Thursday, November 05, 2026

We Called them Essential Workers

Tzotzil Mayans, most have worked in the U.S.

I was fifteen years old when “they” killed President John F. Kennedy in Dallas, Texas. Like most Americans, I grieved, more because he was an Irish Catholic, and the Irish nuns and brothers who educated me talked about him in damn-near saintly language, same as my Mexican-Democrat working-class family, my dad a “union man,” who said he’d have no healthcare, pension, or vacation days without the AFL-CIO. 

 The son of Mexican immigrants, my dad was the fourth natural born U.S. citizen in his family, two of three boys Army veterans during WWII. My guess is none of them really understood the politics of the day; although, not much has changed. Republicans promote small government and states’ rights, cut personal taxes and funding for social programs, while Democrats promote a strong federal government, raise personal taxes, and start social programs. Not much has changed. What the people want doesn’t seem to matter. What do you expect when you only have a two-party system -- or, I stand corrected, we used to have a “two” party system? Now, the progressive party has morphed into a “big-tent” party straddling the “middle,” while, according to pundits, the conservative party has been hijacked by a “cult-like” figure who refuses to go along with the “program” because he says the election he lost was stolen, and the diehards of his party follow him wherever he leads them, his main gripe: immigrants, murderers and rapists are running rampant and destroying our country. 

In fact, he said he saw on television, so it must be true, where Springfield, Ohio immigrants “are eating the family dogs and cats.” Okay, now, I, and many Americans, can deal with an immigrant-bashing political campaign strategy. It’s been going on for years, and there is an argument to be made, but objective scholarly statistics show immigrants, illegal or otherwise, commit fewer crimes than most citizens. American employers recruit them. They work hard, earn less than U.S. citizens, and they can’t collect tax refunds at the end of the year. 

 It wasn’t until 1966, when I served in the military with Americans of every color and religion, I realized America, culturally, was, much more unique than I was led to believe in my sheltered corner of Los Angeles, a neighborhood sandwiched between Santa Monica and Westwood. When I arrived in Vietnam, that’s when I realized how many different types of people called the U.S. home. I made friends with guys from everywhere, places I’d never heard of, like the Ronny La Beet, a black Virgin Islander, with a French accent, Jerry Lugo, a Puerto Rican New Yorker from the Bronx, Jack Brun, a homespun Arkansan, who played the Gomer Pyle role, and Bobby Simmons, a bible-reading black kid from Alabaman. I met a very blonde haired, blued eyed, Joe Bel-Air, a cool Californian from Sante Fe Springs, Jonathan Bolan, a hippie always with a book in hand from Indio, California, and Bobby Elliot who scolded us guys from Southern California for calling San Francisco “Frisco.” 

I had friends, like Alex Mayo, a reservation Indian from Utah, and a Montana cowboys, Big Tom Waylon, and West Virginia and Pennsylvania coal miners’ kids, like Wayne Podleski and Nick Samuels. Of course, there were many Mexicans, a bunch from L.A. and from Texas Rio Grande Valley, a few who spoke better Spanish than English, both citizens and permanent legal residents. The Army didn’t care. We were fodder, anyway. Talk about a multi-cultural America, just turn to the modern 1960s U.S. Army. 

 Nobody questioned the legal status of kids from Mexico who came across the border to volunteer. Hell, Puerto Rico wasn’t even a state, and some kids from the island spoke no English. No problem. The government lowered the language requirement to draft them, and they died, in large numbers. Filipinos filled the ranks, especially NCO’s who’d fought in WWII. Guys who came from Guam and the Dominican Republic shed their blood when many Americans refused to go, claiming all sorts of deferments, like Donald Trump’s bone spurs and Dick Cheney’s many deferments because he was a married man, and Bill Clinton's college deferment. 

Hollywood gave us the impression the U.S. was a “White,” Christian country, since it created the myth of the perfect "leading man" and "lady," even though Buddhists, Muslims, Jews, Indians, Confusions, agnostics, and atheists made their home here and served in the military going back to the Revolutionary War. In 1700, in the harbors of Boston and in New York, ships brought in sailors and traders from around the world, including Russians, Syrians, Africans, and Chinese. In Herman Melville’s 1851 novel Moby Dick, the whaling ship, the “Pequod” carried hunters from around the world, like Queequeg, the Southsea native islander, an important character, who befriended the protagonist, Ishmael. 

This multi-ethnic, multi-religious representation of the real America isn’t an anomaly. When I talked to my dad about it, kind of jokingly, about all the characters I met in the army, he said it was the same during his time in the military in 1944. He said he met guys from everywhere, and of all colors and ethnicities, a polyglot of languages and religions. Today, I assume, its ditto for the men and women serving around the world. It’s no secret the CIA has always recruited from university anthropology, foreign language, and literature departments, seeking agents with an appreciation and understanding of other cultures. How can we spy on other countries if our agents can’t speak the languages or know the culture? 

This is the real America, but you’d never know it listening to politicians who rail about the “browning of America” and the foreigners poisoning our culture, which, ironically, is made up of many cultures. We’re not “browning.” We’ve always been brown, blacks, red, yellow, and white, from the time Dutch and English pilgrims meandered about the shores of Plymouth, trading with the native people, who numbered in the hundreds of thousands, if not millions, if you consider from ocean to ocean. If not for the Iroquois Confederacy, the "strangers" from faraway shores would not have lasted a winter here. 

In an essay scholars have titled, “Savages, We Call Them,” Benjamin Franklin describes how Americans requested the Indians send them their young men to attend universities to study. When the braves returned to their people, the chiefs said, “They were good for nothing.” They’d lost all their customs and forgotten how to live off the land. In fact, the chiefs said it would be better if the Americans sent their sons to be schooled by the Indians. At least they’d learn how to survive in nature.

If you’ve never left your home or travelled the country, you wouldn’t really understand what Woody Gutherie meant when he sang, “This land is Your Land/ This land is my land.” I’m not sure there are many homogenous locations in the country, anymore, “all one color.” Even an in Ohio Amish country, the locals mix with various immigrants who have moved in to neighboring towns to do the work the locals won’t do. Drive down through the Rio Grande Valley and, though it's dominated by Mexicans, there are plenty of Irish, Germans, Syrians, and Chinese who have been there for generations. 

Maybe in places like Pine Ridge, South Dakota, it’s all Lakota, but in towns across the South, from the Carolinas through Georgia, Kentucky, and into Texas, Arizona and California, places like Orange County, and Monterrey Park, so many people from so many places who call themselves “Americans.” They work hard, pay their taxes, and, yes, their sons and daughters also die in our wars. Maybe that’s why New York, L.A., Philadelphia, Chicago, and San Francisco are such strange places to many outsiders when they first migrate to these cities, where the “browning of America” happens, in the financial and cultural hubs of the nation, where the newest ideas bloom, from exotic cuisines and music to technology. 

Who would think of putting African percussion to American jazz but a Cuban conquero sitting in with Tommy Dorsey or Louis Armstrong? Combine a German accordion, Spanish guitars, electrified by Les Paul and Leo Fender, and toss in a few country voices, and you’ve got the Texas Tornadoes, but our communities are often so segregated, many Americans don’t view the U.S. at its core, a country of immigrants, making it easy for politicians, of both parties, to spread propaganda about how immigrants are “staining” our country, pitting people against each other. 

For me, the more I read and the more I travelled, the more understood. America was never all “White,” like many would have us believe, which brings me back to JFK. I recall, after his assassination, Malcolm X said, “The chickens have come home to roost.” If Malcolm wasn’t an outcast before the statement, he sure was after it, in many circles, but I was intrigued. What did he mean? Some might interpret it as “You reap what you sew.” That’s like saying JFK deserved what he got. How could that be? Is that what Malcolm meant, or was his comment more nuanced, open to interpretation? Maybe it wasn’t really about JFK, at all. Maybe it was more about what JFK represented, as president, not as a man. He was the symbol of a nation, just like Washington, Adams, Jefferson, and all the other presidents? Symbols are more powerful than the objects they represents.

Was Malcolm saying something deeper about the U.S., and not even talking about a man? Was he talking in symbols? I thought back to Smedley Butler’s statement, “War is a racket.” Butler, a Marine general, earned two medals of honor, wrote a memoir stating that, as a Marine, he was a “hitman” for U.S. business interests around the world, participating in the invasions of weaker nations, terrorizing and killing innocent people, all for the purpose of stealing their resources for the bankers and crooked politicians who ran our country, not unlike other powerful nations that colonized weaker people and thier lands. 

Starting in Cuba, in 1892, across to the Philippines, to China, and back to Mexico, around 1914, where he led the invasion of Veracruz. Why? Because after releasing seven sailors from prison, the Mexicans would not salute the American flag. Since Mexico didn’t have much of an army, Butler's Marines slaughtered hundreds of innocent Mexicans, old men, women, and children who took up whatever made a good weapon to help fight off Butler’s Marines. The invasion was justified under the banner of the U.S. national security, a threat to keep Mexico’s ports open to American trade. 

Butler, and other Marines who earned the congressional medal of honor for the battle of Veracruz believed it was one medal they didn’t’ deserve. My point isn’t that military conquest is right or wrong. Countries have been invading and conquering each other since civilizations began, and after any conquest, the decimated country is left with hungry people, often without homes and livelihoods. What do they do? Where do they go? 

Most, get on boats or take to the road and migrate as refugees to the countries that conquered them. It happened to England and France, brutal colonizers throughout Asia, Africa, and the Middle East, their displaced subjects crowding into cities and the countryside. Since the late 1800s and into the 1900s, even, today, in the 21st century, whether through direct invasion or proxy wars, General Butler’s arguments still seem to be true, “War is a racket.” 

During the 1910 Mexican Revolution, hundreds of thousands of Mexicans left their homes and settled in the U.S. Even though, the U.S. didn’t fight in the revolution, directly, its policies helped fuel the war. On one side, American mining interests poured money into the federalist government led by Porfirio Diaz. On the other side, American bankers supported the rebel forces of Francisco Madero. Without U.S. intervention and subsequent upheaval, maybe migrants, like my grandparents, would have stayed home on their ranches where they said they were always happiest. 

After our conflict in Santo Domingo, Dominicans headed to the U.S. in droves. I heard one sportswriter explain to his American readers: the reason so many Dominicans, Cubans, and other Latin Americans fill the ranks of major league baseball today is because they picked up the bats, balls, and gloves the U.S. Marines left behind after they invaded and occupied those countries. Our support of wars and coups to stop the spread of communism in Chile, Argentina, Nicaragua, Venezuela, El Salvador, Honduras and Guatemala destroyed economies and people’s livelihoods but was it really about communism or about clearing the way for American companies, like United Fruit? 

Where do the people who lose their land go for relief? They come here. Today, many Central Americans cross the treacherous Darien Straight to reach our borders. After our wars in Southeast Asia, Vietnamese and Hmong came here as “boat people,” refugees. Iranians arrived here by the thousands after we assisted in overthrowing the Shah in Iran, which gave us the Ayatollahs. In 1990’s Mexico, Clinton pushed through his NAFTA plan, which helped U.S. corporations more than it helped Mexican farmers. A steady stream of Mexicans began heading north to the U.S. border once their farms couldn’t complete with U.S. agriculture. They’re still coming. Now that Gaza and the West Bank are decimated, where will the Palestinian refugees flee? If history holds true, most will come here to join their relatives who fled, years earlier, during the 1980s Israeli, Arab wars. 

Unlike General Butler who claims wars are fought for profit, my point isn’t to say these wars are right or wrong. I will keep that to myself, but I am saying, our wars have consequences, and they leave behind refugees who need to survive. Track the route of refugees and where they migrate during and after our wars abroad, you’ll find many came to the U.S. After WWII, German and Italian refugees came to our shores. It’s always been that way. If the migrants have no connections, they spend their lives working in the worst, most dangerous, low-paying jobs. 

Americans demonize them or use them as political pawns. Who knows how many we buried after the covid pandemic, giving them a sense of dignity by hailing them “Essential Workers” when we needed them then placing them in ICE’s hands when we didn’t. So, I wonder, when Malcolm X claimed, after JFK’s death, that the “chickens have come home to roost,” did he blame the president’s death on our country’s political machinations, sinister plans that go way beyond what any of us could ever imagine?

Wednesday, November 04, 2026

Alberto Salas Plays Paka Paka con la Papa- Alberto Salas juega a la paka paka con la papa:


Alberto Salas Plays Paka Paka con la Papa: 

Join the Quest with Peru's Famed Scientist and Potato Expert


Written by Sara Andrea Fajardo and illustrated by Juana Martinez-Neal



*Publisher:  Roaring Brook Press

*Print length:  40 pages

*ISBN-13:  978-1250422866

*Reading age: 4 - 8 years



What can a potato do? To Peruvian scientist Alberto Salas, they have the power to change the world. Go on the hunt with Alberto for for wild potatoes before they go extinct in this playful picture book biography, gorgeously illustrated by Caldecott-honoree Juana Martinez-Neal.

High up in the Andes mountains of Peru, agricultural scientist Alberto Salas is on a quest. A quest... for potatoes.

Up and down the Andes mountains he goes, playing an epic game of paka paka con la papa, potato hide and seek. These potatoes are special: they have the power to feed the world.

Alberto doesn't have a second to waste. The climate is changing and Alberto must find each and every one to save them before they go extinct.

The game is on!

Alberto races and peers and prods. Drives and trods and climbs. Will he find the potato he seeks? Will he win the game of paka paka con la papa?

Author Sara Andrea Fajardo’s spirited biography about “the godfather of potatoes” is paired with lush art by Caldecott-honoree Juana Martinez-Neal to capture how celebrated scientist Alberto Salas brings joy, curiosity, and fun to his very important, life-changing work.




Alberto Salas juega a la paka paka con la papa: 

Únete a la búsqueda con el célebre científico y experto en papas peruano




Esta biografía ilustrada y oda a la conservación y ciencia acompaña al agrónomo peruano Alberto Salas en su búsqueda de papas silvestres antes de que se extingan, con ilustraciones de la ganadora de un Caldecott Honor, Juana Martínez-Neal.

Muy alto en la cordillera de los Andes en Perú, el ingeniero agrícola Alberto Salas anda en una búsqueda. En búsqueda… de papas.

Arriba y abajo de las montañas va, jugando un juego épico de paka paka con la papa, a las escondidas con la papa. Estos tubérculos son especiales: tienen el poder de alimentar y salvar al mundo.

Alberto no tiene tiempo que perder. El clima está cambiando en los Andes y él debe encontrar y rescatar cada una de las variedades de papa antes de que se extingan.

¡El juego ya empezó!

Alberto corre, busca detenidamente y escarba. Maneja y camina y trepa. ¿Encontrará la papa que busca? ¿Podrá ganar este juego de paka paka con la papa?

En su debut como autora con esta energética biografía sobre el “padrino de las papas”, Sara A. Fajardo une fuerzas con el rico y lúdico arte de la ilustradora galardonada con el premio Caldecott, Juana Martinez Neal, capturando cómo el celebrado agrónomo Alberto Salas realiza su imprescindible trabajo con deleite, curiosidad y regocijo.


Review


"Thematic connections to environmentalism and sustainability in our changing modern world, told through a Latinx lens, this is a highly recommended title for all nonfiction collections." -School Library Journal, starred review

"A lovely tribute to an unassuming yet impactful changemaker." -Booklist, starred review

"In a warm palette, Caldecott Honoree Martinez-Neal’s lush mixed-media illustrations convey Salas’s dedication and the potatoes as jewels hiding in an ever-shifting landscape. Fajardo smartly melds playful language with an urgent conservationist message..." -Publishers Weekly, starred review

"[A]n affable, often playful tone and a loose yet incredibly informative narrative peppered with words in Spanish and Quechua, Fajardo recounts the potato expert’s adventures in all their glory..." -Kirkus, starred review

"This tribute to a contemporary figure will no doubt strike a chord with young readers." -BookPage, starred review

"Fajardo’s playful narrative brings readers along on Salas’s quest, touching lightly but directly on other serious issues that affect his work, such as climate change and human encroachment on natural habitats." -Horn Book


Sara A. Fajardo first discovered the power of words when she was four. Newly arrived in the United States from her native Peru, her English vocabulary consisted of the word “monkey,” which she promptly turned into her favorite greeting, “Hola Monkey!” The amused reaction to that phrase started her on a lifelong path of telling stories—first as a photojournalist, then as a multimedia storyteller for humanitarian aid organizations, and now as a writer for children. She grew up in the agricultural community of Salinas, California, and has lived in Finland, Japan, and Kenya. Sara currently resides in the San Francisco Bay Area, with her husband, two children, and very playful cat.

Juana Martinez-Neal is the Peruvian-born daughter and granddaughter of painters. Her debut as an author-illustrator, Alma and How She Got Her Name, was awarded a Caldecott Honor, and Zonia’s Rain Forest was named an ALA Top 10 Sustainability-themed Children’s Book. She illustrated New York Times bestselling picture book Tomatoes for Neela by Padma Lakshmi; Fry Bread: A Native American Family Story by Kevin Noble Maillard, which won a Robert F. Sibert Medal; and La Princesa and the Pea by Susan M. Elya, for which she won a Pura Belpré Illustrator Award. She also co-illustrated with Molly Idle I Don’t Care by Julie Fogliano. Juana Martinez-Neal lives in Connecticut with her family.







Tuesday, November 03, 2026

Nopales en la Frente

Nopales Time Is Now 
Michael Sedano

 
Grocery stores now sell nopales ready to cook. Some worker has scraped off the thorns, washed, and diced the cactus. That's a wonderful addition to grocery aisle. But for others, there's foraging. 

Neighborhood landscapers have discovered the beauteous opuntia in xeriscape plantings. Few of your anglo neighbors will be hep to eating that cactus, by golly, but they've heard of it. Here are some ideas to get them eating like a Mexican.

A born nopal-eater and having one en la frente, el Gluten-free Chicas Patas eats nopales all year long, not just for cuaresma.

The Gluten-free Chicano 2014
Peeling Nopales the No-Espina Way
https://labloga.blogspot.com/2014/05/raza-hollywoods-best-kept-secret-sci-fi.html

Sadly, the title misleads a bit. Any time a cook prepares fresh nopalito pencas, an espina or two is sure to find a finger or palm. Así es, the romance of el nopal.



A sharp paring knife and careful finger placement between the espina carbuncles are two secrets to preparing nopales. 

Use a washable cutting board or work on newspaper. Draw the knife around the spiny perimeter of the cactus paddle, cutting away the outer ¼ inch of spininess.

Hold the penca flat and draw the knife across the face of the penca nearly horizonally. Most espina nubs cut right off. Dip the blade in a glass of water to wash away espinitas.

Steel the blade frequently to keep the edge slicing effortlessly.

Wash the pencas. There's a white espina in the top middle of the foto below.



Slice the pencas into ¼" strips. Draw the blade at a diagonal through the strips.

The nopalitos are ready to use in a salad, a stew, with scrambled eggs. Below, nopales simmer with carne de puerco. Later, the cook will add una torta de camarón.



See below for The Gluten-free Chicano recipes for nopales con tortas de camarón and a really fancy yet economical pumpkin hominy and nopales guisado.


The Gluten-free Chicano
Nopales con carne de puerco y tortas de camarón
Michael Sedano

https://labloga.blogspot.com/2013/02/nopales-chicano-photography-floricanto.html


Grown from single penca planted in 1960. ©2013msedano

You know it’s Springtime when opuntia cactus of the right varieties form plentiful buds and you keep an eye on them over the next few weeks until the pencas are large and still tender, deep green and ready to be picked, peeled, diced and cooked up.

But early February is not Springtime. The nopales stand bereft of buds. Still weeks to go before we can return to the old nopal and harvest some of its tender offerings. When he bought this land in 1960, my father kicked his heel into the hillside here, to soften the dirt. He dropped a penca where he worked and stepped on it, pressing it into the earth.

When there was still open land and groves in Redlands, people who didn’t grow their own knew the best places to pick nopales. Just as gente knew the groves where the best verdolagas grew, a favored field where the kelites were almost weed-free, they knew where the best tunas--hence the best nopales--grew. Nopales were a feature of the local landscape; in the wash, in alleyways, in a corner of an empty lot.


Unusually thin penca.

Some nopales are more delectable than others. The ones with fuzzy micro-espinas are inedible just because they're so much hassle, no one I know has ever eaten one.

Pencas need to be new growth, healthily green-colored, free of complicated espinas, and a scant half inch thick, so diced chunks have skin on two sides.

Always ask permission before cutting someone's nopales. Most gente will exchange recipes and urge you take a few more. I've heard some tipas request a few dollars to allow a forager to pick nopales.

Today, the local Mexican markets sell diced nopalitos in plastic bags, as well as whole pencas if you want them for grilling, or to cut your own.

The nopal forms the heart of comida de cuaresma. With scrambled eggs for breakfast, in a pickled salad for lunch, and Nopales con tortas de camarón for dinner, those observant of the Lenten stricture against eating meat find hearty eating in nopales.

I, like my people, always preferred the dish with pork, hence today’s The Gluten-free Chicano recipe features pork as well as shrimp and eggs with nopales. The dish is completely gluten-free.

Nopales con carne de puerco y tortas de camarón is down-home cooking, but also company food.

Ingredients
Medium onion
4 teeth garlic
three or four branches of cilantro
Two pencas or 1 pound diced fresh nopales.
1/8 lb chicharrón broken into 2" squares.
1 lb pork, 1/2 cubes".
Serrano or jalapeño chiles, sliced thin.
salt, red chile, comino powder, black pepper.
Eggs – 2 people per egg
2 oz ground dried shrimp powder (I large package)
Baking soda
limón or lemon
Tomato sauce
Water or broth, maybe milk


Nopales exude a viscous gum during cutting and cooking. This is a natural thickener to the sauce but can be unnerving to the first-time user.

In a smoking hot pan...
Mince onion and garlic and wilt with the sliced chiles in good olive oil.
Add cubed pork, brown.

Add sprigs of fresh cilantro.
Toss in the nopalitos and fry until they turn a deep green.

Lower the heat.
Add one or two cans of tomato sauce and the water from rinsing the cans.

Stir in pieces of chicharrón and let simmer twenty minutes or however long it takes to make a batch of tortas de camarón.

Tortas de Camarón
This torta is an omelette thickened with powdered shrimp.

Separate eggs. Add a pinch baking soda to egg whites.
Beat egg whites to light peaks.
Blend in egg yolks.
Stir in 1/4 cup of water or milk, salt, black pepper.
Stir in half the package of powdered shrimp.
Assess your needs. Add water and the rest of the shrimp if you'll need to make more tortas. The mix should be thick enough to form dollops, not pour.

Squeeze a lime or lemon half into the egg-shrimp mix.

In a hot pan...

Drop generous tablespoons of egg mixture into hot olive oil and spread the pancake with a spatula. Turn and cook until center is done. The tortas will brown very nicely.

Float the tortas atop the nopales and serve to table.

Place a torta or two on each plate, cover with a scoop of nopales and carne de puerco. Eat with your hands and tortilla de maíz. 

Refritos, green salad, cold gluten-free beer, hot conversation at your option.

That's all there is to making delicious nopales con carne de puerco and tortas de camaron. Note, moreover, there are other ways to prepare and eat nopales, e.g., a salad. If you would like to share your favorite method of preparing nopales, leave a comment below, or email your detailed and illustrated recipe (link). You could become a guest columnist!

Sunday, November 01, 2026

Un día en imágenes con los ancestros por Xánath Caraza

Un día en imágenes con los ancestros por Xánath Caraza

 

Xanath Caraza

Este 2026 les comparto mi altar para Día de muertos, el pan que horneo cada año y una taza de chocolate para esta mañana. Les recuerdo del recital de poesía y narrativa el 6 de noviembre para conmemorar Día de muertos. Ojalá y nos acompañen.

Xanath Caraza

Xanath Caraza


Xanath Caraza

Xanath Caraza

Xanath Caraza

Xanath Caraza

Xanath Caraza

Xanath Caraza

Xanath Caraza

Xanath Caraza


Xanath Caraza

Xanath Caraza

Xanath Caraza


Thursday, October 29, 2026

Chicanonautica: ¡Feliz Dead Daze, Cabrones!


by Ernest Hogan



I’ll be on the road when this comes out. Another one of the searching for America things that my wife, the fabulous Emily Devenport, and her brother Michael Thiele, do every year in memory of their mom, the late Margaret Devenport, a road tripper extraordinaire. Sometimes new traditions are in order.


Hell, sometimes new civilizations are in order, but I digress . . .


Once again, it’s happening in the last half of October, Latino/Hispanic/Chicano Heritage Month (just for the record, for me, every month is pinche Chicano Heritage Month), the lead-in to Halloween, and los Días de los Muertos, and a midterm election that promises to be . . . well, let’s not go all Nostradamus here and just say somekinda transmogrification will be going on. The Wild West will be festooned out in chingaderas both holidazical and political. Lots to see, photograph, and write about.



Some folk get upset about mixing up Halloween and the Días, and we should be aware of the two very different traditions and intents they come from, but, like I suggested in Smoking Mirror Blues, it makes for a fantastic three day celebration–¡DEAD DAZE!--that has not quite materialized yet, but we can hope.


Yeah, yeah, calaveras and Catrinas shouldn’t be Halloween costumes, and we should try to keep Disney and other corporations from appropriating it all, but holidays, like cultures, change. The Dias de los Muertos we see nowadays, with sugar skull-faced mariachis everywhere, and proud Catrinas as embodiments of female empowerment instead of the caricature of vanity that José Guadalupe Posada intended, is not the way it was done back in the 20th century. The skeletons were a Mexico City/Tenochtitlán thing. In rural Mexico it was more of a quiet remembrance of loved ones with picnics in cemeteries. By the year 2000 Chicanos north of the border made it into the multimedia spectacle that it is today.



Who knows what it’ll become in the future? My social media feeds are full of postings by young people who are living the sort of things that were far-out wackazoid sci-fi when I was writing about them back in the antediluvian Ninties. Ha-ha, dude, where do you get them crazy ideas? Somekinda genetically-enhanced peyote? Ese, can ya sell me some?


On these road trips, I keep seeing sugar skulls and Mexican restaurants beyond the borders of Aztlán. Colorful decorated skulls are seen in hip coffee shops far from any barrio. La Cultura is reaching out, growing.


Is that an onramp to the Intergalactic Barrio I see in the distance?


Chicanonauts, Xicanxfuturists, Ciberbandidxs take note. You have to build the universe you want. Slavishly conforming to not-so ancient traditions is not enough.  Imagine! Create! Make!



Ernest Hogan will be back in Arizona soon. Once again, his books, High Aztech, Smoking Mirror Blues, Cortez on Jupiter, and Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song: 15 Gonzo Science Fiction Stories, are available through Amazon and now Barnes & Noble. Buy them and review them! You should vote too, while you're at it . . .


Wednesday, October 28, 2026

Mistaco: A Tale of Tragedy y Tortillas- ¡Mistaco! Un recuento de tragedias y tortillas

Mistaco! A Tale of Tragedy y Tortillas



Written and illustrated by Eliza Kinkz



*Publisher: Kokila

*Print length: 40 pages

*ISBN-10: 0593700236

*ISBN-13: 978-0593700235

*Reading age: 4 - 8 years

*Grade level: Preschool - 3



A chaotically funny debut picture book about a girl who's had a terrible day full of mistakes and finds that making mistacos could be a delicious solution.


After an awful day at school (including a tragic but plausibly deniable mishap with a pudding cup), Izzy wants to be left alone. But it's Friday, and that means making tortillas with Lito.


As the mistakes pile up, they come tumbling out of Izzy—and Lito surprises her by saying everyone makes mistakes, and if she makes a tortilla out of her mistakes, he will EAT it. 


"Mmmm. . .spicy! And boogery! With a hint of courage. My favorite taco EVER!" 


Suddenly, the whole family is confessing and getting mistakes off their chests with a feast of mistacos! A delightfully silly picture book for fans of Dragons Love Tacos and The Book of Mistakes. Includes instructions on how to make and enjoy your own mistacos!




¡Mistaco! Un recuento de tragedias y tortillas




Un álbum ilustrado caóticamente divertido sobre una niña que ha tenido un día terrible, lleno de mistakes, pero pronto descubre que si los convierte en mistacos podría encontrar una solución deliciosa a sus problemas.


Después de un día horrible en la escuela (incluyendo un trágico incidente con un vasito de pudding), lo único que Izzy quiere es que la dejen en paz. Pero es viernes. Eso significa que es el día de hacer tortillas con Lito. A medida que las historias de sus mistakes se acumulan, Izzy los va soltando uno por uno, y Lito la sorprende diciéndole que todos cometemos mistakes, y que si ella hace una tortilla con los suyos, él se la comerá.


“Mmmm... ¡picosa! ¡Y mocosa! Con una pizca de valentía. ¡Mi taco favorito EVER!”.


¡De repente, toda la familia empieza a confesar sus mistakes y a librarse de ellos con un festín de mistacos!


¡Un álbum ilustrado deliciosamente disparatado para los fans de Greg Pizzoli y Oh, Olive! de Lian Cho.




Review


“Pura Belpré Honor winning–illustrator Kinkz conveys a message all kids need to hear: Everyone makes mistakes, and owning them can bring relief and even joy…Kinkz has created a fully realized youngster who’s equal parts goofy exuberance and vulnerable insecurity. A deliciously effervescent celebration of family and resilience.” —Kirkus Reviews, starred review


“[W]ith magnificently scrawled artwork, Kinkz offers a story that blends deep empathy, raucous candor, and a useful ritual for dealing with shame.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review


“Kinkz has created a reassuring story of big feelings and belly laughs in her author-illustrator debut, no mistake about it.” —Booklist, starred review


“Every scene will invite readers closer into the pages till they’ve found every burp, fart, and poop joke, and terrific asides… There are no mistakes in these pages, just an SEL lesson writ large, delivered with perfect comic timing. A must.” —School Library Journal, starred review




Eliza Kinkz is a Tejana artist who never stopped viewing the world through the bright colors of her crayons, AND she even ate a few, too! She's illustrated many hilarious picture books, including Papá's Magical Water-Jug Clock by Jesús Trejo which won the Pura Belpré Illustration Honor, and was the 2022 James Marshall Fellow. All her ridiculous scribbles burst straight from her heart, which is overflowing with joy. . .and probably a few crayon pieces. Eliza lives in Austin, Texas, with her family and her one true love, a huge bowl of queso. Mistaco is her author-illustrator debut, and you can spill all the frijoles to her at ElizaKinkz.com.