Bring in the Goldfish, Sammy

                                                                                      

Narciso "Mike" Escarcega, one voice in a generation

                                                                                    

     It was sometime in 2001, when I went to interview my uncle Narciso “Mike” Escarcega, whose voice captured a generation of voices, Chicanos of the WWII, the children of immigrants. 

     Mike was on a mission, sitting in his living room, peering through the screen door waiting for the clock to strike 3:00 P.M., so he could hobble out to his camper truck and move it back to the parking spot in front of his house. Factories and car repair shops crowded the once vacant stretch of land across the street from his house, butting up to the Southern Pacific railroad tracks, so now he fights the employees for parking on street cleaning day, when the city hands out tickets. 

     At 84, Mike’s knees were weak, arthritis, from years of gardening in Westwood and Beverly Hills. Even into his 60s, he was still riding motorcycles across the Mojave Desert, or hunting ducks at the Salton Sea, and fishing in the high Sierras. 

     "Bastards try to take all the parking," he said, and laughed. "But I'll get 'em." 

     He had light skin, hair white, his eyes greenish blue, and no hint of an accent when he spoke English, so it’s jolting when he switched to Spanish, mostly to curse an idiotic past event. Like many men of the WWII generation, he possessed a strong sense of "self," and could become easily annoyed with people who lacked common sense. He refused to wear a hearing aid, so he spoke haltingly, pausing, thinking, and sometimes answering in half-phrases. My uncle was not one to mince words. When a thought crossed his mind, it immediately came out of his mouth. "Yeah, my mom came from New Mexico," he said, pronouncing it Metzico. "My family was from Chihuahua. Recently, I heard someone from our family in Chihuahua was living here, in Culver City. He was working as a butcher. I told my nephew Johnny Sanchez I'd like to meet him, but Johnny told me the guy already moved back to Chihuahua. But, ah, well, I don't know much about it." 

     Mike's mother Josefina Rios Escarcega and his father were the first in the family to arrive in the U.S., in the early 1900s. Josefina's two sisters, Santos, my grandmother, and Saturnina, my aunt, followed. 

     All three families eventually settled on L.A.'s Westside, or what Mike called—Sawtelle, near the Old Soldier’s Home, the Veterans Administration, today. He said, "I was born near Gallup, New Metzico. My brother Peanuts [Rufino Escarcega] knew all about it. I think the place was called Howard or Hobart, something like that…in 1920. Before he passed away, Peanuts traveled all over, going back to New Metzico, to the town to learn how my dad was killed. Peanuts brought me back my birth certificate. They found the town, a mining town where my dad died. I asked Peanuts why he wanted to go back there? He said, ‘I wanted to know how he died.' I think he said it was by one of those little trains in the mines, or something like that, and after my dad died there was just us kids Peanuts, Roy, me, Vera, Elia, and my mom. Vera was the oldest.” 

      I interrupted, “So, your mom came to L.A. by herself, with all those kids, after your dad died?” 

      "Yeah. It must 'a been hard for my mom, traveling with all of us kids. We came from New Metzico following some people to San Bernardino where we picked tomatoes, walnuts and all that. I remember being little, riding with a guy in one of those old-time wagons, sitting in the back, him driving the horses. I remember that. He would go pick up the watermelons and walnuts in the field.” 

     “Do you remember where you were living at the time?” 

     "Yeah, my mother moved to Fontana, a little village. It was a community of Chicanos, like a little track of homes, you know, a house…just one room, a hallway and a kitchen," he laughed. "Yeah, we came first. Then your grandmother, Santos, came. My mom sent for her.” 

     “I didn’t realize,” I said. “I mean, I know your mom came first, but I didn’t know why my grandmother had come. Do you remember when you first arrived in Los Angeles?” 

     "My mom worked at Olvera Street, maybe 1925. I remember playing around all the trains. She worked there selling food. She went there because she knew some people from New Metzico there. We used to go to the Rose Parade in Pasadena when we were young. The people from New Metzico lived there, in Pasadena, near Colorado Avenue, and we would go visit them.” 

     “I never knew you lived in downtown Los Angeles.” 

     "Oh, yeah. We lived in L.A. in Olvera Street then moved to a building up there on Bunker Hill. I used to go upstairs and look down over everything. Next thing I knew, umm, my mom asked us, 'You guys like it here?' And well, we all said…NO!!!!'Okay,' she said, 'then let's go.'” 

     “And you came west?” 

     "Yeah, we ended up in a house right near the school on Sawtelle Avenue, in a white house. Oh, hell, I don't think it's there anymore.” 

     “What kind of work did your mom do?” 

     "She got a restaurant. She was the owner, over there in Sherman, you know, what’s West Hollywood today. She'd take the bus every day from West L.A. Then the next thing I knew she had a restaurant right here in Sawtelle, where the veterans were, by the Veterans Bar, a couple of blocks down the street from the Soldiers’ Home, just off Santa Monica Boulevard. I think the building is still there. Sometimes I would drive by there just to look at it.” 

     “It’s gone,” I said. “My dad took me by there, right on the corner of Mississippi and Sawtelle. It’s an office building now. It’s right across from the UCLA Thrift store.” 

     “Oh, anyway, it was right there where Sammy Goldfish lived,” Mike laughed at the memory. 

     “You knew a kid name Sammy Goldfish?” 

                                                                                                

Others from West L.A., first-generation Chicanos

     "No, we just called him Sammy Goldfish. Yeah, he used to live in the hotel with his mother. It's still there [on Sawtelle Boulevard]. Your uncle, Nick, gave him the name; you know, making fun of him because every day his mom used to make him bring in the goldfish. They were Jewish. She’d yell, like they were still New York, you know. 'Bring in the goldfish, Sammy!'” He laughed, “Oh, Christ, I can still hear her, 'bring in the goldfish, Sammy.' Every day she would put the goldfish outside, and Sammy would have to bring it in every night. Nick and the rest of us used to laugh like hell when she said it, 'Bring in the goldfish, Sammy.'” 

     “Did you work in your mom’s restaurant?” 

     "No, I didn't work in my mom's restaurant. We were too young. Me and Peanuts didn't do nothing…." He laughed, hard. "Vera was the oldest. She worked there, but not Elia. She was too little, but your dad's half-sisters Grace and Jenny worked there. But I don't know, Raymond, you dad, said my mom sold the restaurant to your grandmother, Santos. I don't know. I'm not so sure. I don't think she did. She had the one in Sherman and another up on…oh, let's see. Oh, yeah, on San Vicente, up there by the Western Front., by the Veterans Administration.” 

     “My dad told me my grandfather suggested Josefina and Santos should re-name the restaurant to La Manana because when it came time to pay for the food, everybody would say, “Manana.”

The Interpreter- La intérprete

Written by Olivia Abtahi

Illustrated by Monica Arnaldo

*Publisher: Kokila

*ISBN-13: 978-0593620458

*Grade level: Kindergarten - 3

*Reading age: 5 - 8 years

A sharp and heartfelt picture book about a young soccer-loving girl who’s an interpreter for her Spanish-speaking parents.

Some kids have one job: to be a kid! Cecilia has two. When she isn't on the soccer field scoring goals, she's accompanying her parents to all kinds of grown-up places, like the DMV, the accountant's office, and the auto shop. She helps them translate from Spanish to English and from English to Spanish. It’s an important job, and it can even be fun. It’s also hard work. 

Sometimes Cecilia's second job is so much responsibility, it feels like she'll split in two! Is it time for Cecilia to blow her whistle and call for a time-out?

Olivia Abtahi’s clever text and Monica Arnaldo’s charming illustrations capture a common aspect of life for immigrant and bilingual families while offering a model for teamwork that helps everyone feel understood.

Un conmovedor y sincero libro ilustrado sobre una joven que tiene dos trabajos, uno como chica aficionada del futbol y otro como intérprete para sus padres hispanohablantes.

Cuando Cecilia no está en el campo de futbol marcando goles, acompaña a sus padres a todo tipo de lugares para adultos, como la oficina de licencias de conducir, el despacho del contador y el taller de automóviles. Les ayuda traduciendo del español al inglés y viceversa. Es un trabajo importante e incluso puede ser divertido. También es muy agotador.

A veces, equilibrar sus dos trabajos (disfrutar su niñez y ser intérprete) implica tanta responsabilidad que ¡Cecilia siente que se divide en dos! ¿Es hora de que Cecilia sople su silbato y pida un tiempo muerto?

El ingenioso texto de Olivia Abtahi y las encantadoras ilustraciones de Monica Arnaldo capturan un aspecto común de la vida de las familias inmigrantes y bilingües y, al mismo tiempo, ofrecen un modelo de trabajo en equipo que ayuda a que todos se sientan comprendidos.

Review

“Abtahi masterfully weaves an everyday tale that will be familiar to designated translators of all ages from immigrant families. . . . Arnaldo’s bright watercolor and pencil-crayon artwork provides much-needed levity . . . Sensationally true to life.” —Kirkus Reviews, starred review

“Abtahi (Twin Flames), making a well-developed picture book debut …[with] lively watercolor and pencil crayon illustrations from Arnaldo (The Museum of Very Bad Smells) show the strain of Cecilia’s moving back and forth, until supportive changes help her become a kid who’s happy to help, ‘...just not all the time.’” —Publishers Weekly, starred review 

“With its emotionally resonant look at one aspect of immigrant family dynamics, this title is a solid purchase for picture book collections.” —School Library Journal, starred review

“Abtahi's story about circumstances of bilingual family life that sometimes force children into these adult roles is engagingly rendered in Arnaldo’s colored pencil and watercolor drawings that both reflect the silliness of the situation and neatly show how overwhelmed Cecilia becomes…In addition to nicely balancing an important topic with lighthearted comedy, the book also offers a solution of teamwork that is both thoughtful and respectful to the entire family.” —Booklist, starred review

Olivia Abtahi is a filmmaker and author. Her debut novel, Perfectly Parvin, received an SCBWI Golden Kite Honor, a YALSA Odyssey Honor, and numerous starred reviews. She is also the author of Azar on Fire and the forthcoming Rostam and the Red Dwarf. The Interpreter is her picture book debut. Olivia grew up in the DC area and now lives in Denver, Colorado, with her family.

Monica Arnaldo is the award-winning author of several picture books, including Are You a Cheeseburger? (a Kids' Indie Next pick) and Mr. S (a Publishers Weekly, School Library Journal, and Booklist Best Book of the Year). Her illustrations have also appeared in middle grade novels and children’s magazines. She works both traditionally and digitally when she’s illustrating, combining watercolor, pencil crayons, and Photoshop to create images full of character. She grew up in Ontario, Canada, and now lives in Quebec with her family.

On first looking into Wilson’s Homer

 On first looking into Wilson’s Homer

Michael Sedano

Much have I travelled in realms of Attic Greek, but that was as a college student, translating  first Xenophon, then Lysias, with big plans to go to Texas and work with Richmond Lattimore, to translate Aristotle for the modern student. Then my Uncle Sam said, 'a-knock knock, here I am.

As I stared across the Pacific on the military flight to Korea, my Greek skills already waning after Basic and Radio School, I figured that dream had gone by the wayside. I was no Odysseus but I was, and am, a polytropos, a man of many means. I turned to other realms, contented myself with good memories and a literary fealty to translations--any and all--of Homer.

Richmond Lattimore was the assigned translation in the Classics program at UC Santa Barbara. Robert Fagles hadn’t made his mark back in the mid-sixties. 

When I discovered Fagles' version I loved what Fagles does that Lattimore has not—captures a sense of oracy less obligated to imitate the ceremonial formality of antique warrior declarations. In short, Fagles’ translation removes a lot of the ancient from Homeric Greek, in English. 

I would have been satisfied leaving it at that—Lattimore for the authentic flavor of a rhapsode, Fagles for a contemporary treatment of something so old it needs adaptation to a modern ear. 

Then along comes Emily Wilson, whose consideration of the text attends entirely to the modern ear, endeavoring a colloquial story-telling voice. Wilson creates a loose verse form in conversational language peppered with archaisms inherent in the original source. It's a modern retelling of ancient lore.

That Wilson is the sole female interpreter among a history of male translators leads numerous readers to point to Wilson’s woman’s language being less attuned to a macho persona and nuanced to a woman’s view. Maybe nuanced isn’t right; Wilson’s is outright a woman’s interpretation.

Wilson’s Odyssey raises a welter of objectors and appreciative advocates, starting at page one, Odysseus’ adjectival expletive, polytropos. 

Conventionally translated as clever, resourceful, a man of many means, Wilson starts off with “complicated.” This alters a reader’s perception of the lost sailor’s personality. 

A complicated man is not necessarily a good nor heroic figure. Likewise, readers point to Wilson’s description of Penelope’s household staff not as maidservants but as slaves, used and raped by the suitors. 

Lattimore, too, cites their slavery, but leans into the maidservant variant: twelve women who lay in secret with the suitors, Lattimore describes. These twelve are forced to and influenced by Aphrodite, in Wilson’s view. Ni modo; the twelve get strung up in hideous pain in both translations; it’s complicated.

I enjoy, and recommend, reading Lattimore and Wilson in tandem, to get a sense of how two masterful linguists understand the same story and characters, to witness how each handles Greek spelling in English, the one capturing the ancient tongue, the other accommodating contemporary mores. For example, Greek masculine nouns end with “os” and use kappa, “k”, with no “c” in the alphabet. Lattimore holds more faithfully to ancient orthography. Wilson favors old Latino spelling, exchanging “us” for “os” and “c” for “k”:

Lattimore; Book 22, 320: beheading the priest

Then looking darkly at him, spoke resourceful Odysseus: 

“if you claim to be the diviner among these people, 

many times you must have prayed in my palace, asking 

that the completion of my sweet homecoming be far off 

from me, that my dear wife would go off with you, and bear you 

children. So you cannot escape from sorry destruction. 

So he spoke, and in his heavy hand caught up a sword 

that was lying there on the ground where Agelaos had dropped it 

when he was killed. With this, he cut through the neck at the middle,

and the head of Leodes dropped in the dust while he was still speaking.

 

Wilson; Book 22, 320: beheading the priest

The calculating hero scolded at him. 

“If, as you claim, you sacrificed for them, 

you must have often prayed here in my hall 

that I would not regain the joys of Home, 

and that my wife would marry you instead, 

and bear your children. You will not escape. 

Suffer and die!“

                                           Agelaus had dropped 

his sword when he was killed. With his strong arm

Odysseus swung, slashed down and sliced right through 

the priest’s neck, and his head, still framing words, 

rolled in the dust.

 

Lattimore; Book 22 line 390: Eurykleia the jefa de esclavas

Then at last resourceful Odysseus said to Telemachos:

‘Telemachos, come now, summon in the nurse, Eurykleia, 

so that I can say what is on my mind to say to her.’

          So he spoke, and Telemachos obeyed his dear father. 

He opened the door and called out to the nurse, Eurykleia

‘Rise and come here, aged woman, you who watch over 

all that the serving women do here in our palace. 

Come here. My father calls you. He has something to tell you.'

 

Wilson; Book 22 line 390: Eurycleia the boss slave

Odysseus, still scheming, told his son,

 

“I need to say something to Eurycleia

Hurry, Telemachus, and bring her here."

Telemachus was glad to please his father.

He pushed the door ajar and called, “Come, Nanny, quick! 

You supervise the female palace slaves.

My father has to talk to you; come on!"

 

Reading the two versions of the same story provides hours of double enjoyment, although as books, Richmond Lattimore’s translation requires greater visual work with its densely-packed lines and eye-challenging print size. 

I’ve captured above Emily Wilson’s ample use of white space in her work. Lattimore's publisher elects a smaller font size than Wilson's. The larger font and ample white space make Wilson's book a lot easier to read and to keep your place as you read down the page.

Wilson’s Homer moves fast, like a good yarn fashioned by a clever storyteller owning the narrative, spoken in her own voice. Lattimore’s way is that of a capable recitation, a performer retelling a story keeping to the way they heard it the first time, succumbing to awkward bits and pieces that don’t quite fit into English. 

Wilson blazes a new trail through the density of Homeric grammar, tossing the lexicon behind her to propel readers straight ahead, making story, not fealty to an old oft-told tale, the raison d’être of Homer’s Odyssey.

Timeo daneos ta dora pheruntes, pero sabes que? I welcome the gift of Homer from those Greeks.

 

“Con la fuerza del viento / With the Force of the Wind” por Xánath Caraza

“Con la fuerza del viento / With the Force of the Wind” por Xánath Caraza

 

 

Xanath Caraza

Las manos se alargan para crear las más finas letras. Calan diseños en el papel. Dibujan los caracteres al primer contacto con las yemas. De las puntas nace fuego. Fuego azul que deja el carbón rojo flotando en la mirada. Una extensión del cuerpo se vuelve poesía. Emerge del interior con la fuerza del viento.

 

 

Letras

de las puntas nace fuego

el cuerpo se vuelve poesía

 

 

 

Xanath Caraza

With the Force of the Wind

 

Her hands extend to create the finest letters. They trace designs on paper, draw characters on first contact with her fingers. From their tips, fire is born. Blue flames leaving red coal that floats in the gaze. An extension of her body becomes poetry. It emerges from within with the force of the wind.

 

 

Letters

from their tips, fire is born

her body becomes poetry

 

 

“Con la fuerza del viento / With the Force of the Wind” son parte del poemario Ejercicio en la oscuridad / An Exercise in the Darkness (Pandora Lobo Estepario Press, 2021) de Xánath Caraza. 

 

Xanath Caraza

Traducido al inglés 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.

 

Imágenes en el poemario por Tudor Şerbănescu.

 

En 2022 Ejercicio en la oscuridad / An Exercise in the Darkness recibió Mención Honorífica para los International Latino Book Awards en la categoría The Juan Felipe Herrera Best Poetry Book Award—One Author—Bilingual.

 

En 2022 Ejercicio en la oscuridad / An Exercise in the Darkness fue Finalista para los International Book Awards para Poesía, Poetry: Contemporary.

  

Xanath Caraza

Chicanonautica: ¡Tonk You, ICE!

  

by Ernest Hogan

 

Who would've thought that ICE had a secret word that they call their victims and potential victims? They’ve been keeping it to themselves. Giggling about it in private like the cowards they are.

I only know about it because Gustavo Arellano spilled the beans in the L.A. Times. Thanks, Gustavo, keep up the good work.

This new word is tonk.

Yeah, it’s pretty lame, but we aren’t talking about witty, imaginative types here. 

I wonder why they can’t seem to come up with a workable slur for us?

Greaser is misleading. It was what they called the sombrero-wearing villains in the first silent movies made in Hollywood. It was never clear what kind of grease they meant. And it’s become antiquated. Would young Latinxes know that they’re supposed to be offended?

Beaner is also awkward. Yup, I eat beans, and like them. You gotta problem with that? I’ll just fart in your face.

Then there’s spic. Growing up on SoCal, I never heard it until the original West Side Story was shown on national television. No knee-jerk reflexes for an East Coast chingadera. 

And it sounds like part of a word. Maybe spicko or spickie or spicker would be more appropriate. Or maybe not.

So now we have tonk. It started as an onomatopoeia. What ICE does to people: TONK! Like in the old Sixties Batman. 

Also like egghead, that came from the Nazis referring to those whose skulls they were cracking open on the sidewalks. Funny how these things keep going back to the Nazis . . .

The n-word doesn’t have to worry about the competition.

(Funny how the n-word has become more forbidden than the f-word . . .)

I think some preemptive strikes are in order. Pick up this grenade and throw it back at them. Remember, Chicano and pocho were originally slurs our South of the border hermanos used against . . .  us. What goes around comes around. Besides, racists hate it when their magic words don’t do what they want them to.

We should turn it back into a verb. Four letters ending with a k. It rhymes with the f-word! A perfect stand-in.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Tonk you, ICE! started appearing in walls all over the land?

It could be said, shouted, chanted, when they come after someone.

Oh, for someone telling them to go tonk themselves on a video that goes viral!

It’s what all those tonksucking, mothertonkers deserve.

Ernest Hogan has been called the n-word so often that when he hears it, he assumes they're talking about him--and is usually right. He's working on his New, Improved Ancient Chicano Sci-Fi Wisdom for the Palabras del Pueblo Writing Workshop. Because pendejos are trying to exterminate us from the future . . .

Welcome Home, Esmerelda- Bienvenida a casa, Esmerelda

Written by Daniela Ramirez

Illustrated by Maribel Lechuga

*Publisher: Charlesbridge

*Print length: 32 pages

*ISBN-10: 1623543908

*ISBN-13: 978-1623543907

*Reading age: 5 - 8 years

*Grade level: 1 - 4

From a military family, Esmerelda discovers that home is where she's always welcomed—thanks to music, dance, and the big, unconditional love from her extended family. 

An ideal picture book for kindergarteners and 1st graders who are moving, need reassurances during a transition, and could use the reminder that home is family.

Papa's job in the military has taken Esmerelda and her family all over the world—and yet she's never lived in the United States. Now she and her family are moving to San Antonio, Texas.

Although many of her extended family members live there, Esmerelda is unsure it'll feel like home. Even more, she's unsure she will fit in. Gradually, music and her sweet abuela spark bravery and the realization that home is not always a place—it's familia.

Heartwarming and hopeful, Welcome Home, Esmerelda will provide reassurance to any kid that while moving and change are difficult, you have the support of loved ones to help you through it.

Edición en español! Proveniente de una familia militar, Esmerelda descubre que el hogar es donde siempre es bienvenida —gracias a la música, la danza y el gran amor incondicional de su familia extendida.

Un libro ilustrado ideal para niños de kínder y primer grado que están mudándose, necesitan consuelo y seguridad durante una transición y que pueden beneficiarse de recordar que el hogar es la familia.

El trabajo de Papá en la milicia ha llevado a Esmerelda y a su familia por todo el mundo. Sin embargo nunca ha vivido en los Estados Unidos. Ahora ella y su familia están mudándose a San Antonio, Texas.

Aunque muchos miembros de su familia extendida viven allí, Esmerelda no está segura de que se sentirá como en su casa. Incluso, no se siente segura de que encajará. Gradualmente, la música y su dulce abuela despiertan su valentía y la ayudan a entender que el hogar no siempre es un lugar: es la familia.

Conmovedora y esperanzadora, Bienvenida a casa, Esmerelda proveerá tranquilidad a cualquier niño, mostrándole que, aunque las mudanzas y los cambios son difíciles, cuentan con el apoyo de sus seres queridos para ayudarle en la transición.

Review

A warm and relatable tale told with heart. —Kirkus Reviews

Moving and reassuring choices for picture book collections, especially for libraries serving military families and children experiencing big moves, these titles will capture readers’ attention with beautiful imagery and writing, and their hearts. —School Library Journal

Spanish words peppered into the text add warmth and cultural authenticity. Ramirez succeeds in sharing a warm reflection on family and the sacrifices of service members and their families. An author’s note about military families concludes. —Booklist

Daniela Ramirez has a passion for writing books for children. She is Mexican American and excited to share her culture. Daniela loves writing Latine characters and wishes to inspire her own children. She is married to her college sweetheart, is a military spouse, and currently resides in New Mexico.

As a child, Maribel Lechuga spent every quiet hour of the day drawing. She studied illustration in art school in Madrid and is now the illustrator of many children's books, including, Night Owl Night, Ten Beautiful Things, and Seaside Stroll. Maribel loves the environment and animals and recharges her batteries by hiking through the Spanish hills. www.maribellechuga.com