating the seasons. If we are wise, what we create will take us into the future."

Organized into sections titled by each season, Teish offers both meditative and ritual-based suggestions to honor the qualities of the particular time of the year. She gives a multicultural overview of these, highlighting the role of gods and goddesses from many cultures, as well as the celebrations of many peoples. There are clear and simple directions to help the reader build a repertoire of prayer and community-building based on connection to Mother Earth, her seasons, and the body and spirit of the individual. In one section, Teish explains she is guided by Yemaya, the Yoruba goddess of nurturing; and Oshun, Yoruba goddess of divine drama and sensuality. Very different from the traditional Catholic ideas of female divinity, which have more to do with forbearance, repudiation of the flesh, and self-sacrifice. Teish’s Yemaya and Oshun are close sisters to the Aztec Tonatzín and Tlotzateotl.

Even though suppressed and obscured by the colonizer, and hidden by the passage of time itself, these goddesses continued to live and work their charms in the deepest part of the diaspora’s spirit and psyches. Carnival of the Spirits is an inviting, earthy, and supportive guide to reclaiming the sacred in everyday life, in every season, for everybody. I felt this book encouraged me to delve further into my own roots for images to use in both my own personal life and performance. It also validated my feeling that time in nature, the prayerful celebration of it, is a critical part of who I am.

About Luisah Teish:

Chief Luisah Teish, a woman chief in the Ifa/Orisha tradition of Southwest Nigeria and the founder of the School of Ancient Mysteries and Sacred Arts Center, is the author of the witty, provocative and highly-acclaimed Jambalaya: The Natural Woman's Book of Personal Charms and Practical Rituals, Carnival of the Spirits and Jump Up!

Teish is an internationally known storyteller who performs African, Caribbean, and African-American folklore and feminist myths. She designs and conducts workshops, rituals and tours in Europe, Egypt, South America and New Zealand. A performer and ritual arts consultant, Teish is also a playwright ("Olokun's Challenge" and other works) and director. Born and raised in New Orleans, she is a priestess of Oshun, the Yoruba (West Africa) Goddess of Love, Art and Sensuality. She has been on the faculty at University of Creation Spirituality in Oakland, California Institute of Integral Studies, San Francisco and is also a regular guest lecturer at Naropa and other educational institutions. She lectures worldwide, most recently in Nigeria and Costa Rica, and stateside at the Bioneers Conference, the Institute of Noetic Sciences and the Montclair Women's Cultural Arts Center.