Friday, April 24, 2026

Poetry in Parks at the Presidio Chapel

 Melinda Palacio, Santa Barbara Poet Laureate 2023-2025

 


There’s been no shortage of great poetry events this year. I was happy that the event I cohost, along with Scott Green, archaeologist with California State Parks, Poetry in Parks was one of our best out of the past three years. The two-hour program brought an evening of music and poetry. The Ladies Social Strumming Club opened the show and the Gruntled played at the halfway mark. Poet Stephanie Barbé Hammer and myself both played with the Strumming Club and read poetry. Fifteen-year old Alicia Blanco Bautista of Righetti High School read Poema 20 by Pablo Neruda, followed by Port Hueneme poet Lori Anaya. Interspersed were three more poets laureate: Santa Barbara’s George Yatchisin, Emma Trelles, and West Hollywood Poet Laureate Jen Cheng. Earlier this year, founder of Poetry in Parks, Scott Green received the Director’s Trailblazing Award from California State Parks for developing this program. Since the Presidio is Santa Barbara’s state park, the program took place at the Presidio Chapel last Friday, April 17. Funding for state parks has been gutted by the current administration, but we will continue to hold space for poetry in our state parks. 
 

 

The poets



Scott Green

audience at the Presidio Chapel

Poets Melinda Palacio and Lori Anaya 

The Gruntled

 

The Ladies Social Strumming Club

Melinda Palacio, Stephanie Hammer, Maria Cincotta 



Melinda Palacio

Founder of the Ladies Social Strumming Club, Maria Cincotta 

Alicia Blanco Bautista

Lori Anaya

Jen Cheng

 

Thursday, April 23, 2026

War is a Racket

                                                                                        
Story of a highly paid military hitman

"The First World War, boys, it came and it went/ the reason for fightin' I never did get/ but I learned to accept it, accept it with pride/ for you don't count the dead when God's on your side."
                                                                Bob Dylan, "With God on Our Side" 

 “We submit to pragmatists, profiteers, and the paranoiacs who insist that war is part of our humanity, our identity.” 
                                                               Viet Thanh Nguyen, The Sympathizer 

“I spent thirty-three years and four months in active military service…most of my time being a high-class muscleman for Big business, for Wall Street and for Bankers. In short, I was a racketeer, and gangster for capitalism.” 
                                                               Gen. Smedley Butler, USMC, War is a Racket 

 “Theirs is not to reason why/theirs is but to do and die.” 
                                                              Alfred Lord Tennyson, Charge of the Light Brigade 

I’ve spent a good deal of my academic career studying war, and the literature of war, its contradictions and paradoxes, and the idea of fighting wars, young men and women dying, society suffering and never knowing why. Maybe that’s why armies encourage teenagers to enlist. They’re easier to manipulate and control, to convince dying in combat is honorable. They rarely ask intelligent questions about politics or about the reasons societies go to war, which adults usually wrap up in a soundbite, “For Liberty.” “For God and Country.” “So, we don’t have to fight on our soil.” “They’re communists.” “They’re fascists.” “They’re evil. “They’re crazy.” “Those people don’t value life like we do.” 

After the attack on the World Trade Center, Bush and Cheney blamed Saddam Hussein and tasked their administration to find Iraq’s weapons of mass destruction. When neither international nor administration experts could find WMD’s, Cheney, Rumsfeld, and Colin Powell created a story. They showed the American public, and the world, grainy black and white photos of trucks carrying huge tubes and claiming those were the so-called “smoking guns,” obviously to be used for, none other, than WMD’s to destroy their enemies. Hussein is an evil madman. “Shock and Awe” followed. It mesmerized Americans and proved that nobody should mess with us. 

I was teaching at Santa Monic College, at the time, a placid campus just blocks from the Pacific Coast. The war machine was gearing up. Funny, we thought Vietnam would be our final war, having caused so much havoc in American life, tearing apart families and friends. If politicians even thought about going to war, say like in Central America, the public would say, “Oh, no, not another Vietnam.” 

I’d walk across the quad and see Army and Marine recruiters set up shop right next to university representatives who were there to provide transfer information to students. As a Vietnam veteran, I knew the game, so I saw it as my duty to convince students to stay in school, transfer, and earn their degrees before making life-changing decisions, like joining the military. So many of our students travelled to the coast from the inner city, to experience a different environment, start fresh, and strive for entrance to a campus from the University of California.

I noticed the military recruiters, mainly African American and Latinos, in sharp, crisp uniforms, aggressively going after Latino and Black students, in a couple of cases actually chasing down anyone who gave them a second glance. They weren't trying to get the students to finish school then enlist. They wanted students to quit school and enlist ASAP. University recruiters normally sit passively at tables, under banners emblazoned with their campus name, colorful brochures in neat piles, waiting for students to ask questions. 

One time in particular, I listened to military recruiters promising students world, travel, job training, Officer Candidate School, free education on the G.I. Bill, and adventure, but not a word about the “conflicts” brewing in the Middle East. I approached the military recruiters, telling them I was a Vietnam veteran, so I knew things about the military and war. I’d say, “You know, we're trying to get these students into universities. Most of what you’re promising them is false. You aren't telling them about Afghanistan and Iraq or about having to meet your recruitment quota each year or you’ll lose your recruiting job and get sent back to some crap job.” 

I tried to sound respectful but honest. They might have already been to war. I felt a certain connection to them, ironically, and I still had esteem for the uniform and the best of what it represented. They said something like, “Look, Professor, we’re just doing our job,” which I understood, but how many students would buy their sales’ pitch. quit school, and find out the truth, too late that it was all a lie? 

Many of my students knew I was a veteran. Some had read the stories I’d published about my time in Vietnam. One, in particular, told me he was considering joining the Marines and what did I think. “Don’t do it,” I leveled with him, saying most of their promises wouldn’t come true. He’d more than likely find himself in a Humvee patrolling the streets of Fallujah, and, possibly, die for nothing. 

He was a good student, high grades, and a bright future. He said he was ready to sign the enlistment papers. I begged him to think carefully about it, to talk to his parents, first. There was no glory in death. I'd learned the hard way.  He said if he died in combat that was just a part of being in the military. That’s when I knew I’d lost him. I found out later he hadn't passed the physical to be a navy seal.

I joined a group of faculty members who lobbied to keep military recruiters off campus. I spoke to student clubs to start protesting and get the military recruiters off campus. I attended administration meetings asking the campus administrators to support the ban. On Fox News, before he got canned, a popular television host called teachers like me traitors for discouraging college student from joining the military. To ban military recruiters from campus was un-American. Yet, this particular "mouthy" host, born in 1949, draft age during Vietnam, avoided the draft by staying in college, and even travelled to London to study, as far from the draft as possible, like other political war mongers and masters of war who dodged the military when they had the chance to prove themselves. the height of hypocrisy. 

The Bush administration threatened to withhold government subsidies from any institution of higher education who did not admit recruiters on to their campuses. Then, little by little, the media began publishing stories coming out of the Middle East. Nobody knew what to believe, whether Saddam Hussein was responsible for 9-11 or a Saudi businessman, Osama Bin Laden and his terrorist organization Al Qaeda, killing 3,000 people. 

Most Americans had no idea about Sunnis, Shiites, Wahabi, or a myriad of other Muslim factions in the Middle East, which were allies and which were enemies. Like Vietnam, wars in the Middle East had been fought by war lords, business interests, religions, and puppet governments going back generations. England, France, Germany, and European Zionists had planted their footprints in the old Ottoman Empire going back to the 1800s, and because of it, Americans, and hundreds of thousands of innocent Afghanis and Iraqis were dying, and for what? 

It took another twenty years to finally get out, leaving the Middle East in chaos, worse than Vietnam, and still, nobody could answer that question, why? except the a new crop of mercenary armies, weapons manufacturers, and military equipment contractors, who walked away making billions of dollars in profits, giving rise to war profiteers, like Haliburton and Blackwater, whose employees earned hundreds to thousands of more dollars than the soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines doing the fighting and dying. 

Eventually, the military recruiters disappeared from campus, but now, as a new war ramps up, by a president who promised “No more forever wars.” He criticized Bush and Cheney, called them war criminals. Yet, how soon he changed. The bombs are falling again. The names change, from Hanoi, Gulf of Tonkin, Bagdad, Islamabad to Tehran, Strait of Hormuz, Gaza, Israel's Existence, and Two State Solution. Yet, the ones who start it, the brains at the top, the masters of war, sit behind their desks, their own children protected by their parents’ positions, and the rest believe the fear tactics: Communism, Domino Theory, WMD’s, and Nuclear Bomb, excuses or more reasons to kill and profit, big-time. 

All this got me to thinking about friends who never made it home from Vietnam, Wayne Podlesnik, a handsome, lady’s man, a real charmer from a steel town in Pennsylvania, Nathaniel Dabon, a buck sergeant, a husband and a new father, from Chicago, and a guy we knew only as Mac, something of a hustler, but a joker with a great laugh, all fighting for their lives as NVA and VC forces overran our fire base. They all died on that hill outside Tam Ky. They weren't there for anything patriotic or altruistic, just pawns in a war, not even a war, a "conflict," doing their duty, and fulfilling Tennyson’s line, “Theirs is not to reason why, theirs is but to do and die.”

Wednesday, April 22, 2026

On the Wings of la Noche

Written by Vanessa L. Torres


*Publisher: Knopf Books for Young Readers

*Language: ‎English

*Print length: ‎352 pages

*ISBN-10: ‎0593426177

*ISBN-13: ‎978-0593426173

*Reading age: ‎12 - 17 years


Noche is a Lechuza by night, an ethereal jet-black owl who guides the dead to the afterlife. Except now, Noche cannot bring herself to escort her dead girlfriend, whose soul is fading the harder Noche holds on—an aching romance about first and second loves and finding the strength to let go.

Death waits for Estrella (Noche) Villanueva. In her human form, she is a lonely science girl grieving the tragic accidental drowning of her girlfriend, Dante Fuentes. At night, she is a Lechuza who visits her dead girlfriend at the lake, desperate for more time with her. The longer Dante’s soul roams the earth, the more likely it is that she will fade into the unknown, lost forever, but Noche cannot let go . . .

That’s when a new kid comes to town, Jax, another science nerd like Noche. They connect in a way she can’t ignore, seemingly pulled together by an invisible thread. For the first time, Noche begins to imagine a life without Dante. As Noche’s heart begins to beat for two people, her guilt flares. Then, she finds herself at risk of losing both Jax and Dante, and Noche is forced to question her purpose as a lechuza and everything she has ever believed in.



Review


A New York Public Library Best Book of 2025

An International Latino Award Gold Medal Winner

A Pura Belpré Author Award Winner

A YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults Book of the Year


"This tearjerker by Torres is exceptional in its meditation on grief, healing, and the pain of moving on. Its poignant and in-depth portrayal of teenage love is sure to win readers’ hearts." —Publishers Weekly, starred review

"This folklore-inspired story is sure to captivate anyone who has experienced loss and looked for hope." —Booklist, starred review

"A lyrical, tender, and insightful exploration of death, love, and the Mexican American experience."  —Kirkus Reviews

"A haunting tale that mixes in supernatural and paranormal themes with what it means to love once more after losing a special someone."  —School Library Journal



Vanessa L. Torres is a Mexican American author, an adventure seeker, and a mom to a flashlight-under-the-covers-reader. She is a thirty-year veteran of the fire service and is equally proud to call her herself an author. Her debut young adult novel, The Turning Pointe, released in 2022. When she's not writing, she balances her time between anything outdoors, and spending time with her family close to home in the beautiful Pacific Northwest.





Tuesday, April 21, 2026

Latino Leaders Speak, Seen At a Book Festival

Who’s Next? Leaders Learn As They Grow

Review: Mickey Ibarra and María Pérez-Brown, eds. Latino Leaders Speak, Vol. II. Personal Stories of Struggle and Triumph. Houston: Arte Publico Press, 2025. ISBN: 979-8-89375-025-6

Michael Sedano


What do you get when people on upward career trajectories gather to listen to a speech given by someone of notable achievement talk about themselves and how they got to the top? If you do so regularly you get a collection of speeches like Mickey Ibarra and María Pérez-Brown’s collection, Latino Leaders Speak, from Houston’s Arte Publico Press (link).

 

The collection of twenty-five speeches aren’t oratory but communal, comfortable discourse of an achiever among peers, gente who come from ranks of elected officials, policy makers, corporate executives, opinion leaders, community activists, industry experts, and political insiders.

The collection will be useful to young adult readers on the verge of making career decisions. It’s not that any kid aims to become president of San Diego State University, or Governor of New Mexico, or a White House Deputy Chief of Staff, but somewhere between ninth grade and the first job out of college, those people found the right way to get there. 

 

A collection of talks like this, successful raza at pinnacles of authority and comfort, give readers insight into lifelong habits and career strategies to emulate or reject. Some of the speakers come from farm labor, others from middle-class comfort. Common consejos and observations emerge from the readings: leaders like these found within themselves the ganas to take risks, depend on mentors, didn’t forget familia and where they’re from. The preacher calls out the vital importance of public speaking to a leader’s abilities, a skill each of the other keynoters should have credited as well. 

This collection emerges from collaboration between Arte Publico and Latino Leaders Network (link) https://www.latinoleadersnetwork.org The 20 year-old nonprofit dedicates itself to networking among diverse business professionals in various cities via luncheons, awards, and other networking events. Latino Leaders Speak comes from luncheons between 2009 and 2024.

Useful as this collection appears, it’s flawed by the absence of women. Among the 25 luncheon honorees who make it into the book, only three women make the list. Theirs are among the most effective readings in the collection, more’s the loss.

Coincidentally, the first essay comes from California gubernatorial candidate Xavier Becerra (the collection is alphabetized), whose 2009 speech pays tribute to the first Chicano elected to Congress, Esteban Torres. The speech establishes Becerra’s ethos as a respectful, humble, loving father who cares about healthcare and immigrants. Not a bad campaign ad for the rising-in-the-polls Chicano.

While the book’s emphasis is political and elected leadership, there’s also Raiders coach Tom Flores, musician Emilio Estefan, actors Tony Plana and Edward James Olmos, and community activist Rev. Luis Cortés, Jr.

You can order copies from Libromobile, your local indie bookseller, or Arte Publico. Volume I in the series is free via Latino Leaders Network's website.

Scenes From The 2026 Los Angeles Times Festival of Books 

Surface rail from Pasadena to the University of Southern California makes travel a breeze. At 35 cents for seniors, it's also a travel bargain that can't be beat. Those centavitos we save on transportation come in handy when a vendor charges siete bolas for an agua fresca. 

The Times runs a razacentric section it calls De Los (link). It's the festival's first stage and book display area, just where the crowd enters campus. It's a prime spot for foot traffic and that's what's happening.

A mariachi group takes the stage. These are high school students from South Gate, a working class community. Little kids filter out from the audience to sit at the foot of the stage to soak in the cultura from musicians not too much older than the attentive chamacos. It's heart-warming and invigorating seeing these young people in fancy traje I hope the school provides, playing and singing solos. Ajua!

I'm with Thelma Reyna and as we enter the bookseller area we spot Reyna Grande's new book. Thelma tells me she's seen Grande's social media spots where Reyna is sewing a glorious jacket mirroring the book jacket. "Isn't that Reyna?" Thelma says. Sure enough, the brilliant yellow jacket and matching hat can't be missed.


Or, maybe not. Reyna Grande stands back from the display where readers stare at the yellow flowered cover of Migrant Heart (link), unaware the woman standing behind them is the author wearing her textile rendering of la portada of Migrant Heart, Essays About Things I Can't Forget. 

I imagine it's a typical occurrence at book fairs, authors mixing with readers free from trappings of celebrity.

Sunday, April 19, 2026

National Poetry Month: Poetry Reading 2026 by Xánath Caraza

National Poetry Month: Poetry Reading 2026 by Xánath Caraza

 


Para cerrar el National Poetry Month de este año, el 30 de abril, en línea, tendremos una celebración poética con Golda Solomon, poeta laureade de Yonkers, NY y Xánath Caraza. La cita es a las 7 p.m. hora centro y habrá que registrarse por adelantado. Este evento está apoyado por el UMKC Intercultural Dialogue Student Association y el Dialogue Institute of Kansas City. 

Esperamos su asistencia.

 

Golda Solomon

Xanath Caraza

When: Thursday, April 30, 2026 @ 7.00 p.m. CST

Where: Zoom (Registration in advance needed):

Registration (in advance):                                                                

https://umsystem.zoom.us/meeting/register/AzHRel02S56FVAHX2vpeLA

 




 

Friday, April 17, 2026

Burgled and Grateful

BEING GRATEFUL...FOR WHAT WE DON’T HAVE

Thelma T. Reyna

 

Our hearts sank when we entered our home near midnight

and realized that something was wrong.

 

It had been a magnificent Saturday night. My son and I had attended a glittering, art-filled community mixer. We drove home happily reflecting on the camaraderie and epicurean delights that suffused the magical evening.

 

But when we walked into our empty house, we noticed all the lights were on. We saw the back sliding door wide open, its curtains billowing into darkness. The side door was ajar. I stepped on a long, splintered piece of wood on the kitchen floor. 

 

We realized that our home had been broken into.

 

The Scene of the Crime

 

Somebody—more than one individual, judging by evidence—had kicked in the side door leading to our kitchen. The door’s deadbolt and doorknob were destroyed, along with half of the door jamb and part of the adjoining wall, where the deadbolt had been ripped out of the frame. The floor around the door was littered with twisted nails, jagged wood, and pieces of brass from the locks. 

 

We went cautiously room through room after phoning the sheriff. We avoided touching anything, hoping the intruders had left fingerprints. They had been everywhere: open drawers and closet doors, clothing dangling from hangers and strewn on the floor, purses and bags thrown on beds and dressers, two jewelry boxes askew on a bed and a table. I noticed that several pairs of my gold earrings were gone.

 

Then my heart sank further: my son’s safe was stolen. Concealed in a corner of his closet, the small safe contained part of his silver coin collection and several of his registered guns. He estimated the value of this loss at over $9,000. The safe, when empty, had required two strong men to carry. Filled as it was, it would have weighed almost 200 pounds. We learned the following day that the thieves had stolen a dolly from our backyard and apparently used this to haul the safe out of the house and through a chained, but not securely locked, driveway gate. 

 

We were stunned. We have lived in our home for 40 years and never been burglarized, though some neighbors have been. For most of those years, our family has had large dogs that guarded our gate faithfully and probably frightened away the same thieves who targeted neighbors. We always considered ourselves lucky. 

 

 

Measuring the Damage

 

We no longer had a dog. It cost us almost $2,000 to repair the door and concomitant damage and install high-security locks. It took two men half the day, one man the full day, to put things aright again: the king’s men bringing wholeness.  Four deputy sheriffs, at different points, came to our home to assess the damage and interrogate. A detective came on the fourth day. 

 

My son and I were most concerned about the three guns in his safe, and the danger to our community if the safe were cracked by the thieves. Where might the guns end up?  Will these thieves return to our home—now that they knew “the lay of the land”—armed with my son’s guns, to finish the job? There were valuables they had seen but, for whatever reason, had not stolen.

 

For several days afterward, we feared to leave our house. What if they’ll break in through a window? We need to let them see that the house is occupied. But we also feared being home. What if they come in the middle of the night? What if, indeed, they come back with guns? 

 

We felt violated. The security we had relished for years in our house, which we lock even when we’re home, vanished that night. In a quest to feel whole again, to feel safe again, we installed a whole-house alarm system.

 

Deep Gratefulness...For What Didn’t Happen

 

Afterward, my son and I discussed what might have been. We had much cause for gratitude: we weren’t home when the thieves came; no children were present; many items of sentimental value that could have been taken, weren’t.  In 40 years of safety, we’d become complacent, as our inadequate driveway gate proved. But we’re wiser now, withoutfalse notions of inviolability.

 

Were the thieves amateurs? Very likely. Were they rushed for time? Also likely. They could have vandalized walls, floors, mirrors, and furniture; but, aside from the point of entry, no physical damage occurred. We are grateful for this.

 

In short, we are grateful for what we don’t have:  immense damage and losses, a ruined home. We have a violated  home, a transgressed  home, which is heart-breaking enough. But we didn’t lose a home. Or a life.

 

And for that, we are deeply grateful.

 


Thursday, April 16, 2026

Chicanonautica: The Moon, Mars, and Chicanos

by Ernest Hogan



Earthlings are going to the Moon again, and it’s not just white male AngloAmericanos this time. And my feelings are . . . weird.


I was a fan of the Space Program ever since I went crying to my parents “there’s no cartoons on TV, just a big chile in the sky,” and my dad explained to me that it was John Glenn going into space, for real.

My little mind was blown. Reality and what was and wasn’t possible transmogrified for me. I was launched on the bizarre trajectory that I’m hurtling along today.


Just before Covid, Diego F. Jauregui, a 12F Fellow of the Smithsonian’s National Air Space Museum Space History Department, interviewed me. I guess it was to make up for a shortage of Chicano astronauts.


I never became an astronaut and don’t consider myself a poet, though Guillermo Gomez-Pena called me “ a Chicano SCI-Fi poet” and I admit that does describe me well though I don’t set out to commit acts of poetry on purpose—it seems to be in my DNA.


The crew of the Artemis II mission doesn't have any Chicanos, or Latinos, or even Hispanics, though they did take 58 tortillas, because they don’t make crumbs like bread. It has a Black pilot, a woman, and a Canadian who, though not Indigenous, has connections with the Anishinaabe and Manitoba nations.


Back on Earth, Chicano have been writing poetry about space and the future.


What would Ray Bradbury think?



Pedro Iniguez’ Mexicans on the Moon: Speculative Poetry from a Possible Future won the 2024 Horror Writers Association’s Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in Poetry and has been getting recognition beyond what you’d expect for a book of poems. He’s also in Xicanxfuturism: Gritos for Tomorrow / Codex I


More recently, Juan Manuel Pérez–another Xicanxfuturism Codex I contributor–has come out with a Bury My Heart Under the Martian Sky. Being the author of a series of stories about a Tejano mariachi on a colonized Mars (one of which will be in Xicanxfuturism Codex II coming soon, stay tuned . . .), I felt I had to look into it. Besides, it has a great cover by Kolega Soberanis.



I was impressed. These poems show that the days when I was afraid that there was some kind of conspiracy against nonwhite/nonAnglos getting out into space are over. They give a vision of a future from a Chicano viewpoint, with roots in PreColombian mythology, showing a relationship to the Earth and the universe that provides a needed alternative to the capitalist/colonialist propaganda that has dominated science fiction and the popular imagination well into this current century.


[Insert mariachi grito here]


Chicanos are creating new futurisms with the infusion of and creation of a New Chicano Dream.


I have a feeling Coyolxauhqui the Mexica and Ixchel Mayan goddesses of the Moon are smiling.


Coyolxāuhqui - Wikipedia 


Ernest Hogan is doing his duties as the Father of Chicano Science Fiction while working on making his Paco Cohen, Mariachi of Mars stories into a novel, and waiting for Xicanxfuturism Codex II to come out as deranged leaders promise to destroy civilizations overnight.