Dr. Frank Davila is a retired public-school teacher and administrator, university instructor and a published author. He is a co-founder of CALMA (Colorado Alliance of Latino Mentors and Authors) and a strong advocate for mentoring public school leaders and aspiring Latino writers.
La Bloga
The world's longest-established Chicana Chicano, Latina Latino literary blog.
Friday, March 24, 2023
Historical Remains
Dr. Frank Davila is a retired public-school teacher and administrator, university instructor and a published author. He is a co-founder of CALMA (Colorado Alliance of Latino Mentors and Authors) and a strong advocate for mentoring public school leaders and aspiring Latino writers.
Thursday, March 23, 2023
Chicanonautica: Donald Trump, John Wayne, Mexican Food, and the Impending Election Year
by Ernest Hogan
My wife and I were playing hooky. We both had the day off, and we used it to drive out to our usual stamping grounds to investigate the place where she had a job interview. It was a sunny day after a week of atmospheric river-driven gloom. Took a hike, then decided to drive to Wickenburg for lunch.
We headed for the town’s best Mexican restaurant, and the first thing in the door was a shrine to Trump, Kari Lake, and other local politicians of similar leanings. A bit early for 2024, but . . .
It reminded me of the pictures of John Wayne in businesses on the Indian reservations. San Juan de Hollywood assuring the tourists that they were in a safe place.
This would cause some people to turn and run, but we were hungry, and it was a chance to observe these folks on their own turf without the defenses they have up when they stumble into what they see as hostile territory. How would they react to a six-foot tall Aztec leprechaun with a bandido mustache and his blonde wife coming in for some tacos, beans, and rice?
We got professional customer service smiles from the young white women who worked there. The customers were also white—mine was the only “of color” face in the joint—and they were an awful lot of them for a Wednesday afternoon. Wickenburg is a historic cowboy town, not much of a Chicano heritage.
I didn’t hear a word of Spanish while we were there.
They didn’t seem to have gotten the news about how the election deniers were doing in the courts, but with the rift between Trump and Fox, they probably hadn’t been watching much news lately.
They didn’t seem to notice us, which may have been a good thing.
And the food, as usual, was excellent. Their hot salsa had my inner ears tingling immediately.
When I told our server that I never received the iced tea I ordered, she apologized and brought me one in a to-go cup.
As we were paying, a little brown woman wearing a T-shirt with the restaurant’s logo wandered out of the oddly quiet kitchen.
Ah-ha! As it is with most restaurants in Arizona, they had Mexicans doing the cooking. Funny how folks who want to build the border wall and ship the illegals back to where they came from love their Mexican food.
I haven’t mentioned the name of this place on purpose. I don’t want anybody reading this and going there to start trouble. The world needs all the Mexican restaurants it can get. Our food has a way of bringing people together.
It may be our best hope.
Besides, for all I know, the owner is what used to be called “of Mexican descent” as well as a life-long Republican, and pays the employees well, maybe even mentors them so they can start their own restaurants.
Also, this was their turf. And it was Arizona, where out in public somebody usually has a gun . .
UPDATE: After I wrote the above, Trump announced that be would arrested "Tuesday" and encouraged his followers to protest. Tuesday came, there was no arrest, and more counter-protesters than protestors materialized. However, some AI deepfake photos of what the arrest would have looked like went viral, and he raised a lot of money--that would have been better spent on Mexican food--for his campaign. The weirdness has only begun, gente.
Ernest Hogan will be teaching “Papí Sci-Fi’s Ancient Sci-Fi Wisdom” to all the Chicana/o/x writers who enroll for the class at the Palabras del Pueblo Writing Workshop. Sign up, hermana/o/xs. Let’s change the literary world.
Wednesday, March 22, 2023
MIS DÍAS CON PAPÁ / SPENDING TIME WITH DAD
Written by Elías David
Illustrations by Claudia Delgadillo
ISBN: 978-1-55885-969-2
Publication Date: May 31, 2023
Format: Hardcover
Pages: 32
Imprint: Piñata Books
Ages: 4-8
This charming bilingual picture book deals with gender equality.
This sweet bilingual picture book follows a boy and his stay-at-home dad, who takes care of him while his mom goes to work at the port, “where huge cargo ships come and go every day.” She oversees the containers that go around the world!
The boy recounts his days spending time with his father, from “when the sun starts filling the room with light,” to eating breakfast, brushing his teeth and talking to his grandparents who live in a different country. His favorite time of the day is when he gets to play with his dinosaurs and his friend Tato, a stuffed cat who joins him on all his adventures. When Mom comes home, the whole family goes to the park. After dinner, he goes to bed and thinks about the ships from his mom’s work, his dinosaurs and his grandparents. Soon he falls asleep, hugging his special kitty.
In this bilingual picture book brightly illustrated by Claudia Delgadillo, young children will relate to the family and its daily routines while immigrants will see themselves as they adjust to life far away from relatives. And children will see that the roles of men and women are fluid; dads can be loving fathers in charge of their kids’ well-being and moms can go to the office every day—or vice versa.
Elías David, a native of Reynosa, Mexico, is the author of Instantes (Alja, 2017) and Una lucidez aturdida (UANL, 2022). He is the associate editor of SED Ediciones and Suburbano, a magazine on culture. He lives with his family in Houston, where he is pursuing a Ph.D. in Creative Writing in Spanish at the University of Houston.
Claudia Delgadillo was born in Mexico City and graduated from UNAM with a degree in graphic communication. She is the author and illustrator of Biodiversidad (UNAM, 2011).
Tuesday, March 21, 2023
Dreaming Ever After
Memory
Dreaming Ever After
Michael Sedano
Who can count the life’s ambitions that find fulfillment only posthumously? Probably most people die without seeing their most important plans come to the best conclusion. I get to be one of those people who see it all come true.
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Michael and Barbara Sedano. Scan by Mario Guerrero, August 2021 |
I was at a trade show in Washington, D.C. when I called home to learn Barbara found a house. She had a caveat. It has a pool, and I’d declared an oath not to have a water-filled hole in my backyard. I bit my tongue and we moved from a small Eagle Rock bungalow in April 1985. When Barbara retired from being an English Teacher, her students wrote glowingly of Barbara their English Teacher, unanimously they praised Mrs. Sedano’s pool parties. Barbara always knew best.
In '85, my employer quoted a lavish salary to the bank and we got the loan. The home, a beautiful 1921 Normandy style has 5 bedrooms and 5 ½ bathrooms, dining room, dinette, sitting room, two fireplaces. Including the pool, the backyard was crowd-ready for gala pachangas that became CasaSedano signature events. The Perle Mesta of Pasadena, Barbara added a bit of Roz Russell flair and the joy of sharing her home with friends.
Barbara and I intended to leave the house to our daughter. It would be the kind of windfall my parents left behind. Our granddaughter’s schooling would be assured. Our daughter’s mortgage would disappear. Luxuries and a solid bank account would remain. That’s what Barbara and I wanted that house to turn into when we were gone.
--
Every morning I burn sage to the Four Directions. Ancestors are in the smoke, and on February 4th, 2023, Barbara became an Ancestor. She rises in the morning with my mother, my grandmothers. Those Souls who gathered silently at the cavemouth were waiting, I knew that. Then I got sent back, told to get out of line (link). As Barbara’s hospice sped to a close, I understood. I was sent back not because it was not my turn then. Barbara would need me. She was my Prime Direction and I held to the Prime.
--
Shortly after Barbara’s Alzheimer’s Dementia diagnosis in 2018, we sat to talk about her future. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, we had dreams. I asked Barbara what she wanted people to remember her for. Without hesitation, Barbara declared “I was Amelia’s mother. I was Charlotte’s grandmother. And I was a Teacher.”
I carry a piece of tierra from Redlands with me. Here, no thing, no artifact, has much value for me. I hold no memory of this place more important than those quiet moments of Barbara’s declaration. I take with me from here Barbara’s fierce determination to be remembered for the essential goodness that defined her Soul.
Someone will run away with all of my stuff, or my daughter will figure out what to do with all of my stuff.
--
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To build a house in 1948 take a loan for lumber |
My Dad hand-built the first family home, in his home town Redlands, next to the orange groves that made the town the navel orange capital of the world. Dad exulted when he’d get home grimy and smelly but he’d picked a hundred boxes. At a nickle a box, Dad had pulled down five dollars that day.
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the house beyond the jaulas in foreground |
Like almost every orange-picker with imagination, my Dad wanted to own a grove someday. He never got it. He wanted to live in the hills of Redlands, on a view lot looking down on the miles of groves filling the valley. They did that. Mom and Dad bought land and built a house at the highest elevation in the Redlands city limits.
From the back yard the vista takes in all the citrus groves Dad picked at a nickle a box all those years ago. Canyons my grandmother herded sheep lay at the foot of our view lot. We planted a few trees, no grove, and we could see as far as the eye could see from up here on Sunset Drive.
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McDonald's Urban Farm, the farmhouse and my new digs |
I am moving into my Daughter’s and Granddaughter’s home in the foothills of Altadena. It’s a home that owes much of its construction to the house on Sunset Drive. When I sold that house, my daughter, Amelia, used the money to remodel a mountainside home with a spectacular view of the Channel Islands, the San Gabriel Valley, the Los Angeles coastal plain, and the Angelus National Forest at the backyard fence. On a clear day you can see just over the ridgeline to where the sun sets in Santa Monica Bay.
Dad gets his dream, que no? There’s a citrus grove in the front property. Stone fruit trees and extensive vegetable plots fill part of the rear. Beyond the plants, hens and goats and ducks and turkeys live in cages lions and bears can’t penetrate. No surreys with fringes but McDonald’s Urban Farm has an electric cart.
When escrow closes and that check goes into my name, the sum, Pay to the order of… is not the number it appears. Sabes que? It’s a nickle a box.
--
I had to get out of this place. If it’s the last thing I ever do, goes the song. I did, have to get out of this place, but sat immobile in the silence and absence grown of five years full-time caregiving. I’d been defeated.
My daughter works wonders in her world as mother, farmer, lawyer. She worked her wonders in getting me out of here. No sooner had I made myself clear--I’m rolling around in this space, help!—than she gained a good sense of the market, made contacts, and had this place sold within a few days of my saying “sellit”.
Not only do I get a new home, I get an assured schooling for my high school age granddaughter. I get to satisfy my daughter's mortgage. I'll buy a bus or train ticket and travel, take roadtrips, and do a lot of the same old stuff from a new H.Q.
Órale, Barbara, we did it, we brought the familia dream to fruition. Mom and Dad get the grove and the view. You leave an inheritance, and I spend it, in advance of it becoming my inheritance.
There's a check with my name on it out there, waiting for escrow to move the sum into my bank.
A nickle a box got us started, y mira nomás.
Friday, March 17, 2023
For St. Patrick's Day, an Announcement on Witches and Monstrous Women
from the mailbag
Did you know that Tia Chucha's has a Youtube channel and that you can watch live events from your living room? Join Sehba Sarwar, Jaime Asaye Fitzgerald, Olga Garcia and Alicia Vogl Saenz tomorrow, Saturday, March 18, at 5pm in person or host your own watch party on YouTube.
Thursday, March 16, 2023
The Scorpion and the Professor
by Daniel Cano
I was deep
in the Belizean jungle, a preserve where scientists from different American universities
came and brought students to conduct research. Really, I was just along for the
ride, accompanying twenty-five students on a study abroad program, to expose
them to something different, like what archeologists do We’d already eaten dinner in a cafeteria on the
compound, emptied a few bottles of wine, and discussed the day’s events, both good and bad. I
overheard two girls say they wished they’d gone on the study abroad trip to
Paris, instead.
After, as we had walked back from the cafeteria to
our individual cabanas, across long grassy knolls, we spotted movement, like
the earth was slowly undulating. Man, was I that tired that my mind was playing
tricks on me. A professor who had invited me on the trip, an anthropologist,
stooped down and set his hand on the grass. When he stood, he held out his
hand, palm up, a large tarantula on his fingers. “They’re everywhere,” he said.
He had us
look closely at the grass. Under the moon’s dim light, the shadowy creatures,
scores of them, moved about the lawn. “They rarely bite, and they’re not
poisonous,” the teacher said, as he tried convincing us to pick one up. I
passed, but a couple of students knelt, placed their hands on the lawn, and stood
up, a hairy spider sitting in their palms. Let me out of here. I want to sleep.
So, now a
scorpion in my room, and as tired as I am.
Spiders and
critters are plentiful out here. This is their home, the jungle. Each night, since I arrived, I
heard movement in the thatch roof above me. Also, before I'd doze off to sleep, I'd hear the sounds of a struggle, crunching and crackling coming from the
bathroom. In the morning, bits of wings, scales, and blood formed blotches around
the shower drain.
“Yeah,” a
staff member had old me when I had asked. “Insects crawl through the plumbing and
make their way up to the drain, where they fight it out. The bigger insects eat
the smaller ones. It’s like that every night.” So, before I headed out in the
mornings, I turned the shower on to wash it all away.
The
scorpion wasn’t moving. It stayed right in the middle of the floor, like he
owned the place, which, in a way, he did, indigenous to the land. I was the
interloper, coming in to disrupt, and, in some ways, conquer his way of life. Foundations pour millions
of dollars into this preserve, so it will never again be the same, even
after we all leave, and wide swaths of archeological digs scar the land where
ancient Maya once roamed.
I was so
tired, I couldn’t deal with It. Maybe once I turned out the light, I told
myself, creature would just go away. I closed my mosquito net around my bed and tried
to sleep, still convincing myself the venomous scorpion would find his, or her,
way out like she found her way in. I turned a couple of times. I knew it was
still there. I could sense it. I tried putting it out of my mind. Then I thought,
dang, my mosquito net touches the floor. What if the scorpion, armed by nature
with various spears and arrows, finds the netting and climbs up into my bed?
I turned on
the light again. It hadn’t moved. I sat up, swung my legs off the bed, and
slipped my feel into my shoes. I looked around the room for a weapon of some
sort. The scorpion jammed. He headed for a dark corner. I was getting
desperate. No weapon. The broom. I saw a broom somewhere, in the bathroom, in a small closet. Too much commotion for the scorpion.
I knew I
had to move slowly, or it would find a sanctuary where I couldn’t get to it. The
broom’s bristles would sweep the creature out, but they would be useless in
combat. If I was going to dispatch my prey, I’d have to crush it with the tip
of the broom handle, the wood, rounded part. The scorpion got wind of my plan
and scampered under a cabinet, a few inches above the floor. It was dark under
there. I could see it, more like a shadow.
I placed my
weapon under the cabinet, slowly, trying to avoid detection. There was just
enough space under the cabinet, but it was an awkward angle, and I couldn’t get
enough force behind the broom. The scorpion moved to a place harder for me to
see it. My weapon was useless, the scorpion taking advantage of the field of
battle.
I thought
about going back to bed and forgetting about it, but I already tried that. It
didn’t work. How could I sleep knowing that valiant adversary, armed to the
hilt, was still there, waiting for its chance to strike?
Okay, I was
told, for most people, a scorpion’s sting doesn’t kill. It’s painful and can
make a person really sick. Not only that, but they don’t strike unless
provoked. Should I just get back into bed and forget it all, and was the
trade-off worth it? What? Now I was negotiating with different sides of my
brain. No, I had to kill it. This is my cabana. Okay, fine, but it's on the scorpion's land. Again, I searched for a weapon.
Nothing. The room was bare except for a desk and a few books. I looked over at
my heavy hiking boots, and the solid heel, but no way could I get it under the
cabinet. Maybe, if I moved the cabinet…but then, the scorpion would split. It
was pretty damn fast. Hell!
On the
desk, next to my own paperbacks, and a journal, another book, one of those large,
heavy picture books, the kind they have in hotels. You know the kind, thick, and
filled with locations not to miss while on your visit. Slowly, I sauntered to
the desk and picked up the book. It was definitely heavy, and the spine hard, wide, and flat. I hated the idea of using a book for this purpose, killing an insect
on its home turf, mind over matter, in a sense.
I went back
to the cabinet, down on my knees, and took a peek. The scorpion hadn’t moved. I
laid down the heavy book, flat on the smooth wood floor. I took aim. I couldn’t
angle the book. It had to be a straight shot. I only had this one chance, but I
wasn’t happy about this, any of it. That scorpion had a right to live. Crap,
but so did I. So, I heaved the weapon, the spine hitting flat against the
baseboard, the scorpion between the two. I thought I heard a crunch, but maybe
it was my imagination.
When I removed the book, I saw what looked like blood on the spine. I thought of wiping it clean, but the book had become a weapon of combat. I decided to leave the blood. I placed the book back onto the desk, next to my writing material.
What I can’t remember is if I went right to sleep, relieved I had
vanquished the enemy, or if the entire episode had bothered me. I think I slept
well, no longer fearing prey in my bed. It was the way it all happened that has stayed with me, a book as a weapon against our most primitive nature.
Wednesday, March 15, 2023
Where Wonder Grows - Donde las maravillas crecen
Written By Xelena González
Illustrated by Adriana M. Garcia
Publisher: Cinco Puntos Press
Hardcover: 40 pages
ISBN-10: 1947627465
ISBN-13: 978-1947627468
From the creators of the award-winning picture book All Around Us comes another lyrical intergenerational story exploring our connection to nature, family, and traditions.
When Grandma walks to her special garden, her granddaughters know to follow her there. Grandma invites the girls to explore her collection of treasures--magical rocks, crystals, seashells, and meteorites--to see what wonders they reveal. They are alive with wisdom, Grandma says. As her granddaughters look closely, the treasures spark the girls' imaginations. They find stories in the strength of rocks shaped by volcanoes, the cleansing power of beautiful crystals, the mystery of the sea that houses shells and shapes the environment, and the long journey meteorites took to find their way to Earth. This is the power of Grandma's special garden, where wonder grows and stories blossom.
De las creadoras del galardonado libro ilustrado All Around Us llega otra historia lírica intergeneracional que explora nuestra conexión con la naturaleza, la familia y las tradiciones.
Cuando la abuela va hacia su jardín especial, sus nietas saben que deben seguirla. Abuelita invita a las niñas a explorar su colección de tesoros (rocas mágicas, cristales, conchas marinas y meteoritos) para ver qué maravillas revelan. Son seres vivos y llenos de sabiduría, dice la abuela. Mientras sus nietas observan con atención, los tesoros despiertan la imaginación de las niñas. Encuentran historias en la fuerza de las rocas formadas por los volcanes, el poder limpiador de hermosos cristales, el misterio del mar que albergan las conchas y cómo le dan forma al medio ambiente y el largo viaje que hicieron los meteoritos para encontrar su camino hacia la Tierra. Éste es el poder del jardín especial de la abuela, donde las maravillas crecen y florecen los cuentos.
Starred Review, Kirkus Reviews
Simply dazzling.
Starred Review, Publishers Weekly
Lyrical words by González (a member of the Tap Pilam Coahuiltecan Nation) emphasize the intergenerational ties that bind the characters and show Indigenous knowledge in the process of being passed down. Garcia’s portraits center affectionate familial gestures alongside mural-like views of sunset skies and evocative representations of fire, earth, air, and water.
Booklist
This author-illustrator team offers their readers a thought-provoking, mind-expanding piece of art that shows gratitude to our planet. ―Stephanie Cohen
Latinx In Publishing
A breath-taking exploration into the wonder of the natural world.
Xelena González is a storyteller, screenwriter, poet, and author of ALL AROUND US, winner of multiple accolades, including the Tomás Rivera Mexican American Children’s Book Award, an American Indian Youth Literature Honor Award, and an International Latino Book Award. Her storytelling skills were honed as a children’s librarian in San Antonio and in Guangzhou, China. As a visiting author, she has introduced her method of “tai chi storytelling” to more than 60 schools and libraries around the country. In February 2021, Cinco Puntos Press will release WHERE WONDER GROWS, her much-anticipated sophomore collaboration with muralist Adriana M. Garcia.
With grant support from the National Association of Latino Arts and Culture, Xelena recently developed a body of work in both children’s literature and visionary fiction, inspired by the iconography of the Mexican Lotería card game. Her resultant book LOTERÍA REMEDIOS led to the creation of a television script centered on the same theme and featuring a modern Mestiza protagonist. She is currently developing the screenplay THE CARD SINGER with support from the Luminaria Artist Foundation. A member of the Tap Pilam Coahuiltecan Nation, Xelena is a sought-after speaker on topics such as radical self love, creative early literacy strategies, inhabiting story through music and movement, and reclaiming indigenous identity in Latinx communities.
Adriana M. Garcia, is a home-grown San Antonio visual artist, muralist, and illustrator. Her debut picture book ALL AROUND US (by Xelena Gonzalez) was awarded the prestigious 2018 Pura Belpré Honor for illustration among other honors. One of Garcia's favorite mural creation "Changing the World" is installed at Northwest Vista College (Fall 2019) and centers around access to education. The mural project "De Todos Caminos Somos Todos Uno" completed for the San Antonio River Authority was recognized in the 2019 Public Art Network Year in Review. Adriana has exhibited her artwork both locally and nationally and has been invited to present at conferences, schools and museums. She has enjoyed working as an arts administrator and an art/design instructor for both youth and adult learners. She is a big fan of portraits and loves depicting strong women as a way to honor those who have come before and those who continue to lead by example.