Sundust- Polvo solar

Written and illustrated by Zeke Peña 

Publisher: Kokila

Print length: 48 pages

ISBN-10: 0593700112

ISBN-13: 978-0593700112

Item Weight: 1.14 pounds

Reading age: 4 - 8 years

CALDECOTT HONOR BOOK 

In his striking author-illustrator debut, the award-winning illustrator of My Papi Has a Motorcycle offers an immersive and fantastical desert adventure, where the sun reigns over the vast landscape and shapes all that it touches.

Where the rock wall ends, the desert beyond begins.

Following a blazing trail of sundust, two curious siblings hop the wall into a place that’s endless and free. Here, prickly old nopal trees beg to be climbed, empty turtle shells invite a closer look, enormous rocks model how to sit still and listen, and a colibrí offers an unexpected ride. In the desert, where life revolves around the Sun, brother and sister explore, imagine, and wonder, What if Sun’s power was inside me? until their mom’s whistle calls them back home again.

With spare, lyrical text, Pura Belpré Honor and Ezra Jack Keats Honor recipient Zeke Peña has created a fantastical tale that suspends moments in time with his radiant art and celebrates the bonds between the sun, the desert, and its people.

En su impresionante debut como autor-ilustrador, Zeke Peña ofrece una aventura inmersiva y fantástica en el desierto, donde el sol reina sobre el vasto paisaje y le da forma a todo lo que toca.

Donde termina la barda de piedra, empieza el más allá del desierto.

Siguiendo el rastro ardiente de polvo solar, dos hermanes curioses saltan la barda y entran a un lugar libre y sin fin. Aquí, las antiguas nopaleras picudas piden ser escaladas, las conchas vacías de tortugas invitan un examen más detenido, las rocas enormes enseñan cómo aquietarse y escuchar y Colibrí ofrece un aventón inesperado. En el desierto, donde la vida gira en torno al sol, hermano y hermana exploran, imaginan, y se preguntan « ¿Qué si el poder del sol estuviese dentro de mí? », hasta que el silbido de su mamá les llama de vuelta a casa.

Con un texto preciso y lírico, Zeke Peña (ilustrador de Mi papi tiene una moto), ganador de los honores Pura Belpré y Ezra Jack Keats, ha creado un cuento fantástico que suspende espacios temporales con su arte radiante y celebra los lazos entre el Sol, el desierto y su gente.

Review

“…stunning...Author-illustrator Peña breathes life into the desert setting…Kids who find magic in everything around them will appreciate this lovely reassurance that they are even more connected to the world than they think.”  —The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books, starred review

"In a wide-ranging solo debut, Peña (My Papi Has a Motorcycle) imagines two Latinx-cued children exploring a sweeping desertscape.... Speech bubbles add levity to energy-charged prose through this surreal exploration of the way the natural world endures and transforms."  —Publishers Weekly, starred review

“A hypnotic joy.”  —Kirkus Reviews, starred review

“Spectacular…This book connects the magic of imagination, nature, and childhood beautifully.”  —School Library Journal, starred review 

“Pena offers a depiction of place and wonder that transcends borders and national identity…poignant and timely.”  —Horn Book 

Zeke Peña is a Xicano storyteller and professional doodler from El Paso, TX, the Sun City. Sundust, his author-illustrator debut, is a love poem to desert culture and people. Zeke received the Ezra Jack Keats and the Pura Belpré Illustration Honors for My Papi Has a Motorcycle and the Boston Globe–Horn Book Award for his illustrations in Photographic: The Life of Graciela Iturbide. He also illustrated the New York Times bestseller Miles Morales Suspended: A Spider-Man Novel. He is currently drawing more books in his tiny studio in NW Arkansas.

My Own Puño de Tierra. Galarza Documentaries.

Red Is the Color Dreams Are Made On

Michael Sedano

I have lived in many places that I called home because those were places where, when I went there, they had to take me in, and because I had no other place to go, and because my heart was there. Home.

My hometown of Redlands, California, holds a special niche in my personal definition of “home.” My heart is there, the house in the orange groves, the hillside house through junior high, a teenage boy in puppy love with a girl, a student making good marks and winning speech contests, a chameleon’s existence moving back and forth between raza  cultura and anglo society. Redlands.

Anglo Redlands was a complex place whose astonishing experiences with racism betrayed the character of the town’s everyday gente, like that song, “dear hearts and gentle people.” 

My Dad, with Mom's help, built our first house on a dirt street one street over from where he grew up. The street dead-ended next door, and the groves started growing all the way to the wash. The sign at the city limits claimed Redlands had 20,000 people and was the navel orange growing capital of the world. Harry S. Truman was president.

From 5th to 9th grade, my folks had a house on the other side of town, with a view because Dad always wanted a view of those groves where he’d worked many hours, before Civil Service. 

Jobs at Norton AFB allowed Mom and Dad to build their dream home on a spectacular view lot at the city limits. I was in High School. Home sat on hard, rich, red tierra, solid like the ties that bound us to the land.

When I sold the house, I walked the lot one last time where I’d labored with my Dad to lay cement slabs and dig hillside trails, move rocks, turn the home’s fallow earth, leveled planting beds to cultivate its richness. 

I walked over to where Dad built an horno. He dug up some dirt, made mud bricks, fashioned the horno, plastered and smoothed the outside with more mud. The horno was the center of family celebrations, after banqueting on barbacoa, lounge in the warmth from the open oven and laugh and sing.

That’s where I found my clod of home, where Dad built the horno. My puño de tierra is that red dirt giving Redlands its name and is the stuff dreams are made on.

El día que yo me muera, no voy a llevarme nada

Hay darle gusto al gusto, la vida pronto se acaba

Lo que pasó en este mundo, nomás el recuerdo queda

Ya muerto voy a llevarme, nomás un puño de tierra

Un Puño de Tierra, Ramón Ayala

Early In Our History, Ernesto Galarza

Audiences at Occidental College will have opportunity to view a film composite of all five episodes produced by Jesus Treviño on March 24 in Choi Auditorium at 6 p.m. Two of the episodes are yours for a click or two at Latinopia.com. 

Galarza blazed many trails for Chicanos in high places doing good work back in the days when so few of us held pivotal social roles, Galarza had to be activist, diplomat, labor organizer, author and educator. 

Thanks to Latinopia.com's generosity making these, and an extensive library of film and essay covering arts, literature, history, music, activism, regional views, el movimiento, notables. The site is updated every Sunday with back issues easily obtained.

“Yanga” by Xánath Caraza

“Yanga” by Xánath Caraza

 

El libertador Yanga por Pablo Platas

Yanga

 

Para Louis Reyes Rivera

 

Yanga, Yanga, Yanga,

Yanga, Yanga, Yanga,

Hoy, tu espíritu invoco

Aquí, en este lugar.

 

Este, este es mi poema para Yanga,

Mandinga, malanga,  bamba.

Rumba, mambo, samba,

Palabras llegadas de África.

 

Esta, esta es mi respuesta para Yanga,

Candomble, mocambo, mambo,

Candomble, mocambo, mambo,

Hombre libre veracruzano.

 

En 1570

Llegaste al puerto de Veracruz,

Encadenado como muchos,

Escapaste de la esclavitud.

 

Palenque, rumba, samba,

Yanga, Yanga, Yanga,

Espíritu indomable,

Noble hombre de África.

 

En 1609

Luchaste por la libertad,

Hasta tus puertas llegaron y

No pudieron entrar.

 

 

Mandinga, malanga, bamba,

Palenque, rumba, samba,

Palenque, rumba, samba,

Orgullo, ritmo y libertad.

 

Para 1630

San Lorenzo de los Negros

Se estableció.

Hoy, el pueblo de Yanga.

 

 

Candomble, mocambo, mambo,

Yanga, Yanga, Yanga,

Hoy, tu espíritu invoco

Aquí, en este lugar.

 

Yanga, Yanga, Yanga,

Palenque, rumba, samba,

Mandinga, malanga, bamba,

Candomble, mocambo, mambo.

 

Candomble, mocambo, mambo,

Mandinga, malanga, bamba,

Palenque, rumba, samba,

Yanga, Yanga, Yanga.

 

El libertador Yanga por Pablo Platas

 

Yanga

 

For Louis Reyes Rivera

 

Yanga, Yanga, Yanga

Yanga, Yanga, Yanga

Today, your spirit I invoke

Here, in this place

 

This, this is my poem for Yanga

Mandinga, malanga, bamba

Rumba, mambo, samba.

Words having arrived from Africa

 

This, this is my answer for Yanga

Candomble, mocambo, mambo

Candomble, mocambo, mambo

Free man of Veracruz

 

In 1570

You arrived at the Port of Veracruz

In chains as many

You escaped slavery

 

Palenque, rumba, samba

Yanga, Yanga, Yanga

Unconquerable spirit

Noble man from Africa

 

In 1609

You fought for freedom

At your doors, they arrived and

They couldn’t come in

 

Mandinga, malanga, bamba

Palenque, rumba, samba

Palenque, rumba, samba

Pride, rhythm and freedom

 

By 1630

San Lorenzo de los negros

Was established

Today, the town of Yanga

 

Candomble, mocambo, mambo

Yanga, Yanga, Yanga

Today, your spirit I invoke

Here, in this place

 

Yanga, Yanga, Yanga

Palenque, rumba, samba

Mandinga, malanga, bamba

Candomble, mocambo, mambo

 

Condomble, mocambo, mambo

Mandinga, malanga, bamba

Palenque, rumba, samba

Yanga, Yanga, Yanga

 

 

I am sharing one of my poems, “Yanga”, that was originally published in my bilingual book of poetry Conjuro (2012).

 

Xanath Caraza

Conjuro received Second place in the ‘Best Poetry Book in Spanish’ category of the 2013 International Latino Book Awards.  In 2013 Conjuro also received Honorable mention in the ‘Best First Book in Spanish, Mariposa Award’ category of the 2013 International Latino Book Awards. Conjuro was an award-winning finalist in the 'Fiction: Multicultural' category of the 2013 International Book Awards.

Xanath Caraza

La imagen de Yanga es parte del mural, El libertador Yanga, pintado por Pablo Platas en Xalapa, Veracruz, México.

El libertador Yanga por Pablo Platas

La grabación del poema “Yanga” de Xánath Caraza fue realizada en Venecia, Italia por la Universidad Ca’Foscari para el Proyecto de voz Phonodia.

 

Thelma Reyna Abuela Memories

Abuela's Imprint on My Heart

Thelma T. Reyna

My maternal grandparents were born in poverty in South Texas and had no formal education. Papá Grande, or Apá, as we children called him, was functionally illiterate, only able to sign his name. My grandmother, Maria Guerra, our Amá, was fond of saying, with understated drama, "Mis pies nunca han cruzado el portal de una escuela." My feet have never crossed the threshold of a schoolhouse...

She, like her husband, was raised in a tiny, dusty ranch populated with a few roosters, hens, goats, and perhaps a horse. In this isolation, she somehow, somewhere taught herself, as she often proclaimed, to read and write in Spanish: beautifully taught, as I saw in letters she wrote me when I left Kingsville, my college degrees in hand, newly married, to start my own family and forge my career in California.

Long before I moved here, Amá had already left her imprint on my heart. She was widowed soon after my parents divorced. My mother, our sole breadwinner, rose before dawn each day, drove 50 miles each way to work, and returned wearily at dusk to her nine children. So Amá moved into our large, aging house to help look after us. She cooked and cleaned, laundered, and fussed to get us older kids out the door to school each day.

Amá sat quietly in a corner on midnights when I studied late at the dining table, the rest of our house asleep. Silently, she kept me company, to show me her support. One particularly humid night, I fe ll asleep, face in book, and awoke to see Amá standing beside me, gently fanning me with sheets of notebook paper.

Yes, indeed, she left her imprint on my heart, my precious Amá, she of the ubiquitous flowered aprons with pockets deep enough to hold her Daily Missal and wire-rimmed glasses. Amá of hands roughened from tending to so many of us.

Amá of the signs of the cross she bestowed on our foreheads before we left the house. Amá of endless dichos for imparting her wisdom to us, especially, "Dime con quien andas, y te digo quien eres."

Amá of gentle eyes and humble voice, of unconditional love for even the rowdiest scofflaw amongst us. My brothers called her "Saint Grandma," for even they, in the scant attention they paid her, recognized her goodness.

Chicanonautica: Who the Hell is Paco Cohen?

by Ernest Hogan

 

It’s like I don’t as much create characters as meet them. It was that way with Paco Cohen.

I was working as a janitor, sweeping out classrooms and cleaning toilets at an elementary school. I wore a baseball cap and a bandana. Just another Chicano janitor.

I was still a sci-fi writer at heart, thinking about Mars, because Phoenix seems so much like a Mars colony to me. I started getting these flashes of a guy like me on Mars . . .

They weren’t very clear at first. I needed to experience some things before I could write this story. While doing the job, I soaked up the way I was treated and people reacted to me. 

I learned a lot from my Chicano—actually, most of them were Chicanas—coworkers, learning about their lives and the important part Mexican music played. They grew up, worked, and fell in love to this soundtrack.

Eventually, Paco came into focus, and began talking to me.

It wasn’t easy, like picking up a signal from a distant world. I had to tap into feelings about my down-but-not out writing career. Paco’s life was similar.

Soon I was telling people, “He’s gonna say stuff like, My mama would say, ‘Mijo, don’t be a yutz!”

And people would say,”You’ve got to write that!”

The result was the novelette “The Rise and Fall of Paco Cohen and the Mariachis of Mars.” The story of a man who was crucified on a vampire cactus by an interplanetary development corporation, then patched himself back together. The corporate take-over of Mars from a point of view of a guy who has to wipe the red dust off everything. Chicano stuff. I was amazed when it sold to Analog, the magazine that first serialized Dune.

I wasn’t thinking of sequels or franchises, but Paco wasn’t done with me. What would this Mars, and Paco’s life be like with the corporation versus the Chicano-style rasquache lifestyle of the workers, and the awakening of ancient Martian lifeforms. The result was "Death and Dancing in New Las Vegas” (the bilingual glitch on purpose, a nod to “the Los Angeles Times” and other artifacts of my SoCal upbringing) that also sold to Analog.

Would I be able to find success by pretending to be a venerable “hard science” writer?

 

It didn’t happen. By the time I wrote “Flying Under the Texas Radar with Paco and Los Freetails,” I had been told that what I have been sending Analog was “too surrealistic and cartoony” (my writing described in a nutshell). I couldn’t help it–that’s the way Paco’s life–and mine–went. This one was about how and why he got from Texas to Mars, and his youth as a rocking young rebel, with maybe some parallels to my life. It ended up seeing print in Latin@ Rising, that became Latinx Rising in the next edition.

And Paco still wouldn’t leave me alone. His world, his life, kept growing in the back of my brain, turning into stories . . .

Ben Bova, who published Cortez on Jupiter, and High Aztech liked these stories, and encouraged me to keep writing them and make them into a novel, like Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles. I had thought about it, and was glad he liked the idea.

Then Covid killed him. Now I have to write the book, so I can dedicate it to him.

In the next couple of months, if this year doesn’t get too apocalyptic, another Paco story, “A Wild and Wooly Road Trip on Mars,” will appear in Xicanxfuturism: Gritos for Tomorrow / Codex II. I’ll be making a lot of noise about it. 

I also have a file with all the stories, notes, some additional bridging material, and part of another story. It’s about time I focused on finishing the novel I plan to call Paco Cohen is Alive and Well and Living on Mars. A good chunk of it is already written, and I am getting old.

I just hope that no thugs are watching me, waiting to impale me on the fang/spines of vampire cactus.

Ernest Hogan is alive and well and going stark, raving Xicanxfuturist no matter what pendejos running the world do.

The Pecan Sheller

Written by Lupe Ruiz-Flores

ASIN: B0D6KR93J1

Publisher: Carolrhoda Books ®

Language: English

Print length: 256 pages

ISBN-13: 979-8765610527

Reading age: 10 - 14 years

*Pura Belpré Children’s Author Award

In 1930s San Antonio, thirteen-year-old Petra dreams of going to college and becoming a writer.

But with her beloved father dead, two younger siblings to care for, and with a stepmother struggling to make ends meet, Petra has to drop out of school to shell pecans at a factory. Hoping it's only temporary, she tries not to despair over the grueling work conditions. But after the unhealthy environment leads to tragedy and workers' already low wages are cut, Petra knows things need to change. She and her coworkers go on strike for higher wages and safer conditions, risking everything they have for the hope of a better future.

"Heart-warming and enraging in equal parts, this important American story reveals the power of family, community, and hope."―Laurie Halse Anderson, New York Times-bestselling author

Review

A Junior Library Guild Selection

"A powerful, moving story explores the little-known but important story of the six-week pecan shellers' strike."―starred, Booklist

"Using short chapters with quick pacing, Ruiz-Flores (Piece by Piece) unveils intimate and well-researched depictions of the Pecan Shellers Strike of 1938 and its impact on Mexican descendants and beyond."―starred, Publishers Weekly

"The story deftly explores the nuances of both Petra's and Amá's relationship and traumas, as well as the strength and hope to be found in family and community. A poignantly, beautifully written tale."―starred, Kirkus Reviews

"Based on the real-life pecan sheller's strike of 1938, Ruiz-Flores's captivating tale is filled with hope."―New York Times Book Review

Lupe Ruiz-Flores is the author of six bilingual picture books. She is a former Regional Advisor for the Southwest Chapter of the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI) and until recently its newsletter editor. Lupe has won the SCBWI Work-In-Progress Grant, the SCBWI/Amazon Work-in-Progress Grant, and the SCBWI Martha Weston Award. She is a member of the Writers League of Texas, Texas Library Association, Las Musas, and Kindling Words. She was awarded the Tejas Star Book Award for three consecutive years. Her poetry and short stories have been published in anthologies, including Thanku: Poems of Gratitude. She was recently inducted into the Texas Institute of Letters.