3 Ocak 2013 Perşembe

Thankful! New Year Good Wishes From Amelia M.L. Montes

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Visiting mi tierra de Los Angeles
At Avenue 50 Studio Art Gallery in Pasadena, Califas
On the 21stof this month—a day marking a rejuvenation, a renewal toward transitions, Istarted the day not in the Midwest (where I’ve been living for the past 12years), but back in my hometown, “mi tierra” de Los Angeles, chanting andbreathing deeply in tantric meditation (gracias for the invitation from writer TerryWolverton!).
Meditation and Yoga class on December 21, 2012.  Thank you Terry Wolverton!
Pictured left to right:  Bobi Behrens, Yvonne M. Estrada, Terry Wolverton, Amelia M.L. Montes
It was necessaryfor me to leave the Midwest for a bit—to go to the pacific coast, re-connecting withfriends/familia as well as finally meeting Michael Sedano, one of the foundersof La Bloga.  So grateful to Michael and all myfellow bloguistas:  Rudy Ch.Garcia, Lydia Gil, Ernest Hogan, René Colato Laínez, Daniel A. Olivas, MelindaPalacio, Manuel Ramos, and a special spiritual “gracias” to Tatiana de laTierra for the initial invitation to join LaBloga.  It’s a pleasure being amember of the La Bloga familia.  Orale! 
Amelia M.L. Montes and Michael Sedano finally meet!
Thankful! 
On the 27thof December, I traveled from Los Angeles to New York where I am presentlyvisiting and writing (grateful for the space and time to write/share writing!) with artists/activists/writer friends before the Modern LanguageAssociation (MLA) Conference begins on January 3rd  in Boston.  A note on the MLA Conference in Boston:  If you are going—don’t miss thefollowing panels, especially the first one which features “La Bloga!”  Yes—“La Bloga” will bediscussed/analyzed at the MLA in Boston. More on this next Sunday--
1.    JenniferLozano (University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign) will be speaking about “LaBloga!”  Her paper, “ConvergenceCultura?  Reevaluating New MediaScholarship through a Latina/o Literary Blog, La Bloga” is set for Friday,January 4th at 5:15p.m. in the Sheraton Boston (room:  Fairfax A).  Check it out!  2.    Alsoon Friday, January 4th, the panel “Life Writings and Invention inLatina Memoir and Fiction” features the following writers reading anddiscussing their work:  Norma EliaCantú, Joy Elizabeth Castro, Lorraine Lopez, Amelia M.L. Montes.  Time:  1:45p.m. Where:  Sheraton Boston(room: Liberty C)3.    Thursday,January 3rd, María Cotera, Olga Herrera, Lorraine Lopez, and RicardoL. Ortiz will be speaking on “Teaching Chicana/o Literature in a Latina/oContext.” Time:  5:15p.m.Where:  Sheraton Boston (room:Independence East)
These are justthree of a number of Chicana/Chicano and Latina/Latino panels offered at theMLA this year.  Check out the 2013program:  CLICK HERE. 
Thankful!
New York City!

2013 will be mythird year since being diagnosed with Diabetes. Not too long ago, a friend Ihadn’t seen in a while told me how sorry she was that I had Diabetes.  Without skipping a beat, I immediatelysaid, “I’m not!  I’m thankful!”  I couldn’t have said that even a yearago. A significant change had to take place and education is the key. During my first year of diagnosis, it was tough trying to figure out what to eat, how to manage all the various facets of this disease.  Just figuring out a work schedule with added time for exercise was quite challenging. 
Diabetes hasgiven me the opportunity to delve into the workings of the body, to understandthe metabolic function of the pancreas, to think about living my life in ways Inever thought about before—mindfully, creatively.  I have a heightened awareness of  how our U.S. food industry has kept us from the truth: that sugar,not fat, makes us sick.  This month's issue of Mother Jones features the article, “Big Sugar’s Sweet Little Lies:  How the Industry Kept Scientists from Asking:  Does Sugar Kill?” , a carefully researched (included is a timeline from 1934-2012revealing the sugar industry take-over of our U.S. diet) and clearlyarticulated explanation on how we’ve been duped into thinking non-fat processedfoods are better than fat. The truth: “non-fat” and even some “low fat” products are more often than notinjected with sugar and depleted of fat. Fat does not cause obesity. Sugar causes obesity. Another fact:  cancer cells needsugar (carbohydrates) to grow and multiply.  The more sugar, the happier a cancer cell will be.   

As a nation, andwithin our Chicana/Chicano and Latina/Latino communities, it’s going to take along time to make significant dietary changes because the sugar industry is assolidly stationed within our grocery stores, as the tobacco industry had been(and still continues to be although not as strongly).  I don’t know yet, what will break the hold on our mindsetand diets, especially because sugar is so very addictive. Sugar is a drug.  Just ask people to stop eating it, andyou will receive very strong reactions. It’s very very difficult. And then, of course, there is the challenge to exercise.  How to take the time to keep the bodymoving so the pancreas will be stimulated to function?  Diet and exercise are vital to thelowering of glucose numbers. 
For the past twoyears, I have led a Diabetes Support Book Group and the members in the grouphave been able to manage their glucose levels successfully by sharing storiesand recipes.  We share ournot-so-good days (and there are many) and we also share our successful moments (and there are also many of these).  We bring to the group delicious lowcarbohydrate dishes to try and we also discuss our doctor visits.  We talk about our exercise.  Research has shown that support groupsare extremely helpful.  Maybe youwould like to begin your own support group in 2013. 
Thankful that after three years ofreading, researching, writing about Diabetes, I can tell you that I have madefriends with my imperfect pancreas. I can tell you that I’m not afraid of this disease anymore like I waswhen I was younger and watched my aunts and uncles go blind, lose limbs, go onkidney dialysis, etc. I am thankful that there is much more informationavailable to me and the information continues to pour in as more medical researchers (who are not affiliated with pharmaceutical companies or the sugar industry) are conducting important experiments/analyses to seek out answers.  We know much more about this disease, about how ourpancreas works, about how we can manage it on our own than we did even 10, 20 years ago. Testing your blood is so much a part of the management, yet glucose strips remain quite expensive, especially for those without health benefits. This must change.  The only way an individual with Diabetes will know if glucose levels in the bloodstream are too high or too low is too test.  It's impossible to judge glucose levels by how one feels on a daily basis. Testing also helps when you're trying new foods or your usual routine is interrupted.  As mentioned, I have been traveling cross-country and some of these days have been more challenging than others (not being able to say "no" to homemade buttered croissants at a holiday gathering, sitting more than usual due to travel days). At times, I've had to compensate by walking up and down stairs or running/walking in place. 

I am thankful to friends and familia who have helped me (or been patient) through mood changes due to Diabetes.  When first diagnosed, I had no idea how powerfully glucose fluctuations directly affect one's mood.  And those of you with Diabetes know what I'm talking about. The terms "sugar high" and "sugar crash" are in our vocabulary because most everyone has experienced glucose fluctuations.  The problem with having an impaired pancreas is that it can take much longer to recover from that "high" or "crash." Sometimes the "high" or "crash" is not due to eating sweets/too many carbohydrates.  It could be a stressful day, lack of sleep, or illness that will affect glucose levels.  Meditation can be quite helpful here along with diet and exercise.  The best gift you can give to your loved ones/your friends is to become aware of your body, monitor where you are chemically, and let people know if you're having a bad day.  Diabetes does not give us permission to behave badly and then simply blame it on the disease.  
I am thankfulfor David Mendosa, a freelance medical writer, advocate, and consultantspecializing in Diabetes.  He hasthe largest and most comprehensive website on Diabetes and if you e-mail him,he will reply.  (CLICK HERE for his website)  David's articles on managing diabetes while traveling have certainly helped.  

I am thankful for my sister, Emma Franco, whose experience and expert knowledge of the disease assisted me from the moment of diagnosis. Gracias dear sister for your help and support, for morning walks, for answering all my questions, for continued discussions.

I am thankful to mis padres who accompany me on short walks for their own health as well as mine.  This 2013th year, mi papa will be 96 and mi mama will be 90.  Orale.

Emma, Amelia, Joseph Montes (mi mama y papa!)
I am thankful to my daughter, Nancy, who was exercising much before I began an exercise regimen.  Thank you for your commitment to exercise, meditation, yoga.  It is always a joy to walk/spend time with you.  Gracias for you!  
Amelia & daughter Nancy Wolff
I am thankful toMary Jo Kringas, the creator of ChocoPerfection bars.  These are chocolate bars that were voted the best tastingsugar free chocolate:  milkchocolate, dark chocolate, almond covered chocolate, mint chocolate bars.  They have saved me when I’m atparties/gatherings where sweets are plentiful or when I want a sweet snack.  Thank you Mary Jo!  (CLICK HERE for the ChocoPerfection website)
In 1958, therewere 1.5 million people with Diabetes in the U.S.  In 2010, the number jumped to 18.8 million prompting theCenter for Disease Control (CDC) to call it an epidemic.  Today (just 2 years later), the CDCreports that 26 million have Diabetes with an estimated 79 million havingprediabetes.  We know that Chicanasand Chicanos/Latinas and Latinos have higher rates of the disease. I believe wecan get these rates down with education, with activism.  We want the best for our gente:  healthy and affordable food ideas,access to various exercise possibilities, and guidance.  If someone is working towardhealthy eating, good exercise, support them. Encourage each other!  
New York friends/familia:  Amelia M.L. Montes, Danielle Abrams, Barbara Schulman

Los Angeles familia: Querida Pat Alderete and Amelia M.L. Montes
I am thankfulfor you, dear La Bloga readers and wish the very best for you in 2013. I wishfor you important moments connecting with friends/familia, enjoying so many Chicana/Chicano and Latina/Latino writings published in 2012 and that will soon be published in 2013, delicious eating, enjoyable exercise, quiet meditation, significant writing and creative time, leading toa very healthy 2013.  Abrazos!

New Year

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A short story by Daniel Olivas

            “Shedoesn’t have to know, right?”            Claudio held thereceiver hard against his left ear as he caressed the granite by the kitchensink with his right hand.  His fingerswere still moist with perspiration from his workout.  Claudio rubbed the smooth cool granite thatwas interrupted periodically and randomly with miniature canyons that dippeddown far enough to avoid the polisher’s tool. His eyes traveled over its dappled black and tan surface following animaginary line from his fingertips to the bone white lip of the porcelainKohler sink.  Claudio remembered choosingthe granite with his wife several years ago after the Northridge quake.  They were forced to live in “corporate”housing for three long hot summer months courtesy of their Aetna policy.  Their contractor had visited them at theirtemporary home schlepping six different granite samples.  He laid the small chunks of stone on theorange carpeting like they were diminutive Monets.  His name was Lionel—a former soap operaactor, or so he said—who decided on a complete change of lifestyle seven yearsearlier immediately after he and his second wife split up.  An attorney in Claudio’s office swore byhim.  Lionel’s black curly hair and sharptanned features looked too planned and he dressed better than any of the othercontractors they had interviewed.  Heproved to have a great eye for design but, as Claudio and Lois eventuallylearned, he stumbled a bit in the execution. Lionel stood by the granite samples, one hand on his hip, the other athis chin, and he hummed a nervous little tune.            “Well,” Lionel hadsaid after the silence got to him, “which will it be?”  Luckily, Claudio and Lois have similaresthetic sensibilities so they chose the same sample almost simultaneously bothpointing with their right index fingers. Lionel exclaimed in an overly dramatic voice, “Lovely!  I would have chosen the same piece.”            Claudio quicklyswitched the receiver and pushed it against his right ear even harder.  “I mean, look, she shouldn’t have toknow.  Right?  I mean, where does it get any of us?  It isn’t really necessary, is it?”            As the woman’s voicestarted again, he looked out the kitchen window.  The cawing grew louder and harsher.  Claudio never saw the bird but he knew it wasa crow because his father identified its call when they first moved out to thewest end of the San Fernando Valley ten years ago.  The whole family had come over for ahousewarming.            “Mijo,” his father hadsaid.  “Sounds like you got a big ol’crow living in one of those trees in back. They’re such noisy and mean birds.” His father took a sip from his can of Coors and added:  “I hate crows.”            “Me, too, Pop,”Claudio had answered though he never really thought about it before.  Now, ten years after his father’s pronouncementand his unthinking agreement, he did indeed hate crows.  Especially the one who wouldn’t shut up justthen.            The woman’s voicestopped.  Claudio said, “Okay, then.  We’re in agreement.”  After a pause, a few more words and then acurt good-bye, he hung up letting out a long breath of air.  “Goddamn her,” he said softly, almostgently.  He headed to the refrigeratorand scanned the bottom shelf.  He stoodthere mesmerized by the bottles and cans of Snapple, Diet Coke and various fruitjuices in small rectangular boxes that his son loved.  Claudio suddenly felt dizzy fromdehydration.  He grabbed a Snapple PeachTea.á´¥            Earlier that morning,Claudio woke at six o’clock with the obnoxious shrill buzz of his combinationtelephone, AM/FM radio and alarm clock, the Chronomatic-300 sold under theRadio Shack label.  His wife, Lois,bought it for Claudio’s thirty-eighth birthday last year.  It was a thoughtful and useful gift but hegrew to hate that damn buzzer.  Lois wasalready showered and stood in front of her sink with a white towel wrappedaround her head like the strolling Turk on the Hills Brothers coffee can.  She wore her delicate floral cotton robe andbrushed her teeth with a Braun electric toothbrush.  He sat up at the edge of their bed and rubbedhis face while listening to the soft hum of the Braun.            “Morning,” he said.            Lois didn’t turnaround but answered with a muffled noise and a nod of her head.  She turned off the toothbrush and spat intothe sink.            “Morning, sweetheart,”she answered.  Lois then turned andlooked in the general direction of her husband but because she didn’t have hercontacts in yet, all she saw was a blur.            It was Friday and thatmeant that Claudio could work at home.  Acouple of years ago, they purchased a computer, laser printer and fax machineso that Claudio could telecommute at least once a week because his normalcommute to downtown was pretty God-awful. So was Lois’ but her office didn’t believe in telecommuting.  But, because Claudio worked for thegovernment, his employer had an institutional bias in favor of parent-friendlyflexible work hours and anti-smog programs. So, if he didn’t have to be in court on Friday, he could work on hisbriefs in peace and quiet at home and check his voicemail every so often whenhe needed a break from the computer.            Claudio went to hisson’s room but he wasn’t there.  He thenheard muffled voices from the downstairs TV so he walked to the staircase.  As he went down, the sounds of Scooby Doo became clearer.  Before going to the den, he headed out to thedriveway to get the Los Angeles Times.  It was chilly and a bit foggy.  The week and a half between Rosh Hashanah andYom Kippur had been particularly difficult this year.  Claudio reached down and grabbed thepaper.  As he stood up, he saw hisneighbor across the street reach down and get her paper.  She was wearing a short nightshirt thatexposed plump and very white legs.  Whatwas her name?  She gave birth to a babygirl a month ago and she complained that she would never get her figure backthough she really never had one in the first place.  Claudio waved and she looked up, clearlyembarrassed by her outfit.  She wavedwithout a smile and scurried back into her house slapping her fleshy bare feeton the dew-covered cement.            Claudio went back inand headed to the den to check on his son. Jonathan still wore his Goosebumps glow-in-the-dark pajamas and was, asusual, doing several things at once: as he looked up to the TV every so often tokeep track of Scooby Doo’s exploits hunting ghosts, he was using his kid’sscissors to cut an old T-shirt to make a cape for his new Spider-Man that hisGrandma bought him and, every few minutes, he reached over to his box of applejuice perched on several books on the floor and took a drink from a tiny straw.            “Morning, mijo,”Claudio said.            Jonathan just staredat the TV.            “I said, good morning,Jon.”  Claudio grew annoyed.  Still, Jonathan didn’t answer.  Finally Claudio put himself between the TVand Jonathan and said again:  “Good morning,I said.”            This broke Jonathan’strance and he looked up to his father.  “Goodmorning, Papa.”            Claudio reached downand kissed his son’s hair.  It smelledlike blueberries from Aussie Land Blue Mountain Shampoo.  Jonathan’s hair was soft, straight and darkblond like Lois, but his skin resembled Claudio’s and had an olive glow aboutit.  He had long dark eyelashes like hisfather.            “Jon, I’m making PopTarts for you.  What kind do you want?”            After a moment ofcontemplation, Jonathan said, “One strawberry, and one cinnamon.  And cut them up in funny pieces.”            “And?”            Jonathan lookedpuzzled.  “That’s all.  And milk, too.”            Claudio looked at hisson and said again:  “And?”            Finally, Jonathan gotit.  “And, thank you Papa.”            Getting the answer hewanted, Claudio walked to the kitchen and got his son’s breakfast ready and gotthe coffee going, too.  Lois came downand pulled a bowl out of the cabinet and poured some Quaker Oats granola.  She opened the refrigerator and said, “Honey,you gotta’ get some milk tonight.  We’realmost out.”á´¥            Theirroutine that morning was well set.  Theyate breakfast, each glued to their respective portions of the newspaper: Loisread the movie reviews in the Calendar section, Jonathan earnestly workedthrough the funnies, and Claudio scanned the front page.  After putting her bowl and coffee mug intothe sink, Lois went upstairs and threw down their son’s clothes and then wentto finish doing her hair.  Claudio madeJonathan’s lunch and then went up to put on some sweats, a ragged StanfordT-shirt, and his cross-trainers while their son got dressed, made his bed andthen brushed his teeth with a miniature version of his mother’s Braun electrictoothbrush.  Lois kissed them good-byeand left first.  Within ten minutes—atexactly seven forty-five—Claudio loaded his son and his son’s Star Warsbackpack into their Honda Accord and headed towards school.  They chatted about silly things and listenedto “The Wave”—the local soft jazz station—during the seven-minute drive.            Asthey entered the school’s driveway, the teachers signaled the cars to keep onmoving after dropping off the children. Jonathan pointed to one of the teachers and said, “She’s Mrs.Horowitz.  I hate her.  She has really bad breath and she breathes onall the children.”            “Maybeshe’s a nice person with bad breath,” said Claudio trying not to laugh.  He made it his quest to teach his son thatyou have to look deeper into people to really know them.  “Maybe she doesn’t know that she needs tobrush more.  Or, maybe she needs tofloss.”            “Oh,she knows she has bad breath.  She’s meanso she doesn’t care.”            WhenClaudio could stop safely, he unlocked the doors with the master switch andsaid, “I love you.”  Jonathan said, “Ilove you, too,” and opened the door and dragged his backpack behind him.  Claudio locked the doors and headed to theexit as he changed the radio station to hear the news on NPR.  There was something about the ethnicAlbanians.  Claudio didn’t understandwhat was going on over there even though he knew that he should care more.  But he decided that he simply couldn’t listento that story right then so he pushed the button preset for KUSC.  Ah, Bach. The Goldberg Variations.            Claudio drove north onShoup and then turned right on Sherman Way.  He aimed his car to the Spectrum Club for hisusual half-hour on the recumbent stationary bicycle and half-hour with theweight machines.  As he turned into theparking lot, he tried to decide whether to bring the paperback edition of Bless Me, Ultima or the latest Ploughshares to read whilepedaling.  Claudio always kept books andliterary journals stashed in the armrest and glove compartments so that henever lacked for reading material.  Hedecided on Anaya’s book.  When he majoredin English back in the late ‘70s, Chicano writers weren’t studied the way theywere now.  So, last year, Claudio made alist of classic Chicano authors to read like Anaya, Morales and Rechy and thenhe added the “newer” ones like Cisneros, Soto and Villaseñor.            He slid his car into aspot, turned off the motor, pulled the paperback out of the armrest compartmentand stuffed it into his gym bag.  Claudiogot out and locked his car and walked slowly to the entrance of the club.  He felt stiff.  At the front desk, he handed his membershipcard to a young woman who wore a gleaming white uniform Polo shirt with a largenametag that said DONNA.  She smiled andexposed large and very straight white teeth that matched her shirt.  Donna stared at Claudio with translucent blueeyes            “Got your braces off,”said Claudio realizing that she wanted him to notice.  A tall skinny young man, another gymemployee, leaned against the wall near Donna and glowered.            Donna smiled evenwider.  “Yes,” and she looked down at hismembership card, “Claudio.”  Donna swipedthe membership card through a narrow plastic trough and the computer let out alittle beep.  She then leaned forward onthe counter and brought her face closer to Claudio’s.  She smelled like almonds and honey.  “I was totally sick of them but now, youknow, it was totally worth it.”            Claudio smiled.  “Yes. You look nice.”            Donna bounced a littleon her toes and tossed her blond hair away from her face.  “Have a good work out, Claudio,” and shehanded the card back to him letting it linger in Claudio’s palm beforereleasing it.            “Thank you.”  Claudio headed to the locker room to dump hisbag and glasses in a locker before going to the weight room.  By this hour, there wasn’t much of acrowd.  Claudio shuffled by an obeseolder man who stood naked, hands on his hips and legs spread in a pyramid likeBalzac, while an electric wall dryer blew his sparse stringy white hair into afrenzy.  The man’s belly hung so low thathis private parts were not visible. Claudio quickly averted his eyes, found a locker at the far end of theroom and put his bag and glasses away. He snapped shut the lock, looped the key on his right shoelace andtrotted to the weight room taking a different route to avoid the fat naked man.  Once out of the locker room, Claudio slowedand walked the long hallway of racquetball courts, his head hanging down.  He came to several older men and women whowere laughing.            “Beat the shit out ofthose two little punks,” snorted a man who looked like the little guy on theMonopoly cards but without the top hat and tails.  “Didn’t know who he was messin’ with,” and heshook his fists from side-to-side like a bear showing his strength.  The younger vanquished couple slunk awaytowards the showers.            “Yes, sweetheart,”said a short stout woman whose plump legs were covered with a maze of spiderveins.  “We showed him and hisgirlfriend.”            “What do you mean ‘we,’white woman?” her husband answered and their two other friends burst outlaughing.            Claudio tried to passthem but they blocked the way.  “Excuseme,” he said still holding his head down.            “Sorry,” said theMonopoly man.  “Didn’t see you with yourhead down so low.  Cheer up.  Can’t be that bad, can it?”            Claudio looked up andsmiled a small smile in appeasement just so he could pass without getting intoa conversation.  He learned that theretired people who used the gym loved to talk it up with anyone because theydidn’t have to get to work.  Claudiosmelled stale perspiration and some kind of medicated ointment.            “Now, that’s better,”said the Monopoly man’s wife and they let Claudio pass.  In a few moments, he got to the safety of theweight room, grabbed a little towel from a plastic shelf and wandered over tothe stationary bicycles.  Since theremodeling after the Spectrum Club bought out Racquetball World, everything wasnewer but in a different place.  Claudioliked the greater variety of weight machines but hated learning a new floordesign.  He looked at the six stationarybikes.  The one to the far left by theStairMasters was occupied by a stroke victim and his trainer.  The stroke victim looked as though his bodywas once a magnificent specimen of strength and agility.  Now, his left side dragged and he used acane.  The trainer said, “Good, Howie,good!  You’re moving way better thismorning!  Pedal, pedal, pedal!”  The trainer was probably a sophomore orjunior in college.  His flattop made himlook like a Marine and he had a serpent tattoo on his right forearm.  Howie pedaled slowly staring up at one of thefive large TV screens that hung suspended from the ceiling.  He didn’t acknowledge his trainer’s presenceand wore what appeared to be a sneer on his face though the expression couldhave been the result of the stroke.  Whenthe trainer wasn’t around, Howie liked to flirt with the young women.            Claudio approached thebicycles.  A very thin woman pedaled onthe one to the far right.  Large splashesof perspiration covered three of the four unoccupied bicycles.  Claudio chose the dry one near the thinwoman.  He adjusted the seat, chose theprogram, set it for thirty minutes, opened his paperback and started pedaling.            After a few minutes,Claudio felt the thin woman staring at him but he kept his eyes on hisbook.  Finally, the woman said, “Excuseme.”            Claudio turned, “Yes?”            “Could you dosomething about that noise?”  Claudionoticed that the young woman was so thin and white that he could see whatappeared to be most of her circulatory system throughout her face, neck andshoulders like algae-filled canals.  Shereminded him of those pictures of Auschwitz and he wondered if she had canceror an eating disorder.  Perspirationrained from her face and arms.  Claudioworried that there’d soon be nothing left but her tiny tank top, shorts, andNikes sitting in a pool of liquid.            “What noise?” saidClaudio.            She shifted in herseat and looked annoyed.  “Yourshoe.  The plastic tip on your shoelacekeeps hitting your bike as you pedal and it makes a noise.”            Claudio hadn’t noticedthe sound before the woman mentioned it. “And?” he asked betraying a less than charitable tone.            “Can you please stopit?”            Claudio took a deepbreath and tried not to get angry.  “Okay.”  He stopped pedaling, double knotted theoffending shoelace and started pedaling again. No more noise.            “Thanks,” she saidwith a smile.            “Don’t mention it,”Claudio answered and he tried to find his place in the book.á´¥            After working out,Claudio came home and walked slowly into the den from the garage when he heardthe phone ringing.  He hurried and got toit before the answering machine picked up.            “Hello,” he said stillout of breath from his workout.            “Oh, hi.  It’s Doctor Kayess.”  She had a heavy and deep voice punctuatedwith an Israeli accent that didn’t match her petite body and elegant face.  She couldn’t have been more than twenty-eightyears old.            “Hello, Doctor.  A belated Happy New Year.”  Claudio tore a sheet from the roll of ScottTowels that stood on the counter and wiped his forehead.  Though he had converted from Catholicism tenyears ago, he still felt ill at ease with the Jewish calendar and didn’t wantto sound foolish.            “L’Shona Tova,” sheanswered half-heartedly.            The crow started tocaw and Claudio looked out the window vainly trying to spot it.  “Do you have any news?” he asked as he pushedto one side several of the plastic vertical blinds.            “Yes,” shestarted.  “Yes, the tests came back.  Should I call your wife at work?”            Claudio sighed.  “No, she said that you could tell me if youcalled here.”            On Rosh Hashanah, Loismiscarried for the fifth time.  Eachtime, she carried for only eight or nine weeks. Getting pregnant wasn’t an issue. Keeping it became the battle.  Dr.Kayess and her older partner, Dr. Mizrahi, also an Israeli, had run everyimaginable test on Lois and Claudiobut they produced no answers.  The teamhad come very highly recommended from two moms at their son’s school who hadtried to have babies for years but couldn’t get pregnant until they went tothese doctors.  Dr. Mizrahi was aboutfifty, trim and dapper, with a medical degree from UCLA and a very kinddemeanor.  Dr. Kayess studied at Harvardbut, because of her youth, she still had not mastered the nuances of thedoctor-patient relationship.  Lois’miscarriages stymied both doctors.  Butthis time, they had some fetal tissue from the DNC and ran some tests.  Was there an anomaly in the DNA?  Maybe they would have some answers.            “Well, the tissue cameback normal.”            “Oh,” Claudio said ashe threw away the sopped paper towel in the trash can under the sink.  “Anything else?”            “Yes.  Though she was only eight weeks along, weknow that it was a girl.”            Claudio suddenlystiffened his back and looked up to the ceiling.  It was as though an unseen attacker hadshoved a long knife between his shoulder blades and held it there just foremphasis.            Claudio took a deepbreath trying not to raise his voice.  “Shedoesn’t have to know, right?”            There was silence onthe other end.  Doctor Kayess stumbled onher words.  “I’m so—so—sorry.”            “I mean, look, sheshouldn’t have to know.  Right?  I mean, where does it get any of us?  It isn’t really necessary, is it?”  He looked down to the piles of medical billsand insurance statements that covered a full third of the kitchen counter.            “You mean the gender,right?” she said.            “It would be devastating.  We’ve been hoping for a girl.  We even know that we’d name her Rachel.  There’s no reason for her to know that welost a girl.  Unless that’s part of whatyou need to tell her for a complete consultation.”            There wassilence.  Finally, she said, “She doesn’thave to know.  I’m very sorry.  Have her call me so that we can set up anappointment and we can talk about your options.”            Claudio said, “Okay,then.  We’re in agreement.”            “Yes.”  Her voice sounded very small as though shefelt stupid and inexperienced.            “Thank you, Doctor,”Claudio said and hung up.  “Goddamn her.”  But he didn’t mean it.            The crow’s sharpsquawking grew louder and he looked out the window again searching for it.  The morning fog already burned off and thebright sun blinded him momentarily.  Thefig and lemon trees displayed deep green leaves though one of the six cypressesthat lined the back wall and was dying from some kind of orange fungus.  They had to get a tree doctor out there,sometime.  Claudio finally gave up resignedto the fact that he would never see the creature that tormented him.  He moved his hand from the vertical blindsand they waved back and forth making a hollow clacking sound.  Claudio slowly walked over to therefrigerator to get something to drink.
[“New Year” is featured in Assumption and Other Stories (Bilingual Press, 2003).]

Best Poems of 2012

To contact us Click HERE
Twenty-thirteen, Day One

Michael Sedano
Twenty-twelve with three seconds remaining.

La Bloga sends you wishes for vigorous health and awesome opportunities in the new year. 
In support of which, forthwith find suitably pithy epigrams upon which to hang sundry new year's thoughts:
You deserve more, and that's up to you. 
View "problems" as opportunities; this way you'll find ways to fix what's not satisfactory and define your own outcomes.
Have a plan, work the plan. If you fail, understand why, rather than win accidentally without a clue.
If you don't know where you're going, any which road will take you there.
With the right tools, you can do anything.
It's the "U" in "fun" that counts.

Here's to everyone having something like what I'm enjoying the last day of the year, a six year-old blowing streams of mocos out both nostrils and laughing joyously, her cold broken and robust health coming back, right on time for the new year.

La Bloga On-Line Floricanto Best Poems of 2012
Tara Evonne Trudell, Ramón Piñero, Odilia Galván Rodríguez, John Martinez, Andrea Mauk, Andrea Hernandez Holm, Devreaux Baker, Victor Avila, Francisco X. Alarcón, Nancy Aide Gonzalez, Sharon Elliott, Elena Díaz Bjorkquist, Sonia Gutiérrez, Carmen Calatayud, Hedy Garcia Treviño, Claudia D. Hernández


“Border Song” by Tara Evonne Trudell
“They Have Names” by Ramón Piñero
“Poem 6 ~ Being A Border” by Odilia Galván Rodríguez
“Words Can Set The Meter of Healing” by John Martinez
“Mudos Across the Ocean Divide” by Andrea Mauk
“Not Enough-Too Much” by Andrea Hernandez Holm
“Recipe for Peace” by Devreaux Baker
“A House Full of Light (Psalm 1000)” by Victor Avila
“Ultimate Migrants: Monarch Butterflies’ Life Mantra / Migrantes por excelencia: Bio-mantra de las mariposas monarca” by Francisco X. Alarcón
“Tapestry of Dawn” by Nancy Aide Gonzalez
“The Day of Little Comfort” by Sharon Elliott
“Calling Forth the Seeds of Winter” by Elena Díaz Bjorkquist
"Herencia / Legacy" by Sonia Gutiérrez
"Commitment Otra Vez" by Carmen Calatayud
"Walking on the Shards of Broken Dreams" by Hedy Garcia Trevino
“Tejiendo la niebla" por Claudia D. Hernández


Border Song
By Tara Evonne Trudell

will I be
the border song
you sing
against
rusty tall
fences
will I be
the warm
flesh
you ache
to feel
in cold
distances
will humanity
ever comprehend
how deep
brown
can feel
so many years
suppressing
generations
taking fear
and crafting it
to the masses
keeping souls
trapped
in far away
places
continual stealing
taking earth
and
killing her people
will children die
playing sticks
and stones
growing
into living
a walking dead
society
tireless ancestors
spirits fighting
revolutions
over and over
in an America
that doesn't care
to question
will I be
your
last border
song?




They Have Names
By Ramón Piñero

“No one asked their names.”
So screams the headlines
throughout the
Arab world
We know just
that nineteen
were killed
this time;

We did
not count the
last time
the last
time
we said this
would be the
last time

No one asked their names;
they almost never do
they are expendable
fodder for the cannons
of
war

One side
point’s fingers
we excuse it
‘cause after all
it had to be a rough
going back
one time
two times
three times
who could have?
would have thought
that war and violence
has no reset button

when you’re dead
you stay dead
no health bars
no extra lives
in this video
game version
of mans’ oldest
folly; yes
the oldest
profession
on steroids

no one asked their names
so screams the headlines
through the Arab world
as it should scream out
throughout this world.

The dead were:
Mohamed Daewood
Khudaydad
Nazar Mohamed
Payendo
Robeenna

the other dead
included:

Yesenia Briseño
Trayvon Martin

all children
or women
all inocentes

The dead were:
Shatarina
Zahra
Nazia
Mazooma

the other dead
included:
those travelers
on the
Trail of Tears
Bataan
those in the
cargo holds
of slave ships
thrown overboard
worked to death
without a name
to their name.

The dead were:
Farida
Palwasha
Nabia
Esmatullah

The dead also
included:
those babies
in Appalachia
the Sonoran desert
those killed
by the Zeta and
Sinaloa Cartels.

The dead were:
Faizullah
Essa Mohamed
Aktar Mohamed

in this
make believe
war where only
the other
dies

where only we
deserve
justice
and all
else
“unfortunate and
unforeseen”

how many times
can you
ask a
man to kill
without killing
the man in him

no one asked
their names
to be added
to a dustbin
of
forgotten
massacres;

My Lai
Ponce
Tlatelolco
Rwanda
Birkenbau
footnotes in
history

Rivera
Jones
Mohammed
Brieseño
Martin
and the
hundreds
and
hundreds
more,
all names
etched forever
in my memory
etched forever
in my heart.




Poem 6 ~ Being A Border
By Odilia Galván Rodríguez

I've been here all of my life
on the edge of this or that
a bridge between my people
crossing people
they come to me
to enter more worlds
than I can even fathom
all I am is a border
something of a fence sitter
except in my case I am not neutral
I take both sides, I am from and for
both sides, yes
I live the in-betwixt and in-between
I am the center and the balance
I see good and bad
at every turn
at every crossroads
and every crossing is a ritual
what do you offer to enter?
seven shiny dimes to the mother
of all mothers, of the salty waters
or nine pennies to the wind whisperer
the keeper of the last door we enter...
I've been here all of my life and
all I want to do is cross that line
myself, want to pass the torch
having now been totally scorched
by this playing at blind justice
is there really such a thing?
I think not.
someone always has to win
and someone loses
even if I know the secret
that losing you win
still, that's because
I'm a different kind of thinker
having the luxury or curse
of being from the middle
living on that fine line
between this or that
here or there
it's a fact
being a border is no fun
you have to let some in
and keep some out...
then all those
convoluted routes
people take to get here --
even when they know in their heart
it's not for them, and
they should've stayed put
they figure that out later
sometimes, when it's too damn late
but wait, why'd I let them in

in the first place?

oh yes, because it was a lesson...
lofty this job of mediator
border deity
job seems too big
too pretentious
somehow playing god
when all I really am
is a bad idea

I am a border
a door
a hoarder of hopes
of injustices
tucked inside promises
of new lives,
lives not new or better
simply different
I am a border
a line
una línea
a big lie.




WORDS CAN SET THE METER OF HEALING
By John Martinez

Para El Maestro, Francisco X. Alarcón


If I could give myself,
Without speaking,
To the suffering,
To the clenched body,
I’d give that part of me
That does not hate,
That does not want
When others
Cannot have

I’d give the song
That has no sadness.

If I could give
In silence,
Just a piece
Of myself,
To those who have lost
Everything to greed,
I’d give my soul,
All 21 grams

If I could give myself
Like a hush
To the mother,
Whose child
Weeps in the corridors
Of death, wanting to
Hold her like air,
I would give
My two hands,
Touch her face
With fingers of rain,
Assure her, with my eyes,
That he will be waiting
Near the fountain
With the others

If I could rise one day,
Knowing that pain
Is being lifted like a shawl
From the Countries
Beneath the boot
Of my U.S.A,
I would rise with
A greater love

Today, I have words,
Not guns,
Not the rabid teeth
Of a killer

I have words
That I can shout,
That I can throw
Like brown birds into
The audience,
Because these birds
Know the meaning
Of peace
And these words
Can push
A convoy of donkeys
Down an indigenous path,
With medicine to treat
The sick, the starving

Words yes words
Can set the meter
Of healing

If I could give myself,
Wholeheartedly,
To the suffering,
I would give myself
With words,
Words yes words
Can set the meter
Of healing



© 2012 John Martinez






Mudos Across the Ocean Divide
By Andrea Mauk

I shed the flag in which I'm draped
so I can see myself bare breasted
unadorned by donkey tails and elephant tusks.
I pluck the stars one by one
from the field of blue
and launch them out the window sill
wonder if they can still
fly
but they twirl back to earth
in a tailspin
and melt like snowflakes
as they touch down.

I come from an island
a goddess
of red, white and blue
Spain's last outpost,
one star, her voice
washes between
coastlines
loudly unheard,
testing ground
for the pill,
breeding ground of
beauty queens...
And here, we are hemming skirts
and stocking shelves
rolling up sleeves,
as they're trading coffee beans
and sugar cane
for tax-free trade
and tourism.
Would you like an umbrella with that?

I sew the stripes together
and wind them 'round me
walk to the nearest polling place
enthusiasm of a mummy,
close the curtain
and cast my net across the wide
froth of Atlantic blue
catch my fill of calamar
and octopus,
fry them up with
Green Party platano
but loving arms, tostones and tentacles aside,
I am awash in my own
milk and honey land,
they call me
that other kind
of Mexican (?)

I am not a slave but I am owned,
possessed like a noun
watched over by the eye
and the pyramid.
And I question the Goddess,
does she really want
to be a state
when the state of the nation
is unraveled, just broken
coming unglued
link by link
on the partisan spine
and the laborious backs,
to be owned by the
boardroom masters on the
87th floor?

I run down the stairs
out the front stoop
to gather the stars
that have yet to dissolve
upon the bodega's
sidewalk
place them in my eyes,
their sparkling hope
fleating,
let the ribbon of stripes sewn
red after white
fly towards home from the boardwalk
on this starless night,
send my voice
spinning out to sea,
a gift to those who stayed behind.

We are citizens both here and there.
We are mudos across the ocean divide,
our borders drawn by Poseidón.
We are peripheral,
between the shores.
I have given away my stars and stripes
left only with the yellow fringe
belted around my nakedness.
It doesn't really matter.
No one will even notice me
on this election eve.






Recipe For Peace
By Devreaux Baker

Bare your feet
roll up your sleeves
oil the immigrant's bowl
open the doors and windows of your house
invite in the neighbors
invite in strangers off the street
roll out the dough
add spices for a good life
cardamon and soul
cumin and tears
sesame and sorrow
add a dash of salt
pink as new hope
add marjaram and thyme
rub lemon grass and holy basil
on your fingers and pat the dough
bless the table
bless the bread
bless your hands and feet
bless the neighbors and strangers off the street
bake the bread for a century or more
on moderate heat
under the olive trees in your back yard
or on the sun filled stones of Syria
in the white rocks of Beirut
or behind the walls of Jerusalem
in the mountains of Afghanistan
and in the sky scrapers of New York
Feast with all the migrant tongues
until your mouth understands
the taste of many different homes
and your belly is full
so you fall asleep cradled
in the skirts of the world
in the lap of peace.




A House Full of Light (Psalm 1000)
By Victor Avila

I was born in a house
full of light.

In one where corners
have never known shadows.

I stand before windows
that have never known night.

I stare out its doors-
This house free of sorrow.

Yes, I was born in a house
full of light.

I grew up amid melodies
joyful,

that awoke me from the deepest
of slumber.

And the luminous voice,
perhaps of an angel

calmed every fear
and whispered remember-

You were born in this house
where one day is a thousand.

Here all time is sand
and each second eternal.

So come share these walls
for you are the Father's.

He knows you are here
and delights.

He welcomes you here
to his house full of light.




ULTIMATE MIGRANTS: MONARCH BUTTERFLIES’ LIFE MANTRA
By Francisco X. Alarcón

we defeat time, the cold
and all borders –we are
the ultimate migrants

thousands of miles
we fly North–South and East–West–
beauty is our might

the Sun guides our flight–
nothing can really stops us,
no even our short lives

to return to the land
where our great–grandparents
once emerge from

four generations
we undergo in a year —from eggs
to caterpillars

and then to pupa
to emerge from cocoons
as beautiful butterflies–

we are fearless
in our commitment to life
beyond our own lives–

we defeat time, the cold
and all borders –we are
the ultimate migrants


MIGRANTES POR EXCELENCIA: BIO-MANTRA DE LAS MARIPOSAS MONARCA
Por Francisco X. Alarcón

vencemos el tiempo
y toda frontera –somos migrantes
por excelencia

miles de millas volamos
del Norte al Sur y del Este al Oeste–
la belleza es nuestro poder

el Sol no guía–
nada puede pararnos,
ni nuestra corta vida

para volver a la tierra
de donde nuestros bisabuelos
emergieron

cuatro generaciones
pasamos en un año —de huevos
a orugas

luego a pupas
para del capullo emerger
como bellas mariposas—

no tenemos miedo
al compromiso a la vida
más allá de la propia–

vencemos el tiempo
y toda frontera —somos migrantes
por excelencia




Tapestry of Dawn
By Nancy Aidé González

Sun, summoning dawn
truth will come with portraits of consciousness
narratives of shelter

interlocked woven fabrics
find equilibrium
strings of transcendence in cosmos

beyond ancient knowledge alive
planets orbit echoing memory of universe
saffron stars manifest wholeness

nimbus treasures – rain
jaguars roam spirit realm
leave prints where

trees take root
in tierra firme
drawing humanity closer.




The Day of Little Comfort
By Sharon Elliott

the day of little comfort
and no food
began as any other day
the sun came up

pale
wistful
resting on the horizon
lifeless
there was no heat
radiating from its yellow eye

outside
the crows were quiet
sitting in echelons on telephone wires
like mourners in black babushkas
eyeing the humans below them
with sadness

green and growing things
struggling to push through concrete
dirt solid as granite
compacted by the soles
on hundreds of shoes
gave it up
nodded their two
or three
leafy shoots
and toppled over

she peeked outside the curtains
wondering why
there was so much silence
she hummed softly
a lullaby that soothed
her 6 year old heart
opened the window a crack
stuck her head out
into the full force of

nothing

where had all the creatures gone?
hiding
from her?
from them?
from what?

a low rumble began
like a ruined growl
deep in the throat of
an archangel
breathing holy asthma

a tree across the street
tried to hide
but the respiration resurrection
caught it in a lie
rattled its twigs and
leavings
bent it double
snapped it in half

she started to pray
a lonely supplication
too young to be heard
older than endless

she didn’t notice the rain
pouring wet blessings
into clandestine passages
full of people
catapaulted out
by invincible water
ejected by a depraved howitzer
spraying unsanctified bullets on the streets

her mother scrambled to close the window
was sucked out into the rain
fell from a great height
to splash into the villainous river
in the street

her father
rushed down the stairs
trying to save her mother
sank into the same torrent
they disappeared

she wondered
about where her breakfast would come from
who would tuck her into bed
when she should get ready for school
who would help her tie her shoes

and then

the lights went out




Calling Forth the Seeds of Winter
By Elena Díaz Bjorkquist

Dedicated to my Comadres of Sowing the
Seeds who endured the cold outside on
the porch at our last meeting!

In cold truth, Summer ends,
Seeds prepare to rest.
Something about that cold.
Things come out of it,
Settle in our writer’s heart.

Sun vanishes, temperature drops,
We endure head-clearing cold,
Recall, recognize, honor
The seeds of our wisdom’s harvest.

Winter winds like sacred voices
Call forth abundance,
A time to resurrect
Our natural creativity,
A joy for all.

Time to remember the gifts
From loved ones who’ve gone on.
Time to select seeds of wise actions
To plant for future harvest.

Cold and heat,
Summer and winter,
Seed time and harvest time,
Suggest a definite time of harvest.

But there's no fixed time for harvest,
We can call it forth at will.
The harvest is clear—memories
Reveal the lessons of what's passed.

We become aware,
Accept the creative power of now,
Conceptualize, visualize, energize
A world of beauty, good relationships.

The heart of awareness,
Is the dance of arising worlds,
Soul seeds planted in winter.




Herencia
Por Sonia Gutiérrez

for Poets Responding to SB 1070

Soy la lengua de Frida—vulgar
como la de mi abuela.

Y la punta del bolígrafo azul,
doblegando al papel callado.

También soy la flor de tuna,
asomándome por la madrugada.

Soy orejas de olla de barro, escuchando
el paladar de mis antepasados.

Mujer de cara redonda
como la tortilla de maíz y nopal.

Cuerpo de abeja punzante
de donde nace el mañana.

Y soy, por supuesto, letras armadas
con azadones arreando nuestro destino.

La mariposa sedienta, bebiendo
del sudor de una mano humedecida.

Soy las garras del jaguar, rasgando
las líneas esclavas del bufón de vista corta.

Soy la poeta que las leyes escupen muy lejos—
al exilio de los poetas.

Soy herencia—que pinta de mil matices
de verde a esta nuestra tierra natal.

Pero definitivamente soy una manita de puerco
si tu horquilla del diablo asoma su feo rostro.

A esos los vestimos de esqueletos
y los ponemos a bailar por las calles, eternamente.


Legacy
By Sonia Gutiérrez

for Poets Responding to SB 1070

I am Frida’s tongue—vulgar
like my grandmother’s.

And the tip of a blue ballpoint pen
kowtowing shy paper.

I am also the prickly pear flower
peering at dawn.

The ears of a clay pot, listening
to the palate of my ancestors.

A woman with a round face
like the corn and cactus tortilla.

Body of a throbbing bee
where tomorrow is born.

And I am, of course, armed letters
with hoes spurring our destiny.

The thirsty butterfly drinking
from the sweat of a moist hand.

I am the claws of the jaguar, tearing
the enslaved lines of the nearsighted fool.

I am the poet whom laws spit far away—
to the exile of poets.

I am legacy—who paints this our homeland
a thousand shades of green.

But I am most definitely an arm twist
if your devil’s pitchfork shows its ugly head.

To those, we dress up like skeletons
and make them dance through the streets, eternally.




Commitment Otra Vez
By Carmen Calatayud

For R.V.

Some generations ago,
you were a Zapatista
inside your great-grandmother’s
womb, black eye sockets of
revolution, carrying roses
with the pink blown out,
dando gritos in earshot
of the Americas.

But now your doubt
is strewn across the room
like petals from dead maravillas,
even in this space you rent
where spiritual warriors
pray for your country
and you can finally sleep
through the night.

Listen, amigo de los desamparados,
this is your time, again,
beyond gut-level fear
and black and white film:
The explosions just keep coming,
and you are chewing on history,
and never let it be said
that all you could do was cry.


Originally appeared as Split This Rock's Poem of the Week





Walking on the Shards of Broken Dreams
By Hedy Garcia Treviño

Walking on the shards of broken dreams
scattered voices call
from underneath the desert sand
where nothing grows
Lies still the seed of hope
Awaiting the furrow of the plow
unearthing hope that never sleeps
gaining strength from every storm
Lies still the seed of hope
Called forth by footsteps on the desert floor
keeping rythm with the heartbeat of the sun
comes forth the seed of hope




Tejiendo la niebla
Por Claudia D. Hernández

Descalzo uno emigra
a tierras extrañas

hay quienes no olvidan,

hay quienes se ensartan
su patria en el alma.

—La tierra no tiene fronteras
murmuran los pies reventados

las huellas que implantan
trasmiten nostalgia;

hay tierras calientes
que a veces se enfrían;

hay campos dorados
que tejen la niebla;

hay volcanes que arrojan
sus piedras de pomo.

Y uno aquí, escupiendo
cenizas en la lejanía

—La tierra no tiene fronteras
suspira la arboleda

El árbol exiliado no logra evitar
que su fruto florezca

¿Qué culpa tiene la almendra
que el viento la arrastre
y la engendre en tierras ajenas?



BIOS

Tara Evonne Trudell has resumed writing poetry after a break of almost ten years and is passionate about combining poetry and film to create a visual art form of her own. She is a mother of four children and raising them to be socially aware and conscious of the injustices that plague our society. This is a top priority of hers as a she rediscovers her own word in a world that only attempts to silence the Indigenous spirit. She advocates strongly on behalf of Earth and incorporates this into her poetry, film, and life as part of her love and commitment to give back and represent her own connection.

Ramón Piñero. Ex Bay Area poet living in the buckle of the Bible Belt, aka Florida. Where good little boys and girls grow up to be republicans who vote against their own interest. Father of three and Grandfather to six of the coolest kids ever.

Odilia Galván Rodríguez, poet/activist, writer and editor, has been
involved in social justice organizing and helping people find their
creative and spiritual voice for over two decades.  Her poetry has been
widely anthologized, and she is the author of three books. Her last editing
job was as the English edition editor of Tricontinental Magazine in Havana, Cuba.
Odilia is one of the founding members and a moderator of Poets
Responding to SB 1070 on Facebook.  She teaches creative writing
workshops nationally, currently at Casa Latina, and also co-hosts,
"Poetry Express" a weekly open mike with featured poets, in Berkeley,
CA. For more information about workshops see her blog http://xhiuayotl.blogspot.com/
or contact her at Red Earth Productions & Cultural Work 510-343-3693.

John Martinez studied Creative Writing at Fresno State University under Phillip Levine and has published poetry in El Tecolote, Red Trapeze and in The LA Weekly. Recently, he has posted poems on Poets Responding to SB1070 and this will be his 14th poem published in La Bloga. Martinez has performed (as a musician/political activist, poet) with Teatro De La Tierra, Los Perros Del Pueblo and TROKA, a Poetry Ensemble, lead by poet Juan Felipe Herrera. He has toured with several cumbia/salsa bands throughout the Central Valley and in Los Angeles and has just completed first book of Poems, PLACES. For the last 18 years, he has worked as an Administrator for a Los Angeles law firm. He makes his home in Upland, California, with he wife Rosa and four children.

Andrea García Mauk grew up in Arizona, where both the immense beauty and harsh realities of living in the desert shaped her artistic soul. She calls Los Angeles home, but has also lived in Chicago, New York and Boston. She has worked in the music industry, and on various film and television productions. She writes short fiction, poetry, original screenplays and adaptations, and is currently finishing two novels. Her writing and artwork has been published and viewed in a variety of places such as on The Late, Late Show with Tom Snyder; The Journal of School Psychologists and Victorian Homes Magazine. Both her poetry and artwork have won awards. Several of her poems and a memoir are included in the 2011 anthology, Our Spirit, Our Reality, and her poetry is featured in the 2012 Mujeres de Maiz “‘Zine.” She is a regular contributor to Poets responding to SB 1070. Her poems have been chosen for publication on La Bloga’s Tuesday Floricanto numerous times. She is also a moderator of Diving Deeper, an online workshop for writers, and has written extensively about music, especially jazz, while working in the entertainment industry. Her production company, Dancing Horse Media Group, is currently in pre-production of her independent film, “Beautiful Dreamer,” based on her original screenplay and manuscript, and along with her partners, is producing a unique cookbook that blends healthful recipes with poetry and prose from the community.

Devreaux Baker is a Pushcart Prize nominee and winner of the 2011 PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Poetry Prize for her book; Red Willow People. She is the recipient of the 2012 Hawaii Council of Humanities International Poetry Prize, and the Women’s Global Leadership Initiative Poetry Award. Her poetry fellowships include a MacDowell Fellowship, the Hawthornden Castle International Fellowship, three California Arts Council Awards and the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation Fellowship. She has published three books of poetry; Red Willow People, Beyond the Circumstance of Sight, and Light at the Edge and conducted poetry workshops in France and Mexico. She has taught poetry in the schools with the CPITS Program and produced the Voyagers Radio Program of original student writing for KZYX Public Radio.

Victor Avila is an award-winning poet.  Two of his poems were recently included in the anthology Occupy SF-Poems From the Movement.  Victor has taught in California public schools for over twenty years.

Francisco X. Alarcón, Chicano poet and educator, is the author of thirteen volumes of poetry, including, Snake Poems: An Aztec Invocation  (Chronicle Books 1992), recipient of the 1993 Pen Oakland Josephine Miles Award, From the Other Side of Night: Selected and New Poems (University of Arizona Press 2002). His latest book is Ce•Uno•One: Poems for the New Sun (Swan Scythe Press 2010). His most recent book of bilingual poetry for children is Animal Poems of the Iguazú (Children’s Book Press 2008). He teaches at the University of California, Davis. He created the Facebook page, POETS RESPONDING TO SB 1070: http://www.facebook.com/PoetryOfResistance

Nancy Aidé González is a Chicana poet who lives in Lodi, California. She graduated from California State University, Sacramento with a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature in 2000. Her work has appeared in Calaveras Station Literary Journal, La Bloga, Everyday Other Things, Mujeres De Maiz Zine, La Peregrina and Huizache The magazine of Latino literature. She is a participating member of Escritores del Nuevo Sol, a writing group based in Sacramento, California which honors the literary traditions of Chicano, Latino, Indigenous and Spanish-language peoples. She attended Las Dos Brujas Writer’s Workshop in 2012.

Born and raised in Seattle, Sharon Elliott has written since childhood. Four years in the Peace Corps in Nicaragua and Ecuador laid the foundation for her activism. As an initiated Lukumi priest, she has learned about her ancestral Scottish history, reinforcing her belief that borders are created by men, enforcing them is simply wrong.

Elena Díaz Björkquist. “I have enjoyed being a moderator on Poets Responding to SB 1070 since its creation by Francisco and Odilia. It’s a pleasure opening poems and reading so many wonderful works, but always difficult to select the ones for La Boga’s Floricanto. I like being a friend and mentor to many great poets on Facebook. Reading poetry is an inspiration for writing my own poetry.”

A writer, historian, and artist from Tucson, Elena writes about Morenci, Arizona where she was born. She is the author of two books, Suffer Smoke and Water from the Moon. Elena is co-editor of Sowing the Seeds, una cosecha de recuerdos and Our Spirit, Our Reality; our life experiences in stories and poems, anthologies written by her writers collective Sowing the Seeds.

As an Arizona Humanities Council (AHC) Scholar, Elena has performed as Teresa Urrea in a Chautauqua living history presentation and done presentations about Morenci, Arizona for twelve years. She received the 2012 Arizona Commission on the Arts Bill Desmond Writing Award for excelling nonfiction writing and the 2012 Arizona Humanities Council Dan Schilling Public Humanities Scholar Award in recognition of her work to enhance public awareness and understanding of the role that the humanities play in transforming lives and strengthening communities. She was nominated for Tucson Poet Laureate in 2012.

Her website is at http://elenadiazbjorkquist.com/.

Sonia Gutiérrez is part of this generation of Chican@ poets of the New Sun. Sonia writes about pressing social issues that haunt her and demand our immediate attention. La Bloga’s On-line Floricanto is home to Sonia’s Poets Responding to SB 1070 poems, including “The Books”/“Los libros,” “Careful with the River”/“Cuidado con el río,” “Memografía”/“Memography,” “Mi bandera”/“My Flag,” “My Heart Is a Strawberry Field,” “The Passing,” and “La maza y cantera de una poeta”/“A Poet’s Mallet and Quarry” (10 Best Poems of 2011). Her bilingual poetry collection, Spider Woman/La Mujer Araña (Olmeca Press) is forthcoming in 2013. Sonia is at work on a novel, Kissing Dreams from a Distance, among other projects. Her website www.soniagutierrez.com is coming soon.

Carmen Calatayud's first poetry collection In the Company of Spirits was published in October 2012 as part of the Silver Concho Series by Press 53. In the Company of Spirits was a runner-up for the 2010 Walt Whitman Award from the Academy of American Poets. Her poetry has appeared in various journals and anthologies, including Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Cutthroat: A Journal of the Arts, Gargoyle, La Bloga, PALABRA: A Magazine of Chicano and Latino Literary Art, Red River Review and the anthology DC Poets Against the War. Carmen is a Larry Neal Poetry Award winner and recipient of a Virginia Center for the Creative Arts fellowship. She is a poet moderator for Poets Responding to SB 1070, a Facebook group that features poetry and news about Arizona’s controversial immigration law that legalizes racial profiling. Born to a Spanish father and Irish mother in the U.S., Carmen works and writes in Washington, DC

Hedy M. Garcia Treviño. Has written poetry since the age of eight. Her first poem came as a result of being punished for speaking Spanish in school. Her poetry has been published in numerous journal's and other publications. She has performed her poetry at numerous cultural events. She continues to write poetry, and inspires others to use the written word as a form of self discovery and personal healing. Hedy is also one of the moderators for Poets Responding to SB 1070.

Claudia D. Hernández was born and raised in Guatemala. She's a bilingual educator, poet, writer, photographer and translator in the city of Los Angeles. She's pursuing an MFA in creative writing at Antioch University Los Angeles. Her photography, poetry, and short stories have been published in: The Indigenous Sovereignty Issue of The Peak, Hinchas de Poesía, KUIKATL Literary Journal, nineteen-sixty-nine an Ethnic Studies Journal, Blood Lotus, REDzine, Kalyani Magazine, Along the River II Anthology, among others.

She’s currently working on a project titled: TODAY’S REVOLUTIONARY WOMEN OF COLOR. This is a yearlong project that will tentatively culminate on November 2013, with a walking photography exhibit and the publication of a photography book.

To stay updated with the latest interviews of these phenomenal women, please visit and ‘like’ TODAY’S REVOLUTIONARY WOMEN OF COLOR Facebook page @
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