A Chistmas Story in "Emma's Cursed Purse"

By tatiana de la tierra

All I wanted for Christmas was … Nothing. In this age of Too Many Things, I fantasize about being sparse—having just what I need, without all the excess. My reality is bulging drawers, handsome collections of rocks, books, record albums, goddesses, art-like objects, and loads of useful and useless doodads.

So when my mom asked me what I wanted for Christmas I answered with a resounding “Nothing!”, knowing it would be nearly impossible for her to fulfill this wish. My mom loves to give presents. She marches into the mall with the mission of a seasoned shopper who falls into a trance and transforms into an eight-armed octopus, sensing and selecting multiple presents for her friends and family. She gives too much. Not one or two blouses but seven or eight. Not just one sparkly doodad but four or five.

I got the gift-giving gene from my mom. For years, I got into the mall trance, touching and probing until I found the right objects for the right people. But I rarely do malls any more, and I’m not keen on all the Made-in-China stuff. The gene has worn off. I’m tired of Stuff. I don’t want to participate in mainstream robotic rites. My not-so-philanthropic philosophy is perfect for this holiday season when I’m stuck in California while my family is celebrating in Florida and Cartagena.

The medium-sized flat-rate Priority Mail box arrived a few days before Christmas. I figured my mom had packed a ton of very small lightweight things—gold rings, silk scarves, a few CDs, cashmere, maybe some tiny work of art. But when I opened it, there were only two presents.

I couldn’t believe it. Did she no longer love me? Did I really want “Nothing”? If I was so opposed to commercialized Christmas spirit, why was I so perturbed at the reality of not getting a ton of potentially useless presents? How shallow was I, anyway?

Given that I’m so anti-holiday, I don’t know why I got the pine wreath at Trader Joe’s and promptly affixed it to my front door. Or why, at the last minute, I bought presents for everyone in Florida and sent the box overnight. Or why I accepted my neighbors’ invitation for their Christmas Eve celebration.

The living room was lit with tons of candles and packed with Christmas decorations. Reindeer, wreaths, ornaments, flickering lights, elves, bells, and a real Christmas tree with presents were arranged in the room with orange walls, artwork and tons of doodads, including a big Buddha surrounded by red candles. We ate, drank, drummed, and sang Christmas carols in Spanish, English, and German.

Just after midnight, we stood in a circle and held hands. There were fifteen of us from all over the world—Austria, Mexico, Colombia, Japan, France, the U.S., and Cambodia. When we went around the circle, each of us saying something that we were grateful for, the top declarations were family, friends, lovers, and life itself. Then we lit the candles on the tree and exchanged gifts. It all seemed so simple and meaningful, not so cynical and excessive after all.

The next morning, my mom’s two presents awaited me. So did an envelope that one my sisters sent me. Thanks for the Kindle, Mom, and for the dough, and for making me assess my own materialistic dogma. Thanks to Wally and Alfredo, my neighbors who innocently created some sort of organic holiday cheer.

And after opening that envelope, I give thanks to my niece, Bella, who sent me a collection of her short stories. While we are worlds apart, I got a good laugh from a few of her stories this Christmas. Here is one to share with the world, lightly edited, to spread the holiday spirit, while I’m still in the mood.


EMMA’S CURSED PURSE

BY ISABELLA SIMONS

Emma was in Paris shopping for her birthday. She walked into a mysterious boutique. She saw a pretty, shiny pink purse.

When she went to pay, an old lady said, “Don’t you buy that purse! There’s a purse curse on it, and you’ll have terrible luck.”

Emma rolled her eyes and bought the purse. “My new purse, finally!!” she squealed with delight. She walked out the door and an alarm went off.

“Get back in here, you haven’t paid!!!” the manager yelled.

Emma went back in. She had thrown the receipt away. After what seemed like an hour of digging in the trash she finally had her receipt and her manicure was ruined. “Ugh! I’ll have to go get a manicure AGAIN!!!!” she huffed furiously. She stormed out, unconvinced her new purse was cursed.

When her nails were done the stylist had left a pink blob of nail polish on her middle finger. “GRRR…” Emma screeched furiously. She felt like flipping her stylist over.

She stormed out into the pouring rain. Her new shirt was ruined.

She was so frustrated that she ran back to the store to return the wretched purse.

When she got home, her dad had just arrived. “Happy birthday!” he said and hugged her, as he handed her a present. It was a new purse. It looked identical to the one she had bought earlier.

She went outside. It stopped raining. Her manicure was now perfect, her shirt good as new and dry.

“They told me only two of these were made. One was a good luck charm, one cursed,” said her dad.

“Silly story,” Emma replied. “Absolutely impossible.”

The End.

Chicanonautica: Feliz Navidad from Mars

I'm dayjobing until midnight this week, so this time I'll just wish you a quick feliz, and offer a wonderful little film that brought tears to my eyes when I first saw it, Viaje a Marte by Juan Pablo Zaramella. It has won more than 50 awards, is squarely in the Chicanonautica sci-fi/latino lit interface, and reminds me of both Ray Bradbury and Jorge Luis Borges. It's just the thing for both Christmas and New Years. Children will enjoy it , but I think it will be best appreciated by those of us who have dreamed, grown up, worked hard, and eventually realized what is truly magical about life.





Ernest Hogan has science fiction stories in the anthologies 2020 Visions, Space Horrors, and Voices for the Cure.

Naughty or Nice, Ask for a Book Tonight

Luis Moreno in center, playing the guitar and leading El Coro

This past week in Santa Barbara, I searched for all things virtuos. I'm happy to report there is hope out there for those of you caught up in gift giving, baking, and that mentado Tchaikovsky suite.

Last Wednesday, I took a trolley holiday lights tour of Santa Barbara. Feel free to chortle and hurt your stomach with big belly carcajadas. Yes, I was a tourist in my own town, taking the tourist trolley to look at the neighboring houses with the best Christmas lights display. It was actually fun.

The tour starts off with chocolate chip cookies, hot cocoa and cider. As we rolled down State Street, the driver made sure everyone yelled out, Merry Christmas, after he dinged the bell three times. When we turned into areas I never knew existed, kids came out to say hello and adults saluted with whatever they have in their glass, sometimes dressed up as Santa.

Having the best light display is a way to give something to the community and garner much oohs and aahs from passerbys.

After the Trolley Tour, I felt I had received an angel's windpower and could partake in a week of blaring carols and holiday overload. However, last Friday's, Posadas represented a true spirt of Christmas and communal feel.

Una Noche de Las Posadas is my favorite Christmas activity in Santa Barbara. You don't have to speak Spanish to sing the traditional songs from Mexico. You don't have to miss your favorite midnight mass or wait until the 24th or 25th of December to participate in a spiritual celebration. Plus, in Santa Barbara, there are very few times when you can stop traffic, follow an angel and sing down the street. We usually have a miniature donkey, named Wilson; however, the rain left us with la pata lavada and no donkey. We also shortened our route a bit, but it was grand to see all the people that celebrated with us despite a little rain blessing. This event rates much higher than Santa Barbara's boat or Christmas parades. Thanks to our leader, Luis Moreno, Las Posadas was fun at rehearsals and even more joyous during our rainy trek.

Luis Moreno plays the guitar and keeps everyone in tune. He's been the musical director for the past 20 years. He leads El Coro through four rehearsals of the songs and is very patient with people who don't sing or have never studied music. In fact, he encourages anyone who is interested to join in. "My perspective is the community and we want everyone to participate," he said. "The love put into it is more important." Luis talked about the virtue of giving

back to the community and why he continues to lead El Coro:

"The Love--that's what the story's all about, something that's not commercial. There are so many elements, spiritual and cultural. The traditions go way back before English was spoken here. This is my way of giving back to the community. These are the things I value. I'm continuing a tradition. It makes me feel good."

Along with the virtuous feeling of giving to strangers, texting is the new easy way to give to your favorite charity. My friend Lora texted money to NPR's This American Life. As a PEN USA

Emerging Voices Fellow, I must mention that you can text PEN to 202222 and donate $10 to our thiriving literary community.

If your New Year's resolution is to read more poetry and to keep books in print by supporting authors, I will be joining Luis J. Rodriguez, A. Razor, Hugo Machuca, Rolando Ortiz, and Hannah Wehr at Avenue 50 Studio, 131 N. Avenue 50, Highland Park, on January 23 at 3pm.

Merry Christmas. Manuel Ramos will write a special New Year's Eve column next week. You'll hear from me again the first Friday of 2011. I'll leave you with a childhood memory and a poem I wrote a few days ago.

Buñuelos

©2010 Melinda Palacio

When they are done

Christmas crunches in your mouth.

Think of a sweet tortilla, deep

fried with cinnamon and sugar

left over from last week’s ojarascas,

those lard cookies linger

in the belly during a week

of festive cooking, chocolates, and ham.

After the tamales, before midnight of the New Year,

it’s time to stretch buñuelos on your knee.

Everyone’s gone to champagne parties.

My grandmother hands me the masa disks.

I paper every surface of the house, run

back to the kitchen with urgency.

She rolls them out at a steady, swift pace.

Buñuelos need to dry before they are fried.

An eerie sight for the night.

Melted Dali clocks on chairs,

on the dining room table,

on dish towels over the sofa,

some buñuelos stretched too thin

like old torn sheets. December ends

A New Year begins with last year’s green

Tupperware filled with crisp buñuelos.

Martín Espada awarded United States Artists (USA) Fellowship 2010

AMHERST - Amherst poet Martin Espada has been awarded a $50,000 grant for artistic excellence from the national artists' advocacy organization United States Artists, based in Los Angeles. Espada is one of 50 artists from across the nation who have been selected as the 2010 USA fellows.

"The fellowships are awarded to people who are at the forefront of their field," said USA spokesperson Aga Sablinska. "In this case, Martin Espada is the Latino poet of the United States."

Espada, an English professor at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, has published 17 books as a poet, editor, essayist and translator. His latest collection of poetry, "The Trouble Ball," is due for release in the spring.

The funds, donated by private organizations like the Rockefeller, Ford and Prudential foundations, are unrestricted, Sablinska said; each fellow may spend the $50,000 however he or she sees fit.

How will Espada spend his grant? He's definitely not going on vacation, he said.

"What we all share in this country is a culture of debt," Espada said. "What this grant helps me to do is deal with that."

Espada said he was notified that he had been awarded the grant in the fall, but the recipients weren't officially announced until Dec. 7. The fellows were selected in a year-long process that involved 150 secret nominators scouring the nation for what they considered to be America's finest artists, Sablinska explained.

The nominators ranged from museum directors to established artists. All were asked to submit the names of artists they believe displayed extraordinary commitment to their crafts.

Espada said it was "an incredible blessing" to be selected as a fellow. He plans to use the grant money, he says, to alleviate some "worry" that he's accumulated over the years.

"Freedom from worry is precious," Espada said. "What artists call inspiration is nothing but another form of higher concentration; that concentration is only possible if you can free your mind from the external pressures of the world. It remains to be seen what I'll do with this freedom from pressure, but I know it will translate into tangible work."

(From the Daily Hampshire Gazette, 12/16/10)

Author Amy Costales talks about her picture book Grandpa Used to Live Alone

I wrote "Abuelo vivía solo~Grandpa Used to Live Alone" for my daughter and for my father, inspired by the lasting love between them. Several years ago my father was being treated for cancer, and he was heart-breakingly weak. One day, when he was still struggling to walk again, I walked by his room and saw my daughter lying in bed next to him, watching him nap. I started to cry, remembering when she was the one struggling to walk, holding his big hand. I remembered when he was the one to lay by her crib, soothing her to sleep while I went to college at night. I had always wanted to write a story about the role my father played in my daughter's life, and after years of playing with different ideas, a story was born. It was a bitter-sweet moment. My latest picture book is about the love between a fatherless young girl and her grandfather. It's  about her slowly growing up as he slowly grows old.

My daughter was my original inspiration to write children's books. When I finally held "Abuelo vivía solo*Grandpa Used to Live Alone" in my hands, I flew back in time to the day that I first started thinking of writing. My daughter, who is now twenty-two, was a toddler in my lap, watching a video she had just received for Christmas. It was her first encounter with T.V. There was a happy father on the screen pulling a toddler in a wagon. I was enjoying the scene, tapping my toe to the accompanying song of “Daddy’s Taking Me to The Zoo Today” with no deep thoughts. My daughter was the one doing the profound thinking. She tapped me on the knee, trying to comfort me, saying, “Don’t worry Mami, I have my Poppop”. I was stunned by all that must have gone through her two-year-old brain. She had looked at the screen, thought about how, unlike that child, she didn't have a father around. She then thought of her grandpa, but also felt a need to console me. Híjole. That was a lot of thinking for one little girl. From that day on I was aware of the way the image of family in the media never reflected mine or my friends’. Where were the young single moms? The dads working two jobs? The children sharing rooms? The families sharing houses? Where were the brown-skinned children? I always had enjoyed playing with words, but suddenly I had something compelling me to write. I write mostly because I feel a constant need to broaden the image of family.

Amy Costales is a passionate advocate of multicultural education and a bilingual children’s author. She currently teaches Spanish and Spanish for Heritage Speakers at the University of Oregon. Amy firmly believes that all children should be able to open books and see the astonishing diversity of the world, as well as a life that looks like their own. Visit Amy Costales at amycostales.com.

A Letter to Santa; On-Line Floricanto December 21

Michael Sedano



Dear Santa:

Seems like only yesterday I wrote you all I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, so I could with you merry chrithmath. And here we are today, several implants and numerous fillings later, but my two front teeth are all mine, so thanks for granting me that small wish.

Then there was that bit of trouble, remember? I saw Mommy kissing you underneath the mistletoe that night. How was I to know Daddy was wearing your suit? But I didn't shout, I didn't pout. I was nice. I'm wise to that list you keep and check twice. I did not want a couple lumps of coal instead of that Red Ryder BB Gun. Thank you, I see fine with one eye. It's not your fault. Besides, it got me out of the draft back in '68, so all in all, that was another good Christmas for me.

What did Grandma do that pissed you off that night? It was just the worst time of the year for such a journey, the ways deep and the weather sharp, the very dead of winter, and all of that. But getting run over by reindeer is a hard way to reaffirm one's belief in myths. Did I say myth? I mean the true spirit of X-mas and, of course, your existence, Santa. I shall be glad of another sale.

Last year I asked for RAM and got Mary's little lamb. I meant computer memory, Santa. So, now that I know you have a low tolerance for ambiguity, I am going to keep this short, sweet, and specific, OK?

First, all I want for Christmas is a room somewhere. Please make it far away from the cold night air. Lots of chocolate for me to eat, but forget the figgy pudding, ok? And make it a big room, and soundproofed because when all the faithful come joyful and triumphant, they make a lot of noise.

Second, please bring You Know Who a puppy. I saw a doggie in the window, one with a waggly tail. Tan cute; its ears were grown long and its tail cut short. But the price was astronomical, so that little dogie can just git along, that's its misfortune and none of my own. Heah!

And, wow, did you pull a fast one on me again this year! Fool me twice and all that. While no one was looking, except for California, the other guys swept the election. They must have composed quite a letter last year.

Anyway, my third wish, dear Santa, is same as last year's: Oh please, wise up that pendejo in the White House. War is not Peace. Bring the troops home now.

As I promised, I’m keeping this short and to the point. Here’s hoping all your wishes come true, too. As you say, "Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night."

P.S. Enjoy the mutton stew.



On-Line Floricanto for December 21



1. “Twilight in Juarez” by Jeanette Iskat de Aldana

2. “River” by Devreaux Baker

3. “Before the World Wakes” by Elena Diaz Bjorkquist

4. “Sullen Angel of the Arizona Divide” by Mary Pranzatelli

5. “Sand and Bone Desert Spark” by George Hartley




Twilight in Juarez

by Jeanette Iskat de Aldana


Artificially created borders
walls and roads
singing
border songs
singing
screaming really
at an imaginary them
who just need to leave
just go home
to solve everything
for us
just go home
never mind
that this is home
has always been
home
...
what
if
I dropped you
cold
shivering
into
what
we've helped create?

Be careful
what you ask
for
what you wish on them
because
perhaps
Rod Sterling's mestizo son
will hear you
smile into the sun
and
you'll get to go
perhaps
you'll get to see
really see
what
we've created
what has been created
in your name
in these border towns.

Come.
I'll be your
guide.
It will be fun
an adventure.

Board
a border bound bus
with me
next stop
Juarez
we'll have to sneak in
scurrying
past
bored border patrols
no one ever sneaks in
so they're all facing north.

We'll creep
try
to get
that authentic ice
blade
feeling
sinking
into spines
curling us
making us
small and hunched.

Walk the streets
with me
it doesn't matter
which one
they all share the same name
Calle de Sangre.

I've got family here
I've got all my family here.

What are you doing?

Don't take pictures, idiot.

No, now you
have
to hand it over.
Just give him the damn
camera
cell phone
wallet.

See what
you made him
do?

Don't worry.
It will heal
I'll talk
to his madre
later
see if I can get some
of it back
for you.

We're here.
My amigo's abuela's house
she'll welcome us
if we give the
secret knock.

Close shave
a hair cut
two mordida bits.

Who's there?
Ah, welcome!
¡Bienvenido¡

Come inside,
quickly.
Lock the doors,
quickly.
Don't make
any sudden moves,
quickly.

Yes,
I know
the phone
is ringing.
Don't answer it.
It's only the kidnappers again
asking for more money
but she's only a third
cousin's child
not a prima prima
maybe
they guessed
correctly
or maybe not
but we'll wait
see if they leave an authentic
threat
voice mail
tu sabes?

I see
your eyes watering
in the smoke
the real trees
burned away
long ago
into hungry fires
splintered furniture
with the smell of burning glue
sawdust
is what fuels
cooking fires
keeps us warm
you'll get used
to the tears
as we did.

Eat with us,
some authentic
comida mexicana.
Corn?
Maiz?
Carne?
Oh, that's
rich
people food
now
that we cannot
grow it
farm it
slaughter it
ourselves.
Have some
top valued Ramen
but
the salsa
is still
for now
home made
Monsanto
hasn't trade marked
these chiles
too picoso
for mass market tongues.

We'll
stuff
our shrinking bellies
full
of empty noodles
sawdust is filling
when you spice it right
the corn
of history
the maiz
that built empires
is no longer
within
the range
of our shrunken purses.

I won't stop you
when
you run back outside
your eyes
watering
from chiles
hotter than
chemical fires
running blindly
outside
only to pull back
nose wrinkling
at the smell of burning
men
women
children
marching
in step
past rows of pink crosses
to tiny jobs
in big places
huffing dreams
while colonial masters
drive separate roads
so they
never have to see it.

I find
you
eventually
curled up underneath
a rusted out shell
dead orange truck
resting
on a curb
broken
like smashed teeth
shivering.

You look at me
panicked
eyes watering
muttering
as you stroke
the matted fur
of a pueblo dog
you had no part
in building this
you want to go home
right now
you want to go home
right now
right now
right NOW.

I begin to tell you
obvious
truths
that the world is
as we all make it
when we let them pass
SB 510
SB 1070
or fail
to let dreamers awaken
but
I see you
your fear
instead
I'll be kind
speak to you
soothingly
about
Farmville
Dancing with the Stars
The Hills
what Rhianna is wearing
and
you begin to breathe
a bit easier.

I take pity
murmur
that we can take a shortcut back
'cause
that privilege is still ours
maybe
stop by the gift shop
buy some authentic hand made calaveras
hand made
touched by authentic human hands
on an assembly line
in China
or
maybe buy
my friend went to
Ciudad Juarez
and all I got
was this t-shirt
soaked
in the blood
of empire.

We'll cross
the border
back
at
twilight
the bus
will swing
through
McDonalds'
we'll fill our bellies
with value meals
snuggle
doze uneasily
into the made cheaper
in China
Mexican blanket.

Next time,
I'll take you there
maybe Guang Zhou
brown skies
and all
'cause
I've got family
there.

Oh, yes.
I've got family
everywhere.





River

by Devreaux Baker



This river knows nothing but her name
She is the hard blue muscle
That pumps blood into the mouth of morning,

The woman who sits at the edge of sorrow
Grafting time into the shape of a clay pot or reed basket,
Insatiable with longing and filled with the ovaries of stars,
The mind of all things drawn to silt and sludge,
To pools and ferns.

Currents streak her back with a name that means dreaming fish
Where ripples of reed ducks and water rats pattern hieroglyphs
Against her wide green thighs.

She is the water that we shed as tears, scooped up by the hands of night
And poured into the throat of day, turquoise and lapis, emerald and jade.
The moon hums against her skin.

She knows nothing but her name rising as fog over fields,
Or sleeping in limbs of apple trees as the Eyeless One
Who spirals through a thousand lifetimes and dances Kali or Quan Yin.

Look, the animals are searching for their reflection in her face.
Even the God who sleeps curled in the belly of small creatures
Wakes up, slips on her mask of moonlight
And swims from this opening into Mother Ocean.

She splashes their bodies with moss and now they are snarled
In her net of fish scales and seal bone.

These are the knees of devotion,
The tangled roots of our lives coming to fruition.
The river is a mirror for our bodies.

She carries the planets inside her belly and hums the earth into being
So that our bodies, blooming with their fisted flowers of blood
Are filled with that song.

The River, who speaks in tongues, is born and dies
In the fissured cracks of our cells so that
We become the sleeping center of the shell,
The speck of sand turning into pearl.

~Devreaux Baker






Before the World Wakes

by Elena Díaz Bjorkquist


In the stillness of early morning
before the pale rays of dawn
become the first glorious glow of morning,
Mother Nature is in a state of flux,
her energy stable.

Free of disordered vibrations,
my mind remains in the land
of slumber, although awake.
Deep sleep washed away impurities
accumulated from yesterday.

My mental, physical, emotional potential
is heightened to meditate in this peaceful,
energetically charged, in-between time.
I connect in intimate fashion
with the Divine.

Light, air, energy, flow around me,
speak in hushed tones of the day to come,
set my mood for a serene, fulfilling day.
In the glorious glow of morning
I wake as the world awakes.

Embracing the joy of being,
I draw upon the unique energy of
daybreak for comfort, creativity, vigor.
I feel blessed with the gift of
another day of life.

The sun’s ascension inspires me, as it
grows golden to the birds’ serenade.
My vitality returns as I become
one with the stirring of other beings
rubbing sleep from their eyes.

I greet the sun, the new day
in the traditional ancient way,
like my grandmother before me,
and her mother before her.
I call out in the four directions.

First to the north, tauhi, tahui,
tahui, tahui.
Then to the east, tauhi, tahui,
tahui, tahui,
To the south, tauhi, tahui,
tahui, tauhui,
and to the west, tauhi, tauhi.
tahui, tahui.

I return to the center,
open my arms and embrace the world.
I am centered, my destiny
not yet written,
there is nothing I cannot do.






Sullen Angel of the Arizona Divide

by Mary Pranzatelli


Line of Demarcation
Rigid and Restricted Valley of the Gods
Mexican hat and bluff
Sullen Angel of the Arizona divide
I'm waiting for you
oh I have waited for you
and waited and waited

You silenced me
silenced me with fear
you confused me
terrorized the barrio
of my emotions
the numbness of my soul
I have no choice
there is no choice
no freedom
no escape from you

All the battles that I fought
could not be won
You enjoy the pain
you inflict on mankind
You are the devil's son
the torch that shines over
this so called Gringa
is burning my eyes
I don't want to go blind
Not many get to see
the view like I did
Arizona divide
Oh Arizona divide
I am a sullen Angel
of the Arizona divide

Towering red mesas
please show the world
there is such thing as love
May your eerie nights
shimmer softly with the moon
that gleams above
and give us words of wisdom
Precious Navajo land
endless sand of desert infusion
It's been fourteen days
fourteen nights
four corners and no more water
I'm here for you and waiting for you
and waiting for change

this sullen Angel
this so called Gringa
is waiting for you
just waiting to look in your eyes
waiting to touch your skin
waiting to put my head on your chest
to listen to the breaths that you take
just waiting for you
and waiting for you
please make it home alive





Sand and Bone Desert Spark

By George Hartley


Huesos arena spark
combine, conjunto
lost in the desert

burnt and callused feet
walking, hiding, running:

grain by grain the imprint
cry by cry the impact
trade agreement shipment of goods
more precious to the gods (capital)
than flesh (accident)

spark, phosphorescence, glimmer
what remains of lives given up
to the glow of memory—darkness

imprints in air and sand
their last breath
a suck of my own breathing
spin and dizzy the sand
sing and measure the sorrow

of a child at home now motherless
now fatherless
with only grain of bone of sand to testify
to the pull of love’s immediacy
responsibility
and strength

blood and bone and sand
to the rhythm of riches and nations
spilled and spent

left to the spark of memory


December 10, 2010

[Inspired by student art displayed in the University of Arizona library, December 5, 2010.]



BIOS

1. “Twilight in Juarez” by Jeanette Iskat de Aldana

2. “River” by Devreaux Baker

3. “Before the World Wakes” by Elena Diaz Bjorkquist

4. “Sullen Angel of the Arizona Divide” by Mary Pranzatelli

5. “Sand and Bone Desert Spark” by George Hartley


Jeanette Iskat de Aldana

Jeanette Iskat de Aldana is a painter, working mostly in mixed media and watercolor, and a poet, working mostly in mixed metaphors and words written in water. She is working on her first collection of poems and really wants someone to give her the letterpress and type blocks they have just hanging around so she could typeset old school broad sheets.

She lives in Los Angeles with her philosopher-songwriter husband, Jesus Aldana Alba.



Devreaux Baker

Devreaux Baker's work has been published or is forthcoming in many journals and anthologies including; The New Millenium, ZYZZYVA, The American Voice, Borderlands Review of Texas Poetry, The Guadalupe Review, Bloomsbury Review, High Plains Literary Review, Counter-Punch,El Tecolote, and the Inheritance of Light Anthology . She was an editor of Wood, Water, Air and Fire: The Anthology of Mendocino Women Poets and produced The Voyagers Radio Program of Original Student Writing for National Public Radio. She taught poetry in the schools for many years and has published three books of poetry; Light at the Edge, Beyond the Circumstance of Sight and Red Willow People. She is the recipient of a MacDowell Fellowship, A Hawthornden Castle International Poetry Fellowship, three California Arts Council multi-disciplinary fellowships, and the Helene Wurlitzer Writing Fellowship. She has conducted workshops on creative writing in France, England, Scotland and Mexico. She currently directs the Mendocino Coast Poets Reading Series.



Elena Díaz Björkquist

Elena Díaz Björkquist, a writer, historian, and artist from Tucson, writes about Morenci, Arizona where she was born. She is the author of two books, Suffer Smoke and Water from the Moon. Elena has been on the Arizona Humanities Council (AHC) Speakers Bureau for nine years and not only performs as Teresa Urrea in a Chautauqua but also does two presentations about Morenci, Arizona and one about the 1880’s Schoolhouse in Tubac.

Elena is co-editor of Sowing the Seeds, an anthology written by her writers group. The project was funded by AHC. She is nearing completion of another collection of Morenci stories entitled “Albóndiga Soup” and is co-editing a new anthology entitled “Our Spirit, Our Reality” by the Comadres of Sowing the Seeds.

A SIROW Scholar at the University of Arizona, Elena conducted an oral history project funded by AHC; “In the Shadow of the Smokestack.” A website she created contains the oral history interviews and photographs of Chicano elders living in Morenci during the Depression and World War II. Another project funded by AHC and the Stocker Foundation is “Tubac 1880’s Schoolhouse Living History Program.” Her website is www.elenadiazbjorkquist.net/.


Mary Pranzatelli

This writing was written from the bottom of my heart. Much of the time people do not realize the hardships that an American girl faces in a relationship with a man caught up in this broken immigration system. She is caught in between two structures amongst her peers. She lives with her man who feels degraded because he has to depend on her for his basic needs. He depends on her for the simple things we all take for granted, and he can only invest emotions with her. These emotions become dysfunctional. His "Gringa" is an "Angel of the Arizona Divide", because only an Angel could survive the circumstance. She cries everyday, and lives in the shadows with him. Watching employers, landlords and everyday people brand him with the "stereotype". When she talks about him to her working class peers they think it’s OK to ask if her man is an "illegal". By night her man’s underground friends do not care for her much either, because they resent the fact that she is a citizen and has the basic needs that she needs. Her man loves her deeply but they are trapped within a mainstream culture, and an underground culture. This feels much like she is struck with a knife when she hears this label. She becomes angry, frustrated, depressed, and her psychological state becomes self-destructive with dysfunction. In this poem she is an "Angel" and in her dreams she crosses the border with her man for the second time, after he faces a deportation. He appears 14 days later in her town in a yellow taxi cab from NYC. He made it home alive. He didn't die in the desert from dehydration. He wasn't abandoned by criminal Coyotes, but now she waits for this horrible system to change. She waits, and waits and waits. She has to be an "Angel" to survive.

"Live from Fresno y Los" wins American Book Award

As I noted in a review published last year in the El Paso Times, Stephen D. Gutierrez's new book of short fiction, Live from Fresno y Los (Bear Star Press), bears witness to the excitement and pain, exhilaration and disappointments, of growing up Chicano in Fresno and Los Angeles during the 1970s. I was not the only one to appreciate this powerful book of stories: unbeknownst to Gutierrez, Rudolfo Anaya nominated it for an American Book Award and, guess what? He won. Anaya wrote of Live from Fresno y Los:

"This is one of the most compelling collections of short stories I've read in a long time. A refreshing, cinematic prose style. The action flashes back and forth as time collapses into memories of past, present and future. Gutierrez has an excellent eye for detail, and a narrative voice to match. The characters are (almost) middle-class Chicanos who realize they aren't 'the real stuff.' They're not the East LA cholos, and their families do not want their sons to be cholos. But they need an identity, and so they look longingly toward the barrios. Identity is at the core of these stories. The pachucos of the 1940s chose their identity and they stood against the oppression of a prejudiced mainstream culture. Now Gutierrez asks: How can Chicanos today carry on that struggle? If the Chicano Movement is waning, what do young Chicanos identify with? Are there lessons in history? Gutierrez raises important questions in his fiction. He reminds us that prejudices still exist, but a positive Chicano identity is evolving to serve the people. Writers like Gutierrez make the old veteranos proud. These vatos know their roots, and they write the truth."

The award ceremony took place on September 19 at the Koret Auditorium in the San Francisco Public Library.

For a complete list of winners of the 2010 American Book Award, visit here.