Thursday, October 10, 2024

Celebrating the Anthology: Latino Poetry: Places We Call Home

Melinda Palacio  



National Hispanic Heritage Month continues as the festivities are spread out over September and October. In conjunction with heritage celebration is a national grant to promote a new book: Latino Poetry: Places We Call Home, an anthology from the Library of America. The Santa Barbara Public Library has at least three copies of the anthology. Some of the themes in the Anthology include: Ancestry & Identity, Voice & Resistance, Language, First & Second Homes, Family & Community, Music & Performance, Labor and Eco-consciousness. The anthology, along with the grants offered for promoting the Latino Poetry anthology, has drummed up some exciting events that I hope will continue in years to come. Both Santa Barbara City College and the Santa Barbara Public Library have future programming associated with the Latino Poetry: Places We Call Home Anthology

 

Last month, I offered an hour-long poetry and music set for Palabras Vitales: Latiné Poetry Series at Santa Barbara City College. This was a kick off series for the college’s participation in promoting the anthology and the grants celebrating Latino poetry. The anthology’s themes include Voice & Resistance, Home, and Music. I decide to include poems about my own childhood home, especially those that feature my grandmother, as well as poems about children displaced at the border, who do not have a home. Since some of the poems have companion songs, I played a few of the songs on my guitar. I have really enjoyed sharing my poetry and music as part of my laureateship. 

 

Another event that was part of the anthology was a community open mic that I hosted along with the Santa Barbara Public Library and La Casa de la Raza. On September 26, community members were invited to read a poem that speaks to and from our Latino Community, as part of National Hispanic Heritage Month and the Latino Poetry: Places We Call Home Anthology. I asked Sofia De La Cruz to read her poems again because her parents came in late. I think it’s important for young people to be supported by their parents, and everyone enjoyed hearing her powerful poems for a second time. 

 

*an earlier version of this column appeared in the Santa Barbara Independent

Why Now?

                                                                                       
My mestiza grandmother's immigration card, circa 1920
                                                                                                                                                                             Hundreds of years after the conquest, Mexico’s former president, Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador, or AMLO, as he is affectionately called, said, of Spain's king, Felipe VI's refusal to apologize for injustices committed during the conquest of Mexico, “Spain acted arrogantly…put aside racism,” and take responsibly and apologize for the horrid acts it committed during the conquest. 
     It started in 2019, when AMLO asked Spain’s king, Filipe VI and Pope Francis to apologize for their past “injustices” during Mexico’s conquest? Spain, one of Mexico’s closest allies, didn’t respond, but later told journalists, "...its current leaders should not be held responsible for the actions of their forebears." Pope Francis said he already apologized, in 2015, in a visit to Bolivia, to all of America’s indigenous for the “sins” committed against them by the Church. So, why now? Why was AMLO ruffling feathers?
    Recently, it came up again, Spain's apology, or lack of one, as Mexico’s new president, Claudia Sheinbaum, Mexican by birth but not by blood (her paternal and maternal grandparents, Sephardic Jews, migrated from Bulgaria and Lithuania) decided not to invite Spain to her inauguration, for snubbing AMLO’s demand for an apology. 
     Mexico's new president has Spanish roots, as do AMLO and millions of Mexican mestizos, many who hail from every corner of Mexico, especially the northern states of Michoacan, Nayarit, Jalisco, Zacatecas, Durango, Chihuahua, Sinaloa, and Sonora. 
     When Cortez landed and began his conquest of Mexico in 1519, his army consisted of 600 Spaniards, give or take. Without the alliances of Moctezuma’s enemies, like the Tlascaltecas, and a crucial informant and translator, Malintzin, or Malinche, in Spanish, Cortez never could have conquered Tenochtiltlan, the Azteca capital, and, according to Spanish chroniclers one of the most beautiful cities upon which they’d ever laid eyes. 
     If AMLO demanded an apology from Spain, shouldn’t he also demand an apology from the indigenous groups who aided Cortez in his conquest of Mexico, and of Malinche's descendents, if any still exist? Shouldn't they also be held responsible? 
     Maybe AMLO should take a closer look inside, at today’s Mexico. When he heard about AMLO's demand for an apology, Peruvian novelist Mario Vargas Llosa suggested, after two hundred years of independence, shouldn’t Mexico apologize to its indigenous poor, which the country continues to exploit and abuse? Another way of saying it is: shouldn’t Mexico, also, apologize to itself for the injustices committed against the Mexican people after independence from Spain? 
     Many Mexican politicians, from opposing parties, claim AMLO’s demand for an apology from Spain and the Church is a strategy to distract the public from his own failed political policies and the promises he hasn’t kept while in office. Some also state this isn’t a time for Mexico to cause distrust among a close ally, like Spain, or any other country in Latin America. A good point, considering more than a few radical conservative U.S. politicians, including presidential nominee Donald Trump, have proposed invading Mexico and destroying its drug cartels, more of an excuse for the U.S. failure to manage its own insatiable appetite for drugs. Still, Mexico might need friends and allies. 
     Among the working-class Mexicans, and many of the poor, AMLO’s is popular, and his ratings remain high. He's been at it a long time and is a crafty politician, walking the firepit of Mexican politics. He created many social programs to help the poor; though, not nearly enough, to alleviate the country’s poverty or, even, put a dent in the violence many suffer, some on a daily basis. If AMLO is asking Spain to apologize for “injustices it committed with the sword,” doesn’t this get a bit sticky? 
     Yes, Spaniards conquered and occupied Mexico, torturing and enslaving Indians for hundreds of years, but not long after the conquest, the Spanish also began blending their blood, so to speak, with the blood of Indians, mulattos, and other Europeans, like the French and German, creating a new ethnicity of people, the Mestizo. After all, doesn’t Mexico proudly proclaim it is a country of mestizos? Without Spain, there would be no mestizo and no Mexico, as we know it, or as educator Jose Vasconcelos proudly proclaimed, la raza cosmica.
     What of Mexico’s treatment, historically, of the lower caste Mexicans, including Indians, like the Yaqui, whom Porfirio Diaz kidnapped, enslaved, and forced to work on hemp plantations in the Yucatan jungles far from their homes, in Sonora, or the hundreds of students killed at Tlateloco during the Mexico City Olympics in 1968, or the Tzotzil Maya, in Chiapas, who lost lands after NAFTA was passed, and suffered under the weight of broken promises president Ernesto Zedillo made, which sent them fleeing into the Lacandon jungle, seeking their own justice under the banner of the EZLN, or Zapatista Liberation Army, their livelihoods still threatened under Mexican rule. Then there were the 43 students who disappeared and presumed killed in Iguala, not even considering the scores of women killed in Juarez in the 1990s.
    Is Vargas Llosa, correct? Is Mexico culpable of injustices it committed and continues to commit against its own people? Is that where the apology should start? Mexico apologizing to Mexicans? 
     What will President Claudia Sheinbaum do to address today's injustices? In Mexico’s drug capital, Sinaloa, her husband's homeland, a battle rages, literally, on the streets of Culiacan, people dying every day, businesses closed, parents afraid to send their kids to school, as the sons of El Chapo Guzman, “Los Chapitos,” and El Mayo Zambada, “Los Mayitos,” one-time partners of the Sinaloa cartel, fight it out, as the incarcerated “mero jefes,” El Chapo and El Mayo, sit in U.S. prisons. 
     Yet, Mexico is not a poor country. Some of the world’s richest people are Mexicans. Go figure. Though President Sheinbaum claims Mexico still has a close relationship with Spain, is an apology worth straining that relationship? Then, I guess one could also ask, what would it cost Spain to say, "We are sorry for the injustices our forebears committed against the Mexican people," even if, at the time, Mexico hadn't yet been formed, completely? A pretty complicated, and rich, history if you ask me. Then again, without the merging of Spain and Mexico, none of my ancestors would have walked the earth, nor would their many descendants, who are now not only Mexican but, also, American.

Wednesday, October 09, 2024

Latinx KidLit Book Festival- Final Week



On September 27, I  was part of  the bilingual reading platica ¡Vamos a leer! 

You can watch all the past author and illustrator events by visiting this link, 





From https://www.latinxkidlitbookfestival.com

 

The Latinx KidLit Book Festival was created in 2020 during the COVID pandemic by members of Las Musas Books. Our aim was to connect Latinx authors and illustrators with readers and educators in classrooms around the globe. Since then, and with the help of countless volunteers, the festival has continued to foster a love of story and literacy as well as increase empathy and conversation among educators, students, and book lovers while uplifting the voices of Latinx kidlit book creators.

The Latinx KidLit Book Festival will be streamed live on the festival’s YouTube channel, or YouTube links can also be found on each individual event below.  All posted times are in EDT!


Sessions can be safely streamed into the classroom and shared with students using an educator's account. Classrooms can engage with festival authors and illustrators using the live-chat option! All video content will be recorded and available after the festival.


This is the schedule for this Friday, October 11.

 



Tuesday, October 08, 2024

A Railroad Runs Through It

Review: Mona Alvarado Frazier. A Bridge Home. Houston: Piñata Books Arte Publico Press. 2024. ISBN: 978-1-55885-995-1

Michael Sedano

It's 1972, the Chicano Movement has found its way to a nondescript small California town named San Solano. Railroad tracks divide the town. Raza and black families struggle to make ends meet on their side of town. Seventeen year old Jacqueline Bravo attends St. Bernadette High School, on the anglo side of town. 

Jacqui's a good student whose dream is winning a scholarship to attend UCLA next year. She won't be able to apply for the scholarship if St. Bernadette's transfers Jacqui to public school because she's hundreds of dollars behind on tuition. 

Tuition, rent, bills, five people in a one-bathroom house, a father killed in Vietnam two years before, add incredible stress to the teenager's tortured life. Jacqui perseveres with maturity forced upon her by economics and by having to be big sister mother-substitute to a boy-hungry 13 year old sister (who already gets hickies) and younger twin brothers.

This is the tapestry Mona Alvarado Frazier weaves to entangle her characters in a plot that probably mirrors the lives of young adult readers whom Frazier's story will inspire and motivate to do like Jacqui does in the exciting final chapters. With Jacqui's example, kids won't fall into the traps Jacqui gets herself into. In a sense, Jacqui has no option other than sneak around and take a job behind her mother's back. Jacqui's poorly considered choice is working in a sleazy restaurant-bar. In no time, Jacqui is in over her head running drugs and collecting payments.

To her credit, Jacqui doesn't know what's going on. Catholic school girls can be sheltered from the real world, especially when mother detests the word "chicano" and warns off her eldest child from those people.

Those people are the bridge Jacqui needs to find voice, direction, and salvation. Readers will thrill at the final chapters of Frazier's 43 short chapters, 290 page, gem of a YA novel from Arte Publico's Piñata imprint.

How does a kid find success when repressive nuns clamp down on individuality, practice public shaming of kids whose families fall behind on tuition, and go into high dudgeon over feminism? Jacqui can't go it alone, but that's Jacqui's method. Readers see how wrong it all can turn out, and here's one of Alvarado Frazier's more valuable author's messages: you can't do it alone. You need help.

When Jacqui learns this lesson she awakens her entire community, Mother included, and the movimiento's message hits the streets. El pueblo unido jamas sera vencido.

I won't delve into the finer points of the novel's plot and character development because there's so much fun for readers feeling the tension build as the plot and characters wind their way to an entirely engaging and satisfying climax. It's only for Jacqui, but there's probably good news for her peers. And the community might get that bridge spanning the railroad tracks.

One significant change I'd like to see: Piñata must devote a lot more attention to editing out the novel's several apostrophe-as-plural errors. It's not a minor flaw when YA readers are soaking in a wonderful story filled with important lessons about character, desperation, honesty, academics. Ineffective editing blinds the kids to effective spelling and perpetuates inattention to detail.

Mona Alvarado Frazier clearly is hitting her stride as a writer and author of YA literature. A Bridge Home, her second novel, marks a high point in a promising future.

You can order publisher-direct at https://artepublicopress.com/browse-and-order-books/ or ask your local indie bookseller to get your copies of this $15.95 gem.

Monday, October 07, 2024

Xánath Caraza: 1era presentación de sus libros en Cuba por Natasa Lambrou

Xánath Caraza: 1era presentación de sus libros en Cuba por Natasa Lambrou

 

En el marco del 1er  Encuentro Internacional de Culturas y Artes en Las Tunas de Cuba, la doctora Natasa Lambrou tendrá  el honor de presentar por primera vez en Cuba, los dos últimos libros de la poeta mexicana Xánath Caraza. 

 


El 16 de octubre a las 12 (hora de Cuba) en el Cine Teatro Moncada vamos a presentar las dos obras tituladas Corazón de agua y Tejerás el destino.

 


El evento estará disponible a través del enlace https://meet.google.com/qyn-eqav-jzi

 



Friday, October 04, 2024

New Books for Under the Tree

 

It's ninety degrees in October, so why not start thinking about shopping for the winter holidays?  Makes as much sense as anything else these days.  Here are a few suggested titles (unique and offbeat) for stuffing stockings, available in December, just in time for you know what.

________________________


Alter Ego
Alex Segura

Flatiron Books - Dec. 3

[from the publisher]
Alex Segura, award–winning author of Secret Identity, returns with a clever and escapist standalone sequel set in the world of comic books. In the present day, a comics legend is given the chance to revive a beloved but forgotten character. But at what price?

Annie Bustamante is a cultural force like none other: an acclaimed filmmaker, an author, a comic book artist known for one of the all time best superhero comics in recent memory. But she’s never been able to tackle her longtime favorite superhero, the Lethal Lynx. Only known to the most die-hard comics fans and long out of print, the rights were never available—until now.

But Annie is skeptical of who is making the offer: Bert Carlyle's father started Triumph Comics, and has long claimed ownership of the Lynx. When she starts getting anonymous messages urging her not to trust anyone, Annie’s inner alarms go off. Even worse? Carlyle wants to pair her with a disgraced filmmaker for a desperate media play.

Annie, who has been called a genius, a sell-out, a visionary, a hack, and everything else under the sun, is sick of the money grab. For the first time since she started reading a tattered copy of The Legendary Lynx #1 as a kid, she feels a pure, creative spark. The chance to tell a story her way. She's not about to let that go. Even if it means uncovering the dark truth about the character she loves.

Sharply written, deftly plotted, and with a palpable affection for all kinds of storytelling, Alter Ego is a one-of-a-kind reading experience.

____________________


Daniel Aleman
Grand Central Publishing - Dec. 3

[from the publisher]
A suspenseful dark comedy about a struggling writer who wakes up to find his date from the night before dead—and must then decide how far he’s willing to go to spin the misadventure into his next big book.

A few years ago, David Alvarez had it all: a six-figure book deal, a loving boyfriend, and an exciting writing career. His debut novel was a resounding success, which made the publication of his second book—a total flop—all the more devastating. Now, David is single, lonely, and desperately trying to come up with the next great idea for his third manuscript, one that will redeem him in the eyes of readers, reviewers, the entire publishing world…and maybe even his ex-boyfriend.

But good ideas are hard to come by, and the mounting pressure of a near-empty bank account isn’t helping. When David connects with a sexy stranger on a dating app, he figures a wild night out in New York City may be just what he needs to find inspiration. Lucky for him, his date turns out to be handsome, confident, and wealthy, not to mention the perfect distraction from yet another evening staring at a blank screen.

After one of the best nights of his life, David wakes up hungover but giddy—only to find prince charming dead next to him in bed. Horrified, completely confused, and suddenly faced with the implausible-but-somehow-plausible idea that he may have actually killed his date, David calls the only person he can trust in a moment of crisis: his literary agent, Stacey.

Together, David and Stacey must untangle the events of the previous night, cover their tracks, and spin the entire misadventure into David’s career-defining novel—if only they can figure out what to do with the body first.


__________________________


No Place to Bury the Dead
Karina Sainz Borgo
, Translated by Elizabeth Bryer

HarperVia - Dec. 10


[from the publisher]
In an unnamed Latin American country, a mysterious plague quickly spreads, erasing the memory of anyone infected. Angustias Romero flees with her family, but their flight is tragically cut short when she loses both her children. Consumed by grief, she finds herself within the hallucinatory expanse of Mezquite––a town corrupted by greed and populated by storytellers, refugees, and violent, predatory gangs.

Here, Angustias is finally able to lay her children to rest at the Third Country, a cemetery run by the larger-than-life Visitación Salazar and a refuge beyond suffering and fear. While Visitación remains defiant in her mission to care for the dead, the cemetery she oversees is the focal point of a bitter land dispute with Alcides Abundio, the most feared landowner of the border. Caught in this power struggle, Angustias and Visitación–friends and sometimes rivals– stand their ground on a frontier where the law is dictated by violence; a surreal territory whose very nature blurs the boundaries between life and death.

Exploring what we are capable of and how far we will go when we have nothing to lose, No Place to Bury the Dead confirms Karina Sainz Borgo’s importance amongst the voices of modern Latin American literature, merging thriller, western, and classic tragedy in an unforgettable and urgent novel that won the 2023 Jan Michalski Prize.


 ____________________________


Lauren E. Rico
Kensington - Dec. 24

[from the publisher]
Thirty years ago, musicians Emilia Oliveras and Paul Winstead were married in Puerto Rico. Forty-eight hours later, Paul vanished from their honeymoon cruise, leaving Emilia devastated—and the prime suspect in his disappearance. So, she ran for her life, leaving behind her love, her dreams, and her identity.

Today “Emily Oliver” is a divorced music teacher and mother of two daughters who know nothing about her past: Gracie, a talented attorney who excels in the courtroom but grapples with personal relationships, and Meg, a gifted concert pianist who wrestles with her ambition and purpose.

When a cryptic caller claims the unthinkable—that Paul is alive, Emily returns to Puerto Rico in search of the truth. What she doesn’t know is that her daughters aren’t far behind. Shocked to find their mother isn’t the woman they thought she was, Gracie and Meg wonder how much of their lives have been a lie.

As the paths of the three women intertwine, they are compelled to confront their pasts, reevaluate their relationships, and seek forgiveness. Together they embark on a quest to unravel the mystery of Paul’s disappearance and redefine their futures on their own terms, navigating a maze of family ties, secrets, and redemption.

Later.
__________________

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

Thursday, October 03, 2024

Chicanonautica: Foreshadowing a Re-Entry

by Ernest Hogan




I just returned from another road trip.




Like a re-entry into the Earth’s atmosphere–if you’ll pardon the flashback to my Space Age childhood–coming back home can be stressful.



No danger of burning up like a meteor, but after being in different environments, home and the old routine seem different.




It’s like one of those science fiction stories where an astronaut returns from a long mission and finds that life on Earth is no longer what they thought it was.



 

Hmm . . . I should probably offer that as a prompt for the class I’ll be . . . teaching . . . in a couple of days! No, wait a minute --that won't be happening due to circumstances beyond my control . . .




Argh!



It’s always future–or some other kind of–shock.



Shock you can get high on.

 


The photos used here are from the trip, presented in reverse-chronological order.



Ernest Hogan, the Father of Chicano Science Fiction, is readapting to his altered environment.

Wednesday, October 02, 2024

How to Eat a Mango- Cómo se come un mango


Written by Paola Santos

Illustrated by Juliana Perdomo

 


Publisher: Neal Porter Books 

Hardcover: 40 pages

ISBN-10: 082345388X

ISBN-13: 978-0823453887

Reading age: 4 - 8 years

Grade level: Preschool – 3

 

 

Abuelita teaches Carmencita that you can’t rush mango-eating: it takes five steps to appreciate the gift and feel the love.

 

Carmencita doesn’t want to help Abuelita pick mangoes; she doesn’t even like them! They’re messy, they get stuck in her teeth, and it’s a chore to throw out the rotten ones.

 

But Abuelita adores mangoes, and patiently, she teaches Carmencita the right way to eat them. Together, they listen to the tree’s leaves, feel its branches and roots above and below, and smell and feel the sweet, smooth fruits. Each step is a meditation on everything Mamá Earth has given, and in the Earth’s love, Carmencita feels the love of her Mami, her Papi, her little brother Carlitos, and of course, Abuelita.

 

When they finally bite in, the juice running down their arms, Carmencita understands. The mangoes are more than just mangoes… and she’s ready for another!

 

Inspired by her own childhood in Venezuela, Paola Santos’s mango-sweet story is a grounding, life-affirming take on gratitude for nature’s gifts and connection with family and culture. Juliana Perdomo’s cheery artwork brings Carmencita, Abuelita, and their mango tree to life with all the warmth of golden fruit under the sun.




 

 

Abuelita le enseña a Carmencita que comer un mango no puede precipitarse: se necesitan cinco pasos para apreciar el regalo y sentir el amor.

 

Carmencita no quiere ayudar a Abuelita a recoger mangos.  ¡Ni siquiera le gustan! Ensucian, se atoran entre sus dientes y es una lata limpiar los podridos.

 

Pero Abuelita adora los mangos y, con paciencia, le enseña a Carmencita la forma correcta de comerlos. Juntas, escuchan susurrar a las hojas del árbol, sienten sus ramas y raíces arriba y abajo, y huelen y sienten los dulces y suaves frutos. Cada paso es una meditación sobre todo lo que Mamá Tierra ha dado, y en el amor de la Tierra, Carmencita siente el amor de su Mami, su Papi, su hermanito Carlitos y por supuesto, Abuelita.

 

Cuando al fin prueban una mordida, los jugos escurriendo por sus brazos, Carmencita lo comprende. Los mangos son más que una fruta... ¡y ya está lista para otro!

 

Inspirado en la infancia de la autora Paola Santos en Venezuela, esta historia, tan dulce como un mango, fomenta la gratitud por los regalos de la naturaleza y la conexión con la familia y la cultura. Las alegres ilustraciones de Juliana Perdomo dan vida a Carmencita, Abuelita y su árbol de mango con toda la calidez de los frutos dorados bajo el sol.

 

 

Review


 

"Sunny, shape-based digital images by Perdomo radiate joyous warmth and nurturing."Publishers Weekly, Starred Review

 

"A heartwarmingand delectablenarrative that readers will treasure."Kirkus Reviews, Starred Review

 

"A vibrant picture book that sets up a wonderful way for individual readers or an entire classroom to reflect on the natural wonders all around them."School Library Journal, Starred Review

"Sensory experiences explode on each page."BookPage, Starred Review

 

"Bright and full of musicality and movement."—The Horn Book

 


 

Paola Santos was born and raised in Venezuela, and holds a master’s degree in Children’s Literature and Reading Promotion from the Castilla-La Mancha University in Spain. She is a member of SCBWI and a graduate of the Children’s Book Academy. She was awarded the Las Musas-Hermanas Mentorship with author Alexandra Alessandri and the We Need Diverse Books Picture Book Mentorship with author Meg Medina. How to Eat a Mango is her debut book.

 

Juliana Perdomo was born in Bogotá, Colombia, surrounded by a huge loving family, friends, bright colors, music, weird fruits, sunshine, lots of rain, but also rainbows. With a background in psychology and art therapy, she is the illustrator of many books for children, and the author and illustrator of the picture book Sometimes All I Need is Me. She lives in Colombia with her partner, son, and dogs.



Tuesday, October 01, 2024

Colder Than A...G.I. Should Be. Punto.

How Cold Was It?
Michael Sedano


A Fall heat wave sweeps into Southern California. When that happens, an old man's fancy turns to thoughts of when he felt more cold than anyone deserves to feel. In 1969, the US Army stationed me at Bravo Battery, seventh of the fifth air defense artillery, B 7/5, where I lived a summer and a winter rotating between a comfortable base camp called the Admin Area, and the tac site atop mighty Mae Bong.  


Fire Control Operator and Wayne Concha behind the Commo hootch

Winter, 1969. 


Outside temperature readings on the digital display go black like the weather doesn’t want us to know. On the roof of our Quonset hut, the anemometer either has frozen and stuck, or it met its match in the elements. 25 knots, the device last reported. 

 

High above Korea on mighty mile-high Mae Bong, Site 7/5, we soldiers feel the thermometer dropping all day, we don’t need technology to spell it out. 

 

It is cold. Colder than inside the freezer at DeYoung’s poultry in warm Redlands, Califas, where gramma works. Too cold to be funny, witches and well-diggers go to hell.

 

-12º, the digital display’s last words. The Lieutenant works some math aloud, reporting to no one in particular a wind chill factor equivalent to some outrageous below zero temperature if you were outside in that storm. Only the commo guys go out into the storm. I work commo.

 

Inside the command hootch the sound of storm slamming against steel sides of the structure reminds us how lucky we are to be inside the hootch. A diesel-burning space heater glows without warming, the cold air sucks the hot right out of the heat. We wear our cold-weather gear inside and talk in gasps of perpetual shivering.


 


There’s a sign down in the Admin Area base camp bragging how this is the world’s highest, ruggedest, toughest missile site, admonishing our blithe spirits to be Proud to be here. Up here, on top, where it’s cold, those words would fall out of my mouth, shatter on the cement pad, leaving Red White and Blue puddles.

 

Normally, we’re on the mountain three days and two nights, but this latest storm has kept us five days already. Maybe tomorrow a deuce and a half will make it to the top bringing a ride down to hot chow, hot showers, a warm bunk, and restful sleep.

 

Snow plasters against the windward side of the whip antenna mounted to the roof above my radio. Each hourly commo check reads fainter and fainter. “How do you hear me? Over.” “I read you five by five.” “I read you four by three.” “I read you two by two.” Faint, scratchy, and weak, 2x2. It’s time to climb onto the roof sheltering the Quonset hut to de-ice the whip antenna.


Top of Mae Bong Commo Hootch Weather and Radio Equipment

It's one small leap for a soldier, one giant leap into the face of the storm when I jump onto the shed. I balance along the roofbeam buffeted by adrenalin-raising random gusts. I keep my feet under me and in a few moments I’ve attained the far end of the hootch, directly above my duty station. The antenna wears a hoary beard that’s crept around to envelop the entire rod.

 

I’ve brought the de-icing instrument—a length of wooden broom handle. Like a magician I straighten my left arm and the broom handle slides into my grasp. With practiced ease, I straddle some cables, set my boots on the eaves, and lift both arms with the broom stick tilted over my head in readiness to strike a mighty blow. We do this with ugly regularity. In this storm, I'm hoping for a few hours to pass before I have to do this again. 

 

The wind reaches a momentary peak, an enormous gust grabs my parka fills my frame like a sail. The storm lifts me off the roof of the commo hootch and I fly above the ground, the shattered boulders, the concertina wire, the precipice.

 

I am flying! In momentary exultation I look into the whiteness of the blowing storm imagining the view from up here. Down there, Chuncheon and Camp Page lie in the crook of the curving river. Lights will twinkle and pa’lla far away pa’lla the shining ribbon of river winds its way South to Seoul. I am Mary Poppins floating above the city. I am feathered-Icarus dressed in Army green, headed for a fall.

 

When I revive I’m relieved to be tangled in barbed wire, holding my broomstick. Blood has oozed through my long underwear and wool OG trousers making a reddish icicle. Nothing hurts despite I’m bent over backwards on a shattered boulder. I extricate from the concertina spiral, roll onto my feet, slap snow off my parka. Back to the jumping-off spot, leap onto the command hootch, negotiate my way to above my duty station. Ever-so-carefully, both arms lift the broomstick into the air and mission accomplished.

 

“How do you hear me? Over.” 

“I hear you five by five. Over.” 

“Roger. Out.”

 

The storm abates to a weak sleet and constant Siberian gusts of punishing wind. The Llieutenant comes into the commo room with bad news. His phone line to Maintenance is out. Fire control and commo section sit at the highest level of the hill. Below us, the LT keeps a chow hall and maintenance hootch in constant communication by a telephone line laid along the edge of the mountain.

Launchers at the ready, B 7/5. North Korea pa'lla 15 miles away.

We advise the Admin Area switchboard we’ll be out of commo for a while so they don't freak out not hearing from us on schedule. The cold and wind have snapped the line somewhere out there. Outside. Where it's pitch black night. Where it's windy and penetratingly freezing.

 

Finding and fixing a snapped twisted pair copper wire happens regularly. It’s no challenge when it's daylight and nice weather, even when we have no field wireman tools. We have X-acto knives from a hobby kit. We’d need a third hand to manipulate a flashlight so we go gently into the night working by feel.

 

The phone line runs strung through eyelet bolts hammered into the rock every twenty feet or so, as terrain allows on the edge of the cliff. It’s cautious going, toes feeling for rocks and craters, keeping the phone line in gloved hands. The wind plays havoc with gait and balance. Wind accelerates as it whips up cliffs before cutting over the edge like an air knife. 

 

We lean hard into invisible forces that make us wobble from whirling gusts. We've bent the soft zinc wire sewn into our fur-lined hoods so just our noses protrude into the air. Moisture freezes nostril hairs into hypodermic needles that make breathing a painful hazard when you reflexively wrinkle your nose against the cold and recoil from sleet, grit, and needlelike nose hairs.

 

Only the blowing animal hair of the fur-lined hood protects my glasses from the stinging flint bits the wind slams into exposed skin. My lenses clack with each impact and my cheeks recoil at each pinpoint of pain as grit infiltrates past the fur hood. I tell myself not to wrinkle my nose but I can't resist the urge to feel that unique kind of pain. 

 

We wear Army-green knee-length nylon hooded overcoats. A heavy quilted liner buttoned into the coat manages to fight off the worst of the cold and wind. We walk arms out like cartoon caricatures. Green wool glove liners inside supple leather gloves keep our fingers nimble enough that the snapping wire signals its location through our palms several feet from the whipping slack wire.


Dawn from atop Mighty Mae Bong

We back into the wind feeling ten to fifteen feet of whipping wire strapping against our shoulders and legs. Wrapping itself around the knees puts the thing in our grasp and the job ahead is simple. We pin down the free-flying telephone line, lodging the wires under rocks.

The line snapped just behind the Maintenance hootch. There's dim light from around the front of the Quonset hut. Here is good fortune.

 

I pull off my gloves to grip the free end of wire to strip off insulation exposing a couple inches of copper. I feel sensation leak out of my hands. Now my fingers can’t feel a thing. I observe my hand clasp around the loose wire. I witness the blade draw along the first of the paired wire. I give up making sense of this. I put on the gloves and run back to the hootch and the light. Concha, my homeboy this turn on the mountain, has mirrored my actions. In the lee of the Maintenance hootch we don't have to shout to make ourselves heard.

 

When I can flex hands again, a breath into the gloves returns sensation to my grasp. Concha and I run back to the splice. As before, we pull off the gloves and instant numbness. I strip the second wire, pull on the glove and run back trembling and shaking, to the light.

 

Four wires stripped, the task remains to twist the broken ends together, wrap the joint in rubber tape, go inside and test the line. "Are you ready?" Concha and I shout in agreement. 


We make a break for the break where there's just enough light to match the two stripped wires to each other, twist once, twice, three times. Not enough but Concha can’t work beyond. I take the line and twist once, twist twice, and I assume twist a third time before I have to get those gloves back on my frozen hands. We don’t use the tape. The ten-minute repair takes a miserable hour out of our lives.

 

The maintenance hootch offers cozy respite. With twenty bodies and three space heaters to warm two grateful commo guys, we're still too cold to relax. But we feel warmth and gratitude. Here, in the light, we get a look at our defrosting fingers.  The copper wire ripped into the flesh of our insensate frozen fingers leaving ragged gouges filled with frozen blood. Our blood icicles begin melting, covering the fingers with slushy blood that drips onto our knees. We laugh as pain wells up from our ragged torn flesh.

 

I crank the field telephone and the Lieutenant hears me Lima Charlie. Loud and Clear, five by five.


Specialist 4 Michael Sedano on tac site duty