Poetry Connection: National Poetry Month in Santa Barbara and Santa Paula

  

Melinda Palacio, Santa Barbara Poet Laureate 2023-2025

Poetry at Vita Arts in Ventura

April is packed with poetry. On any given day there might be more than one poetry event to celebrate National Poetry Month. Ventura County got the ball rolling early with their poetry festival at the end of March. Last weekend, I managed to attend the monthly reading at the Vita Arts Center. Two poets laureate were featured: Ventura Poet Laureate Mary McFadden and Millenial Poet Laureate David Olivera. It was a perfect balmy day for listening to poetry outdoors. Next month’s features at the Vita Art Center include Carol Davis and Caron Perkal; make sure to find the not-so-secret back entrance from the parking lot, May 3 at 3pm.

Yesterday, I joined local author Stephanie Barbé Hammer, along with Rich Ferguson and Kathleen Florence from Los Angeles. If you picked up a copy of last week’s Santa Barbara Independent, you might have seen the announcement for our reading at Chaucer’s Books Thursday, April 9 at 6pm. Coordinating the schedules of four poets and a bookstore is no easy feat. Thanks to Stephanie and Chaucer’s Michael Takeuchi for wrangling us poets and making this event possible. There’s also an interview in the Santa Barbara Indpependent, where I answer Tiana Molony’s questions about poetry month and my first full-length poetry book, How Fire Is a Story, Waiting. I am looking forward to hearing our guest poets, as well as Stephanie, who reads her own work very well. Her words will inspire your own poems and stories. Chaucer’s now has a dedicated space with chairs for events, a welcome improvement to their book events.

A new venue for me is the Blanchard Library in Santa Paula. The librarian contacted me and asked if I would offer a presentation on my poetry for their Latino Poetry Program. On Saturday, April 11 at 11 am, I will share some of my poetry and original songs on guitar and ukulele. A monthly open mic follows from noon to 2pm. 

 

What’s become one of my favorite poetry month events, Poetry in Parks, returns this year. Last month, State Archeologist and poet Scott Green received the Director’s Award from California State Parks for creating Poetry in Parks. Santa Barbara’s state park is the Presidio. By assisting with curating the event, I have been able to bring together other groups that I am involved in. Last year, we had Rosal Ortega Flamenco. I met Rosal Ortega at a birthday party on the beach and was convinced to take her adult flamenco dance class. It’s a lot of fun. This year, the Ladies Social Strumming Club will play a few songs. Our other musical act is The Gruntled, aka Mark Zolezzi. We will also have two youth poets, Takunda Chickowero and last year’s Poetry Out Loud winner, Alicia Bautista Blanco, who will perform a Pablo Neruda poem in Spanish. Additional poets include Stephanie Barbé Hammer, Lori Anaya and Santa Barbara’s Poet Laureate George Yatchisin, Poet Laureate Emerita, Emma Trelles, and West Hollywood Poet Laureate Jen Cheng. Poetry in Parks, a free community event, takes place on Friday, April 17, 5:30-7:30pm at the Presidio Chapel, 123 E. Canon Perdido Street. 

 

Poetry in Parks, Friday, April 17 at 5:30 at the Presidio Chapel

 

 

The Ladies Social Strumming Club

 

Take advantage of all the poetry month offerings.

National Poetry Month Events:

Saturday, April 11

Authentic Latina Voices. Poetry, Song, and Storytelling. How to bring your most authentic sef to the stage and page with Santa Barbara Poet Laureate Emerita, Melinda Palacio. Saturday, April 11 from 11 to Noon at the Blanchard Community Library in Santa Paula. There will also be an open mic from noon to 2pm.

Sunday, April 12

The Poetry Zone. Monthly poetry reading and open mic, hosted by Bjorn Birnir at the Karpeles Manuscript Museum, 1:30 pm.

Monday, April 13

Tim Seibles Reads. Celebrated poet, Tim Seibles, reads at the Unity Chapel, 227 E. Arrellaga Street, 5 to 7 pm, host Laure-Anne Bosselaar, will also read. $5 donation.

Tuesday, April 14

Lowstate Writing Salon. Writing Community at the Blue Owl, 7pm.

Wednesday, April 15

12^th Annual “Spirits in the Air: Potent Potable Poetry,” The Good Lion. Santa Barbara Poet Laureate George Yatchisin curates this reading. Hear local poets read poems about their favorite drinks, 4:30-6:30, no host bar, The Good Lion, 1212 State Street. Featured Poets: Clayton E. Clark, Mason Granger, Justin Graham Hoops, Rebecca Horrigan, Amy Michelson, Diana Raab, Linda Saccoccio, Jason Scrymgeour, David Starkey, and host George Yatchisin.

Thursday, April 16

The Montecito Poetry Club. The group discusses the work of poet Danusha Lameris Thursday morning, 10-11:30 am, Montecito Library, 1469 E Valley Rd, Montecito.

Friday, April 17

Poetry in Parks at the Presidio Chapel. A poetry month presentation in Santa Barbara’s only State Park, the Presidio. An evening of poetry and music, featuring the Gruntled, the Ladies Social Strumming Club, poets include Lori Anaya, Stephanie Barbé Hammer, Takunda Chickowero, Alicia Bautista Blanco, Jen Cheng, George Yatchisin, Emma Trelles and hosts: Melinda Palacio and Scott Green of California State Parks. Free community event Friday, April 17 from 5:30 -7:30pm, the Presidio Chapel, 123 E. Canon Perdido Street.

Saturday, April 18

Solvang’s Celebration of National Poetry Month. The Elverhoj Museum of History and Art presents poets Dorothy Jardin, Carey McKinnon, Jeff McKinnon, Teresa Mc Neil MacLean, and Cynthia Carbone Ward, at the Elverhoj Museum in Solvang, 4pm.

Sunday, April 19

Poetry Club. A welcoming space to share the art of poetry. Read your own poems or your favorite poems, discuss and explore the poems in a positive environment at the Goleta Community Center, 5679 Hollister Avenue, Goleta, CA 93117. Free monthly event, sponsored by the Goleta Valley Library.

Sunday, April 19

Let’s Chat About Poetry. Host Laure-Anne Bosselaar asks that you bring in a favorite poem to that you love (not written by ) bo be read for poetry month. The domecil Studio, 1223 State Street, Santa Barbara, 4-5 pm, free.

Friday, April 24

Open Mic & Art Gallery/Noche de micrófono abierto y galeria de arte. All are welcome at the library’s open mic. Secure your spot by April 10, Central Library, 40 E Anapamu, 6-7:30 pm.

Wednesday, April 29

An Evening with Martin Espada. An evening with Award-winning poet Martín Espada, UCSB Campbell Hall, 7:30 pm.

 

*an earlier version of this column was published in the Santa Barbara Independent 

Young and Stupid

                                                                                        

A car and books

   President Johnson had just announced he was sending more than 100,000 troops to Southeast Asia to join the 185,000 troops already there. It was the first major escalation of the war. When Aaron Alvarez told his parents he’d signed the papers to join the army, he saw tears begin to form in the corner of his mother’s eyes. She struggled to find the right words. “You’re not even nineteen, yet. It’s dangerous, right now, with everything going on.” He could tell she was trying to be strong, but the pain on her face was evident. She asked, “Why?” 

     His dad lowered the newspaper and sat back quietly on the couch. Deep wrinkles formed across his forehead, a look of disgust. “We didn’t sacrifice and pay for Catholic school for you to go join the army. What about college?” 

     "I can start college on the G.I. Bill, after..."

     Aaron didn’t recall much else about the conversation, other than saying something about wanting independence, making his own decisions, and needing adventure, not sitting, bored, four more years in a classroom. Neither of his parents had gone to college, so they really couldn’t argue the point. His dad, a WWII combat veteran, responded, “In the army? Make your own decisions?” He shook his head. “Stupid. You’re just a kid. You don’t know nothing about it.” 

     A month passed. He saved up money working a part-time job at a clothing store, cleaning up after closing time. His friends decided to have one last drinking party. One of the guys got his older brother-in-law to buy three six-packs of Schlitz. They ended up at a local park. It was late. Most of the lights were out. They drank and talked, mostly about girlfriends, cars, and all the partying they’d done that summer. It was all coming to an end.

     Sal Torres and Kenny Woodhouse had both joined the Marines, the same day Aaron joined the army, kind of a pact. Sal and Kenny came from broken homes, so to their mothers, their decision to join was more about one less kid in the house, one less mouth to feed, one less kid running the streets. 

     Aaron had been a good student in school, the only Catholic school kid in the bunch, so the guys figured he was going to college. He volunteered for jump school, to be a paratrooper like his dad and uncles, glamorous and exciting. None of his other friends thought any of it glamorous, not the military or the war. When Carlos "Charley" Montoya, lead singer for the group Fantastic Plastic heard, he said, "Dumb, brother, a dumb move you ask me." The rest had bunk jobs, but "Hey," one had said, "work is work." 

     In 1966, the country didn’t even know much about the Vietnam, either. Like everybody else, Aaron and his friends had seen the images of soldiers, smoke, and the sounds of war on the television news, but it was all far away, distant, nothing to do with them.

     Kenny said he wanted to join before he got drafted. Sal said he joined because there were too many kids at home. Aaron’s best friend, Tommy Figueroa said he’d wait for them to come and get him, no use pushing it. Maybe the whole thing would blow over by then.

      At the end of the night, they were pretty “toasted.” Before they jumped into the cars, Tommy said, “I hope the damn thing starts. He slipped into the driver seat of his, silver ’57 Chevy Bel-Air, held his hand up outside the window, his fingers crossed. He turned the key and pumped the accelerator. The ignition turned, too many times, until finally the engine caught, sputtered, coughed, and died. He tried again. The same thing. After that, there was nothing, just the ignition turning then a clicking sound. “Damn, battery,” Tommy said. “You guys are gonna have to push it, so I can pop the clutch.” 

     Paul Castro, the only "cholo" in the group who acted the part but didn't like fighting, had been a friend since elementary school, said, “Naw. Ay. That’s too hard. Let’s get it in the street. I’ll push it with my car.” 

     A few minutes later both cars were on the street. Paul pulled his car slowly up to Tommy’s, but the bumpers didn’t meet. Paul had lowered his ’62 Galaxie, so his front bumper was a few inches lower than Tommy’s back bumper. All of them were pretty drunk by this point and not thinking clearly. It was all a joke. 

     Tommy said, “I know. Two of you get up on my trunk and make the bumpers level. That should work.” 

     Without much enthusiasm, Aaron and Billy Marquez volunteered. They both jumped up on the trunk, and sure enough the bumper dropped just enough to meet Paul’s bumper. Paul said, “Cool. I’ll get you up to about 15 MPH and let up on the gas. That should do it, fast enough get to pop the clutch and get it going, Tommy.” 

     Tommy kept laughing. “All right, solid, got it,” he said. 

     Once Billy was up on the trunk, he said, “Dang, it's slippery up here.” Billy had started every year on the high school varsity basketball team. He was taller than the others. 

     Aaron had started thinking a little more clearly. He hopped up onto the trunk, hooked the soles of his shoes into the heavy metal bumper, and said, “Tommy, don't go messing around. When you pop the clutch, don’t peel out. Get it started and slow down, or we’ll slip off.” 

     Billy reached behind him, stretching his long arm, and with one hand, he grabbed onto the back window frame, to stabilize himself. He said, “Get hold of the back window frame, Aaron.” 

     Aaron reached back with his left arm, his weak arm. He pitched with his right hand. His fingers barely reached the back window frame. He took a hold with his fingertips, not too securely. He was still drunk enough not to worry about it. 

     The cars began to move. Aaron stretched back for a better grip but nearly lost his balance. His fingers were too short. He leaned back on the hood, moving his shoes, to get them squarely on the back bumper. Paul got both cars up to a good clip, the bumpers clanking. Aaron could feel the wind blowing his hair. Someone let out a yell, like a mariachi. When he hit 15 MPH, Paul let up on the accelerator. Aaron could feel himself slipping. He leaned back, as far as he could, waiting for the jolt, his free hand looking for something to grab. Nothing. 

     Tommy hit the clutch and accelerator simultaneously. He laughed like a maniac.  The engine caught. The headers roared, but instead of slowing down, Tommy punched it, laughing even more. Aaron didn’t want to punk-out and call out for Tommy to slow down. Desperately, he hung on. Billy, his hand secure, smiled, the wind tousling his hair. Aaron began slipping. He stiffened his legs, but it was no use. He didn’t want to hit the street head-first, so he decided to jump, angling toward the curb. 

     He landed on his feet, the asphalt moving beneath him. He fell backwards, the back of his head hitting the street. Like a flash, a quick bright light, a thought shot through his brain. Paul’s heavy Ford Galaxie was coming up from behind. Instinctively, he turned his body toward the curb and ended up on his stomach. He covered his head with his arms and waited for the tires to pounce. Paul’s right front tire pinched the edge of his left leg. He lay still, his mind spinning, not sure if he was dead or not. 

     The cars stopped. His friends, laughing, came running to him. Only Paul looked worried. “You, okay, Aaron?” 

     Aaron stood, slowly, and brushed himself off. Lucky, he was wearing a long-sleeve Pendleton. Nobody noticed the torn material or the burns on his arms. He looked into Tommy’s eyes, always the jokester, never taking anything seriously. Aaron didn’t say anything. He didn’t want them to know how close he’d come. It was all a big, stupid joke. 

     They drove Aaron home and promised to see each other in a couple of months. He could feel his jittery knees as he entered his parents' home through the back door. 

     The next morning, Aaron packed his bag, taking only what the army instructed on the printed sheet of paper they'd given him. Before leaving for work, his dad had woken him up and told him to stay safe, to do what he was told, and he’d be fine. His dad kissed him on the cheek. He’d never done that. 

     A little before 9:00 A.M., his mom kissed his forehead and dropped him off at the Induction Center in Downtown Los Angeles. She asked, “Mi’jo, you want me to park and come in?” 

     “No, Mom, thanks. They told me to come alone. I'll call when I get a chance.” 

     She smiled, her eyes sad. "Okay."

     He said, “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll be alright, really.” 

     He stepped to the sidewalk. She drove off. The back of his arms still burned. There was a slight throbbing at the side of his leg. He rubbed it and walked up the sidewalk to where a crowd of guys about his own age had formed.

The Island of Forgotten Gods

 Written by Victor Piñeiro

Publisher: Sourcebooks Young Readers

Language: English

Print length: 304 pages

ISBN-10: 1464237980

ISBN-13: 978-1464237980

Reading age: 10+ years, from customers

2026 Pura Belpré Children's Author Honor Award

From the author of Time Villains comes a new fantastical adventure about family, tradition, and seeing things for what they truly are.

Nico wants to be a famous film director. He's pretty sure if he can make the right movie, and soon, his life will completely change. The catch? His parents are sending him to Puerto Rico for the summer to stay with his iconic, but old-school, Abuela Luciana, and his awesome, but unpredictable cousins. Still, the show must go on.

Until Nico and his cousins awaken a monster. A monster that looks an awful lot like the infamous Chupacabra. And it turns out this isn't a chance encounter. The creature begins stalking them all over Puerto Rico, turning up on every dark corner, sandy beach, and moonlit night. To make matters worse, a shadowy cult enters the chase, intent on capturing them before the Chupacabra can.

Soon they are thrown into an adventure that brings them face-to-face with the ancient Taino people, even more ancient Taino gods, and the mysterious Chupacabra, who is somehow linked to everything. Nico keeps his camera rolling, hoping the epic documentary will catapult him to stardom. But in the end, it's the island's fate that hangs in the balance, as they face down the very gods that created Puerto Rico.

Review

"Piñeiro’s latest is a vibrant blend of contemporary coming of age with mythological adventure... An action-packed story of legacy, identity, and the enduring spirit of Puerto Rico." ― Kirkus Reviews, STARRED Review

"Piñeiro’s newest fantasy is a beautiful and exciting love letter to Puerto Rico." ―Booklist

"Fast-paced and full of twists and turns, the plot will take readers on a thrilling ride... an exciting adventure story that celebrates the intricate culture & history of Puerto Rico." ―Youth Services Book Review

Victor Piñeiro has led digital innovation at HBO Max, run social media for @YouTube and launched @Skittles. He's also designed games for Hasbro, written and produced an award-winning documentary on virtual worlds, and taught third graders. He is the author of Time Villains and Monster Problems.

He discovers chicano literature

Before Huizache: El Grito

Michael Sedano

Between 1963 and 1967 I became a Bachelor of Arts-level expert in British Literature with a dabble of United Statesian writing, such as it was. Those qualifiers, “dabble” and “such as it was”, meant a sizeable gap in my literary education that couldn’t be filled by Random House, nor  Grove Press, nor upper-division courses in U.S. fiction. It wasn’t until my return from the US Army in 1970 that absence found its satisfaction in output from a Berkeley, California press, Quinto Sol.

For half a year, I lived part-time atop Mae Bong, the world’s highest missile site. Duty was three days and two nights on the mountain, two days and a night in base camp.

I always took the overnight turn. The troops slept through the night giving me eight hours to read, interrupted only by hourly commo checks. 

Down in base camp, the USO had installed a library featuring books I wanted to read, titles chosen right off the shelves of City Lights Bookstore. Thanks to that unknown USO librarian, I was never short on good stuff to read, from Brautigan to Vonnegut, free.

I had been back from Korea only a few weeks when my Barbara, who taught English at San Gabriel High School, told me she’d learned of a nearby bookstore selling Chicano Literature. I immediately knew what those two words meant but I’d never seen them put together like that. I whip out my Thomas Bros map book to locate this bookstore selling this unknown commodity, chicano literature.

I entered the Army in January 1969 and didn’t come up for air until August 1970 when I walked away from Ft. Lewis with an Honorable Discharge in hand and travel money to Temple City, California. Without having a name for it, chicano literature, that's what was missing from my literary experience and in a few weeks I'd hold it in my hands.

While I was overseas high atop mighty Mae Bong, Quinto Sol Publications of Berkeley, California, had published a collection of Mexican-American Literature then revised it in 1969 with a new title, El Espejo: The Mirror. Selected Chicano Literature. It was the first book in Unitedstatesian literature called “chicano literature.”

My recollection of holding Quinto Sol’s El Espejo in my hands the first time, in that tiny bookstore that sold chicano literature, sprang to mind as I received a wondrous gift from Thelma T. Reyna, who holds down alternate Fridays at La Bloga. Thelma gave me a copy of El Grito V:3 Spring 1972, subtitled Prosa Chicana Contemporánea Contemporary Chicano Prose. The collection treats readers today to work from notable writers still early in their careers.

Reyna’s short fiction, “The Grapevine”, has the antepenultimate position in the edition. Leading off the collection is Rudolfo Anaya with an excerpt from Bless Me, Ultima. Tomas Rivera, Rolando Hinojosa-Smith, Octavio Ignacio Romano-V, and Estela Portillo de Trambley, round out the opening selections. Romano is editor-publisher of Quinto Sol and El Grito.

Anaya prefaces the excerpt saying, “I have a very good feeling about where the course of Chicano Literature is headed.” El Grito V:3 offers eighty pages of contemporary chicano prose, with illustrations by Ramses Noriega, illustrating Rudolfo Anaya's confidence in where Chicanas and Chicanos are heading in 1972.

El Grito is Ur-Huizache. Huizache (link), recently located to El Paso Texas from California, offers a definitive snapshot of contemporary raza writing in journal form. While rare copies of El Grito might be obtained from internet sellers at a premium, you can buy Huizache's entire collection now (link to publisher) and wait fifty years for the collection to be sure-fire treasure.

“En el jardín / In the Garden” by Xánath Caraza

“En el jardín / In the Garden” by Xánath Caraza

 

Xanath Caraza

En el jardín donde una y mil veces has caminado, estoy. Silente poeta: buscas mariposas y eternidad. Tus luminosas palabras para el mundo desde tu hogar.

 

 

El jardín

eternidad

luminosas palabras

desde tu hogar

 

 

(Amherst, MA en la Casa Museo de Emily Dickinson el 27 de marzo de 2019)

 

 

Xanath Caraza

Tudor Serbanescu

Xanath Caraza

In the Garden

 

I am in the garden where you walked a thousand and one times. Silent poet: you search for butterflies and eternity. Your vital, luminous words for the world from your home.

 

 

The garden

eternity

luminous words

from your home

 

 

(Amherst, MA, in the Emily Dickinson House Museum, March 27th, 2019)

 

Xanath Caraza

“En el jardín / In the Garden” son parte del poemario Ejercicio en la oscuridad / An Exercise in the Darkness (Pandora Lobo Estepario Press, 2021) de Xánath Caraza.  Traducido por: Sandra Kingery, Hanna Cherres, Joshua Cruz-Avila, Zachary L. Donoway, Angelina M. Fernandez, Luis Felipe Garcia Tamez, Nicholas A. Musto, Julia L. Nagle, Aaron Willsea y Joshua H. Zinngrebe.

Ilustración por Tudor Şerbănescu.

Fotos por la autora.

 

Xanath Caraza

Trail-Blazing Chicana Poet, Pat Mora

Day 4:  National Poetry Month

Celebrating Trail-Blazing Chicana Poet, Pat Mora

Thelma T. Reyna

 

Year: 1986

Publisher: Arte Publico Press, Houston

Pages: 88

Pat Mora emerged onto the national stage at a pivotal time in U.S. literary history: the 1980s, when Chicano authors were creating a new genre of U.S. literature as the Chicano Literary Renaissance, begun in the 1960s, expanded and solidified. Mora published her first poetry collection, Chants, in 1984, and followed it up in 1986 with Borders, quickly establishing herself as one of the most prominent, influential Chicano authors of the era and presently. 

She writes with warmth, love, and compassion. Since borders are demarcations, there are always two sides: there is “us” and “them,” “their way” and “my way.” This duality spawns prejudice and stereotypes, requiring concerted efforts by each of us to blur the borders traversing our lands and our interactions, so we can be one huge expanse of humanity.

Her book evokes and explores borders large and small, old and new, faint and glaring. Born in El Paso, Texas, her cultural heritage imbues her writing as she aims to facilitate communication and promote understanding among diverse peoples. The granddaughter of Mexican immigrants, she has straddled the border between cultures and languages, has navigated the “like” and “unlike” her entire life. Borders can be cruel or innocuous, but they ultimately reveal us to ourselves.

Types of Borders

Mora describes hardships and triumphs of people from all walks of life. She begins with the famous author, Tomás Rivera, whose hands “knew about the harvest,/ tasted the laborer’s sweat” but also “gathered books at city dumps…began to hold books gently, with affection.” Rivera was the consummate cross-over, a migrant child of illiteracy who won prizes for his books and inspired legions of Latinos to demolish obstacles. 

Other people, however, struggle with limitations and discrimination imposed by borders. Mora describes the lengths immigrant parents go through to “Americanize” their children, as they “wrap their babies in the American flag,/ feed them mashed hot dogs and apple pie.” The fear of rejection and marginalization haunts them. In “The Grateful Minority,” the poet describes Ofelia “scrubbing washbowls…/ mopping bathrooms for people/ who don’t even know your name.”  

The Subtle Borders of Life

Other borders—symbolic, emotional, or spiritual—are more subtle. Mora speaks of family love, the generations, the passage of time. The border between doting affection and tough love is embodied in the word “no” repeated like a litany in “The Heaviest Word in Town.” In “To My Son,” the border between childhood and adolescence is symbolized by the worn-down swing set, now sitting silent in the backyard, abandoned years ago.

Some borders transcend time, and Mora, particularly fond of elders, captures these poignantly. In “Pajarita,” the “small, gray Mexican bird/ brittle of bone, flutters at ninety/ through the large American cage/ all the comforts/ except youth.” The saintly grandmother straddles life and death as each day passes. In “Los Ancianos,” the poet describes an old couple holding hands as they traverse the plaza, “both slightly stooped, bodies returning to the land.” Walking the fine line between the present and eternity, “They know/ of moving through a crowd at their own pace.”

Our Individual and Collective Borders

Borders is a heartfelt, spiritual book, a paean to how borders of many types imbue our lives, but how hurtful borders can be eased, or removed, when we embrace how everything in life is interwoven, and we are, ultimately, one. 

Pat Mora has now published more than 30 books of poetry, essays, and children’s writings; received numerous literary awards and two honorary doctoral degrees; is a popular public speaker; and is best-known for instituting “El día de los ninos/ de los libros,” or “bookjoy,” an abiding passion of Pat Mora. Her success continues, and her legacy is intact.

# # # # #

This book review was originally published in a prior version on LATINOPIA.com, owned and hosted by Jesus Trevino, as part of my column, “Book Review #6 in the PIONEER AMERICAN LATINA AUTHORS SERIES.”  (September 30, 2012). 

Chicanonautica: An Immodest Proposal for a Xicanxfuturist Holiday

by Ernest Hogan

Just when it looked like they were going to forget about us Chicanos and go blowing up the world, we get a bombshell bullseye right in La Cultura.

 

I’m talking about the César Chávez revelations.

It’s amazing how fast the bureaucratic entities got to cancelling. Why couldn’t they do that to the perpetrator in the White House? But I’m not here to complain about double standards in law enforcement, I’m dedicating this post to the ruined holiday and what to do with the mangled remnants, and offer some Xicanxfuturist visions.

César Chávez Day was always awkward. Cinco de Mayo was hijacked by the alcoholics (there are a number of Aztec gods dedicated to alcohol consumption with appropriate rituals that could be revived, but that's a whole other pendejada). The truth is, nobody ever knew what to do or C. C. Day. Barbecue? Tacos? Too bad there’s no TV coverage of the ancient ball game that is undergoing a revival in the Yucatán . . .

The problem was César’s saintly image. It was always supposed to be serious business. There aren’t many pictures of him smiling. How are we supposed to have any kind of fun?

The media and academia packaged him as their token Chicano: “See kids, he believed in nonviolence, so resist any genetic predisposition you may have to stabbing anyone. Now, back to the wonderful story of Western Civilization . . .”

We could honor Dolores Huerta, Raquel Welch, Linda Ronstadt, Gloria Anzaldúa, and other Chicanas. And what about remembering Frida Kahlo, Claudia Sheinbaum, and even Spaniard Olga Casado and the New Wave of women who are rocking the world of bullfighting?

There have been a helluvalot of Chicanos—and Chicanas!—who have done a lot of amazing things. Heroic things. Things that are just plain interesting. 

As a writer I find it all great material. It’s what makes my work so original.

And not just heroes to worship—I personally believe that’s a bad idea. We don’t need no stinking cults of personality. Why not celebrate us?

Farmworkers Day? Sí Se Puede Day? Chicano Day?  Chicana Day? Xicanxfuturist Day? Hmm . . .

Then, as I was brainstorming this piece, Arizona Highways came out with its April 2026 issue "Celebrating Mexican Heritage in Arizona.” And right there on the cover ESCARAMUZA! Check out Anita Snow’s article, “Reins Supreme," about teams (with the Amazonas and Corazón as part of their names) based in Phoenix. It’s got gorgeous photos by Adriana Zehbrauskas.

For those of you who don't know about the sport, it’s the female

sector of charrería, Mexican rodeo. (Didn’t the cowboy thing start with Mexican vaqueros? What language is the word rodeo, anyway?) Eight charras (more than cowgirls) in colorful adelita dresses (¡Viva La Revoluçión!), riding sidesaddle, come at each other in a dangerous way that will get your adrenaline pumping faster than any feature-length Hollywood horse opera.

Gets me fantasizing about the Surrealistic Burrito Western of My Dreams . . . How about a climactic scene with a rapist trapped in the middle of all those charging hooves?

Maybe, if we don’t let the fascists have their way, there will be coverage of a Dolores Huerta Escaramuza Tournament on March 31 and maybe combined with an ancient ball game championship and some toreras practicing their art. The fiesta of the future!

Ernest Hogan is busy with the business of being a Xicanxfuturist and the Father of Chicano Science Fiction.