62 minute read
ENVIRONMENTAL DISRUPTION
The fast fashion and thrifting trends on social media have led to negative environmental and ethical issues
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Story by Makenna Koblis © Photography by Misael Cruz
The peak of social media is now upon us. With apps like TikTok and Instagram, there are now hundreds of thousands of people telling you what the latest trends are. Two of the many trends are shopping from fast fashion websites and thrifting. These seem to be at odds ‒ but the two trends are more connected than we might think. Thrifting is being praised everywhere on the internet, but is this a good thing?
You might think, now I can shop affordably and ethically in peace, but that is not the case. Donating to thrift stores may be more detrimental than we think. With the rise of thrifting alongside the rise of fast fashion, Americans buy five times more clothing now than they did in 1980, according to The Atlantic. British charity Barnardos surveyed 1500 women and found that the majority of fashion purchases are only worn seven times. This is where thrift stores come into play.
Once you’ve donated your no longer useful clothing, where does it go? Less than 20% of clothing donations sent to charities are actually resold at said establishments, according to Nylon. About two-thirds of thrift store discards don’t make it to textile recycling and inevitably end up in the landfill. According to the United States environmental protection agency, landfills received 11.3 million tons of municipal solid waste textiles in 2018.
When it comes to fast fashion brands, it gives you that satisfaction of being trendy but for how long? Fast fashion can be defined as when a company takes a piece of clothing and mass produces it at incredible speed, manufacturing hundreds of new clothing items every day. The ideal goal for these companies is to get the pieces out as soon as possible to let shoppers buy them at the peak of popularity. Since it is made so quickly, the quality of the clothing decreases, leading to buyers discarding the items after a few wears. This plays a key part
Fullerton local, Lizbeth Lopez,
shops at her local thrift store that is full of donated and unwanted clothing.
Donations are sorted through daily
and displayed on clothing racks for customers to look through.
Popular brands like Urban Out-
fitters are casually discarded and donated to thrift stores.
in overproduction and consumption that has made fast fashion one of the world’s largest polluters. According to the New York Times, about 85% of textile waste in the United States goes to landfills and will not decay, due to the clothes’ synthetic makeup. Synthetic microfibers end up in the sea, including the deepest parts of the oceans and on glacier peaks.
Some people turn to donating their fast fashion purchases under the assumption that someone out there will get more use out of that top. In some cases, someone will, but it may not be as often as you think. According to Nylon, 80% of clothing that’s not sold at the retail establishment where it’s donated is sent to textile recyclers who then sort through and determine the next life for these clothes.
Micheal Ramirez is an employee at Hope Thrift Store. He explains this process and says, “When people donate clothing we dump everything onto a conveyor belt. Then we separate it into three categories: sellable items, damaged linens and ragout. Ragout is all damaged clothing. Ragout goes into a pallet box which is then dumped into a baler machine which condenses the clothing into 500 to 600 lb bales. We then sell 30 to 34 bales at a time to commodity brokers. These brokers take care of transportation and packaging and bales are then shipped overseas.”
Roughly 700,000 tons of clothing are sent to East African countries. In Kenya, the cost of a resold item of clothing is 5% the cost of a locally made item, according to Green America. This means they have grown to rely on other countries and it has caused harmful results on
Price ranges vary depending on the quality and name of the clothing brand.
their local economy. In 2016, the East African community agreed to ban imported clothing that would have gone fully in effect in 2019 but was blocked by former President Donald Trump’s administration. This forced Kenya’s small businesses to upscale to satisfy demand. Many could not afford to do so, resulting in many businesses closing.
There’s no easy solution on what to do with our used clothes and fast fashion purchases. There is always sustainably made clothing from ethically based brands, but those price points can be too high for the average consumer. This is not a route many can take, yet there is an alternative. Online markets such as Depop, Poshmark or ThredUP provide reasonable prices for used clothing and go straight from seller to buyer; there is no question of where your clothes are really going.
TikToker Grace Brinkly is a vintage reseller on Depop who promotes shopping ethically. She explains that a lot of work goes into her store to provide her customers high quality, vintage and ethically sourced clothes. “There is so much time that goes into actually curating a shop and an inventory. It takes me weeks of time and effort and it costs me money of my own,” she says. Brinkly mentions that reselling online is not a new concept. The secondhand apparel market was worth about $28 billion in 2019 and is expected to reach $64 billion in 2024, according to the 2020 resale report by ThredUp.
The United States sends away over a billion pounds of used clothing a year. Taking the clothes you once loved and giving it to a new home or reselling it can help our environment. Watching TikToks for hours may be fun, but don’t let yourself get sucked into the never ending trend cycle. These trends turn into microtrends; one day it may be a trend but the next day, it’s not. Next time you see a booming trend on social media think, “Will I still love this in a year’s time?”
Lizbeth Lopez sorts through racks
and racks of clothing at her local thrift store that has begun to fill up with clothing from past fashion trends.
Clothes, like in this thrift shop
in Fullerton, don't always find a new home. To avoid adding to the environmental problems with fashion, purchase secondhand clothing from online websites.
GETTING HARASSED ONLINE
Hobbies should have no gender. Being a gamer is for all who want to pick up a controller.
Story by Chastain Flores
Photo Illustrations by Andrea Koehler
Photography by Chastain Flores Aprel Rose
The number of women who participate in online gaming has been on the rise within the past few years. Today, women account for 45% of gamers in the United States, an increase from 41% in 2020, according to a survey by the Entertainment Software Association.
With that comes harassment from other players in online chats or viewers who remain hidden behind their screens.
According to reports by Reach3, 77% of women have experienced gender-specific discrimination. Among those are inappropriate sexual messages, mansplaining and men leaving the game when they find out they are playing with a woman.
Lisa Valdez has been gaming since she was 4 years old, thanks to her dad. “When I would log in to play games, I often found myself being harassed and being bullied,” says Valdez. “This doesn’t just happen to me, it would happen to other females as well, no matter how good or how professional they are.”
Valdez noted while at tournaments, people would say awful things to her. When she talked to her guy friends about it they said, “Oh wow. That happens to you guys?” With that, she brought an idea to the table in 2019 at Cal State Fullerton, where she is a senior communications major. She wanted women joining the video game industry to become more acceptable in our society.
She reached out to the president and the board of the Gaming Club with her idea to start Women in Gaming. Everyone on the board agreed and told her: “Absolutely. One hundred percent.”
Despite everyone being on board with her idea, she came across an issue concerning the logo of Women in Gaming. The logo was a simple side profile of a woman wearing a headset. A male member questioned it and asked Valdez, “Why does it have to be a woman? Why can’t it be more gender-neutral?” Valdez wanted women to feel welcomed. If things were more “gender-neutral,” women might still feel discouraged to game. She wanted a group where women can be themselves, and be able to game in a caring environment. Valdez asked him, “Why do I have to appeal to your tastes and make it neutral? Being a woman is something to be celebrated.”
Jade Beasley, a Fullerton College student and online gamer, is also contributing to that 45% of women gamers. Beasley was destined to be a gamer since their parents used to play online games with each other before they were born. It started off at the age of 12 with them playing Team Fortress 2, and now they play games such as Paladins, World War Z and Apex Legends.
Beasley has never experienced harassment towards them in accordance with gender. Though, they have experienced some harassment of minor things.
“Typically things like, “Why didn’t you back me up?” and “You’re trash!” because people can get upset when things in-game don’t go their way,” says Beasley. That is the only level of harassment they experience because they are part of the 59% who mask their gender online in order to avoid harassment due to their gender, reported by Reach3 Insights. The only information shared is their skill level, gamer tag, and other minor things you can only see in-game.
Fullerton local Emma Gutierrez has been a part of the female gaming community for many years She started gaming at 9 years old after being influenced by her three brothers. Her parents were fine with her gaming, but her grandmother had other thoughts. She didn’t like that at a young age Gutierrez was a tomboy and enjoyed video gaming. Now her opinion has changed. Her grandmother realized that it was better for Gutierrez to be inside playing games than going out and getting into trouble.
Gutierrez enjoys playing games on the Oculus, which is a virtual reality gaming headset. She also enjoys games such as Call of Duty and Fortnite. She admits that other gamers think she is faking her voice. They assume she is a boy because her voice cracks, though her voice is just high-pitched. “That’s just how I talk,” she says. Despite these comments, Gutierrez never hides who she really is. “I’m always honest when it comes to who I am in-game. Hobbies have no gender. If you want to play video games, then play video games,” she says.
Professional gamer Ashley, who keeps her last name private for safety, but goes by @MsAshRocks on Twitch, Instagram and Twitter, has been gaming since 3 years old. “It was already in my blood; I’ve been gaming ever since I was a little girl and never stopped,” says Ashley. At 15, she began recording herself playing a game called Call of Duty and uploading those videos to YouTube. At 19, she purchased her first-ever PC and started streaming in December 2016. Now, Ashley streams once a week and has 28,900 followers and 381 subscribers on Twitch.
As a young gamer, Ashley had family members who would shame her mom for allowing her to stay up all
night playing video games. As Ashley became more successful with gaming and streaming, they apologized and said it was a good decision. Ashley has not only experienced sexism but also racism as a Black woman in gaming. “You’ll speak up in-game chat and they’ll harass you and make fun of you because you’re a girl. Then apologize because you played better than them,” says Ashley.
For Ashley, a moment she remembers most was her first time playing Grand Theft Auto Roleplay while streaming. She joined a server and was immediately targeted. “They knew I was streaming. They kept running me over and shooting at me,” she says. They started yelling slurs at her so she and her audience on the stream could hear it. “It was really discouraging to get back into Grand Theft Auto Roleplay... going through those experiences just makes you stronger and makes you want to keep pushing forward for Black women in this industry...letting people know we do exist, we deserve this space, we deserve this industry.”
Ashley’s Twitch chat is always active with viewers, but there are times when they don’t say nice things. Recently, she says there are Twitch “hate raids” going on. This is when another streamer will come in after ending their stream and drop their viewers off to another streamer. Until Twitch gets these accounts under control, streamers have to use moderation tools that are provided. Currently, streamers are given the options of follower mode, subscriber mode and slow mode.
Even though Ashley has experienced so much harassment, she didn’t let that stop her from streaming and gaming. With that positive attitude and strength also came some big accomplishments. She raised over $100,000 for charities such as St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, To Write Love On Her Arms, Save the Children and Color of Change. She was also featured on a billboard in New York for Twitch. She has also been working with Doritos. She is currently the only gamer that is part of Doritos’ Solid Black Program, which helps in uplifting Black voices throughout different industries.
Valdez, who started the Women in Gaming group at CSUF, has experienced harassment herself during many years of being a female gamer, but now has the opportunity to encourage young female gamers to keep pushing through. She is helping women gain their rightful spot in the gaming industry. Her advice to women gamers is, “Just do it anyway. Even if you think people won’t like it or if you think no one will care, just do it. The best feeling of all in gaming is being in your own element."
FINDING ART DURING ADVERSITY While surviving a 14-year sentence, Alberto Lule found art as a way of getting a new chance at life
Story and photography by Misael Cruz © Spanish translation by Angela González
FINDING ART DURING ADVERSITY
SOBRESALIR LA ADVERSIDAD POR MEDIO DEL ARTE
Mientras sobrevivía una condena de 14 años, Alberto Lule el arte le dio una nueva oportunidad en la vida
Alberto Lule was finishing a six-year sentence at Ironwood State Prison in Blythe, Calif. He was serving time after pleading ‘nolo contendre’ on drug possession, receiving stolen property, and conspiracy, when things took a turn for the worse. He got tangled up in a fight that left an inmate stabbed, which led to eight more years on his sentence, a second strike and time in solitary. It seemed like things couldn’t get any worse for the former graffiti artist whose gang affiliations led him to a life of incarceration. But while in the hole, he met an old man named Enano, which in Spanish translates to “short guy." Little did he know, Enano would be the catalyst to help him change his life.
“One day in the yard Enano tells me ‘Ey you’re the foo who helps people with their homework and stuff. Eh, what are you doing here in the hole? You don’t belong here.’ I didn’t like that, I felt like he was telling me I was weak or something," Lule recalls.
He didn’t like it, but it got him thinking.
After spending 14 years incarcerated at several federal prisons, Lule was released in 2016. When he got out, he immediately pursued a higher education. In 2020, he graduated with a BA from UCLA’s School of Arts and
Alberto Lule cumplía una condena de seis años en la prisión estatal de Ironwood en Blythe, California. Estaba cumpliendo su condena después de declararse sin objeción a cargos por posesión de drogas, recibir propiedad robada y conspiración, cuando las cosas empeoraron. Se involucró en una pelea que dejó a un hombre recluso apuñalado, lo cual le agregó ocho años más a su sentencia, una segunda ficha y tiempo en confinamiento solitario. Pareciera como si las cosas no podrían empeorar más para el exartista de graffiti, cuyas afiliaciones a las pandillas lo llevaron a una vida de encarcelamiento. Mientras estaba tras las rejas, conoció a un anciano llamado Enano, quien se convertiría en el catalizador para ayudarlo a cambiar su vida.
“Un dia en el patio, Enano me dice ‘ey, eres el que ayudas a la gente con su tarea y todo eso. ¿Qué haces aquí en el agujero? Tú no perteneces aquí.’ No me gustó eso, sentí que me decía que era débil o algo”, cuenta Lule.
No le gusto, pero lo hizo pensar.
Después de pasar 14 años en varias prisiones federales, Lule fue liberado en 2016. Tras salir, inmediatamente continuó con sus estudios universitarios. En 2020, se graduó con una licenciatura de la Escuela de Arte y
Alberto Lule settles into his new art
studio at UC Irvine with his dog, Luna. He wears his Underground Scholars Club jacket, a group he co-chairs that helps formerly incarcerated men and women get their education.
One of Lule’s recent pieces,
“Am i Truly Free? (New Forms of Identification)”, overlays his mugshot with binary, bar codes, and QR codes on a light box, as a criticism of how ex-incarcerated people are looked at differently in society.A version of this piece was shown in the Fullerton College Art Museum in 2020.
Architecture. He is currently enrolled at the University of California, Irvine on a mission to earn a Master of Fine Arts degree. He is also an activist who through his art brings awareness to the prison industrial complex, mass incarceration and ICE camps. Last year he was invited to display some of his work at the Fullerton College Art Gallery’s online exhibition, Language Games.
In an effort to join many clubs, Lule joined the Underground Scholars club. He first joined at Santa Barbara and by the time he made it to UCLA he was co-chair of the club. They help formerly incarcerated men and women pursue their education. He is also active with XMAPS: In Plain Sight, which is a movement to bring awareness to ICE detention facilities. They spread awareness by writing messages with an airplane that leaves hashtags in the air above detention facilities.
A piece of work that encompasses Lule’s unorthodox style would be his mugshots with QR codes to his criminal record called “Am I Truly Free? (New Forms of Identification).” It was displayed at Fullerton College’s online exhibition last year and brings insight to the negative stigma that an “ex-con” has to carry with them for the rest of their life. His most recent work of activism is his “Investigation Arquitectura de la Universidad de California, Los Ángeles. Actualmente asiste a la Universidad de California, Irvine con la misión de obtener una Maestría en Bellas Artes. También es un activista que a través de su arte da a conocer la compleja industria penitenciaria, el encarcelamiento masivo, y los centros de detención migratorios. El año pasado, fue invitado a exhibir algunos de sus obras durante una exposición en línea de la galería de arte de Fullerton College llamada Language Games.
A pesar de ser un estudiante de tiempo completo, él se unió al club de Underground Scholars en su campus, un club dedicado a apoyar a personas previamente encarceladas a completar sus estudios universitarios. Se convirtió en miembro del club en Santa Barbara y cuando entró a UCLA, ya era copresidente del club. Él también participa activamente en XMAPS: In Plain Sight, un movimiento que llama la atención al tema de los centros de detención de los Servicios de Inmigración y Control de Aduanas (ICE por sus siglas en inglés). Ellos atraen la atención con un avión que deja mensajes en el aire sobre los centros de detención.
Un trabajo que demuestra el estilo poco convencional de Lule es
Series,’’ which focuses on prison reform. Through this series, Lule presses his bare skin against large pieces of plexiglass and then spreads black powder, similar to what forensic teams use, over the oils that were left from his body in order to create foggy, ominous and expressive imagery. In a recording of this ritualistic process, he has a helper who manipulates his body like a correctional officer would an inmate.
“Making this type of art is like performance art. That’s why I started to record myself. It’s like the journey of making my art that I find spiritual,” Lule says.
Although he’s in graduate school now, Lule was not always the trained artist he is now. He got his start from writing in the streets. All art is important because it is a form of expression that has the ability to tell a story. Outsider art is a relatively new type of art when compared to the origins of art itself. The term self-taught artist has evolved since its inception. The beginnings of the term outsider art can be traced back to Robert Cardinal who was originally una serie de sus fotos policiales con códigos QR que dirigen al público al historial criminal de Lule, llamado “¿Soy realmente libre? (Nuevas Formas de Identificación)”. Fue exhibida durante la exposición de arte en línea de Fullerton College el año pasado, y brinda información sobre el estigma negativo que un “exconvicto” lleva consigo por el resto de su vida. Su trabajo de activismo más reciente es su “Serie de Investigaciones”, lo cual se enfoca en la reforma penitenciaria. A traves de esta serie, Lule presiona su piel desnuda contra piezas grandes de plexiglas y luego esparce polvo negro, similar al que usan los equipos forenses, sobre los aceites que quedaron de su cuerpo para formar imagenes nebulosas, ominosas y expresivas. En una grabación de este proceso, un ayudante manipula su cuerpo tal como lo haría un agentepenitenciario con un preso.
“Hacer este tipo de arte es como un arte interpretativo. Es por eso que comencé a grabar. Es el proceso con el que creo mi arte que esespiritual para mi”, dice Lule.
Aunque ahora está en la escuela
Alberto Lule wears a "schools not
prisons" t-shirt to bring awareness to prison spending as he sits in between two of his art pieces. The left one depicts his earlier style of art where he draws people, freeways, train tracks and graffiti that are reminiscent to his childhood. The collage on the right are different ways that inmates are identified in prison.
writing a book on the term, art brut, which was initially narrowly defined as art that was made by children or patients of mental illness. The term art brut expanded to outsider art and in recent years has been best defined as self-taught art. The realm of outsider art enabled Lule to change his life for a better future.
Raised on the west side of Santa Barbara, Lule comes from a family of undocumented immigrants. His father, Luis, was a hardworking handyman and his mother, Adela, was a housekeeper. His father gave him his earliest memories of art, drawing doodles for him as a child, and Lule was always impressed. Lule was only a little boy when he began graffitiing walls in the early 1990s.
“I was 10 or 11 when I started tagging on walls with my friends,” he says. “We started doing stuff together and, eventually, it turned into a tagging crew. Looking back at it though, I realized I focused on everything that came with being a writer, which is what graffiti artists would call each other. Being a writer meant that you had to steal your own paint, you had to tag on freeways, like doing legal walls was wack.”
Lule began to enjoy the reputation that came with being a writer because it brought praise from the streets when his writings were noticed. After using spray paint to graffiti, Lule began to get more inspired by other artists such as Emory Douglas, who is known as the minister of propaganda for the Black Panthers. Douglas’ art is in the style of Russian constructivist propaganda. This type of art influenced Lule to begin wheat pasting, which is an inexpensive form of stencil art.
Lule mentions that his friends stopped calling him a writer when he began his wheatpasting stage, but that didn’t faze him. He noticed he started to fall in love with the journey of creating the art over the final product itself. From either making or stealing materials to plotting a spot to post his work for homies to see, it became more about the ‘process’ he says. At 11 years old, writing introduced him to a life of small crimes such as stealing paint and vandalism, but that quickly spiraled into other things like grand theft auto and gang violence by the time he was in high school. This de posgrado, Lule no siempre fue el artista capacitado que es ahora. Él comenzó escribiendo en las calles.
Todo tipo de arte es importante ya que es una forma de expresión que tiene la capacidad de contar una historia. El arte externo es una forma de arte relativamente nueva en comparación con los orígenes del arte en sí. El término “artista autodidacta” ha evolucionado desde sus orígenes. Los inicios del término “arte externo” se remontan a Robert Cardinal, quien originalmente estaba escribiendo un libro sobre el término “art brut” que inicialmente se definió como arte hecho por niños o pacientes con enfermedades mentales. El término “art brut” se extendió al arte externo y en los últimos años se ha definido mejor como arte autodidacta. El área del arte externo le permite a Lule cambiar su vida por un mejor futuro.
Criado en el lado oeste de Santa Barbara, Lule proviene de una familia de inmigrantes indocumentados. Su padre, Luis, era albañil y su madre, Adela, era ama de casa. Su padre le dio sus primeros recuerdos de arte, haciendo dibujitos para él de niño, los cuales siempre impresionaban a Lule. Lule era apenas un niño cuando comenzó a dibujar graffiti en las paredes a principios de los años noventas.
“Tenía 10 u 11 años cuando comencé a marcar las paredes con mis amigos”, dijo. “Comenzamos a hacer cosas juntos y luego se convirtió en un equipo de “tagging”. Pensando en ello, me doy cuenta que yo me enfoco en todo lo que conlleva a ser escritor, que es como se dicen los artistas de graffiti entre sí. Ser escritor significaba que tenías que robarte tu propia pintura, tenías que marcar en las autopistas, ya que marcar las paredes legales no era suficiente”.
Lule comenzó a disfrutar de la reputación que le daba ser un escritor, ya que le traía elogios de las calles cuando la gente identificaba sus escrituras. Tras usar pintura de aerosol para dibujar graffiti, Lule comenzó a inspirarse en otros artistas como Emory Douglas, quien es conocido como el ministro de propaganda de las Panteras Negras. El estilo de arte de Douglas es similar al estilo de propaganda constructivista rusa. Este tipo de arte influyó a Lule para comenzar a pegar trigo, que es una forma económica de arte de estarcido.
slippery slope of a lifestyle got Lule introduced to “the system” at the age of 15.
“I had many slaps on the wrist,” he says. “But at 15 was when I first went to juvie for stolen property.”
He was constantly in and out of juvenile detention centers for small crimes. At 15 he was in a carjacking ring where he would steal cars with his friends and drive them down to Tijuana and sell them. This lifestyle ultimately got him indicted for murder at the age of 25. After two years of fighting his case, he took a plea bargain where the prosecutors dropped the murder charge if he plead guilty to other charges composed of recieving stolen property, possession of controlled substance(s), conspiracy, and he also got a gang enhancement. After two years in jail fighting his case, his sentence was reduced, leaving him to serve four more years.
“It began in Wasco, then Calipatria, then Ironwood, then Mississippi and then California City,” he says. “Part of prison overcrowding had California shipping inmates out to other states.”
Walking into prison, Lule felt that he was prepared for what was to come. He had already been accustomed to being processed. He had friends who told him what he could expect, so when he went in he was there to prove he was not to be messed with. Aside from exercising out in the yard and drawing, to stay busy Lule would occasionally dabble into some college courses that were offered at Ironwood.
That’s where he got caught in a fight that extended his sentence for another eight years. After his time in the hole, he couldn’t get Enano’s words out of his head: “You don’t belong here.” Lule had to find alternative ways to keep his mind busy. He went back to his artistic roots and began drawing. Lule’s first style in prison was inspired by a lot of his Chicano background because, up until then, he didn’t have any formal training with art other than graffiti and wheatpasting background. His first drawings in prison would include clowns, women, smile-now-cry-later masks and a lot of institutional-type buildings. He mentioned that many of the other inmates would pay him with goods from the commissary for him to draw for them or decorate envelopes that they would send out. Some guys
Lule menciona que sus amigos dejaron de llamarlo escritor cuando comenzó a trabajar pegando trigo, pero eso no lo molestó. Se dió cuenta que se comenzó a enamorar con el proceso de la creación de arte en vez del producto final en sí. Ya fuera hacer o robar los materiales necesarios o encontrar un lugar en donde podrá exhibir su arte, todo se volvió más sobre “el proceso”, dice Lule. A los 11 años, la escritura lo introdujo a una vida llena de crímenes pequeños, tal como el robo de pintura y el vandalismo. Eso rápidamente se convirtió en otras cosas como el robo de autos y la violencia en pandillas cuando él estaba en la preparatoria. Esta vida inestable introdujo a Lule al sistema carcelario a los 15 años.
“Me dieron palmadas en la muñeca”, dice, “pero a los 15 fue cuando entré por primera vez a la cárcel por propiedad robada”.
Constantemente estaba entrando y saliendo de cárcelespor delitos menores. A los 15 años, se involucró en una red de robo de autos en donde él y sus amigos llevaban los autos robados a Tijuana y los vendían. Este estilo de vida lo llevó a ser acusado por asesinato a los 25 años. Después de pelear su caso por dos años, llegó a un acuerdo con la fiscalía en donde le quitarían el cargo de asesinato si él se declaraba culpable a los cargos por haber aceptado propiedad robada, posesión de sustancias controladas, conspiración, y involucramiento con pandillas. Después de lucha en un tribunalrpor dos años, su sentencia fue reducida a cuatro años más.
“Comenzó en Wasco, luego en Calipatria, después en Ironwood, y Mississippi, y California City”, dice Lule. “Parte de la superpoblación dentro de las prisiones hizo que California mandara a los presos a otros estados”.
Al entrar a la prisión, Lule se sentía preparado ante lo que sucediera, ya que estaba acostumbrado a ser procesado. Tenía amigos que le contaban lo que debía esperarse para que cuando entrara, mostrara que no debían meterse con él. Aparte de hacer ejercicio en el patio y dibujar, Lule ocasionalmente tomó cursos universitarios que se ofrecían en Ironwood para mantenerse ocupado.
Fue ahí donde se involucró en una pelea que le extendió su sentencia
even began to volunteer themselves so that he could tattoo them. Through his passion for art, he developed a genuine curiosity for higher education. He enrolled in more college classes through the prison and drowned in different kinds of literature. Some of his favorites include "The Count of Monte Cristo," "Les Miserables" and "The Autobiography of Malcom X." By the time Lule walked out of prison a free man and self-taught artist, he had college credits, informal tattoo experience and more than anything else he had will and determination.
“My main goal was to never go back to jail or prison,” he says. “When I told the homies I was never coming back they all laughed and said, ‘You’ll be back even if it’s just for a little. Everyone comes back.’ But I didn’t like that. As a man, all I have is my word. You carry that around everywhere.”
Even though Lule has always been a person who makes things, his satisfaction has always come from the actual making and not the end product. In an interview with Diversity in the Arts Today, Roger Cardinal, writer of "Outsider Art" says, “A lot of outsider art rotates around issues of personality, of asking who I am, which means going deep into the inner self of an individual.” Lule is the epitome of what Cardinal was referring to because of his ability to look within himself and express his struggles in a way that brings light to societal issues.
A variant of his “Am I Truly Free?
(New Forms of Identification),” taken at UC Irvine in his studio, where he shows how people are judged based on their look. He writes “killer eyebrows” and “gang member ears” over his old mugshots.
otros ocho años. Después de tanto tiempo en la cárcel, no lograba sacarse las palabras de Enano de la cabeza: “tu no perteneces aquí”. Lule tenía que encontrar maneras alternativas para distraerse. Regresó a sus raíces artísticas y comenzó a dibujar. El estilo principal de Lule fue inspirado por sus raíces chicanas porque, hasta entonces, no tenía conocimiento formal en las artes aparte del graffiti y el pegamento de trigo. Sus primeros dibujos dentro de la cárcel eran de payasos, mujeres, máscaras de “sonríe ahora, llora luego”, y muchos edificios de estilo institucional. Lule menciona que muchos presos le pagaban con bienes de la comisaría para que les hiciera un dibujo o para decorar sobres que ellos mandaban. Algunos de ellos comenzaron a ofrecerse como voluntarios para que les hiciera tatuajes. A través de su pasión por el arte, él se volvió interesado en una educación universitaria. Se inscribió en más cursos universitarios por medio de la prisión y se sumergió en diferentes tipos de literatura. Algunos de sus favoritos incluyen “El conde de Montecristo”, “Los miserables”, y “La autobiografía de Malcolm X”. Cuando Lule salió libre de la cárcel ya era artista autodidacta, tenía créditos universitarios y experiencia informal en tatuajes. Más que nada, tenía voluntad y determinación.
“Mi meta mayor era nunca regresar a las cárceles”, dice Lule. “Cuando les dije a los compañeros que nunca iba a regresar, todos se rieron y dijeron ‘vas a regresar aunque sea por un rato. Todos regresan’. Pero a mi no me gusta eso. Como hombre, todo lo que tengo es mi palabra. Esa la cargas por doquier”.
Aunque Lule siempre ha sido un creador, su satisfacción siempre ha venido del proceso que se requiere para la creación, no tanto el resultado final. En una entrevista con Diversity in the Arts Today, Roger Cardinal, escritor de ‘Outsider Art’ dice, “Mucha arte externa se centra alrededor de los asuntos de personalidad, de preguntarte quién eres, lo que significa profundizar con el yo interior de un individuo”.
Lule es el epítome de lo que habla Cardinal debido a su capacidad para mirar dentro de sí mismo y expresar sus luchas de una manera que atrae atención a los problemas sociales.
Army Sgt. Maj. Henry C. Falcon
in his uniform during the 1940s. He served with the Blue Devils Division, the first U.S. troops to march on Rome grounds in World War II.
Salina A. Falcon looks at her
grandfather's honorable discharge paperwork. Her father has a collection of memorabilia from his time in World War II.
Through the stories, archives and bravery from her grandpa, a writer rediscovered her roots.
Story by Salina A. Falcon © Spanish Translation by Angela González
Sheer fear engulfed my grandfather as rain and machine gun fire tore through the air with endless rage. The mud was so tenacious it was difficult to maneuver through it as the enemy seized with intentions to open fire.
“See to the captain first!” my grandfather exclaimed, laying on the ground with a bullet wound in his knee. His captain had been hit in the throat, shoulder and stomach. He knew he didn’t have much time. American medics saw to the captain while the Germans launched a counter attack. Three men were taken prisoner and one killed. There wasn’t much time. The medics had to leave my grandfather and the captain to get more help. Time passed as my grandfather laid there with a raincoat blanketed next to the body of his motionless captain. They had to remain perfectly still so Germans would believe they were dead.
My grandpa was a gentle man who loved the simple things. My memories of him are scattered but sharp. I remember him drawing cartoon characters for his grandkids like Donald Duck and doing his impression to go with them, carrying chiles in his shirt pocket so he can have a little more spice with his food and whistling during any task. This was Grandpa.
But there are other memories too. The way he would jump whenever I shouted “Hi!” to him in my highpitched voice and the way he would jump with any kind of loud noise, July 4th would always startle grandpa. That was the shell shock. It became a part of him he couldn’t shake. I would always say “Oops, sorry grandpa,” and we would share a giggle. I never asked grandpa why he would startle when I was young, not until I was older I understood. There is a main facet of my adolescence that I regret the most it was taking the time to talk to my grandpa. The eagerness to go and play could have waited. From the few times I did stop and listen, my grandfather had so much history embedded in him.
Years have passed, and life has not slowed down. Time, I am afraid, is limited. On my lap sits a box filled with documents that my grandpa passed to my father. Inside are scraps and images of all those stories. All I need to do is piece them together, to listen to him now.
El miedo se apoderaba de mi abuelo mientras la lluvia y el fuego de las ametralladoras volaban por el aire con rabia infinita. El lodo era tan tenaz que era difícil maniobrar en medio de él mientras el enemigo se detenía con intenciones de abrir fuego.
“¡Ve al capitán primero!” exclamó mi abuelo, tendido en el suelo con una herida de bala en la rodilla. Su capitán había recibido un disparo en la garganta, el hombro y el estómago. Sabía que no tenía mucho tiempo. Los médicos estadounidenses atendieron al capitán mientras que los alemanes lanzaron un contraataque. Tres hombres fueron tomados como prisioneros y uno fue asesinado. No había mucho tiempo. Los médicos tuvieron que dejar a mi abuelo y al capitán para obtener más ayuda. Pasó el tiempo mientras mi abuelo permanecía tendido ahí con una gabardina envuelta junto al cuerpo de su capitán inmovil. Tenían que permanecer perfectamente quietos para que los alemanes creyeran que estaban muertos.
Mi abuelo era un hombre amable que amaba las cosas sencillas. Los recuerdos que tengo de él son dispersos pero aun así permanecen. Lo recuerdo dibujando caricaturas como el pato Donald para sus nietos y haciendo la impresión correspondiente. Recuerdo que cargaba chiles en el bolsillo de la camisa para que su comida fuera más picante. Siempre silbaba cuando hacía algo. Este era mi abuelo.
Hay más recuerdos que tengo de él. La manera en la que saltaba cada vez que yo le gritaba “¡Hola!” con mi voz aguda. La manera en la que saltaba con cualquier tipo de sonido fuerte; el 4 de julio siempre le asustaba. Eso era la neurosis de la guerra. Se volvió una parte de él de la cual no podía deshacerse. Siempre le decía “uy, lo siento abuelo”, y compartíamos una risilla. Nunca le pregunté a mi abuelo porque se asustaba cuando era joven. No fue hasta que crecí que logré entender. Hay un aspecto de mi adolescencia del que me arrepiento, y eso es el no haber tomado más tiempo para hablar con mi abuelo. Las ganas de ir a jugar se pudieron haber esperado. De las pocas veces que hablé con él, aprendí que mi abuelo tenía tantas historias.
Han pasado los años y la vida no se ha ralentizado. Me temo que el tiempo es limitado. En mi regazo está una caja llena de documentos que mi abuelo le pasó a mi padre. Dentro hay recuerdos y imágenes de todas sus historias. Lo que necesito hacer yo es juntar todo y escucharlo ahora.
A través de las historias, archivos y la valentía de su abuelo, una escritora se reconectó con sus raíces.
Historia por Salina A. Falcon © Traducido al español por Angela González
I hesitate to open, my fingers are gently grasping the latch of the box. Acquiring the ability, I open the box and the smell reminds me of old books that have been neglected for quite some time. I look at the delicate, brown newspaper clippings and military documents, and I am afraid it will crumble in my hands. Emotions of regret and saudade intensify as I pick them up, one by one, to learn about the man who I called “Grandpa.” But before that was World War II Army Sgt. Maj. Henry Cervantes Falcon: Blue Devils, 88th Division of the 350th Infantry of the United States of America.
It was Dec. 7, 1941: Pearl Harbor. When my grandfather saw the news, he wanted to enlist the very next day in the army. However, the age limit was 21 to enter war. The next year, on Nov. 11, 1942, the United States reduced the draft age to 18. Shortly before, my grandpa received a draft letter from President Roosevelt and on Oct. 6, 1942, he was inducted into active service.
I read through an interview my aunt did with my grandpa in 2008. As I read, I can hear his voice coming from the page. This interview was for my grandfather’s Blue Devils-themed 88th birthday since he was in the 88th Division.
The Blue Devils 88th Division arrived overseas with roughly 14,000 troops on the ship Liberty on May 1, 1944, 17 days after sailing out from Camp Patrick Henry in West Virginia. They trained in Casablanca, Morocco and Oran, Africa before sailing for Italy’s Amalfi Coast.
In Naples, the division received guns, ammunition and British Helmets to fool the enemy. My grandfather and his division were the first American soldiers to arrive and march through Rome on Jun. 4, 1944, 15 months before the end of the war in Europe.
Hidden within the bookshelf I rediscovered from my father a book called “Blue Devils,” by Renzo Grandi and Valerio Calderoni. I recognize those names ‒ old friends of the family. They conducted interviews with remaining soldiers of the 88th Division in 2009, and my grandfather was among those men who got to tell his story.
My grandfather’s company captain had received an order to take on Mount Acuto in Italy on Sept. 25, 1944. It was pouring rain as it became anything but a friend to assist the American soldiers in battle.
Up the mountain, my grandfather went with his crew and captain. They saw a white garment in the distance that appeared to be German soldiers waving a motion of surrender, or so they thought.
The captain stepped out to see if it was clear to keep moving forward when machine-gun fire triggered. To the ground the captain went as bullets tore through the air. American soldiers fired back, leaving my grandfather to skid through the thick mud to get to his captain. That’s when a bullet crossed and hit him in the right knee, close to his shin. With the adrenaline coursing through him, my grandfather clawed his way through the mud to reach his captain.
He laid there, disoriented, thinking only of saving the life of another. No blood yet was shown on my grandfather's ripped pant leg, just white bone. The medics gave my grandfather a morphine shot in his chest for the pain. He and the captain weighed too much for the medics to lift alone, so they left to seek further help.
My grandfather passed out, and when he woke up he felt his back was soaked, hazed by the situation thinking it could be blood. He took off his belt and strapped it around his upper thigh to stop the bleeding and laid back stone still until help finally arrived.
When help finally came, it wasn’t an easy escape. The men were carried away amidst counterattacks, and my grandfather fell off the stretcher multiple times because of the slick mud and rain. He was transported from hospital to hospital, and between morphine injections,
Henry C. Falcon (right)
with Capt. Ned Maher, who were wounded together in Italy in 1944, reunited in 1980 at a Blue Devils 88th Division reunion. Later, Maher wrote this letter to Falcon, wishing they spent more time together at the reunion.
A wounded Henry C. Falcon
in crutches. He was shot in the leg during battle on Sept. 25, 1944 on Mount Acuto Italy. Photo Courtesy of Norma Falcon Corina
Henry C. Falcon (third from
left) with a group of his buddies campaigning through Italy during World War II.
t Sargent Henry C. Falcon reporting
for duty.
Dudo al abrir, mientras que mis dedos pasan suavemente por la caja. Al recobrar fuerzas, abro la caja y me encuentro con un olor que me recuerda a los libros viejos que han sido descuidados por mucho tiempo. Miro los delicados recortes de periódicos marrones y los documentos militares, con miedo que se me vayan a desmoronar en las manos. El arrepentimiento y la saudade se intensifican mientras los recojo, uno por uno, para aprender sobre el hombre al quien yo llamaba “abuelo”, quien antes fue el sargento mayor de la Segunda Guerra Mundial, Henry Cervantes Falcon: Diablos azules, 88a división de la 350a Infantería de Estados Unidos.
El 7 de diciembre de 1941: Pearl Harbor. Cuando mi abuelo miro la noticia, quiso enlistarse al ejercito el dia siguiente. Sin embargo, el límite de edad era 21 años. El siguiente año, el 11 de noviembre de 1942, Estados Unidos redujo la edad a 18 años. Un poco antes, mi abuelo recibió una carta del presidente Roosevelt, y el 6 de octubre de 1942 fue instalado en el servicio activo.
Leo una entrevista que mi tía le hizo a mi abuelo en 2008. Mientras leo, puedo escuchar su voz que proviene de la página. Esta entrevista era para el cumpleaños 88 de mi abuelo. El tema era de los Diablos Azules, ya que estuvo en la 88a división.
La 88a división de los Diablos Azules llegó al extranjero con aproximadamente 14,000 soldados en el barco Liberty el 1 de mayo de 1944, 17 días después de haber salido del campamento Patrick Henry en West Virginia. Entrenaron en Casablanca, Marruecos y Orán, África antes de navegar hacia la costa italiana de Amalfi.
En Nápoles, la división recibió armas, munición y cascos británicos para engañar al enemigo. Mi abuelo y su división fueron los primeros soldados estadounidenses en llegar y marchar por Roma el 4 de junio de 1944, 15 meses antes de finalizarse la guerra en Europa.
Escondido dentro del librero que redescubrí de mi padre hay un libro llamado “Diablos Azules” de Renzo Grandi y Valerio Calderoni. Yo reconozco esos nombres —son viejos amigos de la familia. Ellos realizaron entrevistas con los soldados restantes de la 88a división en el 2009, y mi abuelo fue uno de esos hombres que contó su historia.
El capitán de la compañía de mi abuelo había recibido una orden para enfrentarse al Monte Acuto en Italia el 25 de septiembre de 1944. Llovía a cántaros y no era fácil asistir a los soldados estadounidenses en la batalla.
Junto con su tripulación y su capitán, mi abuelo escaló la montaña. Miraron una prenda blanca a lo lejos que parecía ser una señal de los soldados alemanes indicando un movimiento de rendición. Al menos eso pensaron ellos.
El capitán salió para ver si estaba libre para avanzar cuando sonó la ametralladora. El capitán cayó al suelo mientras volaban las balas. Los soldados estadounidenses respondieron al ataque, lo cual llevó a mi abuelo a deslizarse a través del lodo hasta llegar con su capitán. Fue entonces que una bala le cruzó por la rodilla derecha, cerca del jarrete. Con la adrenalina que corría por su cuerpo, mi abuelo abrió camino por el lodo para poder alcanzar a su capitán.
Estaba ahí, desorientado, pensando solamente en salvarle la vida a otro. Aún no se veía sangre en la pierna del pantalón rasgado de mi abuelo, solo hueso blanco. Los médicos le dieron una inyección de morfina en el pecho a mi abuelo para reducir el dolor. Él y el capitán pesaban demasiado para que los médicos pudieran levantarlos solos, así que los dejaron allí mientras buscaban más ayuda.
Mi abuelo se desmayó, y al despertar sintió que su espalda estaba empapada. Confundido por la situación, pensó que podría ser sangre. Se quitó el cinturón y se lo ató alrededor de la parte superior del muslo para detener la sangre y se recostó, permaneciendo inmovil como una
he woke up in Florence and then in Naples. Later, he passed through three different American hospitals.
He never learned what became of his captain. My grandfather rarely spoke about that day. He refrained from talking about the war but would have conversations when approached about it. But he never missed the reunions for the Blue Devils 88th Division. In 1980, he and my grandmother Helen were at one of those reunions when she called out, “Isn’t that Ed Maher?” My grandfather looked up, and there was his captain. My grandpa thought his captain died that day considering his wounds. Maher had a slight head tilt due to being shot in the neck. The two locked eyes, and without any hesitation made their way for each other, finally hugging for the first time since that pivotal day up on the hills of Mount Acuto.
After they reunited, my grandfather and Captain Maher would call each other every Sept. 25, the day they beat the odds and survived a battle that would taunt them evermore. They would always recall the events that happened including the fake German surrender of machine gunners.
I fiddle in my hand a belt buckle my grandfather wore frequently, “88th Infantry Division Association,” it says, with the Blue Devil logo, that looks like a blue four leaf clover. The gold is fading into gray due to wear and tear. Chips and cracks are embedded into the embroidery as I think of the stories of what my grandfather went through in the pouring rain.
My grandfather wasn’t the only Falcon serving in World War II. My grandfather was in the Army, my uncle Rudy was in the Marines and uncle Angel was in the Navy.
Rudy, my grandfather's little brother, Private Rudolph C. Falcon, was a Paratrooper for the 101st Airborne Division that was nicknamed the “Screaming Eagles.” The 101st Division was one of the first airborne divisions along with the 82nd. Both were treated as experiments since World War II was the first war paratroopers would enter.
A specific story my aunt shared with me that my grandfather told her, was about the time my uncle Rudy surprised my grandfather who was based in Italy at the time. It was Mother’s Day and they both had gone out to get a card for their mother, my great-grandmother Delfina. They both playfully fought on who was going to be the one to sign it first until they both came to a conclusion. Right before departing from one another, my grandfather told my uncle who was already boarded on the bus back to his base, to fix his tie as he motioned with the gesture. Those were the last words my grandfather said to his little brother. Uncle Rudy was killed in action on Oct. 7, 1944, in Holland. He died only a few days after my grandfather got wounded in Italy, so my grandfather didn’t get the news until a year later. When my grandfather went on leave he found out the news of his brother and did not return to base when expected too he went AWOL for 22 days in search of his brother. This AWOL was dismissed since it was a personal matter. These are the sentimental values, stories I hold close as I search my family history. I gain a little more knowledge into the life of my grandfather and what he endured during his war years. He was the only one to receive the body of his brother, but not until five years later, when my uncle was finally brought home since he had been buried in Holland. I hold in my hand a tiny folded pouch of scuffed and torn black leather, with the fainted words “For God & Country” etched on it. In it, there are two saints, whose faces I cannot make out. I pull from the pouch
I have seen the face of a miniature bible no bigger than a half-dollar terror; felt the stinging cold of fear; and enjoyed the sweet taste of moment’s love. -George L. Skypeck coin and open to the first morning prayer, “O My God, my only good, the Author of my being, and my last end; I give Thee my heart. Praise, honour, and glory be to Thee for ever and ever. Amen.” This miniature Bible was recovered from my uncle Rudy. I cannot begin to grasp as I hold a little piece of him that his fingers once touched, what it witnessed. It dawns on me, I might have read the last prayer my Uncle Rudy recited the day he perished. Family meant a lot to my grandfather. He loved his wife, my grandmother Helen. She was definitely a strong woman, very feisty with a heart of gold. I always think I would have grown to be a strong individual if she was alive during my adolescence. My grandfather was dating my grandmother while he was at war and he wrote to her a lot while abroad. I came across an old picture of them sitting on a bench, my grandpa embracing my grandma, almost as if she is listening in on his heartbeat. He is in his Army attire and my grandma with her 40s hairstyle and a long coat over a dress; she was so elegant. She loved to dance, which is how she and my grandfather met. I grew up with stories of her feet hurting in her shoes, but she would continue to dance. My grandfather's writing looks almost like scribbles on a letter dated July 27,1944, less than two months before that bullet struck him in the knee. It has an army examination stamp
A half-dollar-sized Bible
in its leather pouch that was recovered from Rudolph C. Falcon after he died in action in 1944.
Plaque photo of Pvt.
Rudolph C. Falcon, Henry C. Falcon's brother, who was a paratrooper with the 101st Airborne Division known as the "Screaming Eagles." He was killed in action on Oct. 7, 1944, in Holland.
t Henry C. Falcon with his
wife Helen. They exchanged letters while he was at war and married in 1946.
piedra hasta que por fin llegó la ayuda.
Cuando llegó esa ayuda, no fue un escape fácil. Los hombres fueron trasladados mientras ocurrían los contraataques, y mi abuelo se cayó de la camilla varias veces a causa del lodo resbaladizo y la lluvia. Fue trasladado de hospital a hospital, y entre inyecciones de morfina se despertó en Florencia y luego en Nápoles. Más tarde, pasó por tres diferentes hospitales estadounidenses.
Nunca supo lo que fue de su capitán.
Mi abuelo rara vez hablaba de ese día. No hablaba de la guerra pero tendría conversaciones acerca del tema si alguien preguntaba. Nunca se perdía las reuniones de la 88a división de los Diablos Azules. En 1980, cuando él y mi abuela Helen estaban en una de esas reuniones, mi abuela gritó: “¿No es ese Ed Maher?" Mi abuelo se fijó, y ahí estaba su capitán. Mi abuelo había pensado que su capitán había muerto ese día por la severidad de sus heridas.
Maher tenía una ligera inclinación de la cabeza debido a haber recibido un disparo en el cuello. Los dos se miraron a los ojos y sin titubear se abrazaron por primera vez desde aquel día en las colinas del Monte Acuto.
Después de esa reunión, mi abuelo y el capitán Maher se llamaban cada 25 de septiembre, el día que sobrevivieron aquella batalla que recordarían para siempre. Siempre recordaban los eventos que sucedieron ese día, incluyendo la falsa rendición de los alemanes con las ametralladoras.
Juego con la hebilla de un cinturón que mi abuelo solía usar frecuentemente. Dice “Asociación de la 88a división de infantería”, y tiene el logo del Diablo Azul que parece una trébol azul de cuatro hojas de primeros auxilios. El oro se está desvaneciendo debido al desgaste. Hay astillas y grietas incrustadas en el bordado, y me pongo a pensar en la historias que mi abuelo vivió bajo esas fuertes lluvias.
Mi abuelo no era el único de la familia Falcon que sirvió en la segunda guerra mundial. Mi abuelo estaba en el ejército, mi tío Rudy estaba en la marina, y mi tío Ángel estaba en la fuerza naval.
Rudy, el hermano menor de mi abuelo, el soldado Rudolph C. Falcon, era un paracaidista de la 101a División Aerotransportada que fue dada el apodo “las águilas gritonas”. La 101a división fue una de las primeras divisiones aerotransportadas, junto con la 82a. Ambas fueron tratadas como experimentos ya que la Segunda Guerra Mundial fue la primera guerra en la que entraron los paracaidistas.
Una historia que mi tía compartió conmigo y que mi abuelo le contó fue sobre la vez en la que mi tío Rudy sorprendió a mi abuelo, quien estaba viviendo en Italia. Era el día de la madres y ambos habían salido a comprarle una tarjeta para su madre, mi bisabuela Delfina. Ambos bromeaban y discutían sobre quién sería el primero para firmarla hasta que ambos llegaron a una conclusión. Justo antes de partir, mi abuelo le dijo a mi tío, quien ya se había subido al autobús rumbo a su base, que se arreglara la corbata. Esas fueron las últimas palabras que mi abuelo le dijo a su hermano menor. Mi tío Rudy murió durante un combate el 7 de octubre de 1944 en Holanda. Murió sólo unos días después de que mi abuelo fuera herido en Italia, y por lo tanto mi abuelo no recibió la noticia hasta un año después. Cuando mi abuelo se fue de licencia, se enteró de la noticia de su hermano y no regresó a la base cuando lo esperaban. Se ausentó sin permiso por 22 días en busca de su hermano. Esta ausencia no le afectó, ya que se trataba de un asunto personal. Estos son los valores sentimentales, las historias que guardo cerca mientras investigo mi historia familiar. Voy
He visto el rostro del ganando un poco más de conocimiento sobre la terror; sentido el frío punzante del miedo; y disfrutado el dulce sabor del amor del momento. -George L. Skypeck vida de mi abuelo y lo que vivió durante sus años de la guerra. Fue el único que recibió el cuerpo de su hermano, pero no hasta que habían pasado cinco años cuando finalmente llevaron a mi tío a casa, ya que había estado enterrado en Holanda. En mi mano sostengo una pequena bolsa doblada de cuero negro rasgado, con la frase borrosas “por Dios y la patria” grabada en ella. En ella, hay dos santos cuyos rostros no logro distinguir. Saco de la bolsa una biblia pequeña y la abro a la primera oración de la mañana: “oh Dios mío, mi único bien, el Autor de mi ser y mi último fin; Te entrego mi corazón. Alabado sea el honor y la gloria por Ti, por los siglos de los siglos. Amén”. Esta biblia fue recuperada de mi tío Rudy. No puedo empezar a comprender que sostengo un pedacito de él, algo que sus dedos tocaron alguna vez. Me doy cuenta que podría haber leído la última oración que recitó mi tío Rudy el día que murió. La familia significaba mucho para mi abuelo. Amaba a su esposa, mi abuela Helen. No cabe duda que era una mujer fuerte, una luchadora con corazón de oro. Siempre pienso que yo habría llegado a ser una persona fuerte si ella hubiera estado viva durante mi adolescencia. Mi abuelo cortejaba a mi abuela mientras él estaba en guerra, y le escribía mucho mientras estaba en el extranjero. Me encontré una vieja fotografía en donde se miran los dos sentados
on it. But the letter’s greeting “Hello Darling” and the farewell of “Loving you always” are clear as day. Staring at the letter, I think about the specific moment my grandmother received it in the mail. Was it a sign of relief for my grandmother, knowing he was still alive?
They married on Aug. 31, 1946, after the war in Europe and the Pacific had both ended, but a year before my grandfather was honorably discharged from the Army. My grandmother was two months pregnant at the time with their firstborn, my aunt Connie. My grandfather prayed for all girls, and that is what he received—four girls—until my uncle and father were born. He always said he prayed for this because he did not want his boys to be drafted.
I carefully hold in my hands my grandfather’s honorable discharge paperwork. The sheet of paper is so delicate I unfold it with care. Stains, rips and faint words make it hard to read the historical document, but it is manageable as I trace the footsteps of my grandfather. He fought in the battle of Naples-Foggia, then Rome-Arno and another that’s illegible.It lists his medals: World War II Victory Medal, American Theater Ribbon, European, African, Middle Eastern Ribbon W/1 Bronze Star and Good Conduct Medal. And there, the last one: Purple Heart Medal. At the bottom of the document, it shows his thumbprint. I graze my hand over the print as I think of my grandpa. It was a seal of approval for his discharge on March 2, 1947.
My grandfather always said the one thing he wanted to do before his passing was to go back to Italy. It was in 2007 that he got his wish. He was 87 years old. My aunt Norma accompanied him on a trip to Italy, where she says my grandfather was treated like royalty. When people knew my grandfather was coming, reporters and others gathered on the streets in a parade line. It was there my grandfather met Valerio and Renzo, the authors of the book about his division, and they took him to the World War II museum in Imola and Monte Battaglia where his division fought.
Valerio and Ranzo showed my grandfather the exact spot he got wounded, where he laid for hours in the rain, wondering if that was his last moment. My aunt tells me he froze in silence staring at that spot for 10 minutes. I can only imagine what my grandfather was thinking about as the memories came flooding back. There he was at 87 years old, seeing his life flash before his very eyes. What a life he has lived.
I started this search for my grandfather because of the fear I would one day forget my memories of him. But as I pieced together his life, I found more than just his story. I found myself.
My grandpa loved poetry. He loved listening to the band, The Doors, because of Jim Morrison’s lyricism.
I sit here on the living room floor, listening to the sweet sound of Glen Miller on vinyl. I can’t help but feel so close to my grandpa at these moments. I pull from the box one of my grandfather's favorite poems: “Soldier” by George L. Skypeck. One line in particular draws me in, “I have seen the face of terror; felt the stinging cold of fear; and enjoyed the sweet taste of moment’s love.” I think about what it means to me. My grandfather witnessed many deaths that were brutal in war. Many times he thought it would have been the end. However, through it and throughout his life he carried the love of the little things, “sweet moment’s love.” All these years, I see myself letting life go by quickly, and through it, I’ve lost who I am and the things that make me happy.
Writing has always been something that has come easy to me, whether it be storytelling or poetry. The family says I got it from him. He was a sweet man of few words, with a heart of gold. It has been a story I’ve been wanting to write for years, but I felt I couldn’t do it because I wouldn’t be able to bear the pain. I have never felt more like a writer than right now while writing his story.
It was here, searching and getting to know him, that I found a little piece of me, again: a girl who loves to write, read poetry, listen to big band, draw and most of all, family.
Just like her grandpa.
Henry and Helen Falcon posing
for a picture in the 1940s. They had two sons and four daughters together. Henry said he initially prayed for all girls because he didn't want his sons to be drafted.
Henry C. Falcon in his famous
World War II Veterans hat at the top of Mount Battaglia with "Blue Devil" book writers Renzo Grandi(left) and Valerio Calderoni(back row; third from right) for the first time since he fought back in 1944. Photo Courtesy of Norma Falcon Corina
Salina A. Falcon proudly holds
the flag of her grandfather at the Whittier Police Department's memorial for soldiers. She looks up to the sky, smiles and says, "It was all for him." Photo by Aprel Rose
en una banca. Mi abuelo está abrazando a mi abuela, casi como si estuviera escuchando los latidos de su corazón. Él porta su atuendo militar y mi abuela está con su peinado de los años 40, luciendo un largo abrigo sobre un vestido. Ella era muy elegante. Le encantaba bailar, y fue así cómo se conocieron. Crecí escuchando las historias de cómo le dolían los pies, pero aún así seguía bailando.
La escritura de mi abuelo casi parece garabatos en una carta fechada el 27 de julio de 1944, menos de dos meses antes que la bala lo golpeara en la rodilla. La carta tiene un sello del ejército en ella. El saludo de la carta: “hola, querida” y la despedida: “amándote siempre” aún son legibles. Al mirar la carta, me pongo a pensar en el momento específico en que mi abuela la recibió por correo. ¿Sería una señal de alivio para mi abuela saber que todavía estaba vivo?
Se casaron el 31 de agosto de 1946, ya que las guerras en Europa y el pacifico habían terminado. Un año antes, mi abuelo había sido despedido honorablemente del ejército. Mi abuela tenía dos meses de embarazo de su primogénita, mi tía Connie. Mi abuelo quería puras niñas y eso fue lo que recibió —cuatro niñas- hasta que nacieron mi tío y mi papá. Siempre decía que quería eso porque no quería que sus muchachos fueran reclutados.
Sostengo cuidadosamente en mis manos el papeleo de despedida honorable de mi abuelo. La hoja de papel es tan delicada que la desdoblo con mucho cuidado. Las manchas, rasgaduras y palabras borrosas dificultan la habilidad para leer este documento histórico, pero logró hacerlo. Luchó en las batallas de Nápoles-Foggia, RomaArno y otra que es ilegible. Se enumeran sus medallas: medalla de la victoria en la Segunda Guerra Mundial; Cinta de teatro americano; Cinta Europea, Africana y del Medio Este con una estrella de bronce; Medalla de buena conducta; y la última, la medalla del corazón púrpura. Al final del documento se encuentra su huella digital. Paso mi mano sobre la impresión mientras pienso en mi abuelo. Fue el sello de aprobación para su despedida el 2 de marzo de 1947.
Mi abuelo siempre decía que lo único que quería hacer antes de su muerte era volver a Italia. En 2007 cumplió ese deseo. Tenía 87 años. Mi tía Norma lo acompañó en el viaje, donde dice que trataban a mi abuelo como a la realeza. Cuando la gente se enteró que venía mi abuelo, los reporteros y muchas otras personas se reunieron en las calles en una línea tipo desfile. Fue ahí que mi abuelo conoció a Valerio y Renzo, los autores del libro acerca de su división. Lo llevaron al museo de la Segunda Guerra Mundial en Imola y al Monte Battaglia, donde luchó su división.
Valerio y Ranzo le mostraron a mi abuelo el lugar exacto en el que resultó herido, donde permaneció durante horas bajo la lluvia, preguntándose si ese era su último momento. Mi tía me dice que se quedó paralizado en silencio mirando ese lugar por diez minutos. Solo me puedo imaginar lo que mi abuelo estaría pensando mientras todos esos recuerdos le inundaban la mente. Ahí estaba, a sus 87 años de edad, viendo su vida pasar ante sus propios ojos. Qué vida ha vivido.
Comencé esta búsqueda por mi abuelo a causa del miedo que tengo de que algún día olvidaré los recuerdos que tengo de él. Pero mientras juntaba las piezas de su vida, encontré más que su historia. Me encontré a mí misma.
A mi abuelo le encantaba la poesía. Le encantaba escuchar la banda The Doors debido al lirismo de Jim Morrison. Me siento aquí en el piso de la sala escuchando el dulce sonido de Glen Miller en vinilo. No puedo evitar sentirme tan cerca de mi abuelo en estos momentos. Saco de la caja uno de los poemas favoritos de mi abuelo: “Soldado” de George L. Skypeck. Una línea en particular me atrae: “He visto el rostro del terror; sentido el frío punzante del miedo; y disfrutado el dulce sabor del amor del momento”. Pienso en lo que esa línea significa para mi. Mi abuelo presenció muchas muertes brutales en la guerra. Muchas veces pensó que podría haber sido el final. Sin embargo, a través de eso y durante toda su vida, llevaba consigo el amor por las cosas pequeñas: “el dulce sabor del amor del momento”. Todos estos años me he visto dejando que la vida se me pase rápidamente y a causa de esto, he perdido quién soy y las cosas que me hacen feliz.
La escritura siempre ha sido algo que me ha resultado fácil, ya sea la narración o la poesía. Mi familia dice que lo saque de él. Él era un dulce hombre de pocas palabras con un corazón de oro. Esta ha sido una historia que he querido escribir por años, pero sentía que no podía hacerlo porque no podía aguantar el dolor. Nunca me he sentido más como una escritora que ahora mismo mientras cuento su historia.
Fue aquí, mientras buscaba y lo conocía a él que volví a encontrar una pieza de mi misma. Una mujer que ama la escritura, leer poesía, escuchar a bandas famosas, dibujar —y más que nada, a su familia.
Igual que su abuelo.
