ISBN 978-0-8101-2767-8
Michael Sedano
Readers won’t like what happens to some of the characters in
Toni Margarita Plummer’s The Bolero of Andi Rowe, but most of her characters
generally don’t mind.
Olivia Rowe lives quietly on this side of the border. Linked
to Mexico by graves and familia, Plummer shows both sides of the character. We
see the young woman romanced in the 1970s by the romantic figure of Anthony
Rowe and Olivia’s subtly implied loss of virginity to Tony. Who then disappears
from view until he emerges an old divorced man at his mother’s funeral living
the consequences of the breakup.
Here as the book closes, the young Maura Rowe, the white one
we met in the opening pages, is grown. Maura’s driving father back to Fresno
while sister Andi, the india one, consoles Olivia. La suegra and she got along.
There’s wild Ynez. She and Andi used to go out dancing and
tempting the guys, back in their heyday. Now the horrified voyeur watches Ynez
pick up two Israelis at a club and play out the erotic whims of the immigrants,
who invite Ynez to come back anytime. She drives home on the freeway and gets
off at Santa Anita, another long night behind her.
La Migra does’t evoke green desert nor black men platicando
but after meeting Clark, desert green will have a haunting memory.
Pete is the one who let Andi get away. She was the bolero,
Solamente Una Vez. Beth got Pete instead, much to their mutual regret. Beth is
a sloppy drunk. Andi watches from afar and knows only part of her ex’s story. A
glance is enough for the regret to overwhelm Andi.
But poor Pete. This is what he gets. Plummer really drags
him over the coals. He’s screwed up his life because he passed her—Andi—by, and
so it goes for the one big “if” in Andi’s life. Color Pete unfulfilled.
Teresa’s probably a homegirl with a chance. Ms Rowe, the old
church lady, will see to that. The Catholic church provides the background for
a number of incidents in The Bolero of Andi Rowe. The religion permeates the
book, in fact, not always in saintly ways. At the end, it’s a church Jamaica
for Christmas where Santa gets the surprise of his life.
Readers will be happy Plummer saves her holiday gem for last. Pobrecita Dulce Moreno. She’s old and
fat, unmarred at 35, and keeps all those frustrations about getting a man
inside her. Then the magical interlude with the old nun. An angel is getting
its wings for sure, that must run through Dulce’s mind when she has a cute meet
with an acquaintance, a guy suckered in to play Santa for the Church because
there was a free bar in town.
These 118 pages and ten stories won Honorable Mention in the
Mariposa Award for first book at the International
Latino Book Awards. A notable honor denotes the pleasure a reader will
discover when she or he engages The Bolero of Andi Rowe.
Poet Laureate Juan Felipe Herrera at Zócalo
 |
Oscar Garza, publisher of the magazine Tu Ciudad interviews the poet.
The event, including the reading was videotaped. La Bloga will provide details when these are available.
Banned Books Update for Fathers Day: Arizona Taliban 2, Freedom 0
Throughout Arizona Today, Tuesday, June 19, 2012, status quo: gente decente continue to
object to Arizona’s book-banning laws. Librotraficantes and sympathizers continue providing books to underground libraries. The U.S. Constitution continues to
protect the state’s authority to ban the books and resources of the notably
successful Mexican American Studies program in Tucson schools.
It’s the Arizona Taliban v.
raza teenagers. Sounds like a spectator sport. Keep your eye on the court.
Who knows if encouraging Constitutional news will arrive with Court
decisions on curriculum violations, and driving while brown laws. Here is a
model for a possible preamble to upcoming court rulings. This is the Supremes ruling
in 1944:
It
should be noted, to begin with, that all legal restrictions which curtail the
civil rights of a single racial group are immediately suspect. That is not to
say that all such restrictions are unconstitutional. It is to say that courts
must subject them to the most rigid scrutiny. Pressing public necessity may
sometimes justify the existence of such restrictions; racial antagonism never
can.
Then the Court dropped the
first shoe, finding, in Korematsu v. United States that excluding the
entire Japanese population from the Pacific Coast (and throwing them into
concentration camps) is Constitutional.
The Court’s reasoning grew
out of earlier decisions against ethnic Japanese United Statesians. Their
belief echoes what Obama’s predecessor said when he un-Solomonlike divided the
world into you’re for us or against us:
to
apply the curfew order against none but citizens of Japanese ancestry amounted
to a constitutionally prohibited discrimination solely on account of race. To
these questions, we gave the serious consideration which their importance
justified. We upheld the curfew order as an exercise of the power of the
government to take steps necessary to prevent espionage and sabotage in an area
threatened by Japanese attack.
This 1944 Korematsu decision
was overturned. In 1983. It's probably illegal to study Korematsu in Arizona. It might encourage resentment against the United States. where emotions by law must conform to a state-approved list.
La Bloga On-Line Floricanto
for Father's Day 2012
Francisco X. Alarcón, Elena
Díaz Bjorkquist, Andrea Hernandez Holm, Hedy Garcia Treviño, Raúl Sánchez, Flora
Gamez Grateron, John Martinez, Pedro L. Ramirez, Ana Chig, Pocho Luna, Elizabeth
Marino, Francisco Javier Herrera Brambila, James Lee Jobe
Sunday, the United States observed Father's Day by Presidential Proclamation:
Modeling el prexy's late discovery of the stuff Dreamers are made on, La Bloga comes late to observe the proclamation. We arrive in style, with fifteen poems from thirteen artists, including Francisco X. Alarcón, Elena Díaz Bjorkquist, Andrea Hernandez Holm, Hedy Garcia Treviño, Raúl Sánchez, Flora Gamez Grateron, John Martinez, Pedro L. Ramirez, Ana Chig, Pocho Luna, Elizabeth Marino, Francisco Javier Herrera Brambila, James Lee Jobe.
"My Father's Son / Hijo
de mi padre" by Francisco X. Alarcón
“Recognition” by Elena Díaz
Bjorkquist
"Always Going Home"
by Andrea Hernandez Holm
"Papito Abuelito"
by Hedy Garcia Treviño
“To Don Victor Sánchez
Hernández -My Father” by Raúl Sánchez
“Papa Who Never Wanted to
Grow Old” by Flora Gamez Grateron
“This First And Only Time -
For my Father Víctor Verdugo Martínez 1927 – 2006” by John Martinez
"Many Have Come Like
Froylan" by Pedro L. Ramirez
“Despedida - A mi padre, Lito
Chig” por Ana Chig
"To My Dad Jorge Rodríguez
Fontes (RIP)" by Pocho Luna
"In Memoriam - for
Albert Gus Marino (1922-2003)" by Elizabeth Marino
“La importancia de
pensar" por Francisco Javier Herrera Brambila
"And
I Am The Father" by James Lee Jobe
MY
FATHER’S SON
by
Francisco X. Alarcón
in memory of my father Jesús Pastor Alarcón (1922-2003)
I
can still hear
my
father’s
soulful
voice
over
the phone
pleading
like
a
tolling bell
for
the first
and
last time,
“perdóname,
hijo”
I,
replying,
“no
tengo nada
que
perdonarte”
he,
insisting,
“perdóname,
hijo
forgive,
son…”
I,
remembering
the
best days
of
childhood
wanting
to be
blinded
by the light
of
the morning Sun
trying
to wipe up
the
spilled painful
memories
of a
wholesome
family
losing all
for
his cause
and Abuelita
out
on the sidewalk
of
her own home
dying
weeks
later
as a homeless
Indian
matron
“perdóname, hijo”
(son,
all your life,
I
have blessed you —
now
it's your turn)
“father,
for you,
I
only have thanks
and
lots of love”
“perdóname, hijo”
I
keep hearing me
telling
Papá, “yes,
padre,
I forgive you”
o,
father, that day
you
had dinner
later at
home
with
Mamá
and
Sammy,
your
youngest son
and
seated on
your
favorite couch
watching
TV news
you
just closed
your
eyes forever,
your
head limping
slightly,
like the head
of a
fighting cock
fallen
on its last fight
o,
father, reading
a
good history book
really
made your day
but
poetry above all
brought
day and night
to
your dark eyes—
I
now stand in front
of
the mirror of life
and
I see you, father
blessing
me, kissing
me
on my forehead—
I am
my father’s son
© Francisco X. Alarcón
June 13, 2012
por Francisco X. Alarcón
a la memoria de mi padre Jesús Pastor Alarcón (1922-2003)
aún puedo oír
la honda
voz
de
mi padre
en
el teléfono
como
campana
replicando
por
primera
y
última ocasión:
“perdóname,
hijo”
yo,
respondiendo:
“no
tengo nada
que
perdonarte”
él,
insistiendo:
“perdóname,
hijo,
perdóname,
hijo..."
yo,
recordando
los
mejores días
de
la niñez
queriendo
ser
cegado
por la luz
de
un matutino Sol
tratando
de borrar
dolorosas
memorias
derramadas
de
una familia
ejemplar
perdiendo
todo
por su causa
y a
mi abuelita
afuera,
en la acera
de
su propia casa
muriendo
semanas
después
como matrona
indígena
sin hogar
“perdóname,
hijo”
(hijo,
toda la vida, yo
te
he dado la bendición —
ahora
te toca ti...)
“padre,
para ti,
sólo
tengo gracias
y
mucho amor”
“perdóname,
hijo”
me
puedo oír
diciéndole:
“sí,
padre,
te perdono”
oh,
padre, ese día
lograste
cenar
luego
en casa
con
Mamá
y
Sammy,
tu
hijo menor
y en
tu sillón
favorito
mirando
noticias
en la televisión
simplemente
cerraste
los
ojos por última vez,
y
ladeaste tu cabeza
ligera
como la testa
de
un gallo caído
en
pelea postrera
o,
padre, leer un buen
libro
de historia era
tu
mayor felicidad
pero
la poesía ante todo
traía
el día y la noche
a
tus negros ojos—
ahora me
paro frente
al
espejo de la vida
y te
veo a ti, padre
bendiciéndome,
besándome
la frente—
yo
soy hijo de mi padre
© Francisco X. Alarcón
13 de junio de 2012
by
Elena Díaz Bjorkquist
I
ask, “Who am I?”
Daddy
lowers his gaze
As
if the answer
Will
appear
on
the floor
Minutes
drag by,
I
hold my breath –
Has
he forgotten me?
Suddenly,
he looks up,
Smiles,
Says,
“Elena
. . .
you’re
Elena.”
Satisfied,
he nods.
I
exhale,
Return
his smile,
Pat
his shoulder.
He’s
forgotten much
But
not me.
Elena Díaz Bjorkquist ©2009
Published in Our
Spirit, Our Reality 2012
ALWAYS
GOING HOME
by Andrea Hernandez Holm
Bebe
grew up sleeping
Side
by side with brothers
Learned
to breathe and be
With
them listening
To
stiletto raindances
On
lamina rooftops,
Holding
hands
With
sisters
Pressing
soft palms
Lightly
against calloused ones.
He
traveled highways,
Backways,
farm roads
Looking
ahead, looking out
For
the fields and orchards
To
be picked.
Always
with his brothers
Always
with his father
Always
returning
To
the little house
On
5th and Lincoln
The
little house
With
a broken window
And
his mother’s woodstove
In
the front yard.
When
the Army took him
He
sent photos
Of
snow covered mountaintops
Unfamiliar
faces
And
the barracks where he lived
Separated
for the first time
From
the warmth
Of
his brothers nearby.
He
won’t talk to me
About
what it was like
Over
there. Or what it was like
To
come back.
We
talk
about
blood relatives
His
grandchildren
My
abuelita
His
tio
Birth
certificates that say
Old
Mexico
And
songs
About
San Luis Potosi.
We
talk about the rabbit
In
the moon
Caterpillars
on tomato plants
And
César Chavez.
He
spends hours
Outside
in the heat
Or
the cold, working now
At
the sorrows
That
come with loss.
He
sifts dirt through
His
fingers rough
From
chopping
At
the ground
Remembering
hermanos
Y
hermanas
Gone
before he could say
Goodbye.
My
dad dreams
Of a
little yellow house.
by Hedy Garcia Trevino
Who
will put the sun to sleep now that your gone?
Who
will chant the sacred songs onto the sky to bless our lands with rain?
Who
will plant the Maize?
Who
will know when its time to harvest Las Calabazas?
Who
will understand the cycles of the moon that tells us when to plant?
Who
will guide the Gavilan?
Who
will sing the morning songs?
Who
will tend to the fire in the horno?
Who
will braid my chongitos abuelito?
Who
will guide me to the river?
Who
will whittle my pititos (flutes) from river willows?
Who
will teach the language of the trees?
Who
will gather the herbs Curandero?
Who
will dance to the song of the sparrow?
In
the quiet of night he whispers...
I am
the song in your heart
I am
the wind in your hair, I am the sun that kisses your forehead.
I
am the pepple in the sand. I am the corn stalk that sways in the morning
light.
by Raúl Sánchez
He
was always working
working
to sustain
his
family business
he
wore a brim hat
same
hat cool guys wear
Bogart,
Langston Hughes wore
the
same hat
he
never wore jeans
always
slacks and a white
long
sleeve shirt
he
would roll up the sleeves
past
his elbows
when
he stirred
the
food in the giant
cazuelas
at the Restaurant
he
owned
he
created
an
award winning menu
much
better than award
winning
chefs
every
Sunday:
barbacoa
sopa de medula
carne
asada mole poblano
caldo
tlalpeño mixiotes
chicharrón
en salsa verde
most
would sell out
before
the bullfights began
partida
de Plaza 4 PM sharp
chants
of Oolé ooolé oooolé
would
echo out of the walls
the
gigantic Plaza México
he
smiled he enjoyed
the
compliments his clients
gave
him
he
was my father
he
taught me to work
to
respect
to
stand
for
what I believe
he
told me he loved me
he
left to soon
alone
I learned
what
he couldn’t teach me
I
learned the language he
couldn’t
speak
I
live in a place far away
from
the birth
of
that memory
his
memory shines
he
stands tall
as
the man
I
knew when I was small
his
example ever present
a
man with a big heart
he
was my Father.
by Flora Gamez Grateron
He
wielded the hammer like a 44
Whipped
out of the holster
And
challenged anyone
Young
or old,
To the
task.
He
was not one to boast
The
Master, the teacher
The
one with the answers
He
talked to wood
Eyed
and measured 2x4’s
Knew
nails by feel
The
old saw with ragged teeth
Worked
for no one else.
He
climbed ladders
Up
and down like a boy
When
he couldn’t be found
The
roof was where he was
On
the top of the world
So
he could observe his work.
When
he noticed his body aging
He
got angry at his sluggish legs
“Move
faster,” he commanded
They
obeyed as best they could
And
he frowned at them
Then
he took notice of his hands
More
wrinkled and stubborn than before
The
grip on his hammer weaker
Why
do they hurt when I tighten my grip?
I’ll
just work a little harder.
And
he did, day after day
Year
after year,
Decade
after decade.
Until
the day he realized
His
hands were deformed
His
posture bent
When
did this happen?
And
why?
I
need to climb that ladder
Why
won’t you obey?
“Because
we can’t,” his body said
“Because
we need to protect
You
from yourself.”
He
scoffed, unfazed and climbed
The
ladder none the less
Before
anyone could find out
He
was on top of the world again
Breathing
the crisp air
Filling
his lungs
Reminiscing
about life
When
he was young, strong and able.
He
climbed down
Picked
up his tools
continued
working
hammering
sawing
nailing
Like
there was no end in sight
No
one to stop him
And
they couldn’t.
Flora Grateron © 6/22/2009
Published
in Our
Spirit, Our Reality 2012
by John Martinez
For my Father Victor Verdugo Martinez 1927 - 2007
While
the clouds bunched and bruised grey
Over
that Spanish bar in Mazatlan Mexico,
We
sat in the outdoor patio slamming
Greyhounds,
Patron shots, beer chasers
And
while the earth moved at a speed
Neither
one of us could calculate,
We
felt that we understood
The
seagulls calling out numbers,
The
horizon pulling in the street,
The
block buildings that one-day
Will
find their windows
Filled
with salt
It
was this first and only time,
My
father was a guy named Victor
And
I, a guy named, John
I
was now 44 years old and my face was
Becoming
his face, my eyes sleepy,
My
mouth, a pucker of spider wrinkles,
Cobwebs
protruding from my nose,
My
sideburns, sandy and curled,
I
was becoming my father
And
as the sun stretched a dark yolk
Into
that green and blue ocean,
We
spoke of neckties, button down collars,
How
we both stared deep
Into
a ceiling of worry,
A
tackle box of bills,
Of
our wives, their jealous eyes,
We
agreed that our love for them
Was
long, worn and perfect,
That
there was nothing greater
Than
their belief in us,
Nothing
more profound
Than
the names changed,
The
blood we shared
I
named my boy after him,
After
his boy, Victor
And
for the first time, we spoke of God
In
our opened palms, of La Llorona
Muddy,
in the half filled ditch of Fresno
Near
the dying Oak, where I ran about shirtless,
“Como
un Indio” he said,
Taking
a shot, a wincing munch of lemon
Victor
Martinez planted flowers
Around
a project home,
Shot
squirrels in the field from his doorstep,
Had
12 children, five girls, seven boys,
Drove
a Pontiac Grand Prix,
Drove
a cantaloupe bus,
Impressed
the girls with his Gachupine looks
And
soon, he was smart in his leisure suit,
Hair
slicked back, like a Chicano
Dean
Martin behind a steel desk,
The
smell of coffee
Meant
that he was going
To
do his time
So
the evening wound down to
A
spinning of empty shot glasses,
Drunk,
he smacks out my name
To a
Waiter;
“John
would like another drink,”
“Man
these drinks got me wanting to hurl, Victor,”
I
said to him, turning pale, plump lips,
Going
round and round
And
for the first time,
As
the weakened light settled
Into
cut shadow at his feet,
I
can sense that we were far,
Far
away, like the orange sun sinking into the ocean,
Far
from home, where he is my Father,
Crunched
in his silent sofa,
But
this time, this first and only time
He
was a guy named, Victor
And
I, a guy named, John
And
we were friends
For
that day
John
Martinez
by Pedro Ramirez
For my Father Froylan S.-Ramirez
I.
Let
me say
I
began life behind a village,
on a
wasteland sucked dry by flowering corn,
brittle
weeds, and slender nopales.
Where
I lived each
Season
waltzed through the year
Dressing
the months in my suits.
In
the spring monarch butterflies
blanketed
a stream-
A
strong blue god,
And
would spurt onto the dry beds of dirt;
And
as fall appeared-
The
guardian of frost and ice
Would
send this stream
Spilling
into the earth’s womb,
“Donde
nace la agua.”
Our
hacienda stood rigid
alongside
this stream-
small
cousin of the river.
As a
child I worked on my father’s hacienda.
I
had to work because if I loafed
my
father would look into his dark brown hollowed eyes-
Dare
him to hit me with the tree whip-
He
would lash my back,
Strip
my dare
and
make me work.
He
never touched my face or spoke softly.
I
was a six year old who
never
went to school.
No
one in my village went because there
were
no schools.
A
priest taught me to read some words.
Besides
meeting him once a week,
All
I did was work.
II.
I
never like working with my father-
His
whip was my school master-
So
soon I found a job herding sheep.
I
never left the sheep,
I
stayed with them day and night,
year
around year.
I
was nine.
III.
When
the crops were harvested,
my
brother and I would
pace
to the market place
in
an Aztlan procession
down
dirt roadways with
people
who carried their
crops
in burlap sacks.
The
sacks slungover flexed
women’s,
men’s, and children’s shoulders.
All
pacing as if going to the crucifixion of Christ.
We
would sell our beans there.
As
we neared the market place,
a
stagnant hum echoed from a crowd
gathered
at the train station
that
looked like a congregation
watching
a cockfight.
An
old lady told me men were
boarding
boxcars.
She
saw me stare and said,
“No
vayas pendejo, te van hacer esclavo!”
“Sólo
hay frijoles aquí para mí,
¡Mejor
me voy!”
Her
son had gone and returned,
Tiring
of working where I
Was
going-
To
work on the other side.
I
was signed and accepted.
Before
I boarded, I told my brother
to
sell the beans and to
return
home and say nothing of where I’d gone.
I
would return with dollars.
I
leaped into the boxcar,
The
doors axed the light-
And
in the darkness,
I
turned away from my brother and mother.
Through
the sheet metal I heard,
“Take
care of yourself hermano.”
I
crept into a space surrounded by four rail car walls
And
the words of my brother
Echoed
in my mind like
the
calling of a lost sheep.
My
brother stayed because he was eighteen,
You
had to be twenty one,
I
was fifteen.
This
was the final day of my life
In
Michocan,
My
Village,
In
my Mexico.
IV.
I
sat alone in a corner and
Knew
how cows felt.
Men
twice my age reeked of perspiration and dirt
We
sat in darkness.
I
could hear soft whispers of the U.S.
and
of families left in Ario de Rosales.
I
never spoke.
I
didn’t know where I was going,
nor
if I was to return.
When
the train arrived in the U.S.,
I
jumped from the boxcar.
Men
who spoke foreign led us through jail gates,
I
was stripped bare in full view of all and deloused.
I
signed some papers and was told to return in three days.
I
had no money, no family;
only
my clothes and a blanket.
After
two days I ate
because
I sold my blanket.
My
life in this country began
taking
a train to somewhere.
This
is all I want to say.
© Pedro L.
Ramirez
Muchos han venido como Froylán
por Pedro
L. Ramirez
l
Mi vida
comenzó en las afueras de un pueblito
en un paramo
desaguado por maizales florecientes,
yerbas
quebradizas y cactos esbeltos.
En mi
tierra, cada estación
bailaba el
vals del Año
arropando
los meses con muchos trajes.
En la
primavera, un arroyo --
potente dios
pardo—
llenaba de
agua los lechos sedientos
y cuando
aparecía el otoño –
el guardián
de las escarchas
remetía este
arroyo
hasta la
matriz de la tierra.
Nuestra
hacienda se erguía rígida
junto a este arroyo –
primo menor
del rio.
De niño
trabajaba el la hacienda de mi padre
tenia que
trabajar porque
si me la
pasaba sin hacer nada
mi padre me
azotaba con una vara–
Yo me
quedaba mirando fijamente
sus hundidos
ojos negros–
desafiándolo
a que me pegara con la vara–
el me
golpeaba en la espalda
desarmaba mi
atrevimiento
y me hacia
trabajar de nuevo.
Nunca tuvo
caricias ni palabras de afecto para mí.
Fui un niño
de seis años
que nunca
fue a la escuela:
nadie en mi
pueblo iba
porque no
había escuelas.
Un sacerdote
me enseño las primeras letras.
Además de
visitarlo una vez a la semana,
Todo lo que
hacia era trabajar.
ll
Nunca me
gusto’ trabajar para mi padre—
su vara era
una dura maestra—
así que
pronto conseguí trabajo
como pastor
de borregas en el cerro.
Nunca
abandonaba mi rebaño.
Me quedaba
con mis borregas
Dia y noche
Durante todo
el año
Entonces
tenía nueve años.
lll
Cuando
llegaban las cosechas
mi hermano y
yo nos íbamos por las terracerías
junto con la
gente que sobre sus espaldas
llevaban su
cosecha hacia el mercado
donde vendíamos
nuestro frijol.
Un subido
estancado se oía venir
de la
multitud reunida en la estación de trenes
que se veía
como un público
presenciando
una pelea de gallos.
Una viejita
me dio que unos hombres
se iban en
los vagones.
Ella me vio
clavar la mirada en el tren
Y me dijo:
¨No Vayas pendejo, te van hacer esclavo¨;
(¿qué ha
aquí para mi? ¿frijoles?)
Su hijo se
había ido y luego regresado
cansado de
trabajar en donde ahora
yo me iba –
a trabajar
en los files de California.
Firme’ y me
aceptaron.
Antes de
subir al tren le dije a mi hermano
que vendiera
todo el frijol,
que se fuera
a casa
y no dijera
nada sobre a donde me había marchado;
que
regresaría con dólares.
Salte’ hacia
el vagón.
Las puertas
mocharon la luz,
y en la
oscuridad,
me vi
despidiéndome de mi madre y mi hermano—
un ¨cuídate
mucho mijo¨ penetro’
Las paredes
metálicas.
Al quedar
rodeado por cuatro paredes negras—
estas
palabras me resonaron en la mente como
las lloros
de un borrega moribundo.
Mi hermano
se quedo’ porque tenia dieciocho años
y había que
tener pro lo meno veintiuno;
yo tenía
quince.
Este fue el
último día de mi vida
en mi
pueblito—
en México.
lV
Me senté en
un rincón a solas
Con el olor
a tierra y a sudor de hombres
Que doblaban
me edad.
Íbamos
sentado en la oscuridad;
Yo podía
escuchar susurros como conversaciones
sobre los
Estado unidos
y sobre las
familias dejadas en Ario de Rosales.
Pero yo
nunca hable’.
ni supe
donde me dirigía
ni cuando
regresaría.
V
Cuando el
tren llego a los Estados Unidos
di un salto
de vagón;
unos hombres
que hablaban una lengua extraña
nos
condujeron a través de barreras.
Yo no tenía
dinero.
solo lo que
llevaba puesto y una cobija.
Después de
do días pude comer
con lo que
me dieron por la cobija.
Mi vida en
los Estados Unidos comenzó
cuando tome
un tren a-no-se-donde.
©Pedro L. Ramirez
Traducción: Francisco X. Alarcón
por Ana Chig
A mi padre, Lito Chig
Frente
a tu lápida,
en
esta región de muertos que resiste el olvido
rezo
a tu memoria.
El
incienso se consume… mitiga la ausencia.
Los
caminos de arena desvanecen en silencio
Y el
fuego se estremece ante la noche
Se
dispersa el silencio, el tiempo sigue su marcha
Sordos
murmullos combaten en esta paz calcinante
Elementos
oscuros se abren, manan recuerdos
Deambulas,
y no logro contemplar tu cuerpo cansado
Quizás
escalas los siete peldaños ahora etéreos,
Quizás
es tu abrazo el que traspasa la memoria
Ofrezco
la sal en tu sepulcro
intentando
ser el héroe -de una noche, sólo de esta noche-,
que
estérilmente se perdió de tus días fecundos
para
que nada corrompa el dulce obsequio de tu andar,
para
que esa niñez que se refugia amorosa e inocente
sobreviva
a tu muerte…
La
tristeza se resigna
y
una flor marchita se desdobla,
ahora
sobre tu lecho.
by Pocho Luna
A Father's Day Poem to my dad who passed
to the other side March 2012 Jorge Rodríguez Fontes
Small
brown arms picked cantaloupes on the West side
Burgeoning
bag on your skinny back burdened
Rubbed
against a child’s protruding spine
Frictioned
heat between two worlds sweltered
Near
Stockton during 50’s Valley summers
When
the sky dripped with perspiring pesticides
Onto
little black-haired boys into open pores
Muddied
sores mixed with silent tears, sweat, poisons
As other
kids played giggled near chilled pools
Lustily
chomping Watermelons you carried like a mule
In
fan club costumes Lone Rangers chasing Tonto’s
Polka-dotted
Sandra Dee twisted on a beach
In
bikini cotton you picked in 57 when you were nine
Near
Chowchilla. While they ate ice cream pretending to be superman
Tattered
shoes no cape you lived in dirt-floored tents
like
a bat cave. Devouring bean burritos at sunrise
Scraping
the previous day’s dirt from your eyes
No
time for pretending superhero identities
Even
before you were ten you were a working man
Jorge
Rodriguez Fontes laboring outside Mayberry
1960’s
Pachuco teen picking grapes outside of Fresno
Hunched
over in muddied furrows fighting wasps
August
sun’s rays melting last night’s pomade
Bent-over
lugging hot-rimmed grape tray
Saturday
night at the Rainbow Ballroom on your mind
Feeling
fine thinking about Anita Angelina Gutierrez.
Stacey
Adams, Khakis and Pendleton’s buttoned to your neck
Cleaned
the dirt from your nails, starched creases, raven
Black
hair combed perfection like straight jalapeño rows
Cruising
Belmont Ave. in a 55’ Chevy after dark
“Mira
las Muchachas!”
“Aye
Travieso!”
“y
que Shaaaaa!”
Tio
Bobby, Frank, Joe, Southside Chicanos
Cruising
and boozing not a care in the world
As a
Fresno summer breeze caressed young handsome faces
You
told me stories pop of toil, heartache and joy
Growing
up a poor Chicano in Fresno in the 50s and 60s
Like
when some farmer’s sons called you “Greaser”
and
threw rocks at you walking home from school
or
dancing near Chinatown balmy nights neon lights
Glowing
across scarlet-lipped chicas in black skirts
As
you stared off into the distance and smiled
Conjuring
up those olden days for a moment
by Elizabeth Marino
for Albert Gus Marino (1922-2003)
Liz,
I have a feeling that your Dad and mine are sitting next to each other in
some gleaming
stadium in Heaven, watching the Bears and having a great time, because up
therethe Bears always win. Love and peace -- Pam Miller
Just
turned 81, he had given me much to love and remember.
He passed
quietly,
Attended
by the arms by a lovely young hospice aide.
The
son of Frank and Vicenzina of Cusenza , Calabria ,
He
was born in their front bedroom in Blue Island IL ,
On
an overcast February morning.
He
survived his 4 sisters and a brother;
He
survived his beloved wife;
He
was the proud father to 3 adopted daughters and late adopted son;
Grandfather
of 3, great-grandfather of 1;
Uncle,
great-uncle and great-great-uncle to an ever-expanding brood;
He
enraged, estranged and was beloved by the same people.
An
eccentric neighbor with good Craftsmen tools, and sometimes a buddy.
He
was a proud USW member, and showed us
The
snow and ice on his steel-toe boots –
He’d walked picket lines in the snow,
And
came home from union meetings
with Jones
& Laughlin notepads for our schoolwork.
A WW
II army veteran perhaps, without military records or stories,
Just
a trace of a limp and allusions to the Pacific.
He
loved hostile bad jokes: my house is on a cliff/drop over sometime.
(Then
he’d laugh and laugh, even harder if you didn’t.)
White
Castle cheeseburgers drowned with a senior coffee.
Beef
sandwiches from Via Calabria.
Good
food cooked and served by other people.
Complaining.
The
Bears.
Complaining.
Being
asked advice about used cars or motorcycles.
Just
get in the car and drive.
Fishing.
He
was a pious Catholic who loved the dawn.
He’d
watch the whole world slowly wake up again
as
the sun shone on his face. Two weeks ago
from
his hospital bed,
He
kept turning towards the sun.
Elizabeth
Marino
Ragdale
5/May/2007, Rev. 6/May/2007
Published
in "Moon Journal" & Debris Poems & Memoir (chapbook)
por Francisco Javier Herrera Brambila
Mi
bisabuelo pensaba mucho
Y
cuando llegó la hora de
Defender
La toma del agua
La
defendió
Y
ganaron el derecho al agua
Pero
el también pasó mucho tiempo
Pensando
Analizando
Comparando
el cielo con la tierra
El
desarrollo de la flor
Como
manifestación del amor de Dios
La
necesidad de la compasión
Como
más efectiva que la venganza
Mi
papá Lupe
Era
de hecho mi bisabuelo
Pero
me crié
Diciéndole
Papá
Así
de cercana era la relación
Por
el amor que le tenía mi madre
A su
abuela y abuelo
Papá
Lupe
Mamá
Gabina
Desarrollaron
Teorías
Porque
el campo y la vida
Entre
los vientos
Y
los frutos de la tierra
Te
enseña a hacer teoría
Analizar
Entender
Como
acto íntegro
No
como acto separado
Del
resto de la vida
La
importancia de pensar
Y
ver más allá de tu exitencia
Sino
la de tu séptima generación
Esa
ha sido la forma de los sabios
Y
las sabias
El
conocimiento que se pasa
Al
observar
Observar
Es
todo lo que he hecho toda mi vida
by James Lee Jobe
Who
is that outside,
tapping
on my window
like
a naked branch
in a
strong wind?
It
is my father’s ghost,
and
he wants me
to
go with him,
walking
in starlight!
I
can see
my
father’s great head
as
vast as Nevada,
and
his long nose,
bent
like Odysseus
to
his quest.
In
his mangled,
wounded
hand
he
holds aloft,
as
gentle
as a
baby bird,
all
of the dreams
that
he never lived.
In
many ways,
he
is the child,
and
I am the father.
I
think now
that
it was always so.
The
tapping continues,
consistent,
it
is early;
there
is still
a
bit of night
yet
to be.
The
stars shine
like
tiny gods;
they,
too,
bid
me to come!
James Lee Jobe
"My Father's Son / Hijo
de mi padre" by Francisco X. Alarcón
“Recognition” by Elena Díaz
Bjorkquist
"Always Going Home"
by Andrea Hernandez Holm
"Papito Abuelito"
by Hedy Garcia Treviño
“To Don Victor Sánchez
Hernández -My Father” by Raúl Sánchez
“Papa Who Never Wanted to
Grow Old” by Flora Gamez Grateron
“This First And Only Time -
For my Father Víctor Verdugo Martínez 1927 – 2006” by John Martinez
"Many Have Come Like
Froylan" by Pedro L. Ramirez
“Despedida - A mi padre, Lito
Chig” por Ana Chig
"To My Dad Jorge
Rodríguez Fontes (RIP)" by Pocho Luna
"In Memoriam - for
Albert Gus Marino (1922-2003)" by Elizabeth Marino
“La importancia de
pensar" por Francisco Javier Herrera Brambila
"And
I Am The Father" by James Lee Jobe
Francisco X. Alarcón, award-winning Chicano poet and educator,
is the author of twelve volumes of poetry, including, From the Other Side of Night:
Selected and New Poems (University of Arizona Press 2002). His latest
book is Ce•Uno•One: Poemas para el Nuevo Sol/Poems for the New Sun
(Swan Scythe Press 2010). His most recent book of bilingual poetry for children
is Animal
Poems of the Iguazú (Children’s Book Press 2008). He teaches at the
University of California, Davis. He is the creator of the Facebook page, POETS
RESPONDING TO SB 1070.
Elena Díaz
Björkquist .“There are no VA Hospital appointments on my
calendar any more—although I don’t miss them. What I do miss is not having my
father, Valentine S. Herrera. He passed away December 2nd, 2009
several months short of his 90th birthday. In May of 2007 Daddy
suffered his second heart attack and from that point on, his life was lived in a
series of nursing homes, assisted living homes, and hospitals. Because of the
relationship we developed during his final illnesses, Daddy and I became
closer—even closer than I’d been with my mother.”
A writer, historian, and artist from Tucson,
Elena writes about Morenci, Arizona where she was born. She is the author of
two books, Suffer Smoke and Water from the Moon. Elena is co-editor
of Sowing the Seeds, una cosecha de
recuerdos and Our Spirit, Our Reality;
our life experiences in stories and poems, anthologies written by her
writers collective Sowing the Seeds.
As an Arizona Humanities Council (AHC)
Scholar, Elena has performed as Teresa Urrea in a Chautauqua living history
presentation and done presentations about Morenci, Arizona for twelve years. She recently received the 2012 Arizona Commission on the Arts Bill Desmond Writing
Award for excelling nonfiction writing and the 2012 Arizona Humanities Council
Dan Schilling Public Humanities Scholar Award in recognition of her work to enhance public awareness and
understanding of the role that the humanities play in transforming lives and
strengthening communities.
Elena is one of the poet moderators for the
Facebook page “Poets Responding to SB1070 and has written many poems which have
been published not only on that page but also on La Bloga. Her website is at
http://elenadiazbjorkquist.com/.
Andrea Hernandez Holm is a poet, student, writer and a member of the moderating panel of Poets Responding to SB 1070. She was born in central Arizona, not far from the little yellow house where her dad spent most of his childhood.
Raúl Sánchez,
conducts workshops on The Day of the Dead. His most recent work is the
translation of John Burgess’ Punk Poems in his book Graffito. His work
appeared on-line in The Sylvan Echo, Flurry, Gazoobitales, Pirene’s Fountain
and several times in La Bloga. He has been a board member of the
Washington Poets Association and is a moderator for the Poets Responding to SB
1070 Facebook page.
His inaugural
collection "All Our Brown-Skinned Angels" is filled with poems of
identity—cultural, familial and personal, a civil protest, personal
celebration, completely impassioned.
Tucson, Arizona.
Flora Gamez Grateron, a Texas native, has been writing most of her life. Her
stories and poems reflect the complexity and rewards of living among a
Mexican-American family rich in culture and tradition. Flora’s work has been
published in The Blue Guitar, an arts and literary magazine of the Arizona
Consortium for the Arts and in La Bloga, a Flor y Canto out of Los Angeles
speaking out on Immigration issues. Her Corrido on her 89 year old dad was one
of the winners at the 2010 Tucson Meet Yourself Festival. Flora has also been
published in the Oasis Journal 2010. She belongs to Sowing the Seeds, a women’s
writers group. Flora received her degree in Creative Writing from the
University of Arizona and teaches English/Language Arts in the Sunnyside
Unified School District in Tucson, Arizona. She is currently working on a
collection of short stories and poetry.
Ana Chig. Poeta.
Residente de la ciudad Fronteriza Tijuana, Baja California. Es Editora y
fundadora del proyecto Frontera Esquina, Revista Mensual de Poesía que se
distribuye en Tijuana y San Diego, California.
Actualmente
coordina el programa POETIC BORDERS que se realiza en La Casa del Túnel Art
Center.
Ha participado
en recitales poéticos, lecturas urbanas y conversatorios organizados por
diferentes instituciones y centros culturales. Su obra aparece publicada
en diversos medios electrónicos, revistas y prensa escrita.
ELIZABETH MARINO was born to a couple from Puerto Rico, of Chicago's South Side barrio of the mid-'50s. She was raised by an Italian/German family in working class suburbs. She recently retired as a contingent NEIU English faculty member, and as an Affiliate Faculty of Women's Studies, having taught overall for 21 years. This June, a CAAP grant and conference scholarship sent her to Las Dos Brujas Writers' Workshops, where she studied with Juan Filipe Herrera. She also was a Ragdale resident. Her chapbook, "Debris: Poems and Memoir," went into a second printing last spring (Puddin'head Press). Her work can be found in the small press, anthologies, and the kitchens of her friends. She has an MA from UIC (Writers' Program), where she completed Renaissance Studies seminars at Newberry Library. Her BA was from Barat College, in English and Humanities, with a year at Oxford University
ReplyDeletethank you, elizabeth, for adding this important bio. ate., mvs
ReplyDeletepor nada, em
ReplyDeleteI love all the words expressed here and the poems are beautiful. A testimony that la cultura prevails and our roots are deep.
ReplyDeleteRaul Sanchez
FRANCISCO HERRERA de CAMINANTE Cultural Work
ReplyDeleteFrancisco Javier Herrera, fundador y co-director del TRABAJO CULTURAL CAMINANTE, apoya movimientos sociales con el objetivo de mejorar la calidad de vida del pueblo trabajador y migrante, a través de la musica y el desarrollo organizativo. Francisco es compositor y cantante desarrollando musica pegajosa y popular que mantiene al público atento al mensaje inspirador. Sus cantos son un homenaje a la vida, las alegrías, las penas y las luchas del pueblo migrante y la gente trabajadora en general. Es un canto humanizador que nos recuerda del campo y del deseo de salir adelante, y de esta forma cambiando la sociedad entera. Francisco compone y produce musica para niños, para peliculas y documentales y para eventos religiosos, civicos y políticos, como fueron las marchas de la comunidad migrante del año 2006 cuando mas de 5 millones de personas tomaron las calles por todo estados Unidos para ser presencia de dignidad y promover una legalización justa para los inmigrantes.
puedes descargar dos canciones gratis en www.franciscoherreramusic.com
photo: Anne Maley, 2004
FRANCISCO HERRERA of CAMINANTE Cultural Work
Francisco Herrera, founder and co-direcotor of TRABAJO CULTURAL CAMINANTE, supports social movements through the arts and organizational development. Whether through group facilitation or musical performance, Francsico’s priority is to support working people organizing to improve their quality of life. As a singer/songwriter he creates concerts, mc’s and performs in collaborations with countless organizations. A catchy mix of rythm and soulful singing keeps the audience attentive to Herrera’s lively presentations. His songs speak of the life, joys, pains and struggle of working people in the commitment for social change, making struggle for justice contagious and inspirational. Francisco writes and produces for children and adults in churches, union halls, community centers and concert halls.
you can download two songs for free from www.franciscoherreramusic.com