by Ernest Hogan
Yup. The sun is dazzling. The air is warming to what is considered summery in most of the rest of the world. Take a deep breath and you get more than a hint of turmoil. Another apocalyptic summer is on the way. I’ve got a sinking feeling that it could outdo 2020’s Covid Spring, when ordinary folks learned to use the word “surreal” when talking about real events that they had witnessed.
At least we’re not all up to our waists in the sand and being eaten by insects. I’ve got Tom Lehrer’s “Poisoning Pigeons in the Park” stuck in my head. An alternate soundtrack. What would Buñuel and Dalí think?
Come to think of it, what would they do?
Maybe I should watch some Three Stooges and Monty Python.
My current story. “Once Upon a Time in a Mass Deportation” is coming at me in jagged chunks that hit somewhere between 3 and 4AM. I also keep checking the news, because I do not want to be outdone by reality.
The Trump/Musk demolition crew is destroying the world economy,
American citizenship, and freedom of speech. We are all Chicanos now. They want to be able to arbitrarily strip us of our rights, and “disappear” us. You too can be illegal. Brown skin is not a prerequisite. This is not the equality we were fighting for. They will decide who is and is not American.
Maybe in the end, nobody will be.
My Anglo and/or white friends, you have a lot to learn from the rest of us. We have been living this reality for a long time. We are all minorities in one way or another.
We have gotten along. We also create our own cultures, using what we have, reconstructing it in our own way. Recomboculture. Rasquache. When I was a kid, my family considered it “doing it Chicano style.”
When the going gets tough, the tough get creative, because you often have no choice. If you want a place in the world, you have to make it yourself.
Meanwhile, it’s getting hot in Phoenix. We’ll be breaking records. The sun is bright, colors are intense. It’s beautiful.
The shadow of an airplane zoomed over my truck a few hours ago. It was heading straight down the street we were on. A few minutes later, a helicopter did the same. I asked what was going on. My wife suggested a fire, but there was no smoke.
Lately, men in camouflage have been showing up at the library.
It’s like a Jean-Luc Godard film.
I’ve long considered Godard’s apocalyptic Weekend was a remake of Laurel and Hardy’s Two Tars. Both feature decadent relationships, fantastic traffic jams, and the breakdown of civilization as we know it. Weekend was inspired by Julio Cotrázar’s short story, “The Southern Thruway,” where the same things happen. I’m currently reading his novel Final Exam, which was written in 1950 and not published until 1986 for “political and personal reasons,” in which a strange, sticky fog may or may not a metaphor for looming fascism. I wonder if Cortázar ever saw Two Tars?
Everything is connected.
I wonder if what I’m writing now will be published in my lifetime.
Sometimes all you can do is scream, create.
I’ve been practicing my grito.
Ernest Hogan will be teaching a course, “Gonzo Science Fiction, Chicano Style” at the online Palabras del Pueblo Writing Workshop, June 7, 8, 14, and 15. He will have a story and drawing in the upcoming Xicanofuturism: Gritos for Tomorrow. His imagination is running wild.
