RACING AT DEVIL’S BRIDGE AND OTHER STORIES / CARRERAS EN EL PUENTE DE DIABLO Y OTROS CUENTOS

 

By Xavier Garza

Spanish translation by Alaíde Ventura Medina

 

ISBN: 979-8-89375-003-4

Format: Trade Paperback

Pages: 129

Imprint: Piñata Books

Ages: 8-12

 

Spooky creatures from Latin American lore lurk in these entertaining stories for young people.

 

In the title story, a boy breaks his mom’s rule against staying out after dark because he is intent on training for the big state track meet. When his younger sister turns up and challenges him to a race across Devil’s Bridge, he taunts her—but is ultimately stunned when she beats him. But more shocking is the sudden appearance of a terrifying figure sporting a goat’s head and wielding a rusty ax!

 

The stories in Xavier Garza’s new collection feature creepy creatures from Latin American lore with a contemporary twist. There’s Christina, who the bullies dub “Donkey Lady” because of her odd-sounding laughter, but who later terrifies her abusers—and gets the last laugh! Joaquín’s grandfather has been told to vacate his property so the border wall can be built across it, but an Aztec eagle refuses to let the authorities kick the old man off his land. Vince and Marina find an old Ouija board under their dead grandmother’s bed and when a malevolent spirit springs from the game, the old woman’s infamous flying chancla appears to send the demon packing!

 

Accompanied by the author’s striking illustrations of chupacabras and other monsters, the blood-curdling stories in this bilingual collection for kids ages 8-12 are sure to lure even the most reluctant readers into its pages.

 

 

Other Books in the Series

 

THE DONKEY LADY FIGHTS LA LLORONA AND OTHER STORIES / LA SEÑORA ASNO SE ENFRENTA A LA LLORONA Y OTROS CUENTOS

 

Margarito is eleven years old now and he’s way past believing in Grandpa Ventura’s ghost stories, but he loves listening to them anyway. One evening on his way home from his grandfather’s, Margarito finds himself alone in the gathering dusk, crossing a narrow bridge. Suddenly, a woman in white floats towards him and calls, “Come to me, child … come to me!” He frantically hides in the shallow river, but soon sees a pair of yellow, glowing eyes swimming towards him. Before long, the Donkey Lady and La Llorona are circling each other, fighting to claim poor Margarito as their next victim!

 

Popular storyteller Xavier Garza returns with another collection of eerie tales full of creepy creatures from Mexican-American lore. There are duendes, bald, green-skinned brutes with sharp teeth; thunderbirds, giant, pterodactyl-like things that discharge electricity from their wings during thunderstorms; and blood-sucking beasts that drain every single drop of blood from their victims’ bodies!

 

Set in contemporary times, Garza’s young protagonists deal with much more than just the supernatural: there are chupacabras and drug dealers, witches and bullies, a jealous cousin and the devil. Accompanied by the author’s dramatic black and white illustrations, the short, blood-curdling stories in this bilingual collection for ages 8 – 12 are sure to bewitch a whole new generation of young people.

 

 

KID CYCLONE FIGHTS THE DEVIL AND OTHER STORIES / KID CICLÓN SE ENFRENTA A EL DIABLO Y OTROS CUENTOS

 

Cousins Maya and Vincent are thrilled to be ring side at a lucha libre match. Kid Cyclone, the wrestling world’s favorite hero who also happens to be the kids’ beloved uncle, is facing off against a devil-masked opponent, El Diablo. “No masked devil can beat my uncle. Not even the real devil himself,” declares Maya. But the real devil doesn’t take kindly to such disrespect, and soon Kid Cyclone finds himself fighting the most hellish challenger of all!

 

Popular kids’ book author Xavier Garza returns with another collection of stories featuring spooky characters from Mexican-American folklore. There’s a witch that takes the shape of a snake in order to poison and punish those who disregard her warnings; green-skinned, red-eyed creatures called chupacabras that suck the blood from wild pigs, but would just as soon suck the blood from a human who has lost his way in the night; a young girl disfigured in a fire set by a scorned lover who gets her revenge as the Donkey Lady; and the Elmendorf Beast, said to have the head of a wolf with skin so thick it’s impervious to shotgun blasts.

 

Accompanied by the author’s striking illustrations of the creepy creatures, the hair-raising stories in this bilingual collection for kids ages 8 – 12 are sure to lure even the most reluctant readers into its pages.

 

 

XAVIER GARZA is the author of numerous books for young people, including The Donkey Lady Fights La Llorona and Other Stories / La señora Asno se enfrenta a La Llorona y otros cuentos (Piñata Books, 2015) and six volumes in the Monster Fighter Mystery series / Serie Exterminador de monstruos. He lives with his family in San Antonio, Texas.

Guest Review: Earth, Breath, Light, Corazon Emplumado

Guest Reviewer:  Lisbeth Coiman. Earth, Breath, Light, Corazon Emplumado Healing Ancient Wounds, by Jorge Montaño. La Raiz Magazine, October 15, 2024.

Reading Earth, Breath, Light, Corazon Emplumado by Jorge Montaño turned to be an immersion course in Aztec culture. Part Nahuatl, part Spanish, mostly in English, Jorge Montaño’s most recent poetry collection will take the reader through a spiritual journey across urban Los Angeles into the ancestral lands of the Aztecs.

Jorge Montaño is a Chicano poet from Pacoima, CA. As the byline of his Instagram account indicates, “Le canto a lo que florece,” Montaño is inspired by the concept of xochitl and cuicatl, flor y canto, which is Nahuatl for artistic expression. In 2022, he received La Raiz Poetry Prize for his poem “Sangre Indígena.” 

La Raiz Magazine is a community-based, literary journal located in San Jose, CA. It publishes multilingual poetry and visual art. Under Elizabeth Montelongo’s leadership, La Raiz Press chose Earth, Breath, Light, Corazon Emplumado as their debut poetry collection. It was the perfect choice. In Earth, Breath, Light …, Jorge Montaño brings gorgeous visual imagery of Aztec culture to life in poems that are both healing and defiant, magical and funny, all wrapped in exquisite cover art, now a signature of La Raiz publications.

With the willowing smoke of copalero the speaker invokes the gods: Huehuetotl, Coatlicue, Cuetzpalin, Chalchiutlicue. When the feathered serpent “calls upon the west,” the speaker shows how to keep going one day at the time until the last dance with Ozomatli. Earth, Breath, and Light is where urban Chicanism meets Aztec cosmology, where the dignity of the Pachuco is proclaimed in Nahuatl.

Earth, Breath and Light requires active reading to decode both the ancient and colonizer’s vocabulary: xochitl, huitzitl, coatl, miquiztli, mazatl, tonalli, tochtli, ozomatli, copalero, chavalitos, justicia, antepasados. Once the reader steps into the fascinating ancient symbols they become participants in the spiritual experience and the subtle humor. 

Poems become revelations and at times a joke on the reader. Montaño plays with language in a way that he makes the reader believe the poem will lead to a spiritual revelation, when in fact it leads right to a rock band. 

Jorge Montaño’s wisdom shows in Earth, Breath and Light like divine dust: ”love consults not with fear but flirts with the sacrifice of self.” The woman is at the center of this wisdom, whether in the ancestral Aztec symbols “rooted deep inside her precious garden of Huitzlampa” sprinkled in Nahuatl throughout the collection or in the urban references of Chicanism, “La Catrina gazing out the windows of metallic fire,” “the fragrance of earth mother,” in Van Nuys. This woman is sensual and loving but can lure into death. She “calls us to resurrect.” She is flower and hummingbird, a warrior goddess, healing ancient wounds. 

That’s the power of this brief collection. It educates us in Mesoamerican Ancestry while it stands against colonialism,

“And we too rise.

We have remembered our names. 

We have heard the wind. 

It says to resist.”

I hope you love Earth, Breath, Light Corazon Emplumado as much as I do. 

Link to publisher: https://rootsartistregistry.com/laraiz.html

About the Guest Reviewer:

Lisbeth Coiman is a Southern California poet and a valued panelist in the notable Writing from Our Immigrant Hearts (link) touring venues across California. La Bloga will share the panel's upcoming readings, venues, and dates.

_La mariposa de Jackeline_ en Venecia por Xánath Caraza

_La mariposa de Jackeline_ en Venecia por Xánath Caraza

 Los siguientes poemas y su traducción al italiano fueron presentados en Venecia, Italia, el 2 de noviembre de este año para la celebración y conmemoración de Día de muertos que organiza la artista, y traductora de estos dos poemas al italiano, Concepción García Sánchez.

La mariposa de Jackeline (FlowerSong Press, 2022) de Xánath Caraza celebra y conmemora la vida de Jackeline Caal, la niña guatemalteca de siete años que murió cuando estaba bajo la custodia de US Customs and Border Protection (CBP) el 8 de diciembre de 2018. Jackeline y su padre, Nery Caal, eran parte de un grupo de 163 buscadores de asilo que cruzaron la frontera de Nuevo México el día anterior.  Se entregaron a las autoridades alrededor de las 10 p.m. pero cuando Jackeline comenzó a vomitar y a tener convulsiones, pasaron noventa minutos antes de que ella recibiera ayuda médica profesional.  Los doctores registraron una temperatura corporal de 40.9° C.  Jackeline fue trasladada al hospital infantil en El Paso, Texas, pero ya era demasiado tarde para salvarla.  La presidenta de la Academia Americana de Pediatría dijo que está trágica muerte era “prevenible”.

 A continuación, los poemas y algunas fotos del evento.

 

Jackeline Caal

 

La niñez perdida y la angustia

corren entre los árboles

para escapar por las

vías que conducen

a otra realidad.

 

Perseguidas por los perros

sueltos en este bosque

de niebla, el sol se filtra

para evaporar las pesadillas.

 

Tu cuerpecito en un ataúd,

pequeña niña.

 

Con tan sólo siete años

cruzaste fronteras,

niña maya.

 

Tus ojos cerrados llevan

las flores sagradas.

 

Tus manitas ya no piden maíz.

 

Nadie escuchó tu llanto.

 

Nadie sació tu sed.

 

La mariposa de Jackeline

 

Soñaste con campos abiertos

y el calor de un hogar

en las montañas de niebla.

 

Brazos tejidos te esperan

para envolverte de felicidad.

 

Vas llena de poesía, niña maya.

Tu huipil bordado de mariposas azules.

Tus manitas quietas cargadas de dorados recuerdos.

Tus ojitos cerrados todavía tienen frío.

 

Flor y canto eres, niña hermosa.

 

En estas páginas

una mariposa

con alas de seda

no deja de revolotear.

 

La farfalla di Jackeline di Xánath Caraza (FlowerSong Press, 2022) celebra e ricorda la vita di Jackeline Caal, la bambina di 7 anni originaria del Guatemala, morta quando era sotto la custodia del US Customs and Border Protection (CBP) l8 di dicembre 2018. Jackeline e suo padre Nery Caal, formavano parte di un grupo di richiedenti di asilo che hanno attraversato la frontiera di Nuovo Messico il giorno prima. Si sono consegnati alle autorità attorno alle ore 22, ma quando Jackeline ha cominciato ad stare male, a vomitare e ad avere convulsioni, sono passati ben 90 minuti prima che lei avesse atenzione medica. I dottori hanno registrato una temperatura corporale di 40.9° C. Jackelin é stata portata all'ospedale infantile di El Paso, Texas, ma ormai era troppo tardi. La presidenta dell'accademia americana di pediatria ha confermato che questo decesso era prevedibile.

 

Jackeline Caal

L'infanzia perduta e la angoscia

corrono tra gli alberi

per scapare per le vie che conducono

ad un'altra realtà.

 

Perseguitati da cani

lasciati liberi nel bosco

di nebbia, il sole si filtra

per evaporare gli incubi.

 

Il tuo piccolo corpo dentro una cassa,

piccola bambina.

 

Avevi soltanto 7 anni e hai attraversato le frontiere,

bambina maya.

I tuoi occhi chiusi portano

i sacri fiori.

 

Le tue manine non chiedono più il pane.

 

Nessuno ha dato ascolto al tuo pianto.

 

Nessuno ti ha dissetata.

 

 

La farfalla di Jackeline

 

Sognasti con aperti prati

e una casa calda

nelle montagne di nebbia.

 

Braccia intrecciate ti aspettano

per avvolgerti di felicità.

 

Vai, piena di poesia, bambina maya,

tu huipil ricamato di farfalle blu

le tue manine tranquile, piene di ricordi dorati.

i tuoi occhi chiusi, hanno ancora freddo.

 

Fiori e canto sei, bambina bella.

 

In queste pagine

una farfalla

con le ali di seta

non smette di volare.

 

 

 

The Relevance (?) of Crime Fiction Escapist Literature in Twenty-first Century USA

The following was presented by me at the 8th annual Conferencia Internacional de Literatura Detectivesca en Español (CILDE), also known as the International Hispanic Crime Fiction Conference, on September 22, 2018, on the campus of Texas Tech University in Lubbock, Texas.  It was published on La Bloga on October 26, 2018.  Much has happened since 2018.  The world is not the same, some would say it's much worse and on its last legs.  Nevertheless, I present it here again for what I consider obvious reasons.

____________________________________

THE RELEVANCE (?) OF CRIME FICTION ESCAPIST LITERATURE IN 21ST CENTURY USA

©Manuel Ramos

I thought that today I would offer my views on the relevance, and the possibility of the lack of relevance of genre fiction in today’s chaotic world. Or, as Edmund Wilson said in his infamous essay, “Who cares who killed Roger Ackroyd?”

More specifically, the genre I’m speaking about is crime fiction, and even more specific than that, I’m focusing on Latinx crime fiction: mystery or detective fiction centered in the North American communities of Latino culture.

Not that my opinions are any more legitimate than anyone else. But I do have history with the crime fiction genre: I’ve published in this genre since 1993 -- numerous short stories, ten crime novels, several presentations, panels, Q&A’s, and a lifetime of reading mysteries, detective stories, noir novels, thrillers, and almost every other category of genre fiction that ends up on the book shelves. My comments are rooted in that history.

Brutal, violent crime, unfortunately, is as old as the human race. And so is mystery storytelling. The first murder, the killing of Abel by his brother Cain, was quickly investigated by an amateur detective who tried to solve the mystery. According to the Book of Genesis, God questioned Cain about his missing sibling. He was suspicious from the get-go. After all, at that time in Earth’s history, there was a limited number of potential victims and likely suspects. Apparently, the interview, the original third degree, was so intense that the killer was reduced to whimpering, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” As if to say, “Why is everybody looking at me?”

The story of the Cain and Abel fratricide contains several constructs that a good reader of mysteries should recognize.

For example, jealousy provides the deadly motive. Envy can cause brotherly love to turn into brotherly hate, with bloody consequences.

Or, how about the act itself? Uncontrolled rage results in a cruel death. The killer tries to cover up his sin by acting as though all is calm and peaceful, and feigning ignorance of anything out-of-the ordinary.

The tough-talking detective solves the crime from scarce but important clues, a keen knowledge of human psychology, and the killer’s own mistakes. Punishment is administered, and justice prevails.

So, we could say that not only has crime existed since the human race began. The mystery story itself is just as old. And, of course, the major theme of all crime fiction was there at the beginning: good vs. evil.

Edgar Allan Poe is often credited with inventing the modern detective in his short story, The Murders in the Rue Morgue (1841.) He created Aguste Dupin, a professional detective who uses deductive reasoning to solve a particularly horrific crime, the gruesome murder of a mother and her daughter in a locked upstairs room. According to Ross Macdonald, the North American crime writer who adroitly explored the conflicts and contradictions of middle-class Southern California in the first half and middle decades of the Twentieth Century, Poe devised his detective story as “a means of exorcising or controlling guilt and horror.” Dupin solves the crime with logical reasoning, which seems out of place against the terror and fear generated by the murders of the women. But because he does solve the crime, the balance between good and evil is restored. In a way, civilization triumphs over primitive savagery. The chaos of evil is conquered by rational thought and ingenuity.

Crime fiction can do that.

I think we can agree on some of the other reasons why we read and enjoy crime fiction.

For one, our sense of justice is appeased if the bad man or woman pays for his or her crimes at the end of the book. A satisfying ending gives us closure, resolution, finality. These concepts often are missing in our day-to-day lives of repetitive appointments, missed deadlines, and ever-changing, ever-expanding schedules.

Also, we can easily see ourselves in the starring role of detective as we go from page to page, clue to clue, chapter to chapter, with the secret desire, maybe not so secret, that eventually we ourselves will resolve the mystery and beat the fictional detective to the punch. Identifying the killer before the final paragraph is a reward for careful crime fiction readers. Just as long as the puzzle is not solved too quickly, or too obviously.

And there is the thrill of danger and risk that crime fiction often provides, even if these insecurities exist only in our imaginations, spurred on by the author’s skill. But who doesn’t like a little paranoia at midnight? Who can resist the sense of foreboding brought about by a well-written crime story, the kind of foreboding that has a reader checking the doors and windows, and jumping at every unknown sound or unusual rattle? We like to be anxious, for a few minutes. We even appreciate fear, as long as we know we can close the book, take a deep breath, and make ourselves a drink.

Franz Kafka is not known as a crime fiction writer, but his thoughts on reading and books were certainly hard-boiled. He wrote:

I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow to the head, what are we reading for? So that it will make us happy …? But we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.

That's dark!

Raymond Chandler wrote about another reason we like crime fiction, although his observation went beyond the mystery story.

I’ll quote from his famous essay, The Simple Art of Murder.

All … who read escape from something else into what lies behind the printed page; the quality of the dream may be argued, but its release has become a functional reality. … [People] must escape at times from the deadly rhythm of their private thoughts. It is part of the process of life among thinking beings. It is one of the things that distinguish them from the three-toed sloth …. I hold no particular brief for the detective story as the ideal escape. I merely say that all reading for pleasure is escape …. To say otherwise is to be an intellectual snob, and a juvenile at the art of living.

But here is where the contradictions inherent in my role as a writer of escapist fiction become most apparent, which results, for me, in an inner struggle about my role as a writer, and a measurement of the value of what I create as a writer.

Let me be frank about the context from which I speak. Just for a few minutes I’ll talk about the political situation and the danger that threatens some of our basic assumptions about the United States.

I believe that in the Twenty-first Century, the United States faces a serious and perhaps existential threat from radical political groups and individuals that have marshalled their forces and are engaged in a dismantling of many of the institutions, principals, and beliefs that this country has long supported and promoted. Freedom of speech, religion, and of the press are under unrelenting attack. Racism, in all its various ugly formats, literally parades across the landscape, and in more sinister, subversive acts by powerful men and women. Decades of progress on issues such as gender equality, environmental protection, educational reform, and international relationships have been abandoned, ignored, or reversed. The government has turned its official back on the concept of providing for the general welfare of its citizens, and instead is focused on meeting the needs and desires of the financial elite and the corporate power structure. Lies have become the truth, and facts are irrelevant. Perception controls the stage. Too many of our neighbors, the people next door, hear only what they want to hear. They are too eager to buy into the latest outlandish appeal to the lowest common denominator because such appeals are easier to accept than the painful realization of the phoniness and dishonesty, and threat, of the current reality.

When I sit at my computer, and I try to imagine the next story line, or the latest twist for one of my characters, or the conflict that will move the plot forward, it can be too easy to come to a sudden stop.

It can be too easy to say, “What’s the use, why bother?”

Or, I can tell myself, “These are only stories, fictional creations that mean nothing in the bigger scheme of things.”

Or, “How can I spend my time working on a new book, when there’s so much else to do? I should be organizing on the streets, teaching in the schools, speaking up at meetings, volunteering for actions against the repressive forces that line up against everything I believe in.”

I remind myself that even the mighty Chandler thought crime fiction was merely escapist literature, without any “higher purpose,” and no one was more critical of his art than Chandler himself. He wrote in a letter, “How could I possibly care a button about the detective story as form. All I’m looking for is an excuse for certain experiments in dramatic dialogue.” Talk about being cynical.

On the other hand, I’m also reminded that great art, including literature, has been created in other times of crisis, such as the Great Depression, World War II, the presidency of Richard Nixon.

I also know that Chandler wrote until his death. He drank himself into a fairly early grave, but he didn’t give up the idea of creating, as he said, “emotion through dialogue.” Despite his cynicism, he needed to create.

And so, I often find myself, in the late night, the only light in the house radiating from my computer screen. Earlier, I listened to yet another day’s news of the latest crime against decency committed by the president of the United States and his following of parasites, sycophants, and demagogues. I am, again, tired, frustrated, and insecure. But I tell myself that I need to write a story, maybe a chapter.

Where do I find it, and how do I justify the effort?

One place to start might be in the conclusion of Ralph Rodriguez’s seminal study of Chicana/Chicano detective fiction entitled Brown Gumshoes: Detective Fiction and the Search for Chicana/o Identity. Professor Rodriguez says the following:

There can be no doubt that one reads detective novels, in part, for pleasure. These novels also serve, however, as a significant index of the social, political, and historical features of a culture.

Rodriguez adds to and explains his statement with the rather broad conclusion that “detective novels are about discerning the mysteries of identity. At the heart of their narrative … is the quest to reveal who the criminal is. In a diverse array of mystery novels, however, time and again the detective also unravels a mystery about him- or herself. The novel is as much his or her story as it is the story of the crime.”

And I would add that the best crime fiction is not about crime, but about the people touched by the crime, whether it be the detective, the criminal, or the victim.

Ultimately, my decision to write or read crime fiction must rest on a personal set of values. As a writer, I believe I am obligated to write the stories churning in my head. Fundamentally, I have no choice, and these stories must be honest and real. They must create the emotion that Chandler talked about.

One motive is selfish. I derive satisfaction from creating characters, settings, and story lines that readers will spend time on. Writing satisfies one of my creative urges.

On a bigger scale, away from the personal, crime fiction can reveal the truth, at least as the author understands that truth. One book or one writer cannot express the complete story. We must tell our immigrant stories and our coming-of-age metaphors. We have to write the histories of our communities, praise the unknown heroes, and document the universal and singular passions that are undervalued, or ignored, in today’s United States.

But, sabes qué, ultimately, it doesn’t matter what form the writing takes. We just need to ensure that the writing continues. Our story is too big, too important to be limited to one form. That’s why it is so important for Latinx writers to produce all manner of literature. From children’s’ books to multi-volume memoirs to gritty noir tales from the underground of existence.

Creative energy in the form of writing, including popular culture and genre fiction, can oppose the dark forces loose in the world -- wars, oppression, racism, hatred. The old good vs evil.

Crime fiction can be a form of resistance. In an indirect way, the author can expose social issues confronting the characters. The characters can directly oppose the current situation. A clever writer can blend plot and characters into a view of America that is not the view espoused by the hacks and flim-flam artists who think that America needs to be made “great again.” The writer’s fiction can be part of the resistance.

On a subtler level, crime fiction is inherently revolutionary. The detective, whether a police officer, private investigator, or accidental sleuth, battles against the status quo simply by trying to solve the mystery. In the classic crime fiction manner, the detective knows something is not right and it must be corrected.

In the noir variation of the classic form, the decision to change the situation usually results in serious, and sometimes deadly consequences for the detective, or the anti-hero. Still, he or she plods forward, sometimes aware of the encircling doom, sometimes caught off-guard.

And so, I too will continue to plod forward, struggling with my conflicting emotions, searching for the right character, the best plot, the ultimate caper.

It’s what I do.

____________________________________

Manuel Ramos writes crime fiction. 

Chicanonautica: Re-Entering Trumptopia

 

by Ernest Hogan

A lot of my friends are depressed. I refuse to be. Time to use creativity as a survival tool. When the going gets tough, the tough get creative. Imagination is our superpower.

I will stay informed, but no doomscrolling. There is so much going on right now, a renaissance that is being ignored. I have no time to become addicted to the Donald Trump Horror Picture Show.

I’d rather have the future Harris proposed than the one Trump was selling, but this is the hand we’ve been dealt. Rasquache–the Chicano aesthetic–is all about using what you have, starting from where you are. If you don’t start building the world you want now, others will build one for you.

We have an advantage in this being the second Trump administration. We know what he does and doesn’t do. There were no surprises in his campaign, just the same old clichés. And he never really delivers. What about those mass deportations? And the wall? 

Yeah, there’s the 2025 crew, but they’re all a bunch of wannabe fuhrers without stormtroopers to do the heavy lifting and knock down doors. They’re good at saying things to upset the liberals, but can they make a viable fascist infrastructure? Their ineptitude gives me hope, but there will be chaos.

 

Also, mi raza, we have to get real about Latinos for Trump. They’re not a joke. There’s a lot more in the Latinoid Continuum than dreamt of in your philosophy. Yeah, we aren’t a monolith–we’re an exploding galaxy, and that gets scary. Diversity doesn’t always mean peace, love, and understanding. 

People of all races, ethnicities, and genders believe the modern myth that billionaires can fix the economy and make us all rich. Trump isn’t Bruce Wayne, and there ain’t no such thing as Batman. Bleeding people ask vampires for advice.

I find myself remembering that the Egyptian Book of the Dead warns that in the underworld you will be approached by demons with plates of feces. They will offer them to you to eat. You are supposed to refuse with extreme prejudice. Weird that you have to tell someone that, but throughout the book, it’s repeated, over and over . . .

Now there’s a man saying he can save the country–the world!--and all you have to do is put up with some racist/sexist/Nazi stuff . . .

They say you shouldn’t take what he says seriously. A strange thing to say about someone who once again will be one of the most powerful human beings on the planet. If you can’t trust the president of the United States, who can you trust?

Yeah, I’m getting inspired. Dangerous visions are growing in my brain. I’m gonna be busy.

The world needs Chicano sci-fi more than ever.

Meanwhile, don’t drink the Kool-Aid, and don’t eat the shit.

Ernest Hogan is going to unleash a lot of Chicano sci-fi in the next few years. His dispatches about the first Trump administration can be found in Our Creative Realidades: A Nonfiction Anthology and “Uno! Dos! One-Two! Tres! Cuatro!” a Trump-inspired romp is in Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song: 15 Gonzo Science Fiction Stories.

EL EMPACHO DE ISABEL / ISABEL’S TUMMY ACHE

By Julio Molinete

Illustrations by Claudia Navarro

 

ISBN: 978-1-55885-998-2

Format: Hardcover

Pages: 32

Imprint: Piñata Books

Ages: 5-9

 

This sweet bilingual picture book follows a girl who visits her grandmother and explores the food and customs of her Caribbean island.

 

“I went to Cuba to meet my grandma Macurí,” Isabel tells her classmates when asked about her summer. It was a long trip that involved two planes, a guagua—or bus, a train that carried everything from sugarcane to calves, and even a horse-drawn cart. Finally hugging her Abuelita was the most beautiful moment of her life!

 

Grandma made a cake to celebrate her birthday—and all the others she had missed—and Isabel ate three pieces! The party continued the next day with lots of delicious food, including a mango, oranges, watermelon and an entire pineapple! No wonder that by nightfall, Isabel’s tummy hurt! But her grandmother’s special jar of hugs and kisses, combined with a gentle massage, healed the girl’s aching belly.

 

Drawing on his own memories, Julio Molinete writes about traveling to a rural village in the mountains of Cuba and the natural healing methods practiced there.  Lively illustrations by Claudia Navarro depict the joy of reuniting with far-flung family. This bilingual book for children ages 5-9 will surely encourage them to write about their own summer adventures and time spent with family—while also serving as a cautionary tale against overeating!

 

 

JULIO ANTONIO MOLINETE was born in Manzanillo, Cuba. A poet, storyteller, editor, journalist, documentary filmmaker and researcher, he is the recipient of a Lone Star Emmy Award as a news producer (2019). His books include Mercy Is Named Delilah (Ediciones Laponia, 2020), Brújula quebrada (NEO Club Ediciones, 2017), La Piedad se llama Dalila (Ediciones Bayamo, 2002) and En coche por el Arcoíris (Editorial Sanlope, 2000). His work has been published in anthologies, literary magazines, tabloids, and newspapers in the United States, Chile, Spain, Ecuador, Argentina and Mexico. He teaches Spanish at Louisiana State University.

 

CLAUDIA NAVARRO was born in Mexico City and studied graphic design at the National School of Arts at UNAM. She illustrated El cumpleaños de mi hermana Dulce / My Sister Dulce’s Birthday (Piñata Books, 2022), La Divina Catrina / Oh, Divine Catrina (Piñata Books, 2020) and La Frontera: El viaje con papa / My Journey with Papá (Barefoot Books, 2018).

Gluten-free Pumpkin Spicy. L.A. Lore in Search of a Publisher

Late-Breaking News!! Davis, Califas • Word from Maceo Montoya. The next issue of the Chicana Chicano Literature Journal of Record (link), Huizache, eleventh issue, will be available by November 15. Subscribers be alert for the mail!

Editor's Note: Today's kitchen preparation takes methodical cutting with good knives, but otherwise isn't a challenge even for first-time chile verde makers. The recipe first appeared in La Bloga on September 10, 2013. It was a cold and windy season and there's a heavy cold spell headed our way. Here is comida chicana with elegance, simplicity, and corazón. Get good ingredients, cut everything the same size, use medium to high heat and have fun cooking. You can do friijoles de la olla or refritos at the same time,  make a crisp salad, and heat store-bought torillas de maíz.


The Gluten-free Chicano cooks 
Chile Verde Con Granitos Y Calabaza
Michael Sedano

Company was coming and the Gluten-free Chicano was busy as an agent provocateur at a peace rally. The Gluten-free Chicano wanted something easy but not ordinary. He had the perfect ingredients on the calendar—the day before, Frito Lascano held his annual La Pelada and the Gluten-free Chicano had 30 pounds of roasted Hatch chile in the refrigerator.

The fastest use of freshly-roasted chiles is soup. Remove stems and seeds, chop lightly then whiz in a blender. Add water or broth to keep the blades moving. Make a cup of chile paste. In a saucepan, heat the chile, stirring in broth, milk, half-and-half, or yoghurt, or cream, to produce the thickness you want. Serve in a fancy bowl with a chile ring garnish. Prep time: 10 minutes.

Serving soup is for a less engaged day. I decided to make a variation of Frito’s pumpkin soup. This distinctive stew gets chewiness from granitos (canned white hominy or Mexican style), plus texture from lots of meat. The bit of sweetly aromatic squash adds interest to the mélange of richly spiced vegetables. The chiles determine the chilosoness, so be prepared with habanero or other hot sauce if your chiles are not.

Careful preparation comes out famously. I make enough so guests take home plates and I have leftovers to freeze. This preparation can go inside tamales and tamal season is a cumin in, loud sing hot tamales.

Most Mexican food is normally gluten-free and this pork stew is normal. A non-meat alternative adds cubed papas in place of pork, and reduces cooking time to around half an hour.

Ingredients to serve 20 or freeze for later
3 lb boneless pork
1 bag diced nopales or 2 pencas
2-3 lb roasted green chiles
2 cups white hominy with liquid
2 cups diced orange winter squash; butternut, pumpkin
Fresh cilantro
4 green onions
Onion, garlic, comino, salt

Sharp knives.
Cut everything to the same proportions.
Cube meat and squash to ½” or 1” cubes.
Dice/chop onion and nopales to size of grains of hominy.
Chop the chiles after removing stems and seeds.
Thinly slice 3-6 dientes of garlic.
Slice green onion into 2" pieces, chop greens.

Deep, wide sartén, or large saucepan. Medium flame.
Lightly brown the aromatics and squash.
Add pork and brown.
Add chile and its juice, mix together.
Add granitos and some juice, mix together.
Add green onion
Chop a big pinch of cilantro stems and leaves, sprinkle on top.

Reduce heat to lowest simmer.
Cover and cook two hours, stirring regularly.
If you added too much liquid, slightly uncover lid and it boils off.

When this chile verde is done, the pork is fork-tender, the base viscous and saturated with flavorful liquid.
Serve over steamed rice or puro chile in a bowl and the guests can come and go, walk around the room and talk of Michangelo.

orange squash, white hominy, browned pork, nopales, green chile, green onion

Geneology of A Place In Los Angeles, from a book by Ana Muñiz
Margaret Garcia's studio in Northeast Los Angeles radiates energy onto busy Figueroa Street. Ana Muñiz finds the building housing Garcia's studio has long radiated with energies of exceptional vibrancy. An academic writer, Muñiz' entry into non-fiction literature about Los Angeles will entertain and inform her readers. Today's excerpt is from a book in search of an LA Lit publisher.

The House

(Excerpt from the narrative non-fiction manuscript, The Old Haunt: One Room, Three Lives, and 100 Years of Struggle Over Urban Policing, Violence, and Gentrification by Ana Muñiz)

I fall in love with The House at first sight; white adobe rising out of the earth, topped with a beige Mission-style façade. Built in the 1920s, The House is raised with several steps leading up to the door such that, looking from the inside out, people’s heads barely reach the windows. The ceilings are high. On the east-facing side of The House is a series of five long windows with old latches that swing open to let in the sunshine. In front of these windows is where I put my writing desk. 

The House.

I sign a one-year lease to rent The House in Highland Park on June 9, 2011. I stay for the next 12 years until, one rainy night, The House is destroyed. But all that is far away now, in the summer of 2011, when I construct an altar in the back room of The House with bunches of flowers, candles, and cholla ribs. On the wall above it, I hang a photograph of the desert outside of Tucson and a few line drawings of naked women à la Degas. 

The House is small enough to keep warm from a single gas wall heater in the winter. The tile floors and broad white walls stay cool in the summer. Except for the fireworks when the Dodgers win, it is quiet most of the time. Most importantly, The House is filled with light, as Luis Alberto Urrea would put it, “pure heartbreak light.”[i]

Although L.A. is notoriously not a walking city, I walk a lot, with a dog or on my own, during the day and under the stars at night. When I walk out of my house and head south, I pass an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting space, a mechanic shop, a community art space, a ceramics studio, and then, an unassuming building. This is where the eye settles – a one-story red brick structure divided into five narrow units. Five white doors, lined up like teeth, stare out onto North Figueroa Street. There is an old-fashioned feel to the geometry of this building’s construction; there are two rows of windows across the front, a style from another time, and a door at one end of the building that is angled diagonally to face the center of an intersection. The building is also materially different from everything around it; there is no other bright red brick in sight. Something about it will not let me go. 

The Old Haunt on a foggy early morning.

 

To satisfy my curiosity, I pull up a newspaper archive database and run searches on the five addresses in the brick building, starting with the year 1900 and ending in the present day. What I discover is that over the course of a century, three important events occurred at one specific address in this building: a 1948 armed robbery, a 1983 murder, and a gentrification battle that first exploded in 2008. This one address – one room – will be the touch point to which we repeatedly return for the rest of this book. When facing the building, look at the second to last door from the right. That is the room. I refer to it across time as “The Old Haunt,” but it will take on several different names including the “P.M. Café” and the “Bon Mot.” 

The one-story brick building is constructed in the mid-1930s in the rapidly urbanizing neighborhood of Highland Park. Shortly thereafter, one of the five units – The Old Haunt – debuts as a bar called the P.M. Café. 

In the late hours of April 13, 1948, two men enter the P.M. Café and, after selecting a song on the jukebox, reveal submachine guns. The two men tie up the patrons, staff, and owner, and abscond with all of their cash and jewelry. Through a series of twists and turns over the course of the next twelve years, one of these robbers – Charles Terranova – will be implicated in a precedential California death penalty case that blows open police corruption and prosecutorial misconduct. The fallout from The Old Haunt robbery affects Terranova for the rest of his life, and today, Terranova’s son still reckons with his father’s memory.

In the 1970s, the P.M. Café transforms into the Bon Mot, an underground gay bar. In the 1980s, two men meet and fall in love here, sitting across the bar from one another. During a robbery on the sidewalk outside of the Bon Mot, one of these men, named Robert “Bobby” Brown, is murdered. In the wake of Bobby’s death, his friends and family confront a coldly indifferent police department, build a movement, and memorialize Bobby’s life by literally embedding his name and memory into The Old Haunt’s architecture. Thirty-five years after his death, those who loved Bobby return to The Old Haunt in order to heal their grief and hold the Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD) accountable.      

In the late 1990s, the Bon Mot closes and a renowned artist named Margaret Garcia takes up the space as her studio. She swears a restless haunting presence lingers, perhaps as a result of past violence at the location. The presence plays in the water, turning the faucets on and off at night. A friend comes to visit her new studio, looks around and shouts, “I know this place! I used to come here! I remember falling drunk out the door of this place!” Margaret’s friend knew The Old Haunt in its previous iteration as the Bon Mot. Margaret makes peace with the presence and for the next couple of decades, paints, in electric color, the often-overlooked people and places around her. She paints palm trees on fire, street vendors, bars along Figueroa, and the original inhabitants of the land that became L.A. She warns me that her art is sharp, it can cut.

Margaret and I meet in person for the first time in 2022, the same year she paints a sliver of The Old Haunt in Night on Figueroa Street, and not long before a series of floods takes my house. The rains will threaten her studio too, and all the memory it contains. The Old Haunt will be threatened by other forces as well – gentrification, protest movements, political upheaval, and competing business interests. 

The single room of The Old Haunt is an architectural palimpsest; the people who have walked in and out of its door, over the course of 100 years, have left their trace. We can excavate these long-forgotten memories. We can talk to their ghosts.  

One room holds incredible stories. 

---

[i] Luis Alberto Urrea, Nobody’s Son (Tucson, AZ: The University of Arizona Press, 1998), p. 160.

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About the Author:

Ana Muñiz is Associate Professor of Criminology, Law & Society at UC Irvine. Ana grew up in Tucson, Arizona and lives in Los Angeles, California. She is the author of Police, Power, and the Production of Racial Boundaries (Rutgers University Press, 2015) and Borderland Circuitry: Immigration Surveillance in the United States and Beyond (University of California Press, 2022).