A Tribute to Marina Tristán

Thank you Marina Tristán for all your years of dedication to Arte Público Press. Some of Arte Público Press authors want to tell you muchas gracias. We will miss you. Te vamos a extrañar. You will always be our amiga and friend.

In your honor, I wrote this acrostic poem just as René did in I am René, the Boy. 

M es por los maravillosos libros que ayudo en publicar.

A es por los ánimos dado a cada autor.

R es por la riqueza sabiduría dada a cada palabra escrita.

I es de infinita ayuda desde manuscrito a libro

N es de buenas noticias a los autores

A es por el abundante vacío que dejará en Arte Público Press.

René Colato Laínez author of René Has Two Last Names/ René tiene dos apellidos.

*

Marina Tristán, thank you for encouragement, taking me to “the best pho” and being equally kind and fierce. Working with you has been a joy. I’ve enjoyed talking about life just as much as books. Enjoy whatever comes next, perhaps escaping the heat and rescuing even more dogs and cats. Un abrazo fuerte. 

Amy Costales author of Sundays on Fourth Street / Los domingos en la calle Cuatro.

*

Conocí a Marina Tristán en una conferencia de escritores hace unos catorce años. Desde el primer momento en que comenzamos a hablar supe que estaba ante una persona muy respetuosa, educada y con un gran espíritu humano.

Marina, estaba en su puesto de libros representando a la Editorial Arte Público Press-Piñata Books. De una manera muy amable y con un fino conocimiento me habló de la editorial y de los libros que mostraban en la conferencia.

Me di cuenta de su alto conocimiento por la literatura Latino

Americana en Los Estados Unidos y por supuesto por la literatura infantil bilingüe. No dude en contarle que yo era escritor salvadoreño,

Marina no dudo en invitarme a enviarle mis manuscritos.

Las puertas de Arte Público se me abrieron gracias a Marina Tristán quien meses más tarde se convirtió en una de mis editoras. Muchas gracias Marina por creer en mis historias y en mi poesía, ya no serás mi editora, eso es lo de menos, te tengo como amiga para toda la vida....

Jorge Argueta autor de Tierra, Tierrita / Earth, Little Earth.

*

Marina,

Thank you for always making Arte Publico Press feel like home, and making us all feel like family. We can't say thank you enough for all that you have done. 

Xavier Garza author of Vincent Ventura Series

*

Dedicated to Marina Tristan, who’s believed in my stories, songs, poems and, most importantly, in me. 

Inside of Me

Some days 

I have a poem stuck inside of me

wiggling around

trying to get out 

Some days 

I have a poem bubbling inside of me

and purple becomes ‘violet’

happy becomes ‘joyful’

and my tongue whirls around 

A, E, I, O, U

Some days 

I have a poem boogieing around inside of me

as a smile dances across my face

rainbows twirl around my tummy

and all ten fingers and toes 

tap a sweet bomba beat

Some days 

I have a poem twisting and twirling inside of me

filling me up with sunshine and rain

turning memories into music

and making everything 

right.

Raquel M. Ortiz author of When Julia Danced Bomba / Cuando Julia bailaba bomba.

*

Marina, I'm deeply grateful for your kindness, guidance, and care throughout my publishing journey. Arte Publico Press believed in my stories and you made the process possible and joyful. Your dedication to uplifting Latino voices has left a beautiful legacy. Thank you for everything and I wish you joy in this new chapter! 

Erika Said author of El cumpleaños de mi hermana Dulce / My Sister Dulce’s Birthday.

*

If you have worked with Marina and would like to write some words of dedication to her, please send it at renecolatolainez@gmail.com. We can always have a part 2 in tribute of Marina Tristán. 

Fotos: Not Here, Not Ever, No Kings

Pasadena, California Joins the Nation: No Kings

Michael Sedano

One day, I hope soon, 2025's resistance movement will be fodder for a literary movement equal to the spirit and energy that filled the streets of cities across the nation with five million people the weekend of June 14, 2025. I'll settle for massive voter turnout and landslide rejection of the disastrous actions of the new regime in the United States.

Saturday, June 14^th’s No Kings demonstrations captured the ears and eyes of 340 million United Statesians who weren’t on the street.

Not even twice the five million people massing in the nation’s No Kings demonstrations can capture the conscience of the would-be king nor his villainous cabinet. But right now, mass protest is what we resisters have.

Pasadena, California manifestation’s numbers swelled from the April “Hands Off” demonstration on Colorado Boulevard. Growing protest numbers on the streets and empty parade stands in D.C. signal an awakening.  The other 340 million Unitedstatesians watching the Constitution evaporating like tear gas fumes wafting into a summer breeze need to take to the streets, too. 

Allons enfants de la patrie, but make sure to register and vote in the midterms. Read the signs, heed the rejection of the regime. The entire bola de pendejos has got to go.

text

“Carmín bordado en el cielo”, “Crimson Embroidered into the Sky”, “Κρεμεζί κεντημένο στον ουρανό” por Xánath Caraza

“Carmín bordado en el cielo”, “Crimson Embroidered into the Sky”, “Κρεμεζί κεντημένο στον ουρανό” por Xánath Caraza

 

Carmín bordado en el cielo

 

De ámbar líquido rebosa el hontanar. 

La ondulada tarde colmada

de canoras melodías.

 

La sangre brota de la tierra

y mancha el cielo crepuscular.

 

Chocan los sentimientos

insoportable dolor.

 

Canta, justicia divina,

manifiéstate entre nosotros,

salva a tus hijas.

 

Allá, acá,

cerca y lejos,

dentro y fuera es

donde te necesitamos.

 

No más muertes de inocentes mujeres.

No más muertes de gente con hambre.

No más niños huyendo de la muerte.

No más mujeres desaparecidas.

No más padres tragados por la oscuridad.

 

¿Cómo vivir con el carmín bordado en el cielo?

¿Cómo andar los pasos cubiertos de sangre?

¿Cómo escribir con las manos adoloridas?

¿Cómo cantar si de mis labios escurre dolor?

 

Líquido amor,

corazón áureo,

entiérrate en mi alma,

deslava esta noche violenta.

 

Xanath Caraza

 

Crimson Embroidered into the Sky

 

Natural springs spill over with liquid amber.

The undulating evening is saturated

by warbling melodies.

 

Blood sprouts from the earth

and stains the twilight sky.

 

Emotions collide,

unbearable pain.

 

Sing, divine justice,

take shape among us, 

bring salvation to your daughters.

 

Here and there,

near and far,

inside and out,

that is where we need you.

 

No more deaths of innocent women.

No more deaths of the hungry masses.

No more children fleeing death.

No more women disappeared.

No more parents swallowed by darkness.

 

How can one live with crimson embroidered into the sky?

How can one walk the paths bathed by blood?

How can one write with hands wracked with pain?

How can I sing with sorrow spilling from my lips?

 

Liquid love,

heart of gold,

bury yourself in my soul,

wash away this violent night.

 

Κρεμεζί κεντημένο στον ουρανό

 

Από κεχριμπάρι υγρό η πηγή ξεχειλίζει.

Το κυματιστό απόγευμα γεμίζει

από ρυθμικές μελωδίες.

 

Το αίμα αναβλύζει απ’ τη γη

και λεκιάζει τον ουρανό του δειλινού.

 

Συγκρούονται τα συναισθήματα

αβάσταχτος πόνος.

 

Τραγούδα, δικαιοσύνη θεϊκή,

φανερώσου ανάμεσά μας,

σώσε τις κόρες σου.

 

Εκεί, εδώ,

κοντά και μακριά,

μέσα κι έξω είναι

που σε χρειαζόμαστε.

 

Όχι άλλοι θάνατοι αθώων γυναικών.

Όχι άλλοι θάνατοι ανθρώπων πεινασμένων.

Όχι άλλα παιδιά που τρέχουν να ξεφύγουν απ’ το θάνατο.

Όχι άλλες γυναίκες εξαφανισμένες.

Όχι άλλοι γονείς που τους κατάπιε το σκοτάδι.

 

Πώς να ζήσω με το κρεμεζί κεντημένο στον ουρανό;

Πώς να περπατήσω με βήματα καλυμμένα από αίμα;

Πώς να γράψω με τα χέρια πονεμένα;

Πώς να τραγουδήσω αν απ’ τα χείλη μου στάζει πόνος;

 

Υγρή αγάπη,

καρδιά χρυσαφένια,

θάψου στην ψυχή μου,

ξεκάρφωσε αυτή την βίαιη νύχτα.

 

 

“Carmín bordado en el cielo” is part of the collection Lágrima roja by Xánath Caraza (Editorial Nazarí, 20217).  This collection was originally written in Spanish.  Of the International Latino Book Awards, Caraza received First Place for Lágrima roja for “Best Book of Poetry in Spanish by One Author” in 2018.

 

“Crimson Embroidered into the Sky” and “Κρεμεζί κεντημένο στον ουρανό” are part of the collection Red Teardrop / Κόκκινο δάκρυ (Pandora Lobo Estepario Productions, 2022).  This collection by Caraza was translated into the English by Sandra Kingery and Aaron Willsea, and into the Greek by Natasa Lambrou. Of the International Latino Book Awards, in 2023, Red Teardrop received Gold Medal for Best Fiction Book Translation—Spanish to English.

 

Cover art by Miguel López Lemus.

Marina Tristán

Marina Tristán

The times, they are a çhangin', and we don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows. What once was certain has become shaky, a maybe, and in danger of disappearing while we ponder our options. Recall that simple yet complicated concept known as democracy?

Change confronts us faster than our ability to respond. When we do manage an answer to some of the changes, we know our response is weak, not enough, a perfunctory gesture that won't stem the tide.

The retirement of Marina Tristán, Assistant Director at Arte Público Press (University of Houston), after thirty-nine years with Arte Público, is massive change, a sea change, that deserves essays and opinion pieces, reflection and recollection.

I've known Marina for several years. I've been the recipient of her hard work and commitment to publishing strong, meaningful literature. She supported me when I doubted my writing. She encouraged me to write; she said positive things about my writing; and she never faltered in her duties to me as one of her writers.

She was the face of Arte Público Press -- a face I consistently encountered at book fairs and festivals, at publishing meetings, at academic conferences. Marina was everywhere and I didn't question how it was so; and now, after June 20, she will be gone from the Press. Arte Público will carry on, of course. But for a few minutes today I choose to remember, fondly and with deep gratitude, Marina Tristán, Assistant Director, Arte Público Press.  Perhaps I imagine her explaining Arte Público Press to a visitor to the publisher's booth at a book conference a thousand miles from her home.   And she may have a copy of The Ballad of Rocky Ruiz in her hands.

Subdued Sunset, Jefferson County, Colorado

Later.

______________________________

Manuel Ramos writes crime fiction.

Chicanonautica: Writing in a Mass Deportation

 

by Ernest Hogan

There’s an old joke about someone asking a centipede how he walks with all those legs. He had never thought about, so he did . . . And never walked again. 

I tend not to think much about how I write. I just let it happen for the most part. Teaching a class about it forced me to think about it.  I’m happy to report that I’m not suffering the fate of that poor centipede. 

Good thing I only have two legs.

It actually has helped. I do have a process, albeit an eccentric one that is always open to change.

After the election, a story about mass deportation seemed like a natural. My inspiration usually comes from slugging it out with the real world. I loved hearing Ray Bradbury and Harlan Ellison talk about getting pissed off and it resulting in a story. 

I didn’t as much decide to write it as much as it started happening. It’s how it goes with me, the story manifests in my brain, and doesn’t stop until it’s written. A persistent story can keep at it for years, decades . . .

I always have stories in my brain, clamoring for my attention. Maybe someday there will a drug for it, complete with a long list of horrifying side-effects.

The idea came when I imagined being stopped at a checkpoint. Some dialogue started, and it came alive.

Then I came up with the title “Once Upon a Time in a Mass Deportation.”

I made some notes, and wrote an opening, then decided to wait until the actual mass deportation started, figuring on getting some gonzo inspiration.

Boy, am I glad I did.

Even though I was aiming for blood-thirsty satire, what I had come up with was way too rational. I had no idea that the reality would be so bugfuck. 

Rod Serling said he has to tone down reality for the Twilight Zone. Something a senator would say in real life would only be acceptable on TV from a Martian.

Things are different in the 21st century. In the glut of information and disinformation, people will believe anything, but reject reality even when it bites them on the ass. What’s a Chicano sciifista to do?

I kept up on things, taking notes on the extreme weirdness. Then I made it into a story. Not as much plotting it out but composing it like a painting by Hieronymus Bosch, a mural by Diego Rivera, or a comics panel by Will Elder clogged with “chicken fat” details. I turned my surrealist tendencies loose. Watched some Luis Buñuel, Buster Keaton, and Marx Brothers. It’s such a joy to indulge in being myself.

I’m so glad I’m not a journalist.

I think it does the dirty job. Now it’s after me to get it published.

It also got me warmed up to come up with a story to write as part of the online writing class I’m teaching. My confidence is ridiculous. 

Should be fiendish fun.

And even educational.

I thank Tezcatlipoca for my grotesquely large, powerful, and overactive imagination. And I make the occasional sacrifice.

Ernest Hogan is always imagining different worlds, sometimes better than ours, sometimes worse. Then he writes about them.

Menudo Sunday: A Spanglish Counting Book

Written by María Dolores Águila.

Illustrated by Erika Meza.

Publisher: Dial Books

Publication date: August 5, 2025

Language: English

Print length: 40 pages

ISBN-10: 0593462254

ISBN-13: 978-0593462256

Paletero Man meets Besos for Baby in this Spanish-English counting picture book that’s bursting with all the love, laughter, and chaos found at a large family gathering.

Sundays are the best: that’s when a little girl and her mamá, abuelitos, tías and primos all gather together to eat yummy menudo, a traditional Mexican soup. But when playtime with the cousins and family dogs gets out of hand and Abuelito Esteban’s special bowl of menudo breaks, everyone has to pitch in to make a new batch! Through all the menudo mishaps and sneaky snacks for perritos with wagging tails, young readers will giggle as they learn to count from 1-15 in Spanish and English. Bonus materials at the back of the book include a glossary of Spanish words, a note from the author, and tips for hosting your very own Menudo Sunday!

Review

"Águila mixes in Spanish words as she whips up a delicious story of family and food . . . Meza’s illustrations are especially notable for their strong sense of place; small touches, such as the mismatched chairs and vibrantly painted ofrenda (a Día de los Muertos altar), make this tale truly feel like Sunday with los abuelos in a Mexican American home. As warm and welcoming as menudo con la familia." —Kirkus

María Dolores Águila is a Chicana poet and writer from San Diego, California. Deeply inspired by Chicane history and art, she seeks to write empowering and inclusive stories about everything she learns. She is also the author of the historical fiction picture book Barrio Rising: The Protest That Built Chicano Park.

Erika Meza was born in Mexico, fell in love with animation on the border of California, and developed a taste for eclairs in Paris before moving to the UK to teach at Nottingham Trent University. She is the illustrator of numerous children's books including My Two Border Towns by David Bowles and Salsa Lullaby by Jen Arena.

where once the sweet birds sang

A Tree Grew in DTLA

Michael Sedano

There’s a triangle of cement near the heart of downtown Los Angeles. Here East Third Street crosses Main Street and veers sharply south toward J-Town and the river. And pa’lla, Boyle Heights and East LA. The Bradbury Building and Wayne Healy's Anthony Quinn "Pope of Broadway" mural are a few blocks West. If ever a spot deserved a magnificent tree, it's this hard monotonous slab of cement. A tree grew here, once.

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

Unknown souls live around here, spillover from adjacent skid row. Tourists like me pass en route from Pershing Square Metro to J-Town Metro. This is LA’s most interesting section for discovering architectural exemplars while immersing in LA’s rich cultural diversity and hard-ass struggle.

At one time, this now cyclone-fenced plaza grew trees. At the apex of the triangle grew a tree that must  have been a thing of beauty, this tree. A Coral Tree is my guess, Erythrina x bidwillii, whose scarlet-flowered spiny branches grow and twist into picturesque natural sculpture supporting a canopy of deep green curved triangular leaves. 

An early summer bloomer, Coral Trees are in season now. This one would have been approaching full flower. Pedestrians would have hitched a step, taken selfies, rested in the shade eating a paleta from a nearby vendor or shared a bottle with a fellow wino. Honeybees would have packed leg pouches with pollen and filled the air with their happy buzz. Colibríes would have browsed across the blossoms chirping and micturating and pooping like they do, before flitting away to plot returns that will never be. Not to be, like all the things that are absent when a tree is removed.

Hummingbirds and photographers love Coral Trees. Landscape designers love its natural shape but also its trainability into shapes and planted in rows forming traffic barriers, a shady promenade, a seasonal garden highlight, a shady respite on this anonymous urban street corner where trees belong. Where trees shouldn't be killed.

Coral Tree at Huntington Library and Colibrí Allen's, June 4, 2025

The Coral Tree at the corner of E Third and Main St had been managed. City workers pruned it into a sturdy upright trunk that rose high before branching toward the sun, its canopy cantilevered overhead making merciful shade.

Disused real estate in DTLA is not long for this world. This triangle of land where that wondrous tree--the last of its tribe in DTLA--grew, must occupy dreams of monied interests somewhere, waiting for the smoke to clear.

A tree that may in summer wear 

A nest of robins in her hair

May 22, 2025. Slated for removal, useless to the owners.

This Coral Tree was forced to die. And die it did. It has. It’s gone now

I passed the tree on May 22. I nodded my respects to its spent remains, its protected status. Cyclone fencing saves the skeleton from the ignominy of spray can taggers. Or conversion to leña by unhoused locals whose winter trash fires ravaged neglected fiberglass planters, burning them down to the dried fill dirt. Fires didn't last the night but they must have given a lovely light.

I passed again on June 7 to see a two-foot stump where once the sweet birds sang. Pa’lla, over by the parking lot, next to the massive Agave, sole survivor of landscape dreams, the decayed Coral Tree trunk reposes.

June 7, 2025. That Agave tree has been trimmed hard, but hangs on.

A Coral Tree takes a long time to die. It takes a lot of nerve to let it. But die it has. So it’s been a long time that birds nested in the crooks, colibríes hovered at the tree’s tubular flower clusters looking like deep sea petrified coral. It been a long time that people found respite from punishing glare and pavement heat in the Coral Tree’s shade. Now, ya stuvo for that Coral Tree.

So it goes.

The best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago. The second-best time to plant a tree is now. 

 

It’s never easy to say goodbye to a tree.

Goodbye, Coral Tree at E. Third and Main. Ave atque vale.

Who can make a tree?

Joyce Kilmer, 1886 – 1918

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear 
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

This poem is in the public domain. https://poets.org/poem/trees