Thursday, June 30, 2005

Pedazos y Pedacitos

Manuel Ramos

New Lorna Dee
La Raza Documentary
Live Free and Soar
A Jazzy 4th of July
Chávez Ravine
The Smell of Onions

New Lorna Dee
Wings Press announces the upcoming publication of Drive: The First Quartet, by Lorna Dee Cervantes. This is Lorna Dee's first new book of poetry in 14 years. Trade Edition available October 14, 2005 - ISBN:0-930324-54-4 - Approx. 270 pages - Hardback $24.95
A SPECIAL LIMITED EDITION AVAILABLE IN APRIL 2006 - ISBN: 0-916727-14-9 $250 Limited to 100 numbered and signed, specially bound, in a hand-made wooden box. Visit the Wings Press website for much more information.

La Raza Documentary
La Raza de Colorado (La Historia), broadcast June 27 on Rocky Mountain PBS was excellent. Made me proud to listen to the various, articulate and knowledgeable folks talk about the history of Mexicanos and Chicanos in Colorado. Please get yourself a copy of this when you get the chance. A tip of La Bloga's sombrero to Lisa Olken, the producer and driving force behind the film.

Live Free and Soar
Patty Limerick's article (Live Free and Soar) in the June 29 New York Times deals with the apparent contradiction of Native American patriotism. Patty is a gem, as anyone who knows her will verify. Another one of the fine professors from the University of Colorado at Boulder. She's doing a short stint with the Times as a sub for Maureen Dowd. Here's a paragraph from her article. To read the entire essay on the web you have to log in to the Times' website, which requires registration (free).

"Much of what we have taken to calling 'the lessons of Vietnam' - perhaps especially the difficulty of sequestering noncombatants from violence, as well as the complex moral choices raised by confronting guerrilla war - could just as easily have been learned as 'the lessons of the Indian wars.' If Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld ever hints at even the slightest interest in exploring the historical meanings of the Indian wars, I will be on the next plane to D.C."

A Jazzy 4th of July
A Jazzy 4th of July is an outdoor block party on 24th & Washington in the historic Five Points neighborhood (Denver). There are about 9 nonprofits selling tickets, such as the African-American Leadership Institute, who share in the proceeds from this event. For adults 21 and over. Great music, a good time, and a meaningful way to celebrate the 4th.

Monday, July 4, 2005, Washington St. Business District, East 24th Avenue and Washington St. A ¼ Mile North of Downtown Denver

Hugh Masekela
Manuel Molina's Latin Jazz Combo
The Sheryl Renee Band

Gates open at 1 PM -- Entertainment from 2 to 7 PM -- General Admission Tickets: $20 For tickets or to make a reservation, call 303.299.9035

Chávez Ravine
More music: A for effort to Ry Cooder for his latest CD, Chávez Ravine. Not a perfect album but the concept was noble, his heart was in the right place and most of the songs are right on.


UFOs to the Red Scare to Cool Cats and Cool Chicks, all against the backdrop of the demolition of the barrio in the name of progress (which turned out to be the Dodgers). It's a tragedy so many of us know, from Barrio Viejo in Tucson to Auraria in Denver. The CD features Chicano music legends Little Willie G., Lalo Guerrero, and Ersi Arvizu, vocalist on El Chicano's classic Sabor A Mi. If the last track doesn't tear you up, you have no soul, brother.


And now, a blast from the past.

THE SMELL OF ONIONS
Manuel Ramos
All rights reserved, published originally in Rocky Mountain Arsenal of the Arts, July, 1989



Armando Salazar stumbled from the Rainbow Inn.

Genevieve will give me hell again. She has little patience for her father these days. ¡Madre de Dios! Where's that damn car?

His legs were tight, they wouldn't respond to his brain. Arthritis in his knees had him gnarled like a limb from a piñon tree.

Foolish old man; too old to drink all night with these punks; what do they know about playing pool? Back in '54, that was when they played pool on the West Side. Snipe, Porfy Tafoya, Dutch Borman--man he was tough! Had to be to even walk in the same bar with the pachucos, the wetbacks from Juárez, the locos from L.A. And then to kick their ass playing pool!

He wiped his nose with the back of his skinny, gray-haired wrist, the wrist that once had the touch that could win hundreds in one night. No one believed him now but he remembered when his stroke was clean and quick.

What a life! A crip, a wino, a bum begging for a few bucks for some T-Bird, betting on a couple of rounds of pool to help Genny with the rent, the pain in my legs keeping me up half the night and only the reefer to help, when I can get it. One of these days I'll pack it in, back to the Valley, to San Luis where I can die in the sun stretched out in a field with the smell of onions in the air, chicharras buzzing in the hot midday.

A hand grabbed him by the neck and twisted him down to the sidewalk.

"Hey, 'Mando. You forgot that yesterday was payday, viejo? You like to string Humberto along? That's stupid, viejo. I don't like stupid people."

He kicked Armando in the stomach, then again.

The kicks knocked the old man's breath out of his wheezing lungs and he couldn't talk. He couldn't explain to Hummy Gonzalez that he needed a little more time to pay his juice and the bill for the drogas. He couldn't say that his check was late, bud, the pendejo mailman hadn't delivered it.

"Your time is up, old man. I have a business to protect. If I let weasels like you get away without paying I'll have every junkie and puta on the West Side into me for a lot more than you're worth. I got my own bills to pay."

A silver gleam reflected the street light. Hummy's arm moved clean and quick.

Hey, man, you don't know! I'm supposed to be in the Valley, in a field, smelling the onions. Pinche! This ain't the goddamned Valley! This ain't the Valley.

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Nancy & Rudy's Barrio Newsletter

La Bloga happily brings you news from a couple of friends. I won't do a long bio here; I'll let Nancy's piece introduce her and her old man, Rudy, to you. A few years back, the Chicano Moratorium Committee recognized Rudy as one of the key supporters of the younger organizers in the movimiento. The link above is a video of that, and you'll catch a glimpse of Nancy as the titles roll. Nancy also put together an art show that dislayed their collection of movimiento memorabilia. You can see this at http://readraza.com/morgallery.htm.

Enjoy reading about Lincoln Heights, LA. It's Your Town, USA, que no? A ver...

mvs
--------------------------------
June 21, 2005

Dear Family and Friends,

Happy Summer!! From El Chicano and La Gringa

Here we are again. No politics this time, just plain ole Barrio living. It took us a little time to recover mentally and physically from the mayoral election, we didn't leave the house for days. So let us share a quieter, calmer side of our life.
Well, we didn't quite make the record of being the wettest season on record in LA. It wasn't because the weather newscasters weren't hoping for it. They were all practically doing the rain dance so they could report about being the wettest season on record. Now, so quickly, we are in the dry, dangerous fire season.
The rains this winter have done amazing things to our tiny garden. The fig tree is heavy with early growth fruit. We just picked our first fig of the season. It was huge. As big as an avocado. Dark, purple brown and so sweet.
The oranges on our tree are larger and sweeter than I can ever remember in my 23 years of living in this house. The Austrian wine grapes vines are loaded with tiny bunches of green grapes. The cactus -- ayee, the cactus -- our nopales are alive and healthy, and giving a good crop of tender, crisp pencas to eat. Lacking a bell pepper or green beans, it is so convenient to go out in the backyard, cut off a cactus pad, scrape off the stickers, and sauté the cut up cactus with eggs, or throw a handful in the salad, or chili sauce -- what ever --it makes a very handy, nutritious vegetable and gives a unique, tart flavor.
Our Swiss chard plants grew to be over 6' tall. We couldn't eat it all, and the neighbors weren't interested in it. EAT YOUR GREENS!! We hope you didn't poison the dandelions in your yard this spring, and instead picked a big bunch to eat. Ours have pretty much gone to seed so now we are waiting for the amaranth (quelites) and purslane (verdolagas) to get big enough to harvest. So many good things to eat -- all coming up wild! I love to prowl around the garden looking for the freshest greens or vegetables to pick and cook each day. (And Rudy follows after me to make sure I don't pick something prematurely.)
A few weeks ago the snails came slithering out of the bushes. They are the largest in memory. They are worthy of a fine French restaurant serving escargot. It's very disappointing though, to come out in the morning and find the tender new plants that were just planted the day before gone -- disappeared --simply vanished. Sometimes there was a silvery, telltale trail leading from the garden back into the bushes where the snails live.
Rudy has developed so many natural ways to fight the bugs, insects. The garden is littered with orange peels. If the artist Cristo can hang orange fabric gates in Central Park, Rudy can decorate his garden with the little, bright orange cups of orange peels. He carefully arranges them around each tiny plant.
We also put tea leaves around the base of the plants. Urine is used to keep the cats away. Whatever works. If the sowbugs are chewing up a squash plant Rudy gives them a corn cob to chew on instead.
And eggs!? Rudy dries our left over egg shells then crushes them for the garden. They add lime to the earth. In fact, Rudy even has our neighbor, Luz, cooperating and saving her egg shells for our garden. She has a unique way of breaking them. She opens one end just large enough to pour out the egg. Then she lines the shells up on top of the chain link fence between our two yards for Rudy to find. Everybody's an artist!! Around here.
The wildflowers coming up everywhere in the garden have been so bright and beautiful and colorful -- pretty weeds! And it's amazing, Mother Nature seems to actually have her own color palette. First the intense yellow and orange poppies and calendulas covered the front and back yard among the cactus. They have gone to seed and there is now a bloom of shades of pink, purple, lavender, blue larkspur, sage, etc. They are all so beautiful but Rudy gets very exasperated and impatient with them. All those pretty flowers growing wild take up space in the garden where he thinks vegetables should be planted. Soon, Rudy. Soon. They will go to seed soon, then I can pull them out. The rain has made amazing things grow. Flower seeds that have lain dormant in the soil for years are sprouting. In fact, in the newspaper there was an article about a flower found growing in one of our California National Forests that had been thought extinct for over 60 years.
It is becoming more and more difficult each year for Rudy to dig up the garden for planting. He says he is now a ruco. He can do a couple of feet of digging a day - slowly, slowly -- but that is enough. Our vegetable garden is more random each year. We let the seeds grow more or less where they sprout by themselves. For instance, four zucchini squash plants crown the compost pile. And there is another unrecognizable plant growing in the compost. Hopefully it is a potato plant. We shall see. The Mystery of the Missing Chili Peppers??? It's funny how the mind works. Our neighbor is following our example and has been preparing a plot in their back yard to plant chili pepper plants. They brought in a big 5-gallon container filled with many chili pepper plants to transplant and left it in their backyard by the fence between our two yards. In the meantime I had started pepper plants (ours are bell peppers) from seed in little pots which we had just transplanted in Rudy's newly dug garden plot. So far so good. But then the neighbor's chili plants disappeared! The neighbors asked us if we had seen anyone come into their yard and take their plants, as they looked over the fence at our 14 newly planted pepper plants.
Oh my, we hope they didn't suspect US! Then we began to feel so guilty, even though we know we didn't take them. Strange how the mind works. Sure hope they solve the mystery soon and let us know.
(Much later we learned that one of the neighbor's daughters took the chili plants. She even said that Rudy saw her do it. Really? But Rudy doesn't remember.) Our Thompson seedless grape vines are luxurious with big green leaves and long tendrils stretching out covering the fence on one side of the yard -- but no grapes. Too much water, do you think? Ah well -- the grape vine makes a great leafy screen between us and the neighbors.
And speaking of leafy -- we have discovered a new, leafy green vegetable growing right here in our backyard. This year we have several brussel sprouts and broccoli plants. The brussel sprouts are a little slow on producing those little round "cabbages" but they have plenty of big dark green leaves and stems. Rudy insisted we try some of the leaves. Now that's not exactly a vegetable you will find in your local supermarket. And few city folks probably grow them. I searched through my cookbooks and garden books but couldn't find anything about cooking and eating the leaves and stems. But they do come from the cabbage family and look a bit like kale. So I cooked up a batch, sort of using ingredients like some old fashioned southern soul food: garlic, onions, sausage, vinegar. Wow -- were they good! And they don't melt down like spinach or chard. They stay sort of crisp (though that's not the right word). And since they are so dark green they are probably loaded with good vitamins. Next we are going to cook up the broccoli leaves.
We don't have many vegetable or fruit plants growing but never the less we feel so wealthy having what we have. We don't need much. Meals are planned around what is currently ready to harvest. Sometimes I get impatient waiting for them to slowly develop but Rudy gets very upset when they are picked prematurely. Sometimes the bugs get there first.
Our garden is so full of life -- maybe too much so. Rudy has been stung several times by the many bees that live in our yard. He seems to be becoming immune to the sting bites.
The tiny green hummingbird flits all around. We have lots of birds coming into the yard this year. For the last several years here haven't been many and we were beginning to think that the birds couldn't survive in our modern day urban setting anymore. Rudy has a bird feeding station and a bath all set up for them which they use.
I was just asked about chayotes. Our vine is producing again. It is such a prolific plant. They are such a unique and healthy vegetable (they are a fruit really) and so versatile to use.
Chayotes are a good source of vitamin C, low in sodium, high in potassium and low in calories.
They can be used dozens of ways but I usually just steam them. Cut one chayote in half with the skin on, steam until soft, - then Rudy and I each have a little boat to eat out of. Just add a little butter, salt and pepper and scoop out the flesh. Very good.
Roxie tells me she puts whole chayotes in the microwave to cook part way (sort of like par-boiling) because chayotes take a while to cook. If you try it be sure to poke some steam holes in the chayote before you microwave it.
Chayotes go great in soup, or sautéed with eggs. Or stuffed. The flavor is subtle but very fresh tasting. Recipes usually all call for throwing away the pit or seed, but really that's the cook's treat. The cooked seed has a nice nutty flavor.
The other day I was talking over the fence to our neighbor's visiting daughter who lives up north in a small farming town. She was commenting on how noisy LA was to her. Yes ' our city, our Barrio, has a vibrating pulse. Here in Lincoln Heights, on Altura Street, there is a rhythm to the pulsing sound.
On Monday mornings we are awakened by the noise of the big, lumbering city dump trucks as they slowly work their way up and down the street emptying each of our trash barrels into their trucks. They come by 3 times on each side of the street ? one time for each of our trash cans. Each household has 3 trash buckets; blue for paper, green for yard/plant stuff, and black for the rest of the trash. Then, every other week, the gardener comes by early to trim the grass all up and down the street. You know when he arrives by the loud roar of his grass cutter. During the middle of the day there is a lull in the noise -- a quiet time -- the occasional car driving by, maybe the noise of an electric saw as someone does some carpentry. Music may be softly playing. Then in the afternoon when the kids get out of school the old Barrio comes alive for a few hours. The kids across the street play ball in the street dodging between the cars. The Chinese kids play their Chinese language videos. And the little ones run and scream, squeal and cry when the older kids knock them down. The fire engines go screeching by. The helicopter drones as it circles overhead.
There is a rhythm to life.
Then as evening nears the Mexican/Chinese music begins across the Barrio.
Nighttime is quiet as everyone sleeps -- this is a neighborhood of people who are early to bed and early to rise.
The lonely quiet of the night is broken by the thunder of the freight trains as they bring cargo into LA. The sound echoes for blocks across the sleeping barrio. Occasionally there is the sound of gunfire in the wee hours of the night, then the helicopter wakes us up as it goes round and round endlessly looking for the source of the gunfire.
The constant hum of the nearby freeway flows behind all the other sounds, but then, very early in the morning before the sun rises, the hum grows louder and louder as people begin to drive to work. A new day dawns and the cycle repeats.
Layer upon layer of sound -- vibrations. Chirping twitterpated birds, howling cats, barking dogs, children calling, people talking, cars rushing by, sirens blaring, trains wailing, drills drilling, phones ringing (who's phone is that ? is our phone ringing?), helicopters droning, Pop goes the Weasel over and over (from the ice cream truck), the tinkling bell of the corn vendor when he walks by, the Lincoln High school band practicing (boom, boom, boom), city maintenance trucks rumbling, the sound of a window opening or closing (our neighbor has come home), the neighbor's toilet being flushed, the refrigerator humming, the freeway ?.. We are alive! The sounds escalate until they are all blended into their own melody -- a rhythm, a pulse of our daily lives.
So is it noisy? Gee, I don't know -- I would have to stop and listen.
All that background of sound can be comforting. I do know that it is eerie when a fog blankets the LA basin and deadens all the sounds. Now that is spooky.
So close your eyes and listen. What is the pulse of your life?
We went to another Clanton Social Club dance recently. That is the affair held 3 or 4 times a year for the 80+ year old group who all grew up together in South Central LA. Rudy and I have missed the last couple of dances because he wasn't feeling well. But for this dance all the rucos were calling each other to see who was going.
Rudy wanted to go but was just not feeling up to the effort. Finally he pushed himself to get ready and off we went. Rudy had to go see the Homies. I drove.
The dances have been held in the social hall of St. Hilary Catholic Church in Pico Rivera for the last several years. The music for the tardeada dance (2 p.m. to 6 p.m. so no one has to drive in the dark) has been provided by Bob Bergara and his band all these years. Bob, his long, grey hair in a pony tail, has aged along with the dancers. All the folks, Rudy and I among them, all come limping slowly up to the hall, arthritis/pacemakers/stints/hip-knee replacement -whatever. But when the band starts playing those old tunes from the 40's and 50's the old bodies of the rucos and rucas begin to vibrate, swaying to the music. Soon the juices are up and flowing, the dance floor is filled with elegant old couples doing the Swing, spinning the ladies around like tops. True, they move a bit slower than they used to, but the rhythm is still there.
The years literally slide away.. Then there is the romantic music, dancing cheek to cheek. The saxophone wailing. "Unforgettable". (That's a song, you young folks.) During breaks in the music everyone reconnects, testing each other's memories about people and places from their youth. But sadly conversations about the old neighborhood are becoming more limited as time passes and memories fade away.
Rudy came alive and wanted to energetically dance almost every dance. The adrenaline was flowing throughout the room.
But, oh those aching bones the next day!!! The committee of original Clanton members who organize the dances has dwindled -- there are only about 20 some folks left and they are mostly women. Remember, they are all over 80 years old. In fact, we noticed that attendance at this dance was down. Usually the hall is so crowded that it is difficult to find a table to sit at. As the years have gone by the Clanton dances have been attended by folks from all the barrios of Los Angeles and by the younger generations. There is no “Clanton” area of LA anymore, or the “Hooper Ave.” boys that Rudy was part of, or the “7th Street” or “Mateo” barrios. Those old neighborhoods are long gone and many of the homeboys have gone to meet their maker. They are only a shadow of a memory fast fading. The neighborhoods are now industrial areas.
The dances lift the spirits of the rucos and rucas. They talk, reminisce, and listen and dance to the music of their era. They go back in time and relive their past and temporarily forget their aches and pains.
Here it is still June but the neighborhood is already gearing up for the chaos of 4th of July here in the Barrio. Fire works go off sporadically here and there. One of my neighbors has contacted our local City Councilman's office about the fire danger to this old neighborhood so we shall see what happens. We will be here with our garden hose ready. HAPPY, SAFE & SANE 4TH OF JULY to you all.

Love and peace, Rudy and Nancy Tovar

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Invitation To Houellebecq:

by RudyG

Al vato El Houlle,

I know you get more invitations from Americans than you want, but this ain't another offer to get you laid nor pay you mucho dinero to make us look sophisticated, so read on.


Having read the article B. Bernhard did on your trip aux E.U., I thought to make amends for any faux pas done to you while you were in L.A.


We're not all as urbanely provincial, myopically cute, and vapid as whatever you suffered en Califas; some are worse. But some suffer only peripherally from well-polled, endemic American syndromes.


Actually, this letter is to invite you to join us Chicanos--a colonized variant--on our blog, dubbed La Bloga. (Chicanos are a different breed of americano, which we could discuss over a bottle of agavero or grappa--Mirtillo's all we get here--or both.) I thought, since you're a boozer and smoker, you might be a European worth consorting with, like Camus before he offed out or D.H. Lawrence before he strayed into novels. I also hear you write good books, so you'd be more credentialed than half of us presently contributing to La Bloga.


Mais oui, language problems exist between us, however I blame your people for that. If Napoleon and Carlotta had been better at conquering, like Cortez, my linguistic background would make me better at frenching. If the French girls you sent us were better at teaching tongues than exchanging them, again, we'd be able to communicate. So, how's your calo, ese?


At worst, we'd resort to English, but you can see my abilities there are no worse than yours. With enough Presidente in me, and assuming you smuggled in sufficient absinthe, we might get by. Moroccan opiates could substitute.


After an initial reparté, we wouldn't have to see much of each other, except perhaps with annual gestures of internationalism. We could schedule such to coincide with Bush's lip service to the worldwide bourgeois trough-sharing of their shrinking pie. (Why don't French people settle for dynasties of burro-cratic leaders like we do here?)


Why would any Chicano illiterati want your kind on our blog, particularly if we already have characters like you? Because we could use more, especially a famous one with a thick accent, and another drinker. Plus, we have similar views, just appositive applications. You want to get offed like Rushdie does, by trashing the Muslim world--that's your wake. I got problems with the Catholic Church, which I contend is the stupider religion. Okay, so we have differences, too.


But face it: your ancestors fell for that stupid religion when mine were still building cool pyramids. Who roasted Jean d'Arc? Is there not yet a tad of Inquisitive guilt wafting from your part of the Continent? However, with Vietnam we have much in common, too, having had both our governments' asses kicked on history's stage.


Why would I try to recruit you if you've been called Nazi, racist and Stalinist? Join the club. I've been called racist, communist, and terrorist sympathizer (I never thought the Irish were all bad). My 3 to your 3. Good enough. Of course, if you're really a Nazi, deal's off. There are some types even Chicanos won't consort with.


If you accept this offer, we could give you a weekend spot. You'd need to translate it into something readable (ninth-grade level American), but you'd have to do it from your end. As weird as you sound, I wouldn't want to mess up your literary nuances.


One last thing: I like this depression thing you're into, since that's the healthy attitude for our times, given the planet-wide cultural and political insanities. Over here, a joke of a Yale graduate leads us into the unforgiveable ignominy of Iraq; over there, you guys still like Jerry Lewis. 1 for 1. The irreal, the absurd, the darkest view seem more appropriate than turning cheeks or seeking pacifist closure. Plus, I've heard you practice well at drunkenness and rude behavior.


So, I extend you this invite to join us on La Bloga. If you accept, I suggest an article on your impression of L.A., but you probably already got paid lots of money for that. So instead, we'd welcome a piece about California bars, strippers, and toke, s'il vous plaît. I'll talk with the other Bloguistas about our adopting you as guest Chicanoesque French guy. I imagine something like El Houlle (which means nothing sensical in Spanish) for a byline, or make up your own. If you don't accept, you needn't bother not answering.


Building international camaraderie,
un traguito a la vez
,

Rudy Ch. Garcia

Monday, June 27, 2005

SPOTLIGHT ON MICHAEL JAIME-BECERRA


Monday’s post from Daniel Olivas

Michael Jaime-Becerra (aka Michael Jayme) is a native of El Monte, California. A graduate of UC Irvine's Creative Writing department, his early work was first collected in 1996 as Look Back and Laugh for the Chicano Chapbook Series, edited by Gary Soto. The following year he began publishing under the surname “Jaime-Becerra” and shortly thereafter, a limited-edition collection of prose poems, entitled The Estrellistas Off Peck Road , was released locally by Temporary Vandalism. He studied in the University of California, Irvine 's Master of Fine Arts in Fiction program, completing work toward his degree in 2001. Last year, HarperCollins/Rayo published his debut collection of inter-related short stories, Every Night Is Ladies' Night: Stories, released in paperback this March. Susan Straight, author of The Gettin Place and I've Been in Sorrow's Kitchen and Licked Out All the Pots, said of his collection: "If you think southern California is a landscape you already know, think again, and then read Michael Jaime-Becerra. His stories are the ones people need to know, and his craftsmanship is impeccable."

PALABRAS: Every Friday at 7:30 p.m., Tía Chucha’s hosts an open mic/spoken word night of current and aspiring writers, singers, poets, rappers & musicians perform their art for the public. Hosted by Victor E. of Xicano Records and films, and Aztlan Underground. Bring your best verses. Free to the public. Tía Chucha's Café Cultural, 12737 Glenoaks Blvd., Sylmar, (818) 362-7060.

BRINGING LIBROS TO LIFE: Calaca Press is a Chicano family-owned small publishing house dedicated to publishing and producing unknown, emerging, and established progressive Chicano and Latino voices. With a commitment to social justice and human rights Calaca Press strives to bring about change through the literary arts. From poetry and the spoken word to fiction and creative non-fiction Calaca Press is determined to showcase authors from a community that has been marginalized and pushed to the side in literary circles, and in the real world, for far too long. Recognizing the need for more publishers of Chicano and Latino literature Calaca Press also actively encourages and assists individuals to self publish and/or start their own presses. Understanding the need for historical continuation Calaca Press is committed to continuing the tradition of the Chicano and Latino presses and publishing houses of the 1960's and 1970's that flourished due to community support and the need to have our stories told. Calaca Press, P.O. Box 2309, National City, CA 91951.

REVIEW: In the El Paso Times, Rigoberto González gives a wonderful review Virgil Suárez’s new book, 90 Miles: Selected and New Poems (University of Pittsburgh Press).

FINALMENTE: I had a wonderful time signing my first children’s book, Benjamin and the Word / Benjamin y La Palabra (Arte Público Press), this Saturday at B. Dalton's Booksellers in the Topanga Plaza. The hardest part about publishing books is getting out there and selling (at least for me). But the dividends are great when I meet wonderful gente who appreciate that Chicanos are out there writing books.

All done. Until next Monday, enjoy the intervening posts from my compadres at La Bloga. ¡Lea un libro!

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Mexico's Jaguares

Manuel Ramos
Here's an add-on to follow up on Michael's review of Desert Blood -

This from the San Francisco Chronicle:
One of Mexico's most popular rock bands, Jaguares plays before crowds of 100,000 people there. With a following that spills into the United States (reflected by its appearances on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno and Late Night with Conan O'Brien), Jaguares has reached a point where every new song is eagerly awaited (and scrutinized) by fans and critics.The group's latest album, Cronicas de un Laberinto (Chronicles of a Labyrinth), is a statement about how Mexico is still searching for the right mix of social justice and economic prosperity. On the bittersweet tune Madera (Wood), lead singer Saul Hernández envisions a wood that "is resistant to all weeping" and "resurrects in Ciudad Juarez" -- a reference to the unsolved killings of hundreds of women in the cities of Juarez and Chihuahua. To bring attention to the tragedy, Jaguares released its new record in Juarez. When the group begins its U.S. tour in San Francisco, it will spotlight the work of Amnesty International, which is pressuring the Mexican government to solve the murders. Jaguares has worked previously with Amnesty to raise money and gather signatures.

Read the complete article by jumping here.

And over on LatinoHeat Online and on the Jaguares website you can get the complete tour schedule. Locally: Aug. 3- Denver, CO / Gothic Theater

The Road To Tamazunchale

Manuel Ramos

Here's a book review (slightly edited and revised) I did as part of a regular gig on one of Denver's public radio stations, KUVO, 89.3 FM. This review aired July 24, 1992. The book is still available from Bilingual Review Press and, yes, it is still a classic.
__________

Bilingual Review Press has put together a series of books called Clásicos Chicanos - Chicano Classics. Because of this series, readers are provided the opportunity to discover or re-read books published in the late '60s and early '70s that gave credibility to the nascent Chicano literary movement. Included are creative and masterful works such as The Plum Plum Pickers by Raymond Barrio, The Devil in Texas by Aristeo Brito, and Klail City by Rolando Hinojosa.

Any series of Chicano Classics must include The Road to Tamazunchale by Ron Arias. Originally published in 1975, this book has achieved international acclaim and honors [it was nominated for the National Book Award.] Some reviewers have compared it to the best of Latin American literature, while others, such as Eliud Martínez in an introduction to the Third Edition, hailed the book as a harbinger of a great and grand era in Chicano writing.


Almost twenty [now thirty] years after it first appeared, in a limited number of copies printed by the West Coast Poetry Review, the book delights, mystifies, amuses and moves its readers across broad emotional plains. I read it in the past few weeks and it seemed as fresh as anything published this year [1992.]

Please do not deprive yourself of a unique reading experience by jumping to conclusions about this book or the author. It is complex but it tells a fascinating fable that will entertain even the most jaded reader.

The Road to Tamazunchale is the story of Don Fausto, a very old man on the verge of death. From his sickbed in a Los Angeles barrio, Don Fausto embarks on magnificent journey through space and time, across continents and dimensions, a reviewer of his own existence, for sure, but, more than that, he certifies the principles of his life in ways that made me regret that I never met Don Fausto in the flesh.

He travels to Peru and Mexico with a lowriding car thief, a Peruvian shepherd, his teenaged niece, and so many more that it soon becomes clear that at least one theme is that life is nothing more than a series of trips, even if only to the bus stop, but what is important about the trips are not necessarily the destinations but the way one travels, and who one travels with, who are the guides and the guided, and what lessons are learned along the way.

Don Fausto knows he is dying. Yet, he is more concerned about his friends - the lost shepherd, a long way from Peru, trying to herd his flock of sheep along a Los Angeles freeway; or the thousands of undocumented workers who will do anything to come into the United States, even if it means they must act as though they are dead; or his jive-talking wizard apprentice, Mario, the small-time thief.

In the end, when he finally joins his dead wife, whose ghost has been with him through most of the novel anyway, his friends and family celebrate and rejoice, just as he wants. At the wake, people turn into flowers, animals, books, TV sets, in a scene highly reminiscent of Gabriel García Márquez, and I make that comparison with the utmost respect for Arias and García Márquez.

What is Tamazunchale? Where does the road lead? Why is there only one way to get there or leave? And why do some people fear it and others embrace it? I leave those questions for you to answer in your own way. Perhaps Don Fausto will help.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Desert Blood: The Juarez Murders. Alicia Gaspar de Alba.

mvs

Given the subject matter and the writer, I wanted Alicia Gaspar de Alba’s second novel, Desert blood: The Juarez Murders to be as good as it is, still, I wanted a better novel. Desert Blood is successful in so many ways that anyone who enjoys detective stories, Chicana Literature, or novels of la frontera, will find many worthwhile minutes in the pages of this ambitious, though in the end, flawed adventure.

Detective fiction readers will be happy to add a new character to the roster of Rios, Buenrostro, Baca, Montez, Damasco: Ivon Villa. Smart, tough—make that incredibly tough—relentless, dedicated. I’m looking forward to Gaspar de Alba leading her character to new adventures.

Ivon’s a slacker, when you think about it. As the novel opens, she’s on her way to El Paso with two goals in mind: adopt a baby in Juarez and do some research on bathroom graffitti. So impetuous, Ivon hasn’t thought through all the ramifications of an old girl network adoption. In fact, she hasn’t included her partner in the adoption process at all. If the adoption goes according to plan, Brigit will meet her child when Ivon brings it home. Odd approach to parentage. Just as odd is Ivon’s lack of focus. An ABD (All But Dissertation) Visiting Prof, she’ll lose the job if she doesn’t complete her Ph.D. Ivon has a proposal: Marx Meets the Women’s Room: The Representation of Class and Gender in Bathroom Graffitti (Three Case Studies). But she hasn’t yet begun to research the third case, so Ivon decides to use the visit home to do the toilets of her home town. It sounds silly but it provides the most vital clue to the entire story: Poor Juarez, so far from the Truth, so close to Jesus.

Gaspar de Alba’s first novel, Sor Juana’s Second Dream, stands as a tour de force of Chicana Literature—it is a superb piece of imaginative work. Unfortunately, Sor Juana’s lesbian lovemaking draws the ire of critics less intent on sexual politics than beatifying the Mexicana genius. Desert Blood will likely draw similar complaints for its numerous instances of lesbian sex.

Such critics will miss the point. In her sexual practices, Ivon is more like Luis Montez or Henry Rios, men who think with their dicks rather than their brains. Impetuous Ivon’s the same tipa. Even as the novel begins to approach its climax, with Ivon desperately pursuing every hunch and clue, she gets distracted by a former lover’s allure, and spends the night—despite Ivon’s anger that the woman had a lot to do with her little sister’s disappearance! Not since Alma Luz Villanueva’s 1994 Naked Ladies, have I met such an impetuous yet fully competent female character as Ivon. Then again, Desert Blood’s lesbian sex has the virtue of sincerity, tenderness, and love. It contrasts with the mind-numbing sexual violence that fills page after page in Gaspar de Alba’s absorbing story set against the background of unsolved mass murder of hundreds of women.

Herein lies the problem with the novel. The murders of Juarez, for all their horror, are only the setting. Even as the reader despairs in the story's web-based sexual tourism and street-level corruption of brothels and crack houses where Ivon’s search for her kidnapped teenaged sister draws the detective, the novelist must give shape and faces to the unknown monsters perpetrating and perpetuating the actual crimes. In the process, the plot loses touch with reality. Perhaps it is too big a story and so imaginatively ugly that Gaspar de Alba elects to fashion a personal story of one woman’s struggle to recover the love of her estranged homophobic mother while shouldering guilt at her responsibility in the disappearance of her kid sister.

There is so much horror, that readers will be grateful for moments of comic relief. The writer must have enjoyed writing scenes like one, early in her investigation, when Ivon has an almost productive interview with a bartender that is aborted when a group of “American boys” demand drinks, one of them pounding the bar:
“Hey, puta, we need drinks,” shouted out one of the boys.
Ivon walked up to him and slapped his face.
“What the fuck!” said the kid, holding his cheek.
“Didn’t your mother teach you to respect women?” she said.
“Bitch, I’ll teach you…”
“What can I get you boys?” said Magda, smiling behind the bar. “First round on the house.” She winked at Ivon. (204)

Not that the novel is necessarily anti-male; given a world of sexual exploitation of women, one would expect men to occupy the loci of contempt. Almost every male character is puro shit-- but other than the central evil man, the second-most evil character is the woman kidnapper who mouths the irony early in the story about the teenaged sister probably nursing a popped cherry if she still had one. Gaspar de Alba is making a telling point here. Earlier in the novel, she feels the stares of machos and a thought runs through her mind: "Asshole macho piece of shit, she thought, don’t you fucking lear [sic] at me. . . . Lesbians, although every macho’s wet dream—to voyerize or to conquer—of course, betrayed not just their culture, but their gender, their families, and their religion." (134) Betrayal abounds in the lives of these characters, but lesbianism has nothing to do with the betrayals of fathers of women, husbands of wives, employees of their supervisors. In all the interwoven betrayals. Ivon remains true to her familia.

Ugly as the story grows, Gaspar de Alba won’t allow it to devolve to puro tragedy. In the final analysis, this is a family story, not a murder story, not a mystery per se. Strangers suffer—the poignant story of the 14-year old who doesn’t want to “go to Dallas” breaks my heart (dar las nalgas)—but in the end, the reader is both disappointed and relieved to get a fairy-tale ending with only a few surprises and twists.

But in all this, there is a deadly serious point to make—why haven’t authorities on either side of the border acted to find the killers and stop the murders?

“That’s what this was, she realized. A huge malignant tumor of silence, meant to protect not the perpetrators, themselves, but the profit reaped by the handiwork of the perpetrators. A bilateral assembly line of perpetrators, from the actual agents of the crime to the law enforcement agents on both sides of the border to the agents that made binational immigration policy and trade agreements.
The cards fell so perfectly into place; it was almost nauseating.
This thing implicated everyone. No wonder the crimes had not been solved, nor would they ever be solved until someone brought this conspiracy out into the open." (335)

Desert Blood brings this into the open, a little. I hope Desert Blood becomes like Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle. There’s a story that Theodore Roosevelt was sitting at breakfast reading Upton Sinclair’s passage about rotted sausages packed with filth and rat meat. The US president gets so disgusted, the same day he demands Congress pass a pure food and drug act. Let’s hope one day, soon, another US president will read Desert Blood while looking at portraits of a wife and daughters, and grow equally disgusted.

michael sedano

--
Click the link above to visit Alicia Gaspar de Alba's blog on this novel.
Houston: Arte Publico Press, 2005. Isbn-10: 1-55885-446-0