Thursday, December 29, 2022

Chicanonautica: From Covid Christmas to the New Year

by Ernest Hogan


I planned on heroically going on with biz here, but once again I get up, feel kinda okay, stumble through my morning routine, losing track of what I'm doing, then end up back in bed.


Gonna be a Covid Christmas! Or did it already happen? When am I writing this? Would make a great demented carol, but I can’t seem to think up anything . . .


Ah, brain fog . . . It’s some people’s idea of a good time . . . They take drugs to achieve this level of mental bizarritude . . . 


Where was I?


Oh yeah. I’m the Father of Chicano Science Fiction, a regular Papí Sci-Fi, and I have a lot of important business to take care of . . . like . . . 

 

There’s this virus transforming civilization as we know it . . . Didn’t I write a novel about that once? 


And there’s all kinds of turmoil sweeping over the planet. What the world needs now is some kinda newfangled chingadera vision to help us see a way through, or at least a few good laughs. 


Maybe I am just a slapstick comedian, writing this on his phone, in bed. 


And a new year is charging at us, so look out, amigos . . .


Ernest Hogan doesn’t usually need a virus or drugs to achieve a bizarre mental state, he just goes about his business and goes stark, raving sci-fi, whatever that means . . .

Wednesday, December 28, 2022

Felíz New Year, Ava Gabriela!



Written by Alexandra Alessandri  


Illustrated by Addy Rivera Sonda 

 


Publisher:  Albert Whitman & Company

Language:  English

Hardcover:  32 pages

ISBN-10:  0807504505

ISBN-13:  978-0807504505

 

 

Ava's excited to say goodbye to el Año Viejo―but will her shyness keep her from joining in the celebration?

 

Ava Gabriela is visiting her extended family in Colombia for the holidays. She's excited to take part in family traditions such as making buñuelos, but being around all her loud relatives in an unfamiliar place makes Ava shy and quiet. How will Ava find her voice before she misses out on all the New Year's fun?

 

 

2020 Florida Book Awards, Young Children's Literature category, Silver Award

 

2021 International Latino Book Awards Bronze medal in The Mariposa Book Awards Best First Book, Children & Youth category

 

STARRED REVIEW! "This gentle family story lets readers know that shyness is nothing to worry about."―Kirkus Reviews starred review

 

"The book's vibrant colors reflect the story’s celebratory mood."―Booklist

 

"A story about overcoming shyness in a unique storybook setting, recommended."―School Library Journal

 

 

Alexandra Alessandri is the award-winning author of several books for children, including Feliz New Year, Ava Gabriela! (Albert Whitman, 2020), Isabel and Her Colores go to School (Sleeping Bear Press, 2021), and The Enchanted Life of Valentina Mejía (Atheneum/S&S, 2023). The daughter of Colombian immigrants, she is also an educator, a writer for Curriculum Associates, and a poet, with some of her work appearing in The Acentos Review, Rio Grande Review, Atlanta Review, and Young Adult Review Network. Alexandra lives in Florida with her husband and son.

 

Addy is a Mexican illustrator, who loves color, learning, and exploring ways in which we could build kinder and more interdependent communities. Her biggest inspiration for drawing is that she knows that stories and art have an impact in the way people understand themselves and perceive others, building empathy, and affecting change in different ways.







Tuesday, December 27, 2022

Marine Blue Plan Comes Together

Mystery Mariposa Comes Into Focus
Michael Sedano

Realms of green make up my oft-traveled routes when I consider how the morning light finds a bird or butterfly where I point my camera during my morning respite walkabouts at Huntington Library. 

Gulf Fritillary on Jessamine cluster

As a full-time caregiver, I know the vital importance of having time to myself. I buy two mornings with a visiting caregiver, and twice a week, Barbara attends a dementia daycare center, giving me six hours respite time all to myself to do with as I please. I pay a premium to walk the gardens of the Huntington Library two hours early, so that's what I please. 

Fritillary rests on Savila penca

A photographer gets the early light and not a lot of foot traffic to scare off the critters that draw my lens. The membership is worth the money and, membership has its privileges. You get the whole place to yourself, casí.

One morning I stalked the Aechmea flowers along the rainforest trail. My eye catches a white fleck against deep green. The tiny moth, or butterfly, flits erratically about, touches down but doesn’t land. 

I wait it out. The white speck flits in and out of the shadows, touching and flitting, disappearing into the leaves only to reappear a few plants away.

Then it lands. I approach and the white speck flutters away. I get a fuzzy foto that I identify as a Marine Blue butterfly. I'm intrigued. The name belies the look of this brown mottle winged soul. 

I add the Marine Blue to my inner alert list. I begin filtering the view sensitive to those flitting white specks on a horizon. Not the White Cabbage butterfly, nor an assortment of white moths and hover flies and tiny bees. Rarely catching a glimpse of the elusive Blue, I stay alert with high hopes.

Butterfly and bird photography takes what nature provides. When I see one, I see one, rarely three, in the distance. I see those white flecks and have no clue to the blue. 

"Ah ha!" moment: Marine Blue shows its color

Spring is in full flush in late March when I see my first blue Marine Blue butterfly on an unfamiliar plant. I get a foto at long distance. 

I see a few folded wings on this plant subsequently, but despite long waits there, not a one Blue parks and opens its wings to show off its hidden spectrum. The butterflies park and flit, I stand and fret.

Unsatisfaction is not dissatisfaction. You can do something about nagging unsatisfaction. Something has nagged at me since that inroductory sighting at the Aechmea, something about this tiny erratic mysteriously-named life. I need to get a close look, and I need to get a macro showing all the details and reason for giving this beast its name, Marine Blue butterfly.

My walkabouts at the Huntington Library and at the Los Angeles County Arboretum a few miles away  grow more intent on finding the Marine Blue . 

I capture many a Fritillary, a Monarch and a Swallowtail. Dozens of Colibrí bring my heart joyful moments of pure respite as I hold the floating creature in the viewfinder, slow my breathing, anchor the lens to my body, synchronize eye brain finger decisive moment and press the button. 

But none of the fotos feature the Marine Blue butterfly. 

I grow more deliberate in my walkabouts, choosing trails where antes I’d spotted the Blue, stopping on a trail on a sunny morning watching for flitting white specks, even shaking a plant now and again to see what flies out. No Blues. 

The Mother Lode. The Elephant Graveyard. The Diamond Mine of the 7 Dwarves! Uncle Scrooge’s Money Vault. Eureka. 

I find the place where Marine Blues come to feed on crisp Fall mornings when the garden offers little else. 



With changing seasons, Butterflies have become scarce, and with Winter around the corner I’d abandoned thoughts of capturing the elusive Blue in 2022. 

Weeks had passed without a sighting when songs of feeding Colibrís stop me in my tracks. The birds hide behind thick branches so I planned to walk on to the Sausage Tree flower where hummingbirds might await.

I whirl toward the path when a white fleck catches my eye. 



Only a Blue flies like that. Then a second and third appear like magic and so it is. They fly into a ray of mid-morning sunlight and catch the light. They target a non-descript bush growing like a barrier between the path and a spectacular red Esperanza tree where the hummingbirds lurk. 

Not a barrier plant at all! It is the Marine Blue motherlode, Dalea bicolor. I stand stunned at the sight of this endless parade of flitting white specks that circle about the plant then land. The insect dances upon a flower cluster, dips its proboscis into the well of nectar. Then they spread their wings to catch the light and lighten my heart.

I won’t label my quest after a Marine Blue an “obsession” although I admit to growing frustration last Summer when I couldn’t find the Blue in the garden, and that grew into a klnd of anxiety that when I did see a Marine Blue, I had the wrong lens or I couldn’t get near enough with the right lens. And I'd nearly abandoned hope for this year of seeing them again. 


That’ s all in the past now because I know where Dalea bicolor grows at the Huntington. And I've seen the Marine Blue at just the right light when their wings shimmer with diamond dust painting the hidden reaches of their namesake wings. Ay de mi.

The Marine Blue led me to the Dalea’s tiny flowers to teach me to appreciate "nondescript" dust-catching bushes growing in the shadow of spectacular ornamentals. 

Órale, that was no obsession but a well-defined goal pursued with a deliberate process of looking. Looking just at the world as I find it. Looking and not thinking about all those caregiver duties and responsibilities that you can’t see when you’re making a photograph of one particular six by four inch slice of the real world there at the end of your lens and that’s all there is for right now.


Sabes que? This close up is why.


Thursday, December 22, 2022

Felíz Navidad 2022, Sing with Me

 Melinda Palacio




 Wherever you are, I hope you get a chance to sing or play music this Christmas and Chanukah. I was going to share a song or two here, but I am having technical difficulties. I can upload photos, but not videos. My new year’s resolution is to keep a paper calendar, get more organized and not wait until the last minute to finish my writing assignments. Is it possible to change bad habits? I’ll let you know. Good luck getting through the holidays and here’s to a happy new year.

A Soldier's Christmas


                                                                                  
Alfred Martinez, no relationship to Reynel, on the outpost 

     As I write this, on December 21st, I know there are Americans fighting wars somewhere around the world. Do they think about Christmas? If their experience is anything like mine, and they’re carrying out combat missions, they’re probably oblivious to the savior’s birth, to all holidays, thinking only about the mission and survival. Sometimes, they don’t even know, really, why they're fighting, and every day is the same, just another 24-hours. 
      It was a long time ago, 1966, December. I don’t even recall thinking about Christmas, only the vague notion about a cease fire. Christmas wasn’t important to us, the cease-fire was, but let me start at the beginning. 
     I’d arrived in-country on October 25th, after finishing jump school at Fort Benning, Georgia, with orders to report to Phan Rang, home of the 101st Airborne, first brigade, but it wasn’t that easy getting there. 
     I arrived in Saigon on a commercial airliner, along with a bunch of other travel-weary, mostly, teenage soldiers, the perfect age; we bitch but don't ask questions. Ours was not to reason why, ours was but to do and die.
     I grouped up with the few Chicanos I knew from jump school. After spending two days in Saigon’s 90th Replacement Center, they placed us on a convoy and drove us through a strange landscape of straw huts, rice paddies and fields of elephant grass to Long Binh, a larger, newer temporary replacement center, where I learned the Army had lost my orders. I was in limbo. 
     October moved into November, still, no orders. They gave me a choice to stay at Long Binh, a dusty, desolate Army induction center in the middle of V.C. country, or wait for my orders at Cam Ranh Bay, outside an Air Force base, along the shores of the South China Sea, where the Army was building a permanent, enormous military complex to process incoming and outgoing soldiers, a sign to the world the U.S. was in Vietnam to stay. I chose the beach.
     The rest of November passed. With some friends whose orders had also been misplaced, I spent the days working with military engineers, pouring cement slabs for all the new buildings. We worked all week, half-day Saturday, with Sunday’s off, which we spent swimming and sunbathing in the most beautiful beaches I’d ever seen. 
     Thanksgiving came and went. Anyone stationed on a permanent military base had no problem keeping track of time, like days, weeks, months, and holidays. In the huge mess hall, we feasted on a turkey dinner, with all the trimmings. On military bases, officers don’t cut corners when it comes to their luxuries and conveniences, including a five-course meal. 
     Finally, December arrived, and with it, my orders, report to Phan Rang, Camp Eagle, the 101st Airborne Division’s Home. Once we arrived at the sparsely populated camp, they told us the majority of the brigade had moved up north. As New Mexican Reynel Martinez, a recondo with the 101st, wrote in his book, Six Silent Men, “For the first time in the Vietnam War, a brigade (about 4,000 soldiers) was moved from one place to another in less than forty-eight hours.” For me, it was a sign of what was to come, constant movement, and I'd quickly get to know why the media dubbed the brigade, The Gypsies of Vietnam.
     Within three days, they issued us new jungle fatigues, boots, and M-16s, (we’d been trained on M-14s), bandoliers of ammunition, and two hand grenades. They put us through days and nights of intense jungle training, patrolling the mountains around the brigade’s perimeter. They walked us through the brigade zoo, animals captured, for training purposes, during past operations, the grand exhibits, lethal vipers, an eighteen-foot boa constrictor and a large jaguar. They wiped the past from our brains. Only the present mattered, the “right now,” life over death. 
     Christmas? Nothing…not even on our minds. The birth of Jesus and peace to the world somebody else’s business. The more common words in our vocabulary, words of survival, “Killers,” “Assassins,” “Executioners,” “Demons,” “Devils,” “Hell,” and “Widow-Makers.” December was just a name for a bunch of days. By 10th, the entire brigade had set up in the Central Highlands, Kontum, a dark, ominous mountain wilderness. They loaded us, “cherries” and “new guys,” onto C-130s, crammed in, along with the brigade’s supplies, and flew us into Kontum. 
     A truck picked us up and drove to our units. I reported to A battery, 320th Artillery. It looked like something out of the old west, a Civil War camp, concertina wire, rows of tents set up everywhere, guys, some cleaning weapons, others holding hand grenades, some relaxing, smoking, talking in groups, and just hanging out. Some were in town, for a few hours of entertainment. We heard about fights breaking out in bars. Christmas cheer? 
     By the December 12th, we were in the mountains, the artillery batteries setting up, for what seemed like a long stay. So much for Christmas. The infantry companies had begun humping the mountainsides around us. It was cold, mountain-cold, and most of us hadn’t brought field jackets. Vietnam wasn’t supposed to be cold. 
     As the month passed, the only thing we heard about Christmas, 1966, was a possible cease-fire. Weird. We’re all killing each other, their infantry and ours, with AK-47s and M-16s, and we, with 105 howitzers, blowing villages and people off the map. Who knew why, really?
     No one mentioned December 25, Christmas, the nativity, Bethlehem, the three wise men, the baby in a manger, nothing, zip. No showers for us, just dirty clothes, and, like heathens, eating out of cans, sometimes with spoons and forks, sometimes with our fingers, just how the Army wanted it. A holiday like Christmas might make us weak, so no trees, candles, or lights, just muzzle blasts and flares floating down on parachutes, illuminating the dark hell in front of us. 
     Around December 23rd, not long after I heard a sniper's bullet whiz past me ear, one close call in many to come, they got the word. Hanoi had agreed to a Christmas cease fire. We "broke down" the battery, no easy feat, moving seventy-five guys and six-howitzers. That’s not counting two other artillery batteries and all the infantry units still out in the mountains. We worked all day, and we were back in Kontum, setting up a temporary camp, by evening, chinooks and hueys, kicking up dust, coming and going at will. 
     I really don’t remember the dates. Browsing in a bookstore years ago, I found Reynel’s book. Coincidentally, he and I had both arrived in Vietnam about the same time. He kept a diary of the dates, operations, and important events, like Christmas. I’m indebted to him. His book is a good one. 
     He reminded me the Army served us a fine Christmas meal. Then it came to me, since we were still in the “front” area, far from our base camp, the cooks served us from metal containers. We sat on sandbags and ate from our mess kits, gobbled down turkey, mashed potatoes, peas, and cranberry sauce. 
     I’m sure, I must have gone to mass. There was always a priest somewhere nearby. When a Catholic priest wasn’t available, I’d join whatever pastor happened to be holding a service, regardless of religion. By that time, I figured Heaven wasn't only for Catholics. Mostly, though, we took advantage of any time out of the field to stay drunk, sloshed, or stoned, before the next operation. Christmas cheer didn’t last long. The only thing that mattered was ticking off one more day, hoping to make it to 365, the magic number.
     What I’d also forgotten, and Reynel Martinez reminded me, were the days after Christmas. To draw $55.00 “jump pay” each month, a lot of money in 1966, we had to jump at least once a year. So, the brass took the cease-fire as an opportunity to organize a one-day jump, the whole brigade, thousands of us, filling the skies above Kontum, a real show for the Vietnamese, but that’s an entirely different story. No Christmas cheer there, either. 
     Good luck to all of those serving today, so far from home. I remember you, and to all those who have served, and still suffer from the remnants of war, and to the families of those who never made it home. Some of us remember you, Christmas or not.

Daniel Cano is the author of the Vietnam saga, Shifting Loyalties.

Wednesday, December 21, 2022

Jorge Argueta, a Poet, Writer of Children’s Books, Selected as County Poet Laureate

From  https://www.smcgov.org

 

 


Querida familia, Les cuento que  soy el Poeta Laureado del Condado de San Mateo. 

 

Poesía para todos

 

Redwood City — La Junta de Supervisores del Condado de San Mateo nombró hoy a Jorge Argueta de Daly City como el poeta laureado del Condado, citando su habilidad para usar la poesía para crear puentes entre diversas comunidades.

 

El trabajo de Argueta refleja su herencia como un hombre de raza indígena de El Salvador con varios libros y poemas bilingües. Enseña escritura creativa en escuelas primarias, secundarias y universidades y trabaja con jóvenes en refugios para personas sin hogar, hospitales y otros entornos desafiantes. 

 

Redwood City - La Junta de Supervisores del Condado de San Mateo nombró hoy a Jorge Argueta de Daly City como poeta laureado del condado, citando su capacidad para usar la poesía para crear puentes entre diversas comunidades.

 

El trabajo de Argueta refleja su herencia como nativo de El Salvador con una serie de libros y poemas bilingües. Enseña escritura creativa en escuelas primarias, escuelas secundarias y universidades y trabaja con jóvenes en refugios para personas sin hogar, hospitales y otros entornos desafiantes.

 

Las obras de Argueta incluyen libros infantiles como el bilingüe "The Fiesta of the Tortillas/La Fiesta De Las Tortillas" y "A Movie in My Pillow/Una Pelicula en mi Almohada",  (entre otros) este último trata de un niño con dos patrias.

 

Como poeta laureado, Argueta propondrá y dirigirá un proyecto comunitario, presente en eventos seleccionados patrocinados por el condado y cada trimestre abrirá una reunión de la Junta de Supervisores durante el período de dos años.

 

Argueta es el primer poeta laureado del condado de ascendencia hispana. Nombrado por unanimidad, fue recomendado para el cargo honorífico por un comité asesor.

 

La Junta de Supervisores estableció en 2013 el puesto honorífico de Poeta Laureado del Condado de San Mateo para promover la conciencia y aumentar la apreciación de la poesía y la palabra hablada.

 

Para calificar como poeta laureado, los candidatos deben ser residentes del condado de San Mateo de cinco años o más, demostrar un compromiso con la lectura y la escritura de poesía, aprovechar la oportunidad de participar en el discurso cívico y comprometerse a cumplir un mandato de dos años.

 

Argueta es el cuarto poeta laureado, después de Aileen Cassinetto, Lisa Rosenberg y Caroline Goodwin

 

***

 

Dear family, I am happy and honored to share with you this great news. I have been nominated Poet Laureate of The San Mateo County.


Poetry for everyone

 

Redwood City — The San Mateo County Board of Supervisors today appointed Jorge Argueta of Daly City as the County’s poet laureate, citing his ability to use poetry to create bridges among diverse communities.


Argueta’s work reflects his heritage as a native of El Salvador with a number of bilingual books and poems. He teaches creative writing at elementary schools, high schools and colleges and works with young people in homeless shelters, hospitals and other challenging environments.

Argueta’s works include children’s books such as the bilingual “The Fiesta of the Tortillas/La Fiesta De Las Tortillas” and “A Movie in My Pillow/Una Pelicula en mi Almohada,” about a child with two homelands.


As poet laureate, Argueta will propose and lead a community project, present at selected County-sponsored events and every quarter open a Board of Supervisors meeting during the two-year term.


Argueta is the County’s first poet laureate of Hispanic descent. Appointed unanimously, he was recommended for the honorary post by an advisory committee.


The Board of Supervisors in 2013 established the honorary post of San Mateo County Poet Laureate to promote awareness and heighten appreciation of poetry and the spoken word.

To qualify as poet laureate, candidates should be a San Mateo County resident of five years or more, demonstrate a commitment to reading and writing poetry, embrace the opportunity to engage in civic discourse and commit to serve a two-year term.


Argueta is the fourth poet laureate, following Aileen Cassinetto, Lisa Rosenberg and Caroline Goodwin.



Tuesday, December 20, 2022

Dear Santa 2022:

 December 2022

 

Dear Santa:

 

Seems like only yesterday I was writing you, all I wanted was my two front teeth so I could with you merry chrithmath. And here we are today. Several fake teeth and numerous fillings, but my two front teeth are all mine, so thanks for granting me that small wish. Órale for believing in good dental praxis.

 

Then there was that bit of trouble, remember? I saw Mommy kissing you underneath the mistletoe that night. How was I to know Dad was wearing your suit? I got sent to my room, but I didn't shout, I didn't pout. I knew about that list you keep and check twice. I did not want a couple lumps of coal instead of that Red Ryder BB Gun. Thank you, I see fine with one eye, it's not your fault. And it got me out of the draft back in '68, so all in all, that was a good Christmas for me. 

 

I don't know what Grandma did to piss you off, or maybe it was just the worst time of the year for such a journey, the ways deep and the weather sharp, the very dead of winter, and all of that. But getting run over by reindeer is a hard way to reaffirm one's belief in myths. Did I say that? I meant the true spirit of X-mas and, of course, your existence, Santa. I shall be glad of another sale. 

 

And now that I know you have a low tolerance for ambiguity—last year I asked for RAM and got a whole herd of Bo-Peep's sheep; I meant computer memory--I am going to keep this short, sweet, and specific, OK? 

 

First of all, I want World Peace. Am I dreaming the impossible dream? Shouldn’t  my reach exceed my grasp? Are my arms too short?

 

Next, all I want is a room somewhere. You know, far away from the cold night air? Make it a big room, and soundproofed because when all the faithful come joyful and triumphant, they make a lot of noise. And no figgy pudding, sheesh. 

 

Please bring You Know Who a puppy. I asked about that doggie in the window, the one with the waggly tail. Its ears were grown a little longish, and its tail cut short. But the price was astronomical, so that little dogie can just git along, that's its misfortune and none of my own. Heah! 

 

And, Yes, thank you for Virginia. And Pennsylvania. And Georgia, of all places. Yes, Virginia, si se pudo. Now no one will send us to eat in the kitchen. 

 

As I promised, I’m keeping this short and to the point. Here’s hoping all your wishes come true, too. Enjoy the mutton stew.

 

And to all, a good night.


Signed...

You're supposed to know

Monday, December 19, 2022

Algunas tradiciones para esta época por Xánath Caraza

Algunas tradiciones para esta época por Xánath Caraza

 


Llega diciembre y recuerdo las posadas a las que solía asistir cuando era niña. Usualmente comenzábamos la primera posada a mediados del mes de diciembre hasta la noche del 24. Nos reuníamos para pasarla bien con la familia y reconectar con los que quizá no habíamos visto en todo el año. Solíamos tomar ponche de frutas frescas y cantar villancicos navideños o hasta preparar una rama con adornos navideños y salir a cantar con los primos y vecinos, una tradición del sur de México. Para la rama memorizábamos una canción e íbamos de casa en casa cantándola y, si teníamos suerte, nos regalaban algunas monedas, o mejor, nos daban dulces o ponche.  El ponche con el que crecí en el estado de Veracruz es un té de frutas, guayabas, piña, tejocotes, caña de azúcar, manzana y canela con azúcar. Todo iba picado y hervido hasta que el aroma del poche llenara la casa.

 


Espero que planeen sus posadas donde quiera que estén y celebren con la familia y amigos.  Tiene muchos años que no asisto a una posada, y durante el confinamiento de COVID, mucho menos.  Sin embargo cantar la noche del 24 en casa no ha dejado de ser una tradición para esta época. Planear una cena con los seres queridos, también, y esperar la mañana siguiente con una taza de chocolate mexicano y pan recién horneado mientras se abren los regalos, sigue siendo parte de las tradiciones que aún siguen vivas. Ojalá, queridos lectores, y compartan sus propias tradiciones en los comentarios de esta entrada.

 


Felices fiestas dondequiera que estén y a preservar las tradiciones familiares, las recetas, las canciones o el recuerdo de los seres queridos que ya no están con nosotros.

 

 

Algunas tradiciones para esta época por Xánath Caraza



Algunas tradiciones para esta época por Xánath Caraza

 


Llega diciembre y recuerdo las posadas a las que solía asistir cuando era niña. Usualmente comenzábamos la primera posada a mediados del mes de diciembre hasta la noche del 24. Nos reuníamos para pasarla bien con la familia y reconectar con los que quizá no habíamos visto en todo el año. Solíamos tomar ponche de frutas frescas y cantar villancicos navideños o hasta preparar una rama con adornos navideños y salir a cantar con los primos y vecinos, una tradición del sur de México. Para la rama memorizábamos una canción e íbamos de casa en casa cantándola y, si teníamos suerte, nos regalaban algunas monedas, o mejor, nos daban dulces o ponche.  El ponche con el que crecí en el estado de Veracruz es un té de frutas, guayabas, piña, tejocotes, caña de azúcar, manzana y canela con azúcar. Todo iba picado y hervido hasta que el aroma del poche llenara la casa.

 


Espero que planeen sus posadas donde quiera que estén y celebren con la familia y amigos.  Tiene muchos años que no asisto a una posada, y durante el confinamiento de COVID, mucho menos.  Sin embargo cantar la noche del 24 en casa no ha dejado de ser una tradición para esta época. Planear una cena con los seres queridos, también, y esperar la mañana siguiente con una taza de chocolate mexicano y pan recién horneado mientras se abren los regalos, sigue siendo parte de las tradiciones que aún siguen vivas. Ojalá, queridos lectores, y compartan sus propias tradiciones en los comentarios de esta entrada.

 


Felices fiestas dondequiera que estén y a preservar las tradiciones familiares, las recetas, las canciones o el recuerdo de los seres queridos que ya no están con nosotros.

 

 

Friday, December 16, 2022

Things I am pretty sure of ... (redux)


2022 Sunset


This is my last post for La Bloga for the year 2022. Another crazy year -- aren't they all?  But we should commemorate the old and prepare for the new, right?  

When I thought about writing an end-of-the-year essay, I realized that I'd done plenty of those.  After all, La Bloga has been around for eighteen years, so you know the writers at La Bloga have often lamented bad years, celebrated the good ones, and hoped for even better ones in the future.  Rather than try to come up with something new, I decided to look over some of my past contributions for possible recycling.

The one below is from December 31, 2010.  I labeled it Things I am pretty sure of ...

Most of what I wrote back then still holds true for me.  Changes have happened, of course: my father and mother have passed on, Obama has lost some of his light, the grandchildren think they are too old to "play", health is more of an issue these days, etc.  Yet, the piece still speaks to me. Maybe it will say something to you. So here it is.
___________________________________

End of the year musings --

> We are students and teachers, often at the same time.

> Being a student is more important than being a teacher.

> I don't appreciate people who think their role in life is to teach me what is right or wrong.

> If I want something done, I have two choices that will ensure it will happen: ask the busiest person I know to get it done or do it myself.

> People with time on their hands are kidding themselves.

> Sweat is the elixir of life. Working up a good sweat can usually cure what ails me. And think of the ways to get that perspiration going: exercise, physical labor, sex. All good.

> There is a difference between the emotion generated by listening to José Alfredo Jiménez lament la que se fue, and from listening to Emmylou Harris hold that perfect note backed-up by a melancholy steel guitar, but in the long run the difference does not matter.

> I am with the person who has turned out to be the great love of my life. I think that is what is meant when someone says they are blessed. I get all metaphysical about this because if left to me alone, I easily could have screwed it up.

> Happiness: watching my grandchildren play with their grandmother. The ability to play cannot be overrated and should not be underestimated.

> The road has not been straight or level or even safe; I am glad I didn't turn back.

> I would still choose Obama.

> My favorite ritual involves espresso, steamed milk and cinnamon. It's the closest I get to a religious experience.

> My father (82) can fix anything, build anything, handle any crisis with understated grace. He is stubborn and set in his ways. In his shadow, I am inept. I love my father.

> My mother (83) has developed a different personality. Or maybe I am finally seeing her as a person rather than a symbol. She can enjoy life like a child and find fault like the great-grandmother she is. I love my mother.

> Watching my father rehab from his stroke reminded me of the importance of balance in all things -- not only for standing up.

> The nights of "one too many" are over for me but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy a good wine or scotch or dark beer. The best part is that I do mean "enjoy."

> Fear is motivation. I run, write, and pay my bills out of fear. I don't know what I am afraid of, but so far it has worked.

> In the recent past I have taught myself how to juggle, taken up yoga, returned to running, and I tried to teach myself how to play the guitar. The guitar thing did not pan out. What I really would like to do is learn the accordion, conjunto style.

> Nine years of war have changed the U.S. in ways we cannot fully understand, yet. And the changes are not good.

> I want to ponder the big questions like God and existence and art versus politics and whether the world is flat or round. But I also won't get rid of my cable system's On Demand feature.

> I'm a listener, not a talker. If it were possible, I'd arrange a conversation with Emiliano Zapata, Mark Twain, and John Coltrane, open a bottle of wine, sit back, and listen.

> I'm so square I use words like "square."

> I'm so old school, I line up for recess when I hear a bell ring.

> I am a Chicano writer.

> I hate labels.

To all La Bloga readers and contributors: have a happy, prosperous, and healthy 2011.

¡Feliz Año Nuevo!

Later.

________________________

Manuel Ramos writes crime fiction. Read his latest story, Northside Nocturne, in Denver Noir, edited by Cynthia Swanson, published by Akashic Books.

Thursday, December 15, 2022

Chicanonautica: Kitsch, Stereotypes, and Mexican Restaurant Decor

by Ernest Hogan



One of the highlights of the California Guajalote Day trip, besides seeing my family, was Sancho’s Tacos. The food is excellent, but the decor–¡GUAO! Mexican restaurants often go out of their way to create an atmosphere—dare I say environment?--that deliberately clashes with that Anglo culture that they are located in.



Sancho’s is a masterpiece of this particular art form–creating a walk-thru construction welcoming the customer to a wonderland of Mexican food. (I was about to use the word cuisine, but that’s French. Leave it for the pretentious “Latin inspired cuisine” joints.) The colorful, cluttered wraparound, walls&ceiling mural, studded framed paintings, all in an Ed “Big Daddy” Roth/Ratfink style that manages to create a visual Chicano accent creates anticipation for the meal, enhancing the mouth-watering aroma of the cooking. It’s cartoony and festooned with wild lettering.



It takes what you often see in Mexican restaurants–of which I have seen a lot, a step further. It also illustrates something about Chicano culture, identity, and self-image. Could you imagine a black soul food or Asian place committing such acts of self caricature? But here they are. Why?



It seems that at this end of the Latinoid continuum spectrum, we are not afraid of making fun of yourselves. Maybe it’s because we don’t take ourselves too seriously, or have the same relationship with our food. Most of us come from a working class, barrio background.



There is a reason why the Sancho’s Tacos art looks like that of the Lowbrow Movement.


It’s an appreciation of kitsch, which is, to steal from Wikipedia: loadword from German, is a term applied to art and design that is perceived as naïve imitation, overly-eccentric, gratuitous, or of banal taste. [. . .] However, since the emergence of Pop Art in the 1950s, kitsch is sometimes re-appreciated in knowingly ironic, humorous or earnest fashion.

 


Compare this to Wiki’s definition of Rasquachismo: a theory developed by Chicano scholar Tomás Ybarra-Frausto to describe "an underdog perspective, a view from los de abajo" in working class Chicano communities which uses elements of "hybridization, juxtaposition, and integration" as a means of empowerment and resistance. 



And plug this into  mestizaje–a 20th century term for race-mixing that Wiki says is used by scholars such as Gloria Anzaldúla as a synonym for miscegenation, but with positive connotations.



I have noticed we mostly see it in Aztlán, restaurants up in Sasquachlandia, or even Utah, where Mexican restaurants are still a new phenomenon, are colorful, but not as outrageous.


And south of the border, things Chicano activists find offensive are just seen as funny. 



I once posted the a picture of the Frito Bandito. This confused Polo Jasso, creator of the brilliant comic strip El Cerdotado. When I explained about MeCHA banning the Bandito, he thought it was all funny. 



In Mexico, and even in a book, I’ve seen murals in restaurants in Mexico of pigs merrily slaughtering humans. People were expected to get the joke, and look at them while eating their pork carnitas. This was back in the early Seventies. Somehow, in a few short decades, they all disappeared. I keep searching on Google, but can’t find them, and no one else seems to remember them. Guess they were considered to be in bad taste.



If anyone reading this remembers them, or better yet has a photo of any, please let me know.


Meanwhile, I hope that the owners of Mexican restaurants keep supporting the arts.



Ernest Hogan is already busy with 2023 stuff even though it hasn’t arrived yet.