Tragedy Doesn't Stop a Community from Celebrating Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Melinda Palacio

 

Sojourner Kincaid Rolle Preps the Contest Winners

What would have been the welcome sound of rain falling on trees, rooftops, and pavements turned into an unprecedented disaster. Half an inch of rain in five minutes fell on Montecito. The death toll has reached 20 and there are still two missing.

While mud emptied out an entire city and turned the 101 freeway into an impassable river, those who lived west of Milpas in Santa Barbara were spared the horrors of having their community swept away. Santa Barbara was sparsely populated for the duration of the 101's shutdown and the isolation of both Montecito and Carpinteria. On the Santa Barbara side schools and businesses went on as usual as people felt an eerie sense of survivor's guilt. Many who didn't heed voluntary or mandatory evacuation orders were able to ride out the fires and storm from the comfort of their homes. This was not the case for people who lived and worked in Montecito. What was it like to wake up in Montecito to find no neighbors on your street? Read T.C.Boyle's account in the New Yorker.

What should have been an all-inclusive celebration in honor of Martin Luther King, turned into a much smaller celebration because people from Montecito, Carpinteria, Summerland and beyond could not get into Santa Barbara due to the total shutdown of the highway.

Every year, I have had the pleasure of assisting Sojourner Kincaid Rolle with Santa Barbara's annual Dr. King celebration. One of the highlights of the program, held at the Arlington Theater, is the Essay & Poetry Contest. Local youth and teens, ages 6-18, participate. This year, the missing participants, parents, and audience made it clear that a disaster had befallen the community. The march from De La Guerra Plaza to the Arlington Theater was also cancelled due to lack of available police.

The program at the Arlington began with a moment of silence in honor of the mudslide victims. The MLK celebration continued and names of the winners of the poetry and essay contests were announced. Many of the students also had difficulty turning in their contest entries because the Thomas Fire had upended their lives. The deadline was extended until just days before the celebration due to the many school closures from the fire preceding the mud slides. One student from Carpinteria High School, Max Coppel, lost all of his poems in the fire, but managed to rewrite his entry for the contest and took 3rd place for his poem, "Life in America Has Changed," along with Jeanette Fantone and her poem, "For the Opressed," also from Carpinteria High. The winner was Kundai Chikowero from Dos Pueblos High School for her poem, "Follow the Legacy."  

2018 Contest Winners

Essay

Ages 13-18

1st Michelle Qin "The Human Right" Dos Pueblos High School

2nd Gabriel Ohedo "Martin Luther King, Jr." Carpinteria High School

Ages 6-12

1st Olivia Battles "Speak Up" Roosevelt School

2nd Noah Zakrzewski "MLK" Monte Vista School

3rd Noah Slotnick-Lastrico "MLK" Washington School

        Connor MacPherson "MLK" Montessori Center School

Poetry

Ages 13-18

1st Kundai Chikowero "Follow the Legacy" Dos Pueblos High School

2nd Hali Schwasnick "Colors" Carpinteria High School

3rd Jeanette Fantone "For the Oppressed" Carpinteria High School

      Max Coppel "Life in American Has Changed" Carpinteria High School

Ages 6-12

1st Zachary Horne "My Dream for Our World" Roosevelt School

2nd Aspen Newhouse "Democracy" Montessori Center School

3rd Tessa de Albergaria "Living a Nightmare" Roosevelt School

         Tali McPeters "Democracy" Roosevelt School

            Quinn Davis Roosevelt Elementary

"Even the Word [Mexican] Works Quite Well as an Insult"

        Daniel Cano                    

                                                                       

                                                                                         

    It is humiliating to listen each day to arguments about Latino immigration, legal or not, in the media. A few years ago, a so-called scholar published a book (heavy on anecdotes, light on research) on how Mexican immigrants haven't assimilated into U.S. society like other ethnic groups. Conservative media hail the work as a landmark study. The liberal media stay silent. Critical voices are resigned to NPR or small university presses, where most Americans will never hear them.

    The president tells the American public he can't trust a judge to render a fair verdict because the judge is Mexican-American. The president lashes out, calling Mexican migrants “murders” and “rapists,” though, he assumes, “some are good people.” Edward Said explored this demonization of a people in his essay, "The Palestinian Experience" when he wrote, "Even the word Arab works quite well as an insult," so too is the word Mexican slowly becoming an insult, dehumanizing an entire group of people.

    Unfortunately, our education system does not provide the context to tell the real story of the relationship between Mexico, Latin America, and the U.S., how, historically, U.S. corporations, like the United Fruit Company, multi-national petroleum corporations, U.S. banks, and covert U.S. political and military policies ravaged Mexico and Latin America, sending millions of migrants north to fill the vacant slots in the fields, on construction sites, factories, hotels, and restaurants, while employers, hypocritically, stay mum, as long as their employees show documentation, fake or otherwise. Administrators of the Tucson Unified School District feel teaching students the real stories of their past might create a generation of radicals. So, too often, working-class Americans fail to learn how they share more commonalities than differences.

    As a descendent of Mexicans, I sometimes think about my grandparents who came here in the early 1900s, often toiling under brutal working conditions, contributing to the development of the U.S. and the WWI war effort. I think of my parents’ generation, many who shed blood in Europe and the Pacific, for the right to call themselves Americans and honor their Mexican ancestors. We know that for each immigrant group, this transition takes one or two generations.

                                                                           

    It still surprises me to find how many Americans, including Latino children, haven’t learned, or retained the fact, that not all Mexicans were immigrants. In fact, at one-time, Anglo Americans were non-existent in Los Angeles and the Southwest. In 2001, I interviewed a number of Mexican men and women of my father’s generation. I wanted to hear the stories they remembered about their lives in the U.S. Forrest Marquez Freed (RIP) and his ancestors are perfect examples of the phrase “The border crossed us.”

                                                                           xxxx

    It was a cool, winter morning when Forrest blew in to the coffee shop as if pushed by a strong wind. A U.S. Army veteran,  UCLA graduate, and retired high school Spanish teacher, he was also a political activist (past LULAC president), and heir of the Westside Marquez and Reyes family traditions. He wore his trademark pale blue guayabera. His white, wavy hair glistened in the morning light and his eyes sparkled, a travieso, even in his old age.

    He was born in 1927, the son of Albertina Leonor Marquez, a descendent of both Francisco Marquez and Ysidro Reyes I, two early pobladores of Los Angeles, who founded Rancho Boca de Santa Monica early in the 1800s. Forrest’s father, Raymond Lloyd Freed, the son of Swedish immigrants, moved to Santa Monica in the 1920s, Forrest said, “When Wilshire Boulevard was a two-lane street with eucalyptus trees on both sides. So, you see,” he continued, “I know for sure I'm a fifth generation Santa Monican and possibly a seventh-generation Californian.”

     Working through his genealogy, Forrest said, "Micaela, Ysidro Reyes II’s daughter, married my great-grandfather Pascual Marquez, which makes me just as much a Reyes as a Marquez." He chuckled as he told how the two families would often argue as to which had arrived in Santa Monica first.

    Forrest said, trying to recall who owned the first land grant in Santa Monica, “The Machados were the ones who had the lands that would later become Rancho Boca de Santa Monica, before the Marquez and the Reyes had it.” Clear land ownership was complicated in those days. “The rancho was established in 1828. I believe it was the Machados and some other families…ah, let’s see.”

    “The Sepulvedas?” I asked, knowing that Francisco Sepulveda had a stake in coastal lands in the early 1800s.

    “Not the Sepulvedas,” he said. “They had the rancho Santa Monica y San Vicente, more to the east. However, the Machados abandoned La Boca de Santa Monica. And through some skullduggery of one kind or another--because Francisco Marquez, who was born in San Juan de Los Lagos [Mexico], coming from there--he ah…wouldn’t have any rights [in Alta California]. So, he got together with Ysidro Reyes I--who was born here [Los Angeles]. The Reyes had been here for some time.” He added, "There are some Machados in the abolengo somewhere."

    One would think the early coastal Californio families knew each other well. They were the only Mexicans here, with huge swaths of land. Francisco Sepulveda attempted to take some coastal lands from them. Sepulveda forced the Machados to prove ownership of their land Rancho La Ballona, near Playa del Rey. Included in the dispute were Marquez, Reyes, Talamantes and Alanis.

     In her treatise on the Machado family, Sister Mary Therese Wittenburg, studying at Loyola Marymount, described how Sepulveda's attorneys used a bogus map, called the Warner Map, to make his claim to the land: "…The Warner map was not a valid description of [Rancho] San Vicente y Santa Monica. It was merely an outline map drawn in 1843 during the Sepulvedas' dispute with Francisco Marquez and Ysidro Reyes over the Rancho Boca de Santa Monica to show the location of the lands claimed by Marquez, Reyes, Alanis and the Machados."

    “And so anyhow,” Forrest continued, “maybe the date of 1839 that they have in the City Hall of Santa Monica today is the time that, ah…Francisco Marquez and Ysidro Reyes first took over the Rancho La Boca de Santa Monica.”

    Forrest told me how Francisco Marquez built his first home on a bluff overlooking the Santa Monica Canyon. Reyes built his adobe on the opposite side, Pacific Palisades today. “But they abandoned them because of the wolves and the bears attacking their livestock. Francisco Marquez built a second home downhill, near where the graveyard is today and close to the creek, where San Lorenzo Avenue runs. He couldn’t build deeper into the canyon because Indians controlled parts of the land to the north side.”

    By the time Forrest was a child both adobes had been destroyed, though he recalled seeing the second home’s foundation, or what remained of it. The private graveyard where the first Marquez and Reyes family members were buried seemed to be well-hidden among today’s multi-million-dollar homes down in the Santa Monica Canyon.

    “Where exactly is the graveyard?” I asked.

    Forrest said, “Well, I had a key for the gate, but my cousin, Ernest, has been battling with them, with Gillis who subdivided that land. Anyway, if you go along San Lorenzo near Sycamore [Street] and Channel Road, there was a piece of land anywhere from 25 to 50 feet wide. There’s a fence around the graveyard there by a statue of San Lorenzo.”

                                                                         

                                                                       

     In a lecture for the Santa Monica Historical Society, Ernest Marquez told the audience that new homeowners in the area had blocked the easement to the cemetery, so now, the family can no longer visit the graves of the family members buried there [that may have changed as of this writing]. Ernest also said no one was sure how many graves the cemetery held. He recalled hearing thirteen family members died in the early 1900s after a picnic where they had eaten canned peaches. Apparently, the peaches were infected with some sort of botulism

    Forrest insisted that some contention still remains as to the ownership of a 25x50 foot lot in front of the cemetery, which had always been considered part of the Marquez' holdings. Forrest hinted that some underhanded dealings took place as far back as when Pascual Marquez donated land for the Canyon's first one-room wooden schoolhouse, which still sits on the grounds of the newer Canyon School.

    In their book The Santa Monica Canyon, Betty Lou and Thomas R.Young wrote, "The officially recorded transaction is less clear, listing the Santa Monica Land Company as the new owner and developer of the Sycamore Road property and Robert and Frances Gillis as owners of the Channel Road property." Nowhere was Pascual Marquez’s name mentioned. Forrest's research led him to infer that perhaps some of the land Marquez had donated for public usage had become private without his knowledge?

    A year or so after I spoke to Forrest, I talked to Mel Rischer, Forrest’s dear friend, who remembered Forrest once telling him how an early Santa Monica developer had asked the Marquezes if he could graze cattle on their land. The family thought it would be a good way to keep the grass low. The developer wanted no complications, so he hired an attorney who wrote a contract, which Forrest’s great-grandfather signed, even though he couldn’t read. What the grandfather didn’t know was that he had just signed away a portion of his land.

    Forrest said, “Anyway, each year my aunt Angelina (now deceased) and my cousin Rosemary [Miano], well, we get together--but really the two of them are more responsible than I am—to clean the weeds out of the graveyard. Many of the markers are gone. Probably the only one that’s still standing there in good shape is the one my grandfather, Perfecto Marquez, put in there. It was about Christmas. I must have been about nine years old. Somewhere I have a picture of me standing by. The interesting thing was Pascual Marquez, my great grandfather, is buried near the spot [where the adobe home once stood] where he was born.”

    In the early 1840s Pascual Marquez built one of the first bathhouses in the Santa Monica Canyon, catering to the growing Anglo tourist population seeking relief from the oppressive inland Los Angeles heat. Pascual had inherited several thousand acres of land from his father, Francisco. Over the years, Pascual sold some of the land and passed on what remained to his son, Perfecto, Forrest’s grandfather, the father of Forrest’s mother, Albertina. He remembered his grandmother say Rancho La Boca de Santa Monica had once covered all the land from the Santa Monica Canyon and the Palisades to Topanga Canyon.

                                                                         

    Forrest told me that Anglos immigrating from the East looked-down on the Californio landowners of the mid-1800s. Sister Mary Therese Wittenberg’s wrote, "These were the people [the Californios], however, the American immigrants soon discovered, who held title to most of California's best or, at least, most usable land under the extensive grants of the Mexican period. To the would-be settlers, it was inconceivable that these semi-barbarians should hinder the path of progress and civilization. The newcomers, therefore, completely ignored the Spanish-Mexican claims."

    While visiting the Los Angeles Hall of Records, Forrest said he had found documents pertaining to the tracts of land his family had once owned. As he studied the documents to see how the owners’ names had been recorded, he’d grown suspicious.

    The documents stated, he said, "…inability to locate owners." His eyes narrowed. "Inability to locate owners!” he said, incredulously. “How could they [the City] not find the owners? Hell, my cousin Rosemary and my aunt Angelina still live on parts of the original land grant."

    He said that often in the early days, after 1848, when California became the United States, if some rancheros did not contest the confiscation of their land it was because they sometimes were not officially notified it was being taken.

    The Marquez and Reyes families did sell much of their land, but often so many thousands of acres were involved in transactions that one must now ask, who did the surveying? Who knew exactly which portions were being sold? What if the ownership of lands was in question?

     “Back then,” Forrest said, “the city might publish, in small print, notices of questionable ownership.” His point was that if the lands' owners did not see the printed article or could not read English, they could not step forward to claim possession, so they would lose valuable property. But since these notices were published in out-of-the-way sections of newspapers or in journals no one would see, what chance did anyone have to claim the land? "Oh, well," he said.

    In their book, the Youngs seemed to corroborate Forrest’s contention. They write: "At that time, records of canyon land ownership were still transitional and some holdings were entered on county maps as ‘unknown owner.’” Once the government designated lands as "ownership unknown", the land-grab was on, usually managed by a land or investment company.

    After I talked to Forrest, and to the other men and women I interviewed, I was left to think, how much richer and more honest would our experiences as Americans be if we understood our history--all of it? And, rather than demonizing the men and women who contributed to the building of this country, we gave them their right place in history. Maybe, then, an educated president would realize the idea of a wall is not only hypocritical but insulting.

Stella Diaz Has Something to Say

By Angela Dominguez

•             Age Range: 6 - 9 years
•             Grade Level: 1 - 4
•             Hardcover: 208 pages
•             Publisher: Roaring Brook Press
•             Language: English
•             ISBN-10: 1626728585
•             ISBN-13: 978-1626728585

In her first middle-grade novel, award-winning picture book author and illustrator Angela Dominguez tells a heartwarming story based on her own experiences growing up Mexican-American.

Stella Diaz loves marine animals, especially her betta fish, Pancho. But Stella Diaz is not a betta fish. Betta fish like to be alone, while Stella loves spending time with her mom and brother and her best friend Jenny. Trouble is, Jenny is in another class this year, and Stella feels very lonely.

When a new boy arrives in Stella's class, she really wants to be his friend, but sometimes Stella accidentally speaks Spanish instead of English and pronounces words wrong, which makes her turn roja. Plus, she has to speak in front of her whole class for a big presentation at school! But she better get over her fears soon, because Stella Díaz has something to say!

Stella Díaz Has Something to Say introduces an infectiously charming new character with relatable writing and adorable black-and-white art throughout. Simple Spanish vocabulary is also integrated within the text, providing a bilingual element.

Reviews

“Fans of Clementine and Alvin Ho will be delighted to meet Stella.” ―School Library Journal, starred review

“Drawing on her own childhood, Dominguez smoothly blends Spanish and English into the narration and dialogue, Stella’s Mexican-American culture fully informs her perspective and family life, and chunky spot art helps establish the setting. Readers should easily relate to Stella, her struggle to use her voice, and the way she feels caught between worlds at school and at home.” ―Publishers Weekly

“Dominguez’s novel introduces a character many readers can relate to, especially bilingual kids or English language learners who struggle with expressing themselves. An excellent, empowering addition to middle grade collections.” ―Booklist

“A nice and timely depiction of an immigrant child experience.” ―Kirkus Reviews

“Stella Díaz Has Something to Say is delightfully rich, both humorous and sensitive at the same time. This is the story of a curious girl who longs to fit in, but also feels the need to be herself, learning how to speak up in two languages.” ―Margarita Engle, Young People's Poet Laureate

“Stella Díaz is a delight! Young readers will love the story of this shy, sweet, and very creative girl finding her voice.” ―Monica Brown, author of the Lola Levine series

“Shy yet spunky Stella speaks to feeling different, to conquering fears in order to make a new friend, and to learning that, like the starfish who shares her name―Estrella―she is stronger than she thinks.” ―Danielle Davis, author of Zinnia and the Bees

“An inspiring tale of self-discovery. Stella Diaz speaks for anyone who has struggled to juggle different sides of their identity. Which is, of course, all of us.” ―Minh Le, author of Let Me Finish!

Angela Dominguez was born in Mexico City, grew up in the great state of Texas, and now resides on the east coast. She is the author and illustrator of several books for children including Maria Had a Little Llama, which received the American Library Association Pura Belpré Illustration Honor. Recently, she received her second Pura Belpré Honor for her illustrations in Mango, Abuela, and Me written by Meg Medina. When Angela is not in her studio, she teaches at the Academy of Art University, which honored her with their Distinguished Alumni Award in 2013. She also enjoys presenting at different schools and libraries to all sorts of ages. Angela is a proud member of SCBWI, PEN America, and represented by Wernick and Pratt Literary Agency. As a child, she loved reading books and making a mess creating pictures. She's delighted to still be doing both.

2017 Best Poems La Bloga On-line Floricanto

Introducing The Best Poems of La Bloga On-line Floricanto 2017

Michael Sedano

What happens to a culture under attack? It responds one person at a time. Culture is an imaginary construct, your cultura comprises unnumbered gente casí just like you, individually and all at the same time. You are your cultura and You are under attack.

What to do?

You resist by existing, ser and estar. You talk to friends. You convene. You march. You Get Out The Vote.

If you're a poet, you also write poetry. A poem casts spells, forms a shield, expresses a response, charges words with power to charm all whom cultura touches.

foto:Charlotte McDonald, Oak Glen, CA 2017

La Bloga On-line Floricanto came out of nuestra cultura and the friendship between Francisco X. Alarcón and Michael Sedano. In 2010, Francisco had recently launched the Facebook poetry community Poets Responding to SB 1070. In the Fall that year, USC would hold a 3-day floricanto reuniting readers from the historic 1973 Festival de Flor y Canto. Sedano was organizing the reunion floricanto. Here was a confluence of opportunities.

As with any live event, only a tiny representation of artists were invited to read at USC. I invited the 1973 Veteranos I could locate, and they would have the first day. Through open call and conectas I put together a line-up of contemporary voices to read over two more days. In all, nearly 50 writers would perform for the live audience and video.

La Bloga enjoys access to a widely dispersed audience. Francisco tapped a near-infinite wellspring of poets responding. This created an imperative to be heard. Francisco and I agreed, La Bloga would publish sobresaliente work from Francisco's community.

Francisco's literary heirs, the Moderators of Poets Responding, manage the enormous number of submissions through the year, nominating five poets for a monthly, sometimes semi-monthly, La Bloga On-line Floricanto.

From the rich lode of 2017 On-line Floricanto poems, the Moderators of Poets Responding select ten poets' work as the Best Poems of 2017 La Bloga On-line Floricanto.

La Bloga On-Line Floricanto: Best Poems of 2017 
Jolaoso Pretty Thunder, Amara T. Smith, Sonia Gutiérrez, Rolando Serna, Odilia Galván Rodríguez, Arnoldo García, Edward Vidaurre, Donny Jackson, Leticia Diaz Perez, Sharon Elliott

“Chariot” By Jolaoso Pretty Thunder”
“Take my hand” by Amara T. Smith
“From the Shovel to the Guitar” / “De la pala a la guitarra” By Sonia Gutiérrez
“The Wetback Only Wants to be Dry” By Rolando Serna
“Pieces of Dad’s Story” By Odilia Galván Rodríguez
“Quetzalcóatl, la revolución emplumada [excerpts]” By Arnoldo García
“Trouble… the Water” By Edward Vidaurre
“leave’ by Donny Jackson
“Charlottesville, My Place of Birth” By Leticia Diaz Perez
“My Father Was a Fisherman” By Sharon Elliott

To meet the poets scroll down after "My Father Was a Fisherman."

Chariot
by Jolaoso Pretty Thunder
Another one from the archives to share for Domestic Violence Awareness Month ~~

Can I carry on like 500 convicts, 25 to Life
Colder than ice, colder
Strap me down
How many men does it take
“You are vulgar,” they tell me
Requiem from the rivers
Sweet overflow
Dread washed in the sea

Aloes and shea couldn't ever
soften his edges
They took away my husband in chains
He used to bring me flowers that I swear
Were funeral arrangements
Perfume of camphor and
Formaldehyde

He waited too long for me to die
I outlived him
Barely
Slammed and tossed
I was free falling
He tried so hard to be a felon
a thousand times over
And succeeded

Vandalizing my interior first
With his
Steady hands
Moving like an executioner
He was so precise
And kept calling for the guillotine
To roll my head

I wasted away
The antique band vowed
Enslaved me
It hung around my finger, wrist
Then my neck
I stepped out of it one day

They named me feral
Said my prayers won’t reach God
Many said he was so humble
But I saw how he was
always so hungry
Insatiable
He got off easy


Take my hand
by Amara T. Smith

And from the darkness
the place of creation and infinite possibility
through great pressure
extreme pressure
a new reality will be born

take my hand....


From the Shovel to the Guitar
by Sonia Gutiérrez

My father never sat behind
The comfort of a desk,
Surrounded by imperfectly
Positioned books
And photographs,
To write poetry.

Instead, at fifty-three, my father
Understood the language
Of the unruly earth.
He tilled hectares handed down
To him—keeper of the earth.

At sixty, his fists
Loosened the grip
Of the master’s shovel.
His clumsy fingers
Looked at each other
And did what they had always
Wanted to do—
Tame the guitar’s strings,
But vynil strings tamed him.

My father never sat behind
The comfort of a desk,
Surrounded by imperfectly
Positioned books
And photographs,
To write poetry.
But now, at sixty-four
My father
Sings strums songs
of our tomorrows.

De la pala a la guitarra
por Sonia Gutiérrez

Mi padre nunca se sentó
Detrás de la comodidad de un escritorio,
Rodeado de libros
Y fotografías
Imperfectamente posicionadas,
Para escribir poesía.

En vez, a los cincuenta y tres, mi padre
Entendió el lenguaje
De la tierra revoltosa.
Araba tierras hectáreas heredadas
A él—cuidador de la tierra.

A los sesenta, sus puños
Soltaron el apretón
De la pala del patrón.
Sus dedos toscos
Se observaron uno al otro,
Y hicieron lo que siempre
Quisieron hacer—
Domar las cuerdas de la guitarra,
Pero las cuerdas de vinilo lo domaron a él.

Mi padre nunca se sentó
Detrás de la comodidad de un escritorio,
Rodeado de libros
Y fotografías
Imperfectamente posicionadas,
Para escribir poesía.
Pero ahora, mi padre
A los secenta y cuatro
Canta rasguea las canciones
de nuestros mañanas.



The Wetback Only Wants to be dry
by Rolando Serna

The wetback only wants to be dry
Their minds that are drowning
With the news
Of the felony, they have committed

What felony?
Well the illegal crossing of the Rio Grande River
More grave
Than the Italians, Germans, Japanese, Chinese, and Arabs.

That crossed an entire ocean
When will the day come, that they will finally dry?
It is not possible that the documents that my government gives them
Will be made from terrycloth

So, they can use it to dry themselves
The magic day of five years so they can finally begin to dry
Only four years is not enough time
Because the river water is permanently attached

To their backs for five years and nothing can dry it
The government, has trained the dogs
At the Falfurrias check point, to alert the immigration officers
When there is an illegal hiding. The dogs

Can tell the difference a Mexican American and an Illegal Mexican
Can that be possible? That an American military uniform be made
Out of magic cloth that will dry the wet-back?
This magic cloth will only dry their back after they return.

Return from where? Today they did not send you back to Mexico.
If you wear that uniform, they will send you to another country.
The wetback will dry their body and wet their minds with the bloody memories of
Assassins and if they sign the dotted line they won’t send them back home where it is safe.

I don’t remember if it is proper for a wetback to use the uniform of
My country that convicts them of being wetbacks
They rounded them up and gave them work
That pays $.12 cents an hour, $.88 cents per day

$19.20 per month
Minus 50% COST OF INCARCERATION
Minus cost of bar of soap
Their shoes, their exercise cloth, tooth paste

Cologne and food to survive during lock down
The prisons remind me of the old southern plantations where
White men would dictate what the blacks would do
What did they call the blacks in those days, was it slaves?

Because they worked all day
And when night fell they had not earned a single coin
To send their families, this government
Has not mentioned that no wetback can earn more than $.12 cents an hour

$.88 cents a day, $19.20 a month
If they can put all the wetbacks into prison
It will be possible too pay 48 wetbacks too work for a whole day
For what it would cost to pay a single person to work for one hour at $5.75an hour.

How can our government require all employers?
to pay their employees a minimum wage?
They should be leading by example
And start paying their new slaves the legal minimum wage.

The wetbacks that have been made into government slaves
When will they explain to the American citizens who are the owners of these companies?
Why don’t they have to follow the law of our country?
They should be fined $5000.00 for hiring wetbacks

And not paying them a fair and legal wage for their work.
how is it possible?
Those wetbacks are now responsible for terrorism.
When the terrorist entered through Canada

They also entered through airports in New York
And some we don’t know they entered through where ever they entered
And they blame the wetbacks
Because my people come to work

When was the day that we started?
To look like terrorists and when was
The day that we were implicated
In the deaths of our friends in those two towers?

When did they prepare to convert my people?
Into slaves for Unicore
The great corporation in all Federal Prisons, who demands that,
All prisoners will work or get acquainted with solitary confinement

When did the day come? That being a wetback?
Was converted into being a Slave?
It is not possible for me, not to be heard
It is also impossible not to take the truth into account.

A Fairytale maybe, but all this info is online under B.O.P.
There to read for you and me.


Pieces of Dad’s Story
by Odilia Galván Rodríguez

when you were told
leave or be taken out
at the threat
of a police baton
after you came home
a decorated soldier
from the Korean War
called a conflict
and you couldn’t find
a place to live
No Mexicans Allowed
in White neighborhoods
you protested

this was some years after
you loved
a woman you met
when she
was but a girl of 11
and said
she’s going to be my wife
one day

the same day
you walked away
from Brownsville at 13
an orphan
you met a trailero
called Gavilan
whom you’d seen before

(in a border bar
where every night
since your mother died
when you were 5
you and your brother
would pick up
your father
who’d get dead drunk
and drag him home
from there)

Gavilan stopped for you
on the road
listened to your story
took you
to Rancho La Yegua Alazana
where his mother
would raise you up
with two other orphan
grandsons of hers
until you would lie
about your age
enlist in the army

you were the son
of a beautiful woman
who played and taught
piano and school
she left you too early
then seven years later
your father
was found face up
in the Rio Bravo

you became a runaway
then a soldier
then a trainman
then a father
then a husband
then an ironman
un hombre de acero

you were haunted
by death and killing
you loved your four
children mothered
by a fierce woman
who had problems
you couldn’t solve
no matter how much
you loved her
you were thrown
far from them
but never forgot
you were a father


Quetzalcoatl, la revolución emplumada [excerpts]
by Arnoldo Garcia

I
Quetzalcóatl
regresó
este año
de turista
y se le expiró la visa
ahora es considerado
terrorista.

500 años sin
serpientes emplumadas
500s sin cielo
terrenal

Ahora sí tenemos
un quetzalcóatl
que es una bomba sagrada
que sólo quema
semillas
serpientes verdes
gusanitos
flores
y no humanos
ofrendas
de paz
y amor
entre los pueblos desarmados.

II
Quetzalcóatl
nació
en un hospital
sin esperar
a la partera
emergió
de su mamá
y luego luego
exigió
que cesara
el tiempo
porque ya llegó
el nuevo sol

III
Quetzalcóatl
pregunta
qué ritmo escogemos?
octubre
noviembre
cipactli
olin
ce atl
katún
qué raíz estiramos
qué color pintamos
dónde estea el centro
de la tierra
el downtown de la naturaleza
la X de xoxipili
el machete lunar
el ombligo sembrado
la esperanza
la semilla
para todas y
todos
o se marchita
nuestro tiempo?

IV
Quetzalcóatl
dice:
dónde están
los elotes explosivos
los frijoles fanáticos
el chile que chilla: "Organícense!"
los jacales de la ternura
la milpa ancestral
la montaña de agua
las malinches
verdes
aztlán guadalupana
dónde están
mis plumajes
mis lenguajes
guerrilleros
dónde
mis pueblos emplumados?

V
Quetzalcóatl
pregunta:
quién puso zapatos sobre la tierra?
quién construye un ataud de cemento
sobre las labores, la naturaleza?
quién bebe el agua de la vida
de los que no han nacido?
quién usa
los huesos,
las pieles,
las hojas
ancestrales
para gasolina?
y quién contamina las venas
con las penas industriales?
quién cortó las venas de la naturaleza
que inundaron y ahogaron
los pueblos lenguajes
las comunidades de lenguas
que con sus manos
pulieron troncos
para travesar mares estrellales.
O Aztlán, punto migrante
en la gran migración cósmica
de echar raíces
para crear tierras amplias
como corazones el tamaño de soles
ahora nosotras y nosotros
las y los que nacimos del movimiento terrenal
la comuna hecha de tierras y cielos
encontramos una tierra movil, migrante
para un pueblo migrante, cósmico
para un reino ingobernable
porque es inalterable
porque somos inalterables
el reino de la naturaleza
para desatarnos del ombligo lunar,
las cavernas del ser
el lugar de las garzas blanquísimas como el lodo
banderas móviles del viento
los corazones emplumados
con maizales

VI
Quetzalcóatl dice:
no todos los días aparezco
Hay semanas, sazones y generaciones enteras
que soy invisible
nadie me ve nadie me reconoce nadie me busca
mi existencia no califica
ni de colador de vientos
pero cuando llego a la frontera
me piden documentación
para verificar que existo
y que no soy invisible, ilegal
aparecido
mojado por la ciudadanía imperial
desplumado
deportado
desplazado
desnudo
destituido
desarmado
desesperado
nunca
derrotado
debilitado
desparramado
despachado
Quetzalcóatl
hoy es indio
vendedor ambulante
jornalero
trabajadora doméstica
madre soltera
zapatista
mam
pandillero
pistolero
preso
drogadicto
maestra de escuela secundaria
campesino
tatuajista
jaranero
migrante muerto en la frontera
todas y todos
somos
Quetzalcóatl...



Trouble... the Water
by Edward Vidaurre

When a poor kid sees clean clear water
he envisions a treasure, a hope
have you ever seen a murky
opaque wishing well?

When a woman kneels
along rivers edge to wash her sheets,
she thinks, a new beginning, a cleansing,
when was the last time you washed your clothes in oil?

When a thirsty stray dog walks for miles
along the gutters of this nation
wishing to quench his thirst
where does he find relief?

When have you seen
dogs or cats, blood dripping
from their jaw hair
laying on your front porch content?

It happens, blood and oil mix with mother earth’s tears, and
we watch as it happens. Soon we'll be drenched in oil
or blood, and water will be what we search for
at the bottom of our wishing wells.


leave
by Donny Jackson

thank you open window for this breeze     laced with living     it is not noise or music    i like the exhale of tie-dyed sapphire and bruise indigo through the branches the most     i was born here      here in the swaddling dark     even though my mother did not give birth to me here     happy invention i am     there is a dog just now     i make a wish on its howl     such a ringing chariot it is     i must imagine ways to go because they want me gone     because my mother didn’t bleed me here     first  

the pond in my room is called a mirror      and i do not see a foreign object     i see woman     but i have never been a lucifer     who relishes his story     but forgot his name also means bringer of light     he doesn’t want me here anymore     the snap in the woods is something moving to where it wants to go     i like this sound too     i am not afraid     even if it is coming toward me     i have learned     here     how to be a home  

there are two scents     both remind me     this is a forest     one is the sweat of bolting animals     the other     gunpowder     the devil is a hunter     the devil is beginning to count us     it should be funny because we did not count before     it is not funny     but the creek is giggling anyway      each second it is a different creek with almost the same giggle      because the rocks it licks across     are the same     except over time     they slightly aren’t     because the creek takes a little bit of rock with it     each second      eternal virgin     maybe i can teach this breeze     or my hair     the language of creek     spoken rush     teach this breeze     to take me with it     little by little     so i might steal away     sand is a hidden     where the devil can’t find me  

and i say      me       when i mean     we     because with me here is my baby girl     i say me meaning we as if she is the only thing i ever fully am     wait     i’m sure they were always already here but i’m only now hearing crickets     but      more than insects      they echo like an exhausted clock     whose wheezing tick    puts me in mind of my father’s waning heart     which is a failing close to death     and that     a yes to die     the end i think of      when my chest forgets its entire rise     i know then     i can be an inadequate breast     if i don’t take in my faith deeper     so as to push away the dizzy     that i may see a night sky in my daughter     she     a sleeping promise     a map of how to escape a forest     her infant hand there     open like window     new as breath    her tiny nails     as clean and bright      as nesting stars



Charlottesville, My Place of Birth
by Leticia Diaz Perez

Charlottesville
my place of birth
what have you done?
burning crosses 1963
white
colored
drinking fountain
mamá stands in line
--change lines!
change lines ma'am
you're in the wrong line, ma'am!-
everyone is staring at mamá
everyone is staring at her
confused
scared
new language
new country
she just looks down
trying hard not to make eye contact
several people chiming in
louder and louder
--change lines
change lines ma'am
you're in the wrong line, ma'am!-
everyone is staring at mamá
everyone is staring at her
Charlottesville
my place of birth
what have you done?



My father was a fisherman
by Sharon Elliott

My father was a fisherman
he could gut a rainbow trout
from stem to stern
fry it in butter
in a cast iron skillet
make you forget the bones

I do not call his name

My father was a carpenter
crafted tongue-in-groove decks from Douglas Fir
intricate boxes
bookshelves
playpens
and broken spirits

I do not call his name

My father was a lawyer
believed in truth
justice
the American way
could not leap anything
in a single bound

I do not call his name

My father was a dancer
taught me the foxtrot to Benny Goodman
my little feet standing on his shoes
sang me lullabyes
in sweet Spanish syllables
played no instrument but the radio

I do not call his name

My father was a war hero
returned smashed
grief stricken
terrified
his love of the sea intact
love for children impossible

I do not call his name

My father broke
his own heart
on the back of a
small being
who only wanted
to be cared for

Those more powerful and wise
have schooled me
I wish him well in the other world
that he created
I hope he learns his lessons
there will be no reentry

I do not call his name



La Bloga On-line Floricanto Best of 2017: Meet The Poets

“Chariot” By Jolaoso Pretty Thunder”
“Take my hand” by Amara T. Smith
“From the Shovel to the Guitar” / “De la pala a la guitarra” By Sonia Gutiérrez
“The Wetback Only Wants to be Dry” By Rolando Serna
“Pieces of Dad’s Story” By Odilia Galván Rodríguez
“Quetzalcóatl, la revolución emplumada [excerpts]” By Arnoldo García
“Trouble… the Water” By Edward Vidaurre
“leave’ by Donny Jackson
“Charlottesville, My Place of Birth” By Leticia Diaz Perez
“My Father Was a Fisherman” By Sharon Elliott


Can I carry on like 500 convicts, 25 to Life
Colder than ice, colder
Jolaoso Pretty Thunder

Jolaoso Pretty Thunder is common woman. She lives in the woods of Northern California with her two dogs Rosie Farstar and Ilumina Holydog. She is a farmer, certified practitioner and student of herbal medicine.. She is a well traveled though reluctant poet who loves southern rock, porch swings, pickup trucks, cooking, campfires, lightning, steak, long drives, hot cups of coffee, gathering and making medicine and singing with her friends and family.




And from the darkness
the place of creation and infinite possibility
Amara T. Smith
-30-



My father never sat behind
The comfort of a desk,
Mi padre nunca se sentó
Detrás de la comodidad de un escritorio,

Sonia Gutiérrez

Sonia Gutiérrez’s bilingual poems have appeared in the San Diego Poetry Annual, Konch Magazine, and Poetry of Resistance: Voices for Social Change. Her fiction has appeared in the London Journal of Fiction, Huizache, and AlternaCtive PublicaCtions. Sonia’s bilingual poetry collection, Spider Woman / La Mujer Araña, is her debut publication. She is a contributing editor for The Writer’s Response (Cengage Learning, 2016).

Currently, she is moderating Facebook’s Poets Responding, working on her manuscript, Sana Sana Colita de Rana, and completing her novel, Kissing Dreams from a Distance. Her libro artesano for children, El Lugar de los Alebrijes / The Place of Alebrijes (Nódulo Ediciones and *Asterisco Editora de Poesía) is forthcoming. Her poem, “Study Skills” / "Técnicas de estudios" / "Skills de Studying" appear in her manuscript, Legacy / Herencia. Francisco J. Bustos and Sonia Gutiérrez participated in Ilan Stavans's Don Quixote en Spanglish reading at the CECUT in Tijuana, Baja California.


The wetback only wants to be dry
Their minds that are drowning
Rolando Serna

A United States Marine/Gulf War Veteran MOS 7222. Started writing while serving time in Federal Prison . Published. Panorama UTPA. Galley UTPA. 2006 Harper College learning communities. Los Angeles “La Bloga” online publication. Awards and Education. 2009 Who’s Who Among Students in American Universities & Colleges. Minor in Spanish. Bachelors in English. Masters of Arts in English. Affiliations. Nueva Onda Poets. Vice President Sigma Tau Delta. No Name Poetry Group. Novena Poetry member. Currently working on his P.H.D. in English admissions.



when you were told
leave or be taken out
Odilia Galván Rodríguez

Odilia Galván Rodríguez, poet, writer, editor, educator, and activist, is the author of six volumes of poetry, her latest, The Nature of Things, a collaboration with Texas photographer, Richard Loya, by Merced College Press 2016. Also, along with the late Francisco X. Alarcón, she edited the award-winning anthology, Poetry of Resistance: Voices for Social Justice, University of Arizona Press, 2016. This poetry of witness anthology, the first of its kind, because it came about because of the on-line organizing work of Alarcón, Galván Rodriguez, and other poet-activists which began as a response to the proposal of SB 1070, the racial profiling law which was eventually passed by the Arizona State Legislature in 2010, and later that year, HB 2281which bans ethnic studies. With the advent of the Facebook page Poets Responding (to SB 1070) thousands of poems were submitted witnessing racism, xenophobia, and other social justice issues which culminated in the anthology.

Galván Rodríguez has worked as an editor for various print media such as Matrix Women's News Magazine, Community Mural's Magazine, and Tricontinental Magazine in Havana, Cuba. She is currently, the editor of Cloud Women’s Quarterly Journal online; facilitates creative writing workshops nationally, and is director 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 wellbeing of many people and encouraging people to take action. Her poetry has appeared in numerous anthologies, and literary journals on and offline.

As an activist, she worked for the United Farm Workers of America AFL-CIO, The East Bay Institute for Urban Arts, has served on numerous boards and commissions, and is currently active in Women’s organizations whose mission it is to educate around environmental justice issues and disseminate an indigenous world view regarding the earth and people’s custodial relationship to it. Odilia Galván Rodríguez has a long and rich history of working for social justice in solidarity with activists from all ethnic groups.
foto:Eldrena-Douma


Quetzalcóatl
regresó

Arnoldo Garcia

When a poor kid sees clean clear water
he envisions a treasure, a hope
Edward Vidaurre

Edward Vidaurre is the 2018 McAllen,Texas Poet Laureate and author of four collections of poetry. His collection of poems, Jazzhouse, is forthcoming from Prickly Pear Press in 2018 and a chapbook, Ramona and rumi: A love story during oligarchy a poetry collection is  also forthcoming from Hercules Press in the Summer of 2018. Vidaurre is the Director of Operations in 2018 for the Valley International Poetry Festival. He resides in McAllen, Texas with his wife and daughter.

thank you open window for this breeze laced with living
Donny Jackson

Dr. Donny Jackson is a lifelong poet, clinical psychologist, and Emmy-winning producer in documentary television.



Charlottesville
my place of birth
Leticia Diaz Perez

Leticia Diaz-Perez was born in Charlottesville,Virginia,and grew up in Michigan.She writes about her experiences growing up as a Latina in the U.S. Leticia graduated from the University of Michigan,where she taught Spanish to college students.Her best memories of teaching, however, were in New York City, where she worked as a 4th grade bilingual teacher,with a group of beautiful children from the Dominican Republic.She is currently living in Argentina and hopes to complete her second poetry chapbook before the end of this year.



My father was a fisherman
he could gut a rainbow trout
Sharon Elliott

Born and raised in Seattle, Sharon Elliott has written since childhood. Four years in the Peace Corps in Nicaragua and Ecuador laid the foundation for her activism. As an initiated Lukumi priest, she has learned about her ancestral Scottish history, reinforcing her belief that borders are created by men, enforcing them is simply wrong. She has a book: Jaguar Unfinished, Sharon Elliott, Prickly Pear Publishing 2012, ISBN-13: 978-1-889568-03-4, ISBN-10: 1-889568-03-1 (26 pgs); and has featured in poetry readings at Poetry Express and La Palabra Musical in Berkeley, CA.