DDLM: FXA Reads. From a WIP: Unionizing Argentina

Francisco X. Alarcón is a good friend of La Bloga who has walked on. Adelante, Francisco! Here is our friend reading a pair of works outside Doheny Library the first day of the Festival de Flor y Canto: Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow. One never knows what tommorow has in store, verdad?


Latinopia Word Alarcon Two Poems from Latinopia.com on Vimeo.


Union Solidarity: A Value in Action
Michael Sedano

Esteban Torres represented eastern Los Angeles county in the House of Representatives for eight terms, earning a reputation as a fierce environmentalist when he led a campaign to clean up the BKK toxic landfill in Covina. A Graduate of Garfield High School, Torres entered public life as a Union organizer in the Chrysler Maywood plant. He became the first Chicano Shop Steward then Torres joined the national UAW, who "lent" him to the International Metalworkers Federation because, being a Chicano, he was the only UAW executive qualified to take the risk of organizing the entire continent.

Michael Sedano is wrapping the final chapters of a YA "as told to" autobiography of Congressman Torres. With Labor Unions under severe stress from conservative politicians, La Bloga shares this anecdote from a key moment in Torres' career and labor history.

Background: US and European automotive manufacturers found skilled workers for cheap in South America. Walter and Victor Reuther of the United Auto Workers spearheaded an initiative to train South American unions in U.S.-style bargaining and negotiations, ergonomic practices for worker health, and history of the labor movement. Torres got the assignment. In an essentially one-man organizing effort, Esteban Torres Unionized the South American metal trades. Workers won harmonized wages, improved working conditions, unique benefits. Unionization helped countless familias find home and security.


The Argentina part of my South America Organizing mission ended in a major accomplishment with Unión Obrera Metalurjíca affiliating with the International Metal Workers Federation. Workers of the world were uniting. They would bring the automakers to the bargaining table.

But it all almost blew up in my face during what should have been a regular automotive plant visit. I was viewed as an outside influence when the local workers already had sophisticated organization.

Management’s worst fears grew from UAW historical tactics. In the 1930s, sit-in strikes and worker solidarity won important concession from the bosses. I did not represent the UAW, a United States union, I came as a representative of the International, and my goals were educational. They had my agenda in advance.

Outside the meeting room, the workers on the assembly line were not part of my intentions. They called a "wildcat" strike. The workers stopped the line and sat down. It was a sti-down strike and as a Union man in the plant, I was sitting-in, too.

Like in the U.S., the Argentine assembly line stretches half a mile under a steel-skinned canopy. Steel beams and sheet metal enter at one end, a car exits at the other. In between, workers perform their tasks on parts that cruise past hanging from an overhead chain or pulled along hooked to a concealed tractor. Every worker follows a plan, minimizing steps but performing the same motions over and over, controlling the moving target, side-stepping to keep up with line speed, finishing the job then  turning to meet the relentlessly oncoming next partial assembly.

At a designated time, workers push the closest STOP button and the line grinds to a halt. Hanging pieces of work-in-progress rock back and forth on their hooks and slowly come to a halt. Partially-formed auto bodies sit emptily where someone was making it into a Ford.

Workers arrived prepared. For three days and two nights they remain at their workstation, eating, chatting, singing songs to bolster their conviction. At night workers spread their jackets and cardboard in the backseat frames of cars on the line.

Had I lied, entered the plant under a false flag to instigate this costly defiance?

Management negotiated a suitable conclusion to the labor action with the striking workers. I was under a microscope and closely questioned by my hosts, but in the end they knew I was on-site when workers engaged a long-planned action.

Although I represented the International federation, the U.S. State Department represented my interests. The local U.S. labor attaché demanded a full account of my role. As it turned out, Argentina's Ford workers didn’t need a UAW lesson on historical sit-downs to recognize a useful tactic to get Management to sit-down and talk. I just happened to be there at the right time when workers seized the means of production--their labor--and withheld it. I had the good fortune to be there and demonstrate solidarity. 

Solidarity is a Value of the Union Movement. You hear a lot about Values. A Value is a behavior someone can witness. A Value isn’t merely an attitude, which is a predisposition to act one way rather than another. Values express themselves in actions. Values produce behaviors others can hear, see, touch, count, and define your motive, what you stand for.

That sit-in would be only the first way I'd get to demonstrate U.S. and International solidarity with Argentina's metalworkers. My host, Augusto Vandor told me, “We are so proud that you’re here representing the United States auto workers, that you’re representing the IMF, because we like those organizations, and we want you to be with us on March the first, where we’re going to celebrate our Plan de Lucha.”

I did not know el Plan de Lucha, but clearly I was offered an honor. I did some research. Plan de Lucha, I learned, was a massing of Labor followed by a march to the Capitol. As an honored visitor, I would march in the front rank with the banner carriers and Union leadership. Una manifestación por la calle principal, thousands of us. I had visions of a happy, festive Labor Day march down Whittier Boulevard, gritos and mariachi supplanted with Argentine touches.

After an evening of fellowship and a few beers to conclude my research, I took a taxi to my hotel. When the cab turned on the main avenida toward my hotel I remarked to the driver I’d be marching this street in tomorrow’s Plan de Lucha. He laughed heartily.

“Every year,” the cab driver told me, “Labor holds that manifestación on March the First. And every year, the Army greets them with clubs and bullets. The marchers in the front rows get beaten and dragged into vans. They're jailed, some are killed, and every year, every year, they come back and do it again.”

I was still thinking about what the cab driver said, the next morning as I laced on my steel-toed work shoes. The heavy leather soles offered the kind of support my feet needed for a long walk, or a darting run from a police riot.

Sure enough, up the avenida we march, a huge excited mass. And sure enough, the Army is at the steps of the Capitol to greet us, seething with anger separated from us by wooden barricades. 

This year, the Union assembled without attacks. The country was changing, the Union was gaining influence behind a united front. Solidarity is a Value in action.

Family Poems for Every Day of the Week/ Poemas familiares para cada día de la semana

By Francisco Alarcón

Illustrated by Maya Christina Gonzalez

• Age Range: 7 - 12 years
• Grade Level: 1 - 2
• Hardcover: 40 pages
• Publisher: Children’s Book Press
• Language: English
• ISBN-10: 0892392754
• ISBN-13: 978-0892392759

The first day                                        

of the week is                                      

dedicated to the Sun—                      

with family around                             

it’s always sunny                                

on Sunday                                          

El primer día

de la semana fue

dedicado al Sol—

con familia alrededor

siempre hace sol

el domingo

So begins this bilingual collection of poems that takes us through the week day by day. Children spend Sunday visiting their grandparents, play with school friends on Monday, daydream on Tuesday, eat popcorn at the local market on Wednesday, and more, until we arrive at Saturday, when they get to play nonstop all day. Along the way, we also learn how the names of the seven days came to be.

Partly based on the real life experiences of Alarcón’s own family, this festive, celebratory collection of poems highlights the daily life of children while also honoring the experiences of the poet’s Latino family in the United States. With her vibrant illustrations, illustrator Maya Christina Gonzalez has created a loving tribute to childhood, to family, and to Francisco Alarcón, who passed away in January 2016.

Francisco Alarcón was a renowned poet and educator, and a three-time winner of the Pura Belpré Author Award Honor for his bilingual Magical Cycle of the Seasons series of poetry for children. His many other honors include the American Book Award, the PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award, the Chicano Literary Prize, and finalist for state poet laureate of California. Alarcón was also the author of several poetry collections for adults and textbooks for teaching Spanish. In addition, he directed the Spanish for Native Speakers Program at the University of California. Alarcón passed away in early 2016.

Maya Christina Gonzalez is a widely exhibited artist renowned for her vivid imagery of strong women and girls. She has illustrated nearly twenty children’s books, and her artwork has appeared on the cover of Contemporary Chicano/a Art. My Colors, My World was the first book Maya both wrote and illustrated. Books that Maya illustrated include Laughing Tomatoes, From the Bellybutton of the Moon, and Angels Ride Bikes. She lives and plays in San Francisco, California.

Despiertas - The Women's March in LA. On-line Floricanto for Francisco.

Women March For Women's Issues
Michael Sedano

Gold Line arrivals at Union Station

I cannot see the end of the ticket line at the Allen Avenue Gold Line station in Pasadena, but that doesn’t matter to me. As a frequent passenger I carry a “Tap” card with pre-paid fare credits. I snake through a gap in the line, tap my one-dollar plastic on the sensor.

The elevator opens to the sight of dozens of sign-carrying riders scattered along the platform. A train rolls to a stop, the doors slide closed in my face. I cannot board the jam-packed car. The next train a few minutes later arrives. I think of the subway in Japan where uniformed men use long wooden rods to herd passengers through the door into the car. With this many riders it is clear the march will be wildly successful. People shuffle good-naturedly to let me squeeze in.

At each subsequent stop—until the driver begins skipping stops—a few more people push into the car to protests of “no more!” and “no room!” even as they move back. There’s a little girl next to me and I lean against the crowd pressure to allow her space. I feel the nalgas of the woman behind me pressing into mine. There is no escape. Passengers whoop victoriously at the people waiting at the stops. Los de afuera whoop back and wave their signs at us. Already we are united in our single-minded purpose: to get there.

One day in Mexico City I had the misfortune of packing into a rush hour subway car that grows so densely populated that a young woman in front of me is spooning against me from head to foot. I want to apologize but helplessly stand stock still, mounting the same stoic face everyone else wears. We sway and rock as one, left, right, back and forth, leaning against gravity at each stop then leaning the opposite direction as the train gathers speed heading toward Insurgentes. I’m thankful the ride from Allen Avenue to Union Station is not quite so intimately felt.

The din of the crowd shuffling toward the escalator seeking the light above ground charges the air with puro excitement. At the top landing the mass is so thick that someone is shouting “be careful! Watch out!” Inertia shoves me forward where there’s no place to go. I twist and step sideways away from the escalator into the teeming mass.

Advancing millimeters at a time, I find the curb and step into 5th Street. Using the gutter as a guide, two women escort a crying woman toward the subway station. I imagine she has been overwhelmed by the restive crush of bodies who exercise immense restraint at the growing density. We are trapped and going nowhere. Photography becomes a challenge, not finding the ideal moment but a clear line of sight.



A few photographers have claimed space atop the public toilet and signal switch boxes. I am so tightly surrounded I cannot lift my camera to look through the viewfinder. Not that I would be able to frame freely. Heads, faces, signs block every aspect. I raise my arm and rise on tip-toe to expose a few images. I am helpless to change lenses from the 100mm to the wider-angle 18-55mm standard lens.

So much to see, so difficult to get the perfect moment. I retreat into a hole between the toilet and a garbage receptacle where I change lenses, safe from my own clumsiness and the restless people. I begin a halting path through the mass with “con permiso” and “excuse me” until I see a father with two kids in front of me, a woman in a wheelchair to my right. To the left people stand shoulder to shoulder. I can advance no deeper into the throng and reaching the assembly point in Pershing Square is hopeless. This is LAPD territory but a sheriff helicopter whirls above us.

It’s a festive and peaceful gathering. One fellow on the switch box shouts a cheer, and when few half-hearted responses answer to his awkward phrase, he nods with satisfaction and abandons efforts to stir up enthusiasm. There’s something innate about rhythm and rhyme that he doesn’t understand. Only a handful here would know the cheer I long to hear: “¡El pueblo, unido, jamas sera vencido! The people, united, will never be defeated! El pueblo, unido…”

Pero sabes que? No one needs chants today. There’s a spirit in the air, it’s infectious. Every soul here is in her own heaven. The people are united, each to her own reason for her presence, and that is enough. No one goes into the voting booth with you and this downtown intersection is an expansive voting booth.

“He’s trying to get through,” someone calls. A fire department paramedic truck gradually approaches 5th Street coming down Hill Street. “Move back! Move back!” people in front call. At first there’s a subtle shift of momentum as bodies begin pushing backwards in slow motion that grinds to a halt against the solid wall of people. The red lights remain immobile, unable to advance into the intersection. I wonder if they were summoned to help the overwhelmed woman?

The majority of people trapped within sight of Pershing Square wave their signs, chatter among themselves, shift from leg to leg. Spontaneous gritos infect the milling throng. I do not see nor hear what sets their joy bubbling out every few minutes. A spark of sound begins, rises, increases in volume and pitch, “yeowww, yeEOWW” then subsides.

“Start the march!” several shout. A few pick it up, then slowly, moving like a single organism we lumber from a dead stop to begin flowing toward Broadway. We are marching!

A brass band at the corner of Broadway and 5th raises spirits as we wheel left and advance by inches, but finally the mass is moving pa’l norte. The phallic spire of City Hall looms in the distance. Far up the street, a rumbling of distant drums melds with rhythmic chants, the march moves into a zone of voices chanting, “No more hate! No more hate!”

A few U.S. flags wave but most signs and shouts reflect California’s need for comic relief. A plurality of signs espouses women’s issues, many reflecting the theme of our bodies are our own. Keep your hands off my pussy, viva la vulva, this pussy bites back reflect the debacle in D.C. the day before. Numerous signs more explicitly condemn the New York developer. That fellow is not today's overriding issue. Today is about love. Each person and sign expresses the individual's idea, each is motivated by love of country, patriotism, and caring for one another. This is what our country looks like.

In a jarring sight for me, one poster warns “Keep your small hands off my Mexican, muslim, black, LGBT, female, immigrant friends.” The figure spreads its arms echoing the dancing Anthony Quinn gracing Eloy Torrez' recently restored mural, “The Pope of Broadway,” soon to be seen at the corner with 3d Street. I want to cleanse my mind of the thought.

The Pope of Broadway (November 2016)

Marchers fill the 4th Street incline awaiting a signal to descend onto Broadway

Crossing 4th Street I see a dense cohort of sign-bearers filling the uphill slope, waiting a signal to descend into the fold. I cut away from Broadway to capture this perspective. Here is where I spot the tiniest protest sign of the day, the size of a post-it note impaled on a stick and fastened to a woman’s turtleneck sweater. Just then a woman marches past waving one of the largest signs of the day, a surrealist portrait of an angel lifting her skirt to reveal a glowing ovum freshly descended from her vagina.

The tiniest sign of the march.

The largest sign on the march

I spot the only cop of the day, other than those helicopters and a handful of CHiPs assembled near the Chinatown station on the way in. The man is not really a cop but an unarmed traffic control officer. Remembering mindless hours on alert during my time in the Army, I ask him what goes through his mind while standing his post. “No comment, sir,” he demurs. Judging from the red flushing of his cheeks, I imagine he’ll go home and tie one on in frustration.

I am done for the day. I have marched one block in three and a half hours and captured 250 exposures. Ahead lies the other entry to the Pershing Square station. A scattering of likeminded people are heading in that direction, too. I give my hand to three women taking a muddy shortcut through a Natal Plum hedge, warning them to beware the espinas.

At the station, new arrivals ascend the escalator in sign-carrying groups of three or four. My train arrives in short order. In a corner of my car, two women and a man huddle in a corner. I ask them to turn their signs toward the camera. They happily oblige me and it is my final exposure of the Los Angeles Women’s March.

Pachanga Huizache: The Video

Last week, La Bloga-Tuesday featured a foto essay (click link) from Dagoberto Gilb's west coast launch of Huizache, the Magazine of Latino Literature, hosted by Virginia Espino and Héctor Tobar.

This week, it's a pleasure sharing Latinopia's videos of readings by Nikolai Garcia and Josephine Nericcio.

Click this link to hear a pair of outstanding writers you'll want to hear again, and read their stuff in the current issue of Huizache.



On-line Floricanto for Francisco X. Alarcón

Beautiful Voice
By Kim McMillon

El Mensaje
Por Ralph Haskins Elizondo

Un poeta chicano
Por Sonia Gutiérrez

A Chicano Poet
By Sonia Gutiérrez

Canto profundo
Por Juan E. Miranda

Carta Póstuma a Francisco X. Alarcón
Por Betty Sánchez


Beautiful Voice
By Kim McMillon

                for Francisco X. Alarcón

Beautiful voice
May we awaken as a people
On the precipice of change
Healing real and imagined wounds
Too fragile for this earth
But nowhere to go but the stars
For we are borderless
We are humanity



El Mensaje
Por Ralph Haskins Elizondo

A un tecolote anoche me encontré,
y después de compartir con ella mi botella
de mezcal me contó esta verdad:
“El mensaje más importante
de nuestro maestro fue,
que celebremos juntos aquí,
nuestro peregrinaje de toda la vida,
donde la meta es el mismo camino”.
Sigamos dejando nuestras huellas pues,
viajeros compañeros,
por la vereda de las palabras.



Un poeta chicano
Por Sonia Gutiérrez

Había una vez
un poeta chicano
que todo
lo que veía
lo convertía
en poesía

Poetizaba
todo—
le salían
poemas
por los oídos,
de las mangas,
y hasta por la suela
de sus zapatos
y le daba tesoros
de papel
a las niñas
y niños
del Nuevo Sol

Cuando su lengua
hablaba,
de gusto
hacía temblar
a la tierra y al mar.
Y la gente,
se acercaba
a escuchar su llamado.

Con su
concha-altavoz,
invocaba
a las cuatro direcciones

¡Tahuí!
¡Tahuí!
¡Tahuí!
¡Tahuí!

Para que escucharan
Para que escucháramos
Somos del mismo sol,
de la misma tierra,
del mismo viento,
y del mismo fuego—
Un pueblo

Y con sus alas
anaranjadas
de venas negras
profundas,
las mariposas
monarcas le aplaudían
desde las nubes,
y las ballenas
a lo lejos
desde el verde hondo mar
siempre le regresaban
su canto a Panchito

Y ese poeta chicano
de corazón
con grandes alas
se convirtió
en San Francisco X. Alarcón,
Santo Literario de Aztlán
con su último
punto final
bien marcado
para que nadie
lo borrara
de la historia
Gringolandia.

A Chicano Poet
By Sonia Gutiérrez

Once upon a time,
there was a Chicano poet
that everything
he’d see
he’d convert
into poetry

He poetized
everything—
poems
would come out
of his ears,
his sleeves,
and even the soles
of his shoes,
and he’d hand treasures
made out of paper
to girls
and boys
of the New Sun

When his tongue
would speak,
he would make
the earth
and sea tremble
with joy.
And people
would gather
around him
to hear his call.

With his
conch-shell-megaphone,
he’d invoke
the four directions

¡Tahuí!
¡Tahuí!
¡Tahuí!
¡Tahuí!

So people would listen
So we could listen
We are from the same sun,
from the same earth,
from the same wind,
and from the same fire—
One people

And with their orange wings
with deep
black
veins, monarch
butterflies would clap
from the clouds,
and whales
from afar
from the depths
of the deep green sea
would return
Panchito’s song

And that Chicano poet
with a heart
with two enormous wings
became San Francisco X. Alarcón,
Literary Saint of Aztlán
with his last period
well marked,
so no one
would erase him
from Gringolandia
history.



Canto profundo
Por Juan E. Miranda

(Poema para Francisco X Alarcón por el día de los muertos.)

A último momento te escribo un poema,
Que más que poema es la voz que ruge
dentro de lo más hondo de tu emblema.
Standing Rock, Davis y tus amigos te recuerdan,
cantan a los cuatro vientos
El grito de aliento de un pueblo entero,
un pueblo verdadero, sediento de agua,
Sediento de justicia, que labura con esmero.
Éste, no es tu día, no creo, no creo que esté muerto quien pelea,
No creo que muera alguien que cobra vida en tantos versos.
Y si de pedir se trata, no dejes solos a los que te piden por sus derechos,
A los que erguidos resisten en la roca serena.
¡Qué tome profundidad mi canto y en esa voz sea rotundo,
se convierta en hondo: ¡Un rugido desde lo profundo!



Carta Póstuma a Francisco X. Alarcón
Por Betty Sánchez

Tu partida
sacudió mis cimientos
aturdió mis sentidos

En un intento por retenerte
leía frenéticamente tus poemas
y evocaba tu nombre noche y día

Hasta que al preludio
de un crepúsculo matutino
apareciste en mis sueños

Después de ese encuentro furtivo
pude vislumbrar tu misión
más allá de tu presencia

Tu vida fue un poema
sin punto final
un clamor constante de justicia

Alzaste la voz por el planeta
y sus habitantes desafortunados
No hubo suceso local o global
que no fuera objeto de tu inspiración

Tu duende giraba travieso
a tu alrededor
murmurando en tu oído
haikus haigas tankas sonetos
odas elegías invocaciones
a través de ellos
seguirás entre nosotros
Dejaste esta dimensión
para transformarte
en verso
 agua
  tierra
  aire
fuego
huitzil
claro de luna
saguaro
girasol
milpa
en el más bello de los recuerdos
Los que te amamos
somos una renga colectiva
de tus obras altruistas

Imitaremos el espíritu guerrero
que desplegaste hasta el final
haremos eco del canto hondo
que entonaste dignamente
en pro de un mundo mejor

Mi amado poeta
tan mío y tan del mundo
volveremos a encontrarnos
del otro lado de la noche.


Floricanto For Francisco: Meet the Poets

Beautiful Voice By Kim McMillon
El Mensaje Por Ralph Haskins Elizondo
Un poeta chicano Por Sonia Gutiérrez
A Chicano Poet By Sonia Gutiérrez
Canto profundo Por Juan E. Miranda
Carta Póstuma a Francisco X. Alarcón Por Betty Sánchez

Kim McMillon is currently completing a Ph.D. in World Cultures/Interdisciplinary Humanities at the University of California, Merced, with an emphasis on the Black Arts Movement and African American Literature.  In collaboration with UC Merced’s Office of Student Life and Center for the Humanities, Ms. McMillon produced the UC Merced Black Arts Movement Conference 50 Years On, February 28 - March 2, 2014.  As President of the UC Merced African Diaspora Student Association, Ms. McMillon produced programs on race and culture with such renown speakers as Askia Toure, one of the main architects of the Black Arts Movement, and former Black Panther Charlotte “Mama C” O’Neal as well as facilitated a graduate panel on diversity at UC Merced.  In September 2016, Ms. McMillon produced the Dillard University-Harvard’s Hutchins Center Black Arts Movement Conference at Dillard University in New Orleans.  Kim McMillon was awarded the Martin Millennial Award honoring her contribution to Southern Arts and Letters.  Past recipients include Houston Baker, Ishmael Reed, Jerry Ward, and Kalamu ya Salaam. Ms. McMillon is a guest editor for the spring 2017 issue of The Journal of PAN African Studies special edition on the Black Arts Movement and has been asked to contribute to the Black Power Encyclopedia (1965-1975), a two-volume reference work that explores the emergence and evolution of the Black Power Movement in the United States.  From 2001–2005, Ms. McMillon produced the Oakland Literature Expo with PEN Oakland as part of the City of Oakland’s Art & Soul Festival. From 2010 until 2014, Ms. McMillon’s radio show Arts in the Valley aired every Saturday on 1480 KYOS AM in Merced, California.  In 2014, the PEN Oakland anthology Fightin’ Words, which she co-edited with Claire Ortalda and Judith Cody, was published by Heyday Press in Berkeley, California.  Ms. McMillon is the graduate student representative on The Alice and Clifford Spendlove Prize in Social Justice, Diplomacy and Tolerance Committee at the University of California, Merced.

Ralph Haskins Elizondo was born and raised in Monterrey, Mexico. His family moved to South Texas during the social turmoil of the 60’s. The new cultural challenges he experienced led him to express himself through poetry. Many of his poems touch the cultural and political issues of our times. Today, Ralph lives in McAllen, Texas where he supplements his poet’s income by moonlighting as a science teacher at a local high school.

Sonia Gutíerrez, Francisco X. Alarcón, Abel Salas

From 2001 to 2002, Sonia Gutiérrez was an Exchange Lecturer at the Universidad de Valladolid in Spain for the Centro Idiomas. Since then, she has had an opportunity to teach writing at California State University San Marcos, Palomar College, Mt. San Jacinto College, San Diego State University, and MiraCosta College. From 2015 to 2016, she completed a full-time interim position for Mt. San Jacinto College at the San Jacinto Campus. She enjoys teaching composition, critical thinking and writing, introduction to literature, and creative writing.
 
Her poems, written in both English and Spanish, have appeared in The San Diego Poetry Annual, La Jornada Semanal (Mexico City), and Tres en Suma (Madrid), among other publications. La Bloga’s “On-line Floricanto” is home to my “Best Poems 2011,” “Best Poems 2012,” and “Best Poems 2016.” Her fiction has appeared in the London Journal of Fiction, AlternaCtive PublicaCtions, and Huizache.
 
Her bilingual poetry collection, Spider Woman / La Mujer Araña (Olmeca Press, 2013), is her debut publication. She is a contributing editor for The Writer’s Response (Cengage Learning, 2016), a college textbook. Her second bilingual poetry collection, Legacy / Herencia, is seeking publication. Currently, she is revisiting her novel, Kissing Dreams from a Distance, and working on her third poetry collection, Sana Sana Colita de Rana. She has moderated Facebook’s Poets Responding to SB 1070 since the summer of 2014.

Juan E. Miranda nació en Texas y creció en Mendoza, Argentina. Es actualmente estudiante de doctorado en la Universidad de California, Davis; además de ser estudiante, es escritor de poesía, drama, cuento, spoken word y novelas cortas. También ha publicado en diferentes revistas universitarias, antologías y concursos literarios. Este poema es en honor a Francisco X Alarcón, un escritor y poeta infalible, que se fue demasiado pronto, como un cometa que comparte mucha luz y sigue su rumbo.

Betty Sánchez

Norma Beatriz Sánchez, poeta mexicana.  Miembro activo del grupo literario Escritores del Nuevo Sol. Sus poemas se han publicado en las antologías Voces y Cuentos del Nuevo Sol, The Border Crossed Us, Poesía en Vuelo, Soñadores; Mujeres de  Maíz Zine 10 y 13, y  St. Sucia VI edición.  Ha contribuido en La Palabra, La Bloga, y Poetas Respondiendo a la Ley SB1070.

Poetry of Resistance and Posada Readings

CSUF Grand Central Art Center

125 N Broadway, Santa Ana, California 92701

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 27TH (6:30-8:30pm)

WORKSHOP & READING

with local poets, Javier Pinzón & Odilia Galván Rodríguez

Event Description:

The reading will start with an open mic session featuring six local poets paying tribute to the late Francisco X. Alarcón. Odilia Galván Rodríguez will read her writing along with a selection of the works in the "Poetry of Resistance: Voices for Social Justice" anthology published by The University of Arizona Press in 2016. Alarcón's life partner Javier Pinzón will close with his own work.

The reading will address a wide variety of themes, including racial profiling, xenophobia, cultural misunderstanding, violence against refugees, shared identity, and much more. "Poetry of Resistance" is a political call for tolerance, reflection, reconciliation, and healing.

Flor y Canto poets:

Iuri M. Lara

Jesus Cortez

Marilynn Montaño

Jose Morales

Natalie Sánchez Valle

David Lopez

Before the reading (6:30-7:30pm), a special poetry workshop with maestra Odilia Galván Rodríguez! Email libromobile@gmail.com to reserve a spot. All ages over 16 years-old are welcomed.

The reading (7:30-8:30pm) will be followed by a book sale and signing. GCAC Artist in Residence, Sarah Rafael García will host the reading.

This literary reading is supported by Grand Central Art Center and in part by Poets & Writers through grants it has received from The James Irvine Foundation and the Hearst Foundations.

About the featured poets:

Javier Pinzón came to the United States from Mexico in the eighties. He has had his poetry published in Bay Area community newspapers of San Francisco, and various literary magazines among them, Revista Mujeres, of the University of California at Santa Cruz, and La Palabra, at the University of California, Davis.

Odilia Galván Rodríguez, poet, writer, editor, and social justice activist, is the author of six volumes of poetry, her latest, The Nature of Things, along with photographer Richard Loya. She is co-editor, along with the late Francisco X. Alarcón, of Poetry of Resistance: Voices for Social Justice, from The University of Arizona Press. Odilia has worked as an editor for various magazines, most recently as the English edition editor of Tricontinental Magazine in Havana, Cuba. Her activist work stems several decades with organizations such as the United Farm Workers of America AFL-CIO. Currently she facilitates creative writing workshops nationally, and is a moderator of Poets Responding to SB 1070 and Love and Prayers for Fukushima, both Facebook pages dedicated to bringing attention to social justice issues that affect the lives and well-being of many people. Her poetry and short fiction has been anthologized in many anthologies and literary journals in print and on-line media.

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POSADA

Saturday, October 29th  at 7 PM - 10 PM

Avenue 50 Studio

131 N Avenue 50, Los Angeles, California 90042

Message from Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo:

Hi everyone! I'm excited to share that my book, POSADA: OFFERINGS OF WITNESS AND REFUGE, will be released from Sundress Publications October 15th, and I will be holding a release party on Saturday, October 29th at Avenue 50 Studios in Highland Park.

POSADA: OFFERINGS OF WITNESS AND REFUGE celebrates my family's immigration story from Jalisco, Mexico to Los Angeles, CA in the 1950s while also giving visibility to those currently crossing into the country from Central America and the human atrocities occurring at the Arizona-Mexico border.

The night will include readings from badass writers Ashaki M. Jackson, Kenji Liu and Melissa Chadburn, a collective building of a Día de los Muertos altar for those who have passed along the border, music from Angela Spiñorita Blanca, food, and of course a book signing. A collection will be taken to support the work of No More Deaths/No Mas Muertes.