Año 3/Vol. 2 LA TOLTECA Winter Solstice 2012 Issue

Promoting the advancement of a world without borders and censorship

LA T O LT EC A 1

EDITOR AND PUBLIHER

L La aT olltte ec ca a First Best Photo Contest! Details Inside To

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El ultimo poema de Javier Sicilia/The Last Poem by Javier Sicila Javier Sicilia, poeta, activista y periodista mexicano, es el recipiente del Premio Voz de Los Sin Voz de 2012. Sicilia escribio su ultima poema sobre la matanza de su hijo de 24 a帽os por narcotraficantes hace un a帽o.

El mundo ya no es digno de la palabra.

Nos la ahogaron adentro Como te (asfixiaron), Como te desgarraron a ti los pulmones Y el dolor no se me aparta s贸lo queda un mundo Por el silencio de los justos S贸lo por tu silencio y por mi silencio, Juanelo.

Javier Sicilia, poet, activist and Mexican journalist is the recipient of the Premio Voz de los sin Voz, 2012. Sicilia wrote his last poem about the murder of his 24 year old son last year

by Narcos.

The world is not worthy of words.

They have been suffocated from the inside as they suffocated you, as they tore apart your lungs ... the pain does not leave me, all that remains is a world through the silence of the righteous, Only through your silence and my silence, Juanelo.

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Ana Castillo Publisher and EditorEditor-inin-Chief Contributors: Managing Editor: Samuel S. DuBois Staff Writer Marcelo Marcelo Castillo

Karen Anzoategui Anzoategui Melissa Flores Anne Key RubĂŠn Martinez Carlos Morton Javier Sicilia Alvarez Brenda RomeroRomero-Lake

LA TOLTECA

4 5 Editor’s Editor’s Page 7 En Memoriam: Memoriam: Jenni Rivera, Chavela Vargas, Etta James 65 Announcements: photo contest /workshops POETRY 2 El ultimo poema de Javier Sicilia/The Last Poem by Javier Sicila ESSAYS

8 Circus Freaks: Performing Solo as a Latina Gender Bender Karen Anzoategui 14 The Reveal in Memoir and Burlesque Anne Key 17 The Crown of Basquiat: From Street Artist to King of the Art World Marcelo Castillo INTERVIEW

26 Spiritualizing Politics Interview with Javier Sicilia with Rubén Martinez Translated by J.C. Hernández with Brenda Romero-Lake THEATER

35 Profile of a Playwright 36 Slivery Night Carlos Morton REVIEWS

44 “Ban This!”

This!”: The BSP Anthology of Xican@ Literature Melissa Flores 46 “Between Worlds: An Anthology of Contemporary Fiction and Criticism” Criticism” Brenda Romero Lake 48 The End of the World, Mayan Prophecy 2012 and the True Identity of Our Lady of Guadalupe Keynote Address by Ana Castillo at the

Women in Mythology Studies Association WORKSHOPISTAS’ PALETTE 51 For My Brother Ometecuhti Adrianna Herrera Amparán 52 The Game Lizz Huerta 56 Look Closer Joanna Pham

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Editor’s Page According to my Mexic-Amerindian ancestors today marks the end of the Quinto Sol or Fifth Sun era. The sacred number five was the symbol of the center based on the five directions. In our attempt to understand the people of the Pre-Conquest we must keep in mind that their concept of survival depended on the sun’s nurturance. The sun remaining a constant in the present, we too, may, for now, rest assured that life on the planet will continue within our lifetimes as we have known it.

As such, the end of the Fifth Sun era marks a new era, not named by the People of the Fifth Sun. The predecessors to the Aztec count were the ancient Mayas. They may not have left us instructions, either, but it is safe to say we have our work cut out for us.

On behalf of the La Tolteca volunteer staff and contributors, we are pleased to present the last edition of the year on this fortuitous date. The spectrum of essays on the theme ‘Writers on Stage’ shows the diversity of the writer’s mind and how s/he is not limited to getting her/his work to a public through publication. From the days when the majority of a populace—from medieval Europe to pre-Conquest Southwest—did not ‘read,’ but were brought news by travelers from politics to religion, fashion trends to all manner of survival ideas—writers and thinkers have been sharing information.

6 We’d like to think that La Tolteca continues this ancient tradition on bringing information creatively to a general public via the internet as the latest method for dispersing news. In this issue, writers share their efforts to create audiences via the stage from the gender bender performance artist Karen Anzoategui to poet turn political activist Javier Sicilia. Anne Key, memoir workshopista, publisher and pagan priestess shares how she connects writing to burlesque performance. We are also pleased to feature excerpts from a new play by Chicano playwright, Carlos Morton and reflections on the artist Jean Michel Basquiat by our staff writer Marcelo Castillo. My own thoughts on the meaning of the Winter Solstice 2012 appear in this issue via links to YouTube of a keynote address I gave at the Association for Women in Mythology Studies Conference this year in San Francisco, California.

As always, we have included for your visual pleasure plenty of colorful images, new work by emerging writers, announcements and other timely tidbits. We welcome submissions from workshopistas, readers’ comments and books for review consideration.

Check out details regarding our first photo contest; there’s still time to submit. In our Spring Equinox 2013 issue, Project Planet Resurrection, we will be pleased to showcase related topics of self-sustainability for body, mind and soul. We at La Tolteca wish you and yours safe, healthy and blessed holidays and a prosperous 2013.

Ana Castillo Editor and Publisher

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En Memoriam Memoriam Jenni Rivera (1969 – 2012) was born in California. The ‘Diva de la Banda’ sold over 15 million albums and was on the precipice of starring in her own Hollywood television comedy. Her difficult personal life may have provoked her to compose songs addressing domestic violence as well as speaking out on the subject and other social issues. Her career was yet on the rise when the diva’s private plane crashed in Northern Mexico December 9th. Ms. Rivera will be missed by her fans worldwide.

Watch at:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WbEDWDiUQSk

Two Legends Chavela Vargas 1919 – 2012 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_mC3iYbTKDQ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fZdx15AJs7c

Etta James

1938 – 2012

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t1adWlI7t8g http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=diqgJyQ-Kiw

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CIRCUS FREAK: Performing Solo as a Latina Gender Bender

by Karen Anzoategui I belong in the circus. It isn’t as easy getting into the circus as one might think. “I’m sure it’s easy for the likes of you, ” someone might say. True. I am not freak enough for certain circus rings but I get nervous at auditions.

What is it exactly that I do? You wonder.

I have a need to perform. It is not a desire to fulfill in order to get attention. I don’t like talking in front of people and I get tongue tied when expressing my feelings. Una tartamuda con phobias del público. (¡Qué horror!) A la misma ves, I am blessed with the curse--the need to express. To channel need to perform is greater than the fear instilled in me from a wee age as I tried to stop my father from beating up my mother that my words were not important. Somewhere around that time I began to stutter. A block in my throat formed and it paralyzed my speech.

As a child I loved singing. I hid in my room to play some Elvis and croon. I hoped no one would hear me, but inside that safe space I was the leading man ‘cuz my imagination crossed gender roles. I was suave, cool and knew how to seduce women as I held a pretend microphone and imagined myself before an imaginary captive audience. I left the performance dream in the closet for a while until I actually got on stage in a high school class “production” of an obscure Western farce the name of which I can’t remember.

9 What I do remember was that I couldn’t retain my lines.

However, I suppose my teacher thought I could do it because of my personality—a personality got me to a place I did not want to be. I had one scene with many lines, I just couldn’t understand how I was to memorize them and the teacher threatened to take me out of the play.

Somehow, I was able to get through rehearsals until show time. Then something came over me, like a flame had ignited and burst throughout my body. I became wildly alive with a spark. Now, I recognize it as what happens when a performer is born, but I would not understand this spark until I truly started acting on the stage.

In college productions, I was so tired of studying with a full course load that the pain of rehearsals actually became a huge lesson for my career. During rehearsals when I depended on other cast members, my flame was not as bright. I’d soon learned that you needed to be present, as well as other cast members. If they were not, I would allow the lack of presence on their end to diminish my fire; my energy.

As a performer, there is an energy you contain and each person on stage is his and her own conductor. How present are you? One asks. Each cell in your body, each moment of memory throughout the play is being completely experienced without letting your own personal issues get in the way, such as the block in the throat, the shortness of breath the inability to be present.

There is a trust you build as an ensemble in rehearsals and finding where the spark might be ignited in order for the pacing to build the momentum of the story. You must stand

10 independently while dependent upon the connection to spark with the whole ensemble that carries the energy--el fuego--throughout.

I was trying to find that spark at times that were not being offered to me and I learned that in order to connect, you must light the fire yourself. Find the spark within you, and contain the energy until you meet your next opportunity to move the energy through as an ensemble. Continuing to be present is the secret of acting. Being aware of what was happening within me and rising above it in order to function.

I realized that my need to express was great, but I would get nervous at auditions.

What ended up happening was there wasn’t enough work for me, so I needed to create it.

The immigrant/transnational/queer stories I saw on stage were not reflecting my own.

When I saw Freak by John Legiusamo, (on HBO) I was inspired to write my first solo piece for my Theatre 101 class. The solo genre called my name. Performing in a play, I’d realized, was a lot different than performing in a solo piece where I played numerous characters who engaged in the conversation. Through recognizing a predecessor in John Leguisamo’s one man shows inspired me further into theatre. I saw what he did with his voice and body to play various characters and it called me to do the (?) something similar. I felt we were made of the same fabric. We were both freaks.

With my first solo show Ser: L.A. vs. B.A. , an identity piece told through the politics of a soccer game, I took my herstory and staged it. I was scared to stage a Mexico vs. Argentina game within the story of the piece in Southern California, fearing that Mexicans and Chicanos would boo me off stage in Boyle Heights. Part of the story highlights the tensions between Argentines (my own background) and Mexicans/Chican@s in Los Angeles. Many came to me afterward expressing how connected they felt to my story! Central Americans related to my story, too, and cheered

11 me on during the piece. “I would have to get rid of my Guatemalan accent to be accepted,” said a Guatemalan immigrant audience member who came up to me, feeling I was expressing her own story. “Central American? Accepted by which side?” Another such audience member asked me after the show, Afterward I felt more confident in performing my own herstory and realized that there was a need to have it out there. I learned that once I stepped forward to perform, a cohesion formed of intuition and audience energy—the spark, in other words, came from them.

I began this alchemic trick on March 26th, 2006 after I attended the protest on immigration legislation HR4437, (The Border Protection, Anti-terrorism, and Illegal Immigration Control Act which was trying to pass the senate) in Los Angeles, which marked one of the largest attended protests in the city’s history. The energy and vibrancy of the city felt like millions were present.

I wore my Argentine jersey and instead of dodging the hateful stares I anticipated, I felt an acceptance that I had not felt before amongst the masses of mostly other Latin@s. Inspired by marching in solidarity with all immigrants and supporters, I decided to write the beginnings of Ser: L.A. vs. B.A. Before I transferred to Loyola Marymount where I received by B.A. I began theatre training at Rio Hondo College. I studied from Shakespeare to Chechkov, ,Molière to Shaw and Brecht. I learned, that if a play as written well, the words flowed easily. There would be no stumbling, only a smooth ride from text to body to mouth to audience ears. Because I have my training in theatre, I have learned to trust my body and intuition when working a script, which helps me see where I may need to edit. I am a believer that the writer must

12 watch the actors work with the script but in the end the writer’s pen governs over the actors impulse to “say the line differently because it sounds better this way.” As a solo performer I found that my in-the-moment-actor instincts gave a better critique than my sit-downrewriting-analytical editor. This completely contradicts what I learned in my theatre training.

Moreover, in my experience as writer and solo performance, the only way to truly know what worked dramaturgically, was in front of an audience. The audience’s perception of what my gender and sexuality could be was one of the questions I wove throughout my solo show Ser: L.A. vs. B.A. I don’t change outfits and I use few props. The true challenge in portraying these male, female and non-gender conforming characters is in doing it with my voice and body.

Ser: L.A. vs. B.A. was more than a match between multiple identities explored in the play and more so a match between the writer vs. the actor with many red flags ignored as a writer. (My ego couldn’t really get hurt since I became both writer and actor.) But forcing something to happen was not as critical as allowing it to happen, which was the magic the spectator came to see.

Now, as the actor, once I am wearing the skin of the piece I trust my organic impulses and the combination of both actor and audience results in a different performance each time. As with soccer, sure, there is a structure, but why force things on an audience and risk the trust that you built? Cuando sigues la picotea sobre el asfalto la pelota nos enseña las lecciones de la vida. (With each bounce of the ball over asphalt, soccer teaches us life lessons.) Throughout the five years of developing and touring the show in festivals I’ve learned to trust what is performed.

13 Although this freakish lifestyle can be intimidating, there will definitely be tumblings, lots of contortions and tightrope walking, I honorably accept my job as levitating-fire-breathing--juggling- bearded-circus ring-leader (as I climb out of a tiny car with 15 other clowns—all of them, me.)

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Karen on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/kanzo10

Twitter: https://twitter.com/karenanzoategui

Blog: http://www.myqulture.com/author/Karen/

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The Reveal in Memoir and Burlesque

By Anne Key

There is something of the stage in memoir, a presentation of intimacy that bravely faces the public gaze. The act of exposing my thoughts in the printed word is like each "reveal" in a burlesque act. Memoir is the contemplation of lived reality, a recording of events and a contemplation of the backstory, the thoughts and emotions buffeted by forgotten moments floating into the present. Burlesque and memoir both reveal what my better judgment warns against disclosing.

Whereas the reveal in burlesque is immediate, there is a lengthy delay in memoir between the words on the computer screen or the ink on paper, and the moment a reader comes to it. At the point of typing on the keyboard, the idea that someone will read my candid thoughts is a moment far in the future and the potential reader, an unknown entity.

This lag in time allows me the space to summon the courage to write my genuine self.

Conversely, as a burlesque performer, the public gaze is immediate. The moment I step on stage, there is no lag in time. There is never a question as to anyone seeing my most candid self; the audience is present as the first notes of the music are struck, and the reveal begins on cue. There is no time to contemplate the judiciousness of the reveal and no opportunity to hit delete and re-work. The act hurtles forward and adrenaline takes the place of courage.

In memoir, events are the backbone of the story, but the juicy bits are exposed in the reflections and deliberations. Once when I tried on my costume for the group act for our

15 burlesque show, I noted that the costume was designed for a woman younger than me, as well smaller and thinner. In contemplating myself in the mirror, my mind was bombarded with the cultural norms of beauty, my personal struggles with weight and shape, and my own inability to see myself with compassionate eyes. I struggled to move beyond this onslaught to the issues of the intersection of feminism and self-image; the male gaze and esthetics; and the politics of self-expression.

In burlesque, the choreography and music carry the act. Each reveal happens in sequence, with the small ones tantalizing the viewer to wait with bated breath for the final reveal. The reveal begins with the pull of the satin maroon gloves, then the enticingly slow unzipping of the curvaceous velvet dress, the fall of the silky sensuous slip to the floor, the sliding of the glittering garter down the leg, the lingering pull of the seamed stockings, the dainty steps out of the sequined panties.

And the final reveal? The sequined and fringed bra, unsnapped with my back to the audience, held out tantalizingly until I turn around for the final view: the sequined thong and pasties, tiny patches of sparkling cloth conscientiously taped to the parts that are illegal to show.

The physical reveal is actually not that revealing. Lots of women have exposed hands, belly buttons, and breasts. How I have chosen to reveal –therein resides the true intimacy. Each article of clothing, each stage of reveal, exposes more than skin. The manner in which I take off my gloves divulges my concept of seduction. Rich maroon satin gloves that stretch over my elbow, expressing my love of supple and sleek fabric, of elegance, of color. The left glove pull, which begins as I loosen each satin finger by delicately tugging it in my teeth, indicates my own oral fixation. The caress of the cool satin glove on my cheek as I sensuously pull it from my hand illustrates my desire to feel the hand of my lover cradling my face. My firm tugging at the right glove and the wild discard as it soars across

16 the stage exhibits my need to be free of constraint and surrender to passion. In less than forty seconds I have not merely revealed my carefully manicured hands; I have exposed and displayed the most intimate inner workings of my being. I have shown complete strangers my desire.

And to what end, this drive to plumb my heart and soul and expose my private thoughts in the printed word, to dissect and then dance my desires on a stage? Is this but two faces of the same egoic desire for rampant exhibitionism on both physical and emotional levels, because one is just not enough? I cannot say that I completely understand my drive for writing memoir. Dancing burlesque is just plain fun. I do know that both of these undertakings have guided me to lead a more mindful existence. Examining and accepting my mind and body, my heart and desire have fused the fragments of myself into a totality that sustains scrutiny. It engenders compassion and tenderness for my fragile human self.

Finally one may ask, what does this navel gazing, both proverbial and corporeal, offer to the public gaze? Why not restrict myself to journals and my bedroom mirror? It is my hope that the reader as with the viewer at the burlesque show can find her/himself in me and that my journey will reflect aspects of his/her own. When I demonstrate the courage to face my thoughts as when I own my desire, I hope I open doors for others to also embrace their own.

_________ Anne Key, (Workshopista, Taos, NM, 2012). She is the author of Desert Priestess: a memoir and co-editor of The Heart of the Sun: An Anthology in Exaltation of Sekhme Key is co-founder of the independent press Goddess Ink (www.goddess-ink.com).

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The Crown of Basquiat: From Street Artist to King of the Art World Marcelo Castillo

The word Jazz Ma$ter!

Brightly colored tones , Pre-Colonial Poems splash SLAVE bonez.

Clean dry in the Pig Stye's eyes!

A true-blue blood talent for the non-conformist, anarchistic , alternative rock-rap boom-bap!

Get RIGHT! GET WITH IT! Parental WARNING: THESE ARE "Explicit Lyrics"!

Stylin' profound like a $HINING CROWN!!

NOUN! Copyright $ign.

S@MO LIVES!!!!

18 Jean-Michel Basquiat, who died a famous artist in New York, has since become an art cult unto himself.

Basquiat's art career began with the inception of his graffiti street-poet alter-ego "SAMO� c.1977 and continued until his untimely death in 1988. You either love Basquiat and his unique blend of paint, oil stick, and political street poetics or you "hate" his body of work.

There are many fine examples of his crown throughout his art, and to understand Basquiat's inspiration and his sources of inspiration is to, ultimately, understand him.

Today, his influence in hip hop culture is undeniable. The artist himself did not consider himself a graffiti artist. During his life there was a blurred dichotomy between "sell-outs" and those "keeping it real". Basquiat met Warhol before his fine art career took off while he was selling postcards to restaurant patrons and his motivation for working with Warhol was to have a surrogate father figure and to facilitate getting rich and famous. You have to watch what you wish for, the saying goes and the celebrity and cash that came as among the few African-Americans in the fine art circle he always felt like he was being used by dealers and the rich people who wanted to commission work from him. He felt like a commodity or a sideshow. His feelings of being discriminated fueled his artwork. It should be noted that he had positive experiences during his travels in Europe.

Simultaneously, the excessive drug abuse that eventually took his life may have exacerbated his paranoia of the "other.� For if Whites think of dark people as their Other, and men may be women as Other, a brilliant shooting star amongst the elite may have viewed that same elite as his own opposite. They had influence and money but were dull.

19 Upon first glance some viewers have dismissed Basquiat's artwork as being childish, or ‘too abstract.’ Perhaps, by not taking the time to see the significance that his anatomical drawings and tribal sketches, they fail to absorb the meaning of his prophetic words, barely visible, underneath the layers of masterful brushstrokes, as can be seen in his 1982 "Leonardo di Vinci's Greatest Hits." We see the crowned words HEEL and TORSO, HUESO (the Spanish word for 'BONE'), various drawings of the male form as well as railroad tracks.

Basquiat had an acute political mind. Because of his Blackness, he experienced the subtleties and attitudes of racism. Basquiat, half Haitian and half Puerto-Rican, was obsessed with the history of colonization. He spoke Spanish, French, and English, and incorporated phraseologies in all three languages in his paintings.

He openly mocked the established art world with, what he perceived to be, it's frivolity and exuberant pricing, as can be seen in his parody of the Mona Lisa in his "Mona Lisa" (1983). "Five Thousand Dollars" (1982) is a black rectangular splash over a drab brown background with the words and numbers: five thousand dollars, 5000$ in white. It is the asking price of Basquiat's work. In "Untitled (Venus)" (1983) Venus is portrayed with a demonic face, with pubis displayed and mismatching breasts--the right, bigger and black while the left is a red circle. Given the artist’s preoccupations with race we may make our own assumptions regarding his possible associations with the portrait of a goddess.

He staunchly denied being a graffiti writer. However, in my opinion, Basquiat was one or at least to some degree, shows its influence. Before embarking on what would be a fine art career, Basquiat saw the raw power that graffiti had as public art and began tagging

20 the moniker "SAMO," short for "Same 'Ol Shit.” It was a variation on the racist term 'Sambo,' and an anagram of Amos (from the TV Show "Amos and Andy, seen by critics of how Blacks are portrayed in White society as a kind of Step ‘n’ Fetchit.). He followed his SAMO tags with a copyright symbol, surely indicating ownership his creations.

What set Basquiat apart from many graffiti writers (then and now), was that he deliberately used graffiti as a platform to position himself into the overall New York art scene. As opposed to die-hard graffiti writers who "keep it real," Basquiat went into art with the sole purpose of commercializing his works. Many talented graffiti artists had no problem 'selling out' to the established, white dominated, art world, especially considering the kind of money they could earn. To pure graffiti writers this 'selling out' defeated the secret purposes of graffiti art itself. This fact is still oftentimes debated amongst graffiti practitioners and ultimately the answer is subjective to the artists' themselves.

What is also interesting to note is that Basquiat did not have much support from African-Americans while he was alive and most of his financial support came from the White affluent. He did his first collaboration with his beloved mentor, Andy Warhol through an art dealer from Switzerland named Bruno Bischofberger. The young artist grew close to Warhol through a white girlfriend, Paige Powell, who was the advertising director of Interview Magazine. No doubt, a critic of race politics, Basquiat may have felt exploited

21 by this dynamic, sentiment that may be viewed in some works. It was after his death that the African-American community took pride or perhaps became aware of and celebrated Basquiat as one of their own. Although his association with Warhol was arguably paramount to his rise in the elite artist world in which the latter reigned, it was brief and did not end well.

During his life, Basquiat showed a strong affinity with African-American heroes, as can be seen in his famed paintings "St. Joe Louis Surrounded by Snakes" (1982), "Untitled (Sugar Ray Robinson)" (1982), "Horn Players (1983), "Untitled (Jackie Robinson)" (1982), "Jack Johnson" (1982), and "Cassius Clay" (1982). The young artist was enthralled by their stories, their rise and fall from ‘kingship.’ These celebrities, like him, were oftentimes treated with disdain by a racist society despite their obvious success. Louie Armstrong lived during an era when he was barred from some venues by White society and Cassius Clay, at his height during the Civil Rights Moment, changed his name to Muhammad Ali when he turned to Black Islam. Race was an ongoing theme throughout the artist’s brief career, during which time he struggled with drug abuse and quick rise to fame.

Celebrity seems to have caused him to resent the hangers-on that surely his life and work drew but he also, it appears, had a tumultuous relationship with everyone he encountered.

Basquiat, best summed it up by the phrase he wrote on his painting "Charles The First" (1982): "Most Kings Get Their Head Cut Off". It is a triptych making grand use of canary yellow, ‘police officer blue, and black,’ as well as hints of red and white. Scrawled across the top left is "THOR," with Basquiat's signature crown and enclosed in a black box. On the right side are the words OPERA and CHEROKEE. There are rough sketches of hands among other scribbles scattered throughout this wonderful painting. The symbols

22 (Basquiat declaring himself to be king of the art world) featured in this work were recurrent in many of Basquiat's paintings.

Indeed, his now iconic symbol was a crudely drawn 3-point crown.

It has been used and copied countless times in Hip-Hop music and fashion. Basquiat lifted this representational symbol from the 'King World Productions' trademark at the end of The Little Rascals (the short film series of the 1920s). Basquiat took an element from his U.S. childhood to usher himself into it the upper echelons of society.

The crown symbolizes the leader of the land and remained a theme throughout his career. Despite his dreadlocks and dark skin, he became a king in the white dominated arena of high society.

His crown, however, as with kings before him, led tragically to his early death in battle. In his case, with drug addiction. A crown can be a burden in terms of maintaining its influence and luster. The expression goes, 'Heavy is the Crown' and surely. Perhaps his youth and lack of maturity kept him from assuming the Although there is no evidence of intentional intent or desire for association Basquiat had to have been aware of The Almighty Latin King Nation (or ALKN) gang organization permeating the streets of New York City and who still use a 5-point crown to this day as their primary gang sign. Puerto-Ricans and other Latinos, who claim to be street royalty in defiance of the Establishment, would definitely have been an idea that would have appealed to Basquiat.

In several of my favorite Basquiat pieces, he makes use of the Latin King gang colors: gold and black. In an untitled piece from 1981, a black face adorned with a gold and black 3-point crown painted in gold leaf on one side of a found window pane and on the right side of the window is a gold, yellow, and black "K" outlined by a box. Given his other

Comment [AG1]: Missing piece

23 works, the viewer may assume that the "K" stands for 'King'. In two later paintings, "Dextrose" (1982) and "King Pleasure" (1987), Basquiat, once again, uses black, gold, and yellow color schemes in very appealing while simple ways, towards visual success.

Basquiat made use of his 3-point crown in many of his paintings. At first, crudely and as it took on new meaning, he rendered it with further depth

“… legacies of colonization and the incorporation of anatomical drawings were significant.”

and color. A fantastic example of Basquiat's graphical genius can be seen in "Untitled (Sugar Ray Robinson)" (1982). It is composed of white oil stick on an all-black canvas. It might well be an album cover for El-P (of Company Flow) or Anti-Pop Consortium.

In this fan's view, the genius in the work is its simplicity. Accessible in today’s sound bite culture is not a bad thing. The same might be said for "Trumpet" (1984), where Basquiat depicts with his preferred palette of a menacing yellow, red, and black trumpet player and huge black crown over a red, white, and peach background. Strokes of white paint almost enunciate the stabs of sound the trumpet makes.

However, in two painting from The Blue Ribbon Series (1984), Basquiat uses bold, complimentary colors: charcoal gray, black, copper, orange on one and bright sun yellow, black, orange, and copper on the second. There is an ominous figurehead silk screen adorned with the artist's signature crown and various anatomical drawings, movie titles, as well as maps and diagrams. It must be noted that among all of Basquiat's themes: commodities, slavery, hobo signs, Black greats, racial politics, Spanish, Latin, English and French words—legacies of colonization and the incorporation of anatomical drawings were significant. Basquiat's mother gave him the book "Gray's Anatomy," while recovering from

Comment [AG2]: “The Blue Ribbon Series” ?

24 surgery. His spleen was removed after he was hit by a car at the age of 7. That gift, like the crown, would be a constant theme in Basquiat's art. It also served as the name of a band he was in with now famous actor Vincent Gallo. It seems the anatomy book sparked the artist in the child.

Other epic examples of Basquiat's crown(s) can be seen in his paintings, "All Colored Cast (Part II)" (1982), "Tuxedo" (1982), "Untitled (Crown)" (1983), "Red Kings" (1981), which make use of 5-point and 4-point crowns, "King Alphonso" and "King Brand" from his "Untitled (The DAROS Suite of Thirty-two Drawings)" (1982-83).

As his art evolved, so did Basquiat's crown. It may be argued that the artist led the cavalry of the current trend among rappers and hip hop artists in exploiting their names as trademarks.

In 1984's "Grillo", in a wonderfully elaborate artistic installation made of canvas and wood, Basquiat bombarded viewers’ optics with a succession of anatomical African tribesmen. One wears a yellow crown roughly outlined in black with white highlights and blessed with a dimension of lavender. It is the most advanced crown out of his entire catalog. In point of fact, with intentional aim at giving his African background its due, Basquiat created an African king whose internal organs seem to light up along with his crown.

As previously mentioned, Basquiat grew up during the heyday of New York’s graffiti era, but his art was not supported by those influences-his graffiti writer peers. It could be argued that through his Warhol connection that Basquiat, himself, had his sights set on appealing solely to the NY art elite. It would not be until years after his death that he would be embraced by the Hip-Hop community, and successful African-American artists, such as rappers Jay-Z and Rick Ross, who mention Basquiat by name in their verses and,

25 either, admit to owning or wanting to own original Basquiat pieces for their personal collections. Among other prominent places where we may now identity the Basquiat Brand, Swizz Beatz, a rapper and producer (married to Alicia Keys,) and runs the Reebok Classics department recently worked with Basquiat's father to collaborate fashion which appears with Basquiat’s crown. It might be noted that he gained much criticism for a pair of Adidas sneakers that came with what appear to be bright orange ankle shackles, drawing allusions to modern day slavery, or images of peoples’ slavery to over-consumption. It can be said that despite Basquiat, himself, his art and most specifically, his iconic 3-point crown, continue to influence the Hip-Hop community that helped to create him.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Marcelo Castillo Staff writer at La Tolteca

26

27

Javier Sicilia Alvarez, Mexican poet-turned-activist and leader of Mexico’s Movement for Peace with Justice and Dignity, is turning personal horror into hope for himself and his country. After the death of his son at the hands of drug traffickers in 2011, Sicilia swapped his pen for protest, pushing to stop the bloodshed. He speaks on the power of words as an instrument for peace, recognizing responsibility lies on both sides of the border.

In spring 2012, Rubén Martínez, author and professor at Loyola Marymount University, conducted a public interview with Mr. Sicilia at the Los Angeles Public Library during the program The Poetics of Protest: Giving Voice to Mexico’s Peace Movement. What follows is the initial conversation revised for publication.

For the entire transcript, please write to tolteca@anacastillo.com

28

Rubén Martínez: Buenas noches, good evening. Thank you all for accompanying us this evening. Javier Sicilia is a poet. As you may or may not know, he renounced poetry upon the death of his son, Juan Francisco, a little over a year ago. He still considers himself a poet, but he's not writing right now. Beto and I felt that we could receive him with a poem with special resonance.

Beto Arcos (interpreter): De uno de los poetas en la lengua española que ha influido mucho el trabajo de Javier Sicilia: “Noche oscura” de San Juan de la Cruz.

[From one of the poets in Spanish letters who has greatly influenced the work of Javier Sicilia: “Dark Night” by St. John of the Cross,]

29 En una noche oscura, con ansias en amores inflamada, ¡oh dichosa ventura! salí sin ser notada, estando ya mi casa sosegada.

A oscuras y segura, por la secreta escala disfrazada, ¡oh dichosa ventura! a oscuras y en celada, estando ya mi casa sosegada.

En la noche dichosa, en secreto, que nadie me veía, ni yo miraba cosa, sin otra luz ni guía sino la que en el corazón ardía.

Aquésta me guïaba más cierta que la luz del mediodía, adonde me esperaba quien yo bien me sabía, en parte donde nadie parecía. ¡Oh noche que me guiaste!, ¡oh noche amable más que el alborada!,

30 ¡oh noche que juntaste amado con amada, amada en el amado transformada!

En mi pecho florido, que entero para él solo se guardaba, allí quedó dormido, y yo le regalaba, y el ventalle de cedros aire daba.

El aire de la almena, cuando yo sus cabellos esparcía, con su mano serena en mi cuello hería, y todos mis sentidos suspendía.

Quedéme y olvidéme, el rostro recliné sobre el amado, cesó todo, y dejéme, dejando mi cuidado entre las azucenas olvidado.

Rubén Martínez:

One dark night, fired with love's urgent longings Oh, the sheer grace!

31

I went out unseen, my house now still.

In darkness, and secure, by the secret ladder, disguised, Oh, sheer grace!

In darkness and concealment, my house now still.

In the joyful night, in secret, for no one saw me, nor did I look at anything, with no other light or guide, than the one that burned in my heart.

This guided me, more true than the light at noon, to where I was being expected, by whom I knew so well, there in a place where no one appeared.

Oh guiding night!

Oh night more lovely than the dawn!

Oh night that has united, the lover with his beloved, transforming the beloved in her lover.

32

Upon my flowering breast, which I kept wholly and intact, there he lay sleeping, and I caressing him, there in a breeze from the fanning cedars.

“Yo pienso que ahí

nace el movimiento, este nombrar a partir de la muerte de un muchacho, a todos los muertos.”

The breeze blew from the turret, as I parted his hair, with its gentle hand, my neck was wounded, suspending all my senses.

I abandoned and forgot myself, laying my face on my beloved; all things ceased, and I abandoned myself, leaving my cares, forgotten among the lilies.

RM: RM Gracias Javier por acompañarnos y antes que nada, te queremos extender un profundo pésame por tu hijo, por perder tu hijo de esa manera. Nos unimos a tu dolor. Y ahora a platicar de cómo uno surge de esta tragedia. ¿Cómo fue que ese momento trágico tan personal se convirtió en algo público y tan grande?

33

[Thanks, Javier, for being here with us. And first of all, we want to extend our profound condolences for the loss of your son, for losing your son that way. We share your sorrow. Let us now talk of how one emerges from this tragedy. How did such a personal and tragic moment became such a big and public issue?]

“El problema de México con esta guerra es que además de que los criminales están

JAVIER SICILIA ALVAREZ: ALVAREZ No lo sé yo. Creo que la muerte

matando a nuestra gente,

de mi hijo fue la gota que derramó el vaso de dolor que ya estaba

a nuestros hijos, a

ahí en el país. Como si el nombre de mi hijo le hubiera dado nombre a todo lo que estaba enterrado bajo estadísticas.

nuestros hermanos, a nuestros padres o

Cuando pronuncio esta frase que no tiene traducción y escribo a

secuestrándolos, no hay

partir de eso, esta frase, esta frase se vuelve extraña. Es una frase

justicia. El estado está

poética, una imagen poética popular se vuelve como un conjuro, ¿no? Yo pienso que ahí nace el movimiento, este nombrar a

corrompido.”

partir de la muerte de un muchacho, a todos los muertos. Y empezar a dar nombre y partir de una frase poética muy popular: estamos hasta la madre. Me gustaría aclarar para muchas feministas quienes les molesta la frase ‘hasta la madre.’ También, me gustaría precisar aquí para los mexicanos y las mexicanas que lo sabrán, que la madre es lo más sagrado para el pueblo de México. Y el rostro más claro de esa veneración es la Virgen de Guadalupe. Por lo tanto, estar ‘hasta la madre’ quiere decir que hemos llegado a lo más sagrado. Más allá de eso no puede ser tolerable ya nada.

34

[I don't know. I think that the death of my son was the last straw of the pain that had already been there in the country. It's as if my son's name gave name to everything that was buried in statistics, in numbers.

When I write this phrase that has no translation and I write about it, this phrase, this phrase becomes strange. It is a poetic phrase; a popular poetic image becomes a sort of spell, doesn’t it? People then start to get together and the victims become visible to the public.

And I think this is the birth of the movement. Names emerge after the death of this young man, names of dead ones, and this happens along a very popular and poetic phrase: we’re fed up to the mother. I'd like to clarify for those feminists who have a problem with the phrase ‘fed up to the mother.’ Also, for Mexican men and women here who must know that for the people of Mexico the mother is most sacred. The most venerated expression of this is the Virgin of Guadalupe. Therefore, ‘Fed up to the mother’ means that they've touched what is most sacred. Beyond that, nothing else can be tolerated.]

Interview continues on page 43

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35

PROFILE OF A PLAYWRIGHT "Grandfather Carlos Pérez changed his name to Morton in 1917 when he came to Chicago from Pachuca, Hidalgo. The story goes that he wasn't being hired with the name Pérez. Upon seeing a billboard advertising Morton Salt the next time he applied for work he gave his name as Carlos P. Morton. Abuelo got the job."

CARLOS MORTON’s career as a playwright spans over forty years and has written as many as forty plays. His first professional production was in 1978 with LOS DORADOS by the California-Pacific Theatre in San Diego County (30 performances) under a C.E.T.A. grant. Morton started out as an actor in high school and college, then took classes in improv in 1967 at The Second City in his hometown of Chicago where he discovered that the actor could playwright. Later, he was influenced by El Teatro Campesino which performed at UTEP in 1979. His credits include the San Francisco Mime Troupe, the New York Shakespeare Festival, the Denver Center Theatre, La Compania Nacional de Mexico, the Puerto Rican Traveling Theatre, and the Arizona Theatre Company. He has also written for Columbia Pictures Television and worked as a consultant for Fox Television. In 2011 he received an “Ambassador’s Scholars’ Award” to the University of Malta.

Currently Professor of Theater at UC Santa Barbara where his philosophy is to mentor the next generation of theater artists. At present, he is at work on an adaptation of "The Savior" in Toronto and a Spanish language production of "Romero de las Americas" in Puebla, Mexico, both deal with the life and death of Archbishop Oscar Romero of El Salvador.

36

Silvery Night (play excerpt.*)

by Carlos Morton

A young boy named Tomas is staying in a migrant labor camp in South Texas. He is fascinated by the concept of the devil, does he or does he not exist?

From what Tomas understands he can “call out” the devil at midnight and it will appear. Tomas goes out to the woods and calls out for the devil but nothing happens. He then recalls the time he found a cardboard box with a devil’s costume that belonged to a neighbor, Don Rayo, who used it for the Christmas Pastorela (Shepherd’s play). Tomas puts it on and his imagination gets the best of him -- becoming, in effect, the devil. Don Rayo appears and scolds him for putting on the costume and playing those kinds of games. In the Tomas realizes there is no devil and it is “all in his mind.”

Players TOMÁS, a Mexican boy ten years old.

DON RAYO, a middle aged Mexican man.

(THE SCENE IS A MIGRANT CAMP SOMEWHERE IN TEXAS. IT IS A SILVERY NIGHT AND THE MOON IS FULL. SOUNDS OF CRICKETS ARE HEARD. A YOUNG BOY OF TEN ENTERS AND SPEAKS DIRECTLY TO THE AUDIENCE.)

37 TOMÁS .

IT WAS A SILVERY NIGHT, UNA NOCHE PLATEADA, A GOOD NIGHT TO SUMMON THE DEVIL. I’D BEEN THINKING ABOUT IT FOR A LONG TIME. WAS I AFRAID? YES, BUT I JUST HAVE TO FIND OUT IF THE DIABLO REALLY EXISTS. AND TONIGHT IS THE NIGHT. THE LIGHTS ARE OUT AND MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS ARE ASLEEP. (SOUNDS OF SNORING.) I CAN HEAR MY FATHER SNORING IN THE OTHER ROOM. MI ‘AMA ALWAYS COMPLAINS ABOUT HIS SNORING. SHHHHHHHHH! I HAVE TO GET TO THE FRONT DOOR WITHOUT ANYBODY NOTICING. (HE WALKS, STOPS, AND LOOKS AT A CLOCK ON THE TABLE.) 11:50 P.M. I BETTER TAKE THIS CLOCK WITH ME. (HE PICKS UP THE CLOCK AND PUTS IT IN HIS POCKET.) THEY SAY YOU HAVE TO CALL OUT THE DEVIL AT EXACTLY MIDNIGHT, A LAS MERITAS DOCE. (HE SLOWLY OPENS THE FRONT DOOR, WHICH MAKES A CREAKING NOISE.) MALDITA PUERTA! (HE STEPS OUTSIDE.)

LO DEL DIABLO SIEMPRE ME HA FASCINADO, EVER SINCE THEY TOO TO SEE TIA PANA’S PASTORELA AT THE SHURCH. YES, THE “SHURCH,” LA IGLESIA. WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING? NO SE HAGAN FUN DE ME! YOU THINK I SPIC FUNNY? I DIDN’T SAY “SPIC” I SAID “SPEAK.” WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU, THAT’S THE WAY WE TALK IN TEXAS, HIJOLES! I ALWAYS WANTED TO KNOW WHAT THE DEVIL LOOKED LIKE. IN THE CHRISTMAS PASTORELA DON RAYOS PLAYED THE DIABLO. HE WORE A BLACK CAPE WITH A BLACK MASK MADE OF TIN AND RED HORNS. HIJOLES!! QUE SUSTO! IF YOU SAW

38 HIM IN AN ALLEY, YOU’D RUN LIKE HELL! DE VOLADA! BUT I’M NOT AFRAID OF EL DIABLO, AND TONIGHT I’LL CALL HIM OUT, VAN A VER. (HE STARTS TO WALK.) FIRST I HAVE TO WALK OUT PAST THE OTHER SHACKS IN THE MIGRANT CAMP, PAST THE OUTHOUSES, OUT BY THE ALAMO GROVE. I CAN’T EVEN SEE OUR HOUSE FROM HERE. QUE HOUSE NI QUE MI ABUELA, IT’S MORE LIKE A CHICKEN COOP. DE VERAS! MI FAMILIA Y YO SOMOS MIGRANT WORKERS, WHO FOLLOW THE PISCA FROM TEJAS TO “IUTA.” THAT’S WHERE WE’RE HEADED, IUTA. WHERE IS UTAH? NO SE, DICEN QUE ESTA SOMEWHERE NEAR JAPAN, POR ALLI. BETTER BE CAREFUL WHERE I STEP IN THIS TALL GRASS, COULD BE . . . UHH OHHHH! SOMETHING SWIRLING AROUND THE GRASS! IS IT A SNAKE! HAY DIOSITO!! (LOOKS AT THE CLOCK.)

IT’S MIDNIGHT. A VER, COMO LO LLAMO? GOD, WHAT IF HE APPEARS? NO, IT CAN’T BE. BESIDES, HE CAN’T DO ANYTHING TO ME, I’M NOT DEAD YET! ALL I WANT TO KNOW IS IF THE DEVIL REALLY EXISTS OR NOT. BECAUSE IF THE DEVIL DOESN’T EXIST, THEN THERE’S NO . . . . I’D BETTER NOT SAY THAT. I COULD BE PUNISHED. CHIHUAUA! HOW DO YOU CALL THE DEVIL? (CLEARING HIS THROAT.) DIABLO! PINGO! CHUMUCO! LUCIFER!! SATANAS!! CHUPACABRAS!!!

I DON’T HEAR ANYTHING, DO YOU? MAYBE I’M NOT TRYING HARD ENOUGH. I GOT TO GET INTO IT. COME OUT MENTIROSO, ATASCADO, BORRACHO, ASESINO! CHINGATE PUES! YU TU MADRE, QUE ESTA EN VINAGRE!! NADA, ABSOLUTAMENT NADA. I KNEW IT, THERE’S NO DIABLO, HE DOESN’T EXIST!

39 ONE AFTERNOON I LOST A MARBLE UNDERNEATH DON RAYO’S HOUSE AND WENT UNDERNEATH THE CRAWL SPACE TO LOOK FOR IT. THERE I FOUND A CARDBOARD BOX AND INSIDE WAS A COSTUME, THE DEVILS’ COSTUME. I SHOOK OFF THE DUST AND TRIED IT ON. (HE PUTS ON THE COSTUME.) QUE TRAVIESO, NO? THAT’S WHAT MY ‘AMA SAYS. (HE BECOMES THE DIABLO.) ORALE!!! (STRUTS AROUND.) A VER, QUIEREN PEDO!! NO TE METES CONMIGO, GUEY, PORQUE TE ROMPO LA MADRE! OH CHET!! HERE COMES DON RAYO!

DON RAYO HEY YOU, HUERCO MOCOSO, WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!!. QUITATE ESA MASCARA!!!

TOMÁS PERDONAME DON RAYO, I’M SORRY. (HE TAKES OFF THE MASK AND HIDES IT BEHIND HIS BACK.) DON RAYO YOU’RE SORRY, YOU SORRY SACK, YOU. DAME ESO. YOU DON’T PLAY AROUND WITH THE DIABLO, OIESTE! THERE ARE MANY WHO CALLED HIM OUT AND LIVED TO REGRET IT! TOMÁS I’M SAID I’M SORRY, OK! (TAKING OFF THE CAPE AND GIVING IT BACK.) DON RAYO YOU’RE PLAYING WITH FIRE. YOU COULD DIE OF FRIGHT. OTHERS ARE OVER COME WITH GRIEF AND STOP TALKING, AS IF THEIR SOULS HAD LEFT THEIR BODIES.

40 TOMÁS FOR REALS? DON RAYO YOU DAMN STRAIGHT. ONE NIGHT OUT BY CRISTAL SE PUSIERON BIEN PEDOS UNOS VATOS. THEY CALLED OUT THE DIABLO IN THE PARKING LOT OF LA ROSA TEJANA.

AH, LA ROSA TEJANA WAS A BAR DE AQUELLAS, YOU COULD DANCE TO MUSICA NORTEÑA ALL NIGHT LONG AND DRINK COLORADO COOL AIDE. ANYWAY, ESOS CABRONES SE CREIAN MUY MACHOS. BUT THE DEVIL BIDED HIS TIME AND DIDN’T APPEAR UNTIL LATER, MUCH LATER. HE GOT THEM ONE AT A TIME. PICKED THEM OFF LIKE FLIES WITH A FLY SWATTER, ONE BY ONE, SQUISHED THEM AND PULLED THEIR WINGS OUT, ASINA! NO, NO, MI’JITO, NO SE JUEGA CON EL DIABLO. ENTREGAS TU ALMA, YOU’LL SELL YOUR SOUL. TOMÁS WHAT ABOUT YOU, DON RAYO, DID YOU SELL YOUR SOUL? DON RAYO QUE BABOSADAS ESTAN HABLANDO? TOMÁS WELL, DIDN’T YOU PLAY THE DEVIL? DON RAYO THAT’S DIFFERENT, MENSO! I’M JUST PLAY ACTING IN THE PASTORELA! IT’S ONLY MAKE BELIEVE!! (HE EXITS.)

41 TOMÁS DON RAYO! DON RAYO? WHERE DID HE GO? MAYBE HE WAS RIGHT IN SAYING THAT WE SHOULDN’T FOOL AROUND WITH THE DIABLO. SUDDENLY EVERYTHING SEEMS CLEAR. THOSE WHO CALLED OUT THE DEVIL AND WENT INSANE DID SO NOT BECAUSE THEY HADN’T SEEN THE DEVIL. ON THE CONTRARY, IT’S BECAUSE THE DEVIL DID NOT APPEAR!! EL DIABLO NO APARECIO! JUST LIKE ME. WELL, SORT OF. (HE PULLS OUT THE DEVIL MASK, PUTS IN ON AGAIN, AND WALKS OFF STAGE.) EL FIN -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Based on the story by Tomás Rivera, ‘Y no se lo tragó la tierra.

All RIGHTS RESERVED FOR THE AUTHOR CARLOS MORTON, SANTA BARBARA, CA. 2012.

To contact: CMORTON@THEATERDANCE.UCSB.EDU

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42

Continued Interview with Javier Sicilia from page 35 RM: And so in that moment there's an explosion and ‘hasta la madre’ becomes a slogan; it appears on signs in protests. It goes viral across the country. Estoy hablando del proceso en que casi de la noche a la

mañana, está la gente con las pancartas. [I’m talking about the process, that almost overnight there were people holding signs] Then the idea of the caravans comes about. What is it like for you to find your mourning reflected suddenly in other peoples’ mourning? ¿Cómo fue de repente sentir tu duelo reflejado en todos los pueblos adonde iban y se encontraban con otros seres que habían perdido lo más sagrado para ellos?

[What did it feel suddenly to see your grief reflected on all those towns where you would go and to meet others who had lost what was the most sacred to them?]

JSA: JSA El problema de México con esta guerra es que además de que los criminales están matando a nuestra gente, a nuestros hijos, a nuestros hermanos, a nuestros padres o secuestrándolos, no hay justicia. El estado está corrompido.

Las víctimas le tienen miedo a la policía, a las procuradurías. Porque muchos policías están coludidos con el crimen. Entonces cuando las personas afectadas denuncian, son amenazadas, son criminalizadas. ‘Su hijo ha de haber estado metido en eso.’ Y tienen miedo.

Hay más, el discurso del gobierno dirá, ‘se están matando entre ellos.’ ‘No importa que se mueran.’

Y cuando pronunciamos este discurso y empezamos las caravanas, la gente empezó a salir. Nosotros le llamamos la primera caravana, ‘la del consuelo.’ Es decir, vamos con la soledad de los otros, es la palabra consuelo. Y empezaron a salir y empezaron a gritar su dolor. Los mítines estaban llenos de sus voces. Se hicieron visibles a los ojos y a la conciencia del poder de la nación. Hemos recogido mucho dolor. El poema que se les

Comment [LAM3]: This seems like part of the translation that follows in brackets, no . . ?

43 repartió de María Rivera, “Muertos,” expresa muy bien esta situación de dolor que tiene el país.

[The problem in Mexico with this war is that in addition to criminals killing our people, our children, our brothers and sisters, our parents or kidnapping them, there's no justice. The state is corrupt.

The victims are afraid of the police, of the government agencies. Many members of the police force are involved with crime.

Therefore, when the affected people denounce the criminal act, they are threatened, are blamed for the crime. “Well your kid must have been involved." So, they're afraid. Moreover, the political discourse of the government is, ‘They're killing amongst themselves,’ ‘Who cares if they die?’

And when we started uttering this expression and coming out in caravans, people started coming out. In fact, the first caravan was called the Caravan of Consolation. In other words, we accompany those in the solitude of their sorrow. And they began to turn out and scream their sorrow. Their voices filled up the rallies. They became visible to the eyes and the consciousness of the nation’s power. We've brought together much of this grief. The poem that was passed around earlier by Maria Rivera, “Muertos,” expresses very well the painful situation in the country.]

Interview continued on page 58

44

Review of Ban This!

This!

Melissa Flores ¡BAN THIS! Santino J. Rivera, ed.

Broken Sword Publications, FL; 2012 328 pp $19.95 paper From East Los Angeles to Great Barrington, MA and everywhere in between, writers have taken a stand against censorship and racist, anti-immigrant legislation. When House Bill 2281 set out to dismantle Mexican American Studies programs in the state of Arizona by creating a ban that specifically removed cultural studies from public school classrooms, people around the country yelled back, “This is NOT okay!” As the books began to get boxed away, the voices began to get louder until one day they all challenged, “BAN THIS!” Through the work of Santino J. Rivera and Broken Sword Publications, ¡BAN

THIS! The BSP Anthology of Xican@ Literature has harnessed the force of this response to stand in solidarity with freedom of speech and all of the individuals fighting to defend it in Arizona. In many ways, this book is less about the ban itself and more about reclaiming the right for Chicanas/os to tell their story. It is a place, bound between pages, to carve out a space for identity to exist in all of its complexity.

Within these stories is Annemarie Pérez struggling with her “Chicano-ness,” a biracial woman who searches to define herself while she travels between two worlds, both East and West Los Angeles. Santino J. Rivera challenges his readers to think critically through a poem about “reverse racism, Noemi Martinez sheds light on the browning of America, and Art Meza falls in love all over again with his first love, Echo Park.

Through these various voices, we glimpse into the worlds of Chicanas/os across the nation. These snapshots beg us to cast away our notions of a one-dimensional Chican@

45 and introduce us to an album of faces of what has become the Neo Aztlán. In the Neo Aztlán we can remember our Aztec past and wonder about our Chican@ future. There is a space for a café con leche Chican@ to assert, “I am Brown and Proud” and at the same time have someone question, “Am I Chicano enough?” while they stare at their smooth brown chocolate skin. This book captures the liminal space that all Chican@s live in, neither here nor there, half full and half empty, but always enough.

Most books either provide windows into worlds we never knew or mirrors that reflect ourselves and our stories, this book generously opens its pages up wide and gives us both. ¡Ban This! is like your abuelita’s warm embrace, delicious like tortillas recién echadas, and surprising like a flying chancla on your backside. This thoughtfully assembled anthology includes familiar voices such as Rodolfo Acuña, Francisco X. Alarcón, Gustavo Arellano, and Luis Alberto Urrea. It also includes political cartoons from Lalo Alcaraz and presents new voices from all over the country that share beautiful stories of being American, being Chican@, and just being. As the cover warns, “This book is a weapon. This book is extremely dangerous. This book is explosive. This book is illegal. This book could land you in jail!” But most importantly, this book is unforgettable. It is history neatly preserved on 328 pages. You really don’t need more reasons to get your copy of this book. Go now, before the state of Arizona tries to “¡BAN THIS!

Melissa Flores is a current graduate student at the Harvard Graduate School of Education.

She is a native of Chicago.

46

Contemporary Literature and the Search for Identity and Home Brenda Romero-Lake Poe, Deborah and Ama Wattley, eds. Between Worlds. An Anthology of Contemporary Fiction and Criticism. New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 2012. 216 pps.

In-between, multicultural, and hybrid are some of the adjectives that could best describe the characters that emerge in the texts of this anthology. As Deborah Poe properly states in the introduction, our globalized world and the increasing movement of people between borders due to exile, relocation, and diaspora, have become the inspiration for contemporary writers who in many cases are themselves part of this migratory phenomenon. This compendium includes selections from novels and short stories by: Chimamanda Ngozi, Rebecca Brown, Ana Castillo, Michelle Cliff, Edwige Danticat, Rikki Ducornet, Louise Erdrich, Maxine Hong Kingston, Ha Jin, and Helena María Viramontes.

The variety of cultural backgrounds and settings of this array of stories provides the reader with a broad overview of many alternative discourses that surface in present-day literature, and delivers a diverse exploration of topics such as racism, marginalization and belonging.

The volume is divided in four units, each with a set of excerpts followed by an academic study that examines the readings of that section. The organization of the texts is effective and the close readings that accompany each group of excerpts contribute with insightful connections and interpretations particularly valuable for new readers of literary fiction “between worlds.” Alwin A.D. Jones analyzes the formation and recollection of memories associated with traumatic events in works by Cliff, Adichie and Danticat. The issues of war and race frame this examination that articulately connects these plots that feature cultural and geographical border-crossings pertaining to Africa, the Caribbean and the United States. The second section groups excerpts by Ducornet and Brown, whose works are studied by Lynne Diamond-Nigh. The metaphorical and literal concept of

Comment [AG4]: Do we need a period after a title?

47 “flight” is the focal point of this scholarly investigation that explores these narratives through the lenses of time and space. Selections from novels by Erdrich, Castillo and Viramontes comprise the next unit of this anthology. Catherine Rainwater provides a perceptive close reading of these texts by examining the non-Eurocentric manifestations of grief and mourning in the three plots. The book ends with narratives from Jin and Kingston, and a critical piece by Belinda Kong. This last academic study, unlike the rest, focuses on the writers themselves and does not provide a study of their texts per se, which would have been favorable to the uniformity of the anthology. Kong refers to the lives and literary development of these authors in relation to their ethnic identity as ChineseAmericans.

The search for identity and home emerges as the overlying common element in the readings. With their diverse and inclusive selection of texts, Poe and Wattley manage to demonstrate that despite cultural, geographical and generational differences, the characters created by these influential contemporary writers share a sense of “not-at-homeness.” A migrant worker from Mexico, a Chinese monk, and a Nigerian political exile are among the protagonists that in these narratives struggle to come to terms with their multi-layered identities. One major achievement of this anthology is bringing very diverse voices in conversation. These stories introduce readers to works of fiction that in most cases are not too far from reality, and the book as a whole renders a kaleidoscopic view of our globalized world .Between Worlds represents an excellent choice for those teaching World Literature, Ethnic Studies, Comparative Literature and Global Studies. It is also a valuable collection for scholars and readers in general with an interest in current transnational and multicultural literature.

Brenda Romero-Lake teaches Spanish at Westminster College and is a doctoral candidate at the University of Utah, Salt Lake City

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The True Meaning of Our Lady of Guadalupe and December 21, 2012

Keynote address At the Association for the Study of Women and Mythology in San Francisco, California Part 1 http://www.youtube.com/wa tch?v=EmL2sZzSLx4 Part 2 http://www.youtube.com/wa tch?v=FOEhB1AVfks

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For My Brother Ometecuhtli Ometecuhtli Arianna Herrera You have delighted me in your midnight tuxedo wearing your hair in serpent chakras toward the galaxy dancing into what is to be and can only be, for we are the people of heart as we have been, as we will always be.

We danced before you were the sun, before I was.

Look at us at what is to be at what is unraveling the world sights the fragmented moon kept hidden for so long, ridiculed though observed, an object helping Einstein change our relativity.

We enter a new dimension for a mind lastingly more pleasurable than the glowing finity of a swollen orgasm.

Don’t get me wrong, I still need you. The galaxy may as well be dead otherwise.

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The Game Lizz Huerta Our bodies are pressed tightly against the side of a parked car. We hear the border patrol agents’ footsteps approaching. I motion for my little sister to be quiet, to not breathe, not make any noise. The United States of America is within reach, we see its yellow light in the dark night. The border patrol agent has reached the car. In our veins out blood turns to ice. It’s no good, we’re as good as caught. I contemplate running, leading him away so that my little sister has a chance to make it across the border, but a few feet away from where we’re hiding someone else starts to run and the border patrol agent is off, yelling at the kid to stop. I yell at my sister to go, I grab her hand and we run as fast as we can and we make it. We reach the light and celebrate! We’ve made it to the United States! One by one the others straggle in, some on their own, jubilant they’ve made it too. Others are brought in by Border Patrol Agents, they’ve lost this round and will have to be in the Border Patrol the next round. Agents who have caught someone get to hide with the rest of us.

The street we live on, Barrett Ave, is a long s-curved street lined with Jacaranda trees. The houses are small but the yards are large. Most of the families on the block are Mexican, but not Mexican-Mexican. We say say “Yeah, I’m Mexican, but not MexicanMexican.” We are the children and grandchildren or immigrants. All of us know Spanish but we speak English. We hiss and cuss in Spanish, cry and are soothed in Spanish but our conversations are in English. We’re a mixed bunch. My sister and I are goody-two shows, the daughters of a pastor and we can be annoying in our “I’m telling!” But we have the only

51 swimming pool in the neighborhood so we’re tolerated. Across the street live the boys are the children of farm workers who marched with Cesar Chavez. The down-the-street kids have weird Aztec middle names and call themselves Chicano. On weekends they dane with their parents in feathers and rattles. There are also a couple of white girls who moved here from Tennesee, Tybee Harmony and Bobby Jo. We like to laugh at their funny accents and their horrified faces when they try our Mexican candy covered in chile.

Six miles to the south Tijuana and the real border glitter visibly at night. We are kids who cross back and forth easily, between cultures and languages. We go to Tijuana often, for groceries, to eat with family. We don’t understand why some cousins can’t come over to play but is just a part of the larger universe we just don’t get.

When we play Border Patrol there are two teams.

The stakes are high. Territories are defined by streetlights and the yards of mean neighbors. There is one streetlight more important than any other streetlight. That street light is the United States of America We gather at night, every summer night. We are dead serious. The rules are simple, the team who is the Border Patrol, or La Migra, waits by the USA streetlight. The other team, the Mexican immigrant team we call the Wetbacks, hides in the territory that is defined as Mexico. When the count is finished La Migra comes looking for the Wetbacks, to catch them and prevent them from getting into their country.

If you’re a Wetback you do whatever you can to make it to the United States without getting caught. You sell out your fellow mojados, you hide under cars, you push and shove away La Migra who are hunting you down. You have a goal. If you’re La Migra you just want to keep the Mexicans out of your country. It isn’t easy, your eyes aren’t completely adjusted to the dark because you’ve been standing under the light that is the United States of America. When you head out into the night to find the immigrants it is hard to see, and there are so many of them.

52 We love this game. We play it as late as our parents let up stay up. I’m much better as a Wetback than Border Patrol Agent, I can’t run very fast but I can hide. I can see well enough in the dark to position myself between more vulnerable Wetbacks and the Border Patrol. When I make it under the light that is the United States I am jubilant and cry out “America! I made it to America!”

It wasn’t until I was older and stopped playing Border Patrol that I began to think about the game. We never thought about the political significance of what we were playing at, just like the kids who grow up playing Cowboys don’t stop to think Oh hey I’m representing manifest destiny, colonization, bang-bang you’re dead while the kids playing Indians don’t stop to think What the fuck? Every night while we were playing Border Patrol, what we were playing at was being played out with real lives, humans beings, a few miles from where we lived.

Children have been mimicking the world around them since the beginning of time.

It’s how we learn. We play house, we grow from the fantasy world of early childhood to reenacting the world we see around us. The Border Patrol was real in our lives, as were immigrants, documented and otherwise.

A couple of years ago I was walking through my San Diego neighborhood and I saw the Mexican kids who live behind my apartment building playing in the alley that separated our homes. There were always playing, screaming at each other, and even though it annoyed me at times I was happy they lived their afternoons outdoors, away from television, computers and video games. But this time the little girl, about five years old, was standing prostrate with a pillowcase over her head. One of her older brothers was standing beside her, the orange muzzle of a toy gun pressed firmly against the side of her head. A few feet away their other brother was smiling, pretending to take pictures. The image was

53 horrifyingly familiar as it had been on the news channels for days. They were reenacting the prisoner torture and humiliation at Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq. Seeing the kids play Abu Ghraib made me feel sick. Didn’t they know? Hadn’t anyone told them it wasn’t right? That what they saw on television was sickening, the treatment of people as play things. The value of being seen as human stripped away.

Then I thought of my childhood. I wonder if anyone who saw us playing Border Patrol had the same feeling, playing a game that set brother against sister; those who lived in the light and those who would do anything for a chance to feel it on their faces.

Sometimes I wonder if the games kids play tell us more about our society than we would like to admit. It isn’t just out kids who are comfortable playing the roles of jailer against inmate, cowboy against indian, immigrant against Border Patrol Agent. We live comfortable in the light and in the roles that society sets out for us, but we too often miss the truth hidden in the shadows our actions leave behind. Our eyes have trouble adjusting to see the wider reality, that those people in the shadows are also people; that it isn’t a game.

Lizz Huerta, workshopista, San Diego and VONA, San Francisco.

The Game first appeared in BAN THIS! reviewed in this issue.

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Look Closer Joanna Pham

A cyst is just a hollow sac of air. It is not living; a cyst is a membranous, abnormal, attachment. It is a strange division of tissue. Biologically, a cyst is filled with dense, bodily fluids that react to heat, sunlight, feathers, and fingertips. A red balloon filled with what’s inside of the lung, a cyst is a lonely desire for contact—any kind of contact, rib-crushing contact. Ultimately, a cyst is what happens when one touches things like a shy body, acorns, reptiles, even a dead bird.

My mother stared at it for hours. As a traditional Laos woman, she believed that sickness was everything in the head, along with ghosts, memories, and black dogs. When it came to colds, allergies, headaches, bruises, and scabs, my mother was southeastern. On rare occasions, she removed stitches by herself. On rare occasions like this, she was allowed to look at my blazed, swollen eye; my mother was a nurse. On this day, she was western and called the doctor. He said something about surgery as my eye began to look more and more plush with blood and pupil. They were going to take my eye; I knew it. It was futile, and for the twenty-seven minutes it took to drive to the hospital, I imagined myself as an Avian Savior, the liberator with a patch of black over my eye.

When I was five, the doctor told me to close my eyes and not to worry and that my mom was outside waiting and that everything was fine and that polar bears were his favorite, too. I believed him—that polar bears were his favorite—as a fake haze fell over my body like a gassy fog. Falling asleep beneath the hospital ceiling, I felt so swindled. Dr. Wander wore glasses. He was operating on my right eye, as I had no right to see his. How

55 unfair. He was allowed to look at me. When I was five, I fell asleep to a Frenchman wearing a white beret. On this day, I woke up with one bigger eye, right was bigger than the left, and my mother came to greet me. She kissed my forehead, looked me dead, and said something of the sort: See, Nana, this is what happens. I could not tell if she was sad.

From afar or up close, and even during conversations, one would never be able to tell. Masked by lashes and a little bit of liner, few could see the difference in size. To most, my eyes were just almond, a deeper shade of coffee. To the other kids they were looming, bush-baby-big. To my father, my eyes were a reminder that they were not his. To my sister, they were critical because we did not see the same. To the Americano- drinking-men in the corner, they were curious, honest, approachable. I noticed you were looking my direction,

let me buy you a drink, was the usual catch line.

Once, when I was nineteen, I partook in a man who liked my face. Beneath a bright contrast of bodies and bed, he pulled my hair back and asked, “Why are your eyes so big, especially this one,� and smiled a ludic grin. I did not tell him the story, but instead, To

match the crookedness of my mouth. Laughing, he pulled the sheets over our heads and I then shared the grand significance of being asymmetrical. That morning, I left a little lonelier, because I did not know his real name.

Once, when I was twelve, I found a dog. He was yellow with white whiskers and waiting by my door, as if he belonged to my home. We both knew it was going to rain, and that my father would not allow for a filthy dog in the house. Still, the dog did not leave. He was there to protect me from the storm. I told my sister to be the decoy, because this dog needed a friend. Even though she was scared, she called my father into the study, as I quietly led the corn yellow dog into my home. That night, as my father came in our room

56 to see if we were sleeping, I crookedly smiled at the fact that he walked right by a pile of blankets that concealed Marlow. I named the dog Marlow. As soon as my father left the room, I pulled the blankets off Marlow and sat face-to-face with him and felt his whiskers.

I don’t care what he’ll do if he finds you here. I don’t even care. Marlow then licked my cheek and, accidentally, my eye. He knew the story. I remember because my eye somewhat stung, and I had never felt so much love in my stomach.

Once, when I was seventeen, Father decided to no longer trust me. From the smog he arrived into my bedroom and grabbed my backpack right off my back. He wanted to pour it out, all the books, comics, pens, and finally, the condoms. That night, with his palm, my father drew a red x on my right eye. He told me he could not look at me anymore as it began to swell and bleed. One eye was bigger and redder than the other, and I was hideous.

Once, when I was twenty-one, I was wine-eyed and deep with regret. Lowly, my chest was filled with so much salt and I felt it crystalize in my throat.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I am so sorry, refused to filter and leave the esophagus. For once, I wanted someone to look at me, but he wouldn’t.

“How could you do this to me?”

“Why would you do this to me?”

“Especially, with him?”

I can’t even look at you, was what he wanted to say. That day, more tears fell from the right side of my face because I had done so much wrong. That day, I felt like an eviscerated bird.

The same one I found when I was five.

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When I was five, I was always the last to be called to the color station. Gavin put glue in my hair. Michelle stole my bubble gum and tried to convince me that I gave it to

her. Megan called me ugly, which was strange, because she was also brown. Recess was the worst time, because I sat on the sidewalk with no one and nothing and only played with chalk. One recess, I was crouched behind a rose bush waiting for the bell to ring. I was fascinated by how close the bees came to the thorns. Recess was almost over, and I heard it: the vile voices of four boys and their sticks.

“Stab it!”

“Kill it!”

“Poke a hole through its heart!”

Out of curiosity, I found my way behind the circle of boys and their putrid skin.

Inside was a little bird, a blue and green canary that had to have been a pet. I had never seen a blue and green bird in my own backyard; it had to have been a pet. I watched as Gavin drove his stick into its wing as so many feathers fell into the soil. I lunged for the bird.

“Stop it, it’s already dead.”

“Get out of the way, give us back our bird,” Gavin poked me with his stick. “Give it back or I’ll stab you harder.”

Cupped inside my palms was its body with clouded eyes. As a result of torture it had lost its leg and feathers. Gavin drove the stick deeper into my side but I did not release it. The recess bell rang.

I refused to go back into the classroom, where I knew that everyone would stare. Instead, the principal came outside and slowly sat down by me on the steps.

“Give me the bird, Joanna. You have to give me the bird so you won’t get sick.”

2010 Limited Edition All Stock $49.99 (includes shipping costs)

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No “I’m going to ask you one more time. Give me the bird, or I’ll call your mom.”

No “That’s it, Joanna, I’m calling your mom and she will be so upset with you.”

Twenty minutes later, my mom stepped into the office with a worried gray on her face. She thought that I had been hurt. All I remember is the principal pointing a long, red finger at me as I sat in the corner. Bird, still cupped in my hand. Their conversation was quiet. I only heard chirps until, finally, my mother gazed at me and took me outside.

We buried the bird next to the rose bush. I saw the pigment in her cheeks rise as she held my face and started to cry. When I was five, I did not get in trouble for touching a dead bird. I was not punished. Outside, next to the grave, my mother held my face, looked me dead and said, So many good things will happened to you. Now

please, Nana, stop rubbing your eye.

Joanna Pham, Workshopista, Westminster College, Salt Lake City, UT, 2012

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Interview with Javier Sicilia Con’d from page 45

“We retake the old, the

ancient practice of the pilgrimage, with Pre-Hispanic and Christian roots. The pilgrimage, in the spirit of sorrow that has turned to love for us is a call to our heart and consciousness.”

RM: Y ahora a cruzar la frontera. Now, crossing the border. You come to Los Angeles, and two days ago, hace dos días en la Placita Olvera. Two days ago on Olvera Street we had a scene in which Javier was suddenly surrounded by victims, family members of victims in México holding up pictures of their dead. Estoy comentando lo que vimos en la placita de

las madres aquí en Los Ángeles con las fotos. [I am talking about what we saw at the Square, the mothers here in Los Angeles, with the pictures.] Upon crossing the border you're bringing the caravan to this side. ¿Por qué se trae de este lado? ¿Por qué de este lado

la caravana? [Why is it brought to this side? Why is the caravan on this side?]

JSA: Sí, ahora pensamos tener el apoyo de las organizaciones mexicanas, centroamericanas, y norteamericanas para tratar de sensibilizar a la población norteamericana y al gobierno.

60 Tienen una gran responsabilidad en ese sufrimiento El consumo de la droga, las armas, la prohibición de las drogas y las armas que entran ilegalmente en territorio mexicano tienen una fuerte responsabilidad en esto.

Y aquí también hay mucho dolor por parte de los mexicanos que viven de este lado de la frontera. Les secuestran también a sus familiares allá y los extorsionan acá. Y seguramente mucha

“Espitualizar la

población centroamericana de los migrantes sufren y padecen

politica.”

de lo mismo que los migrantes mexicanos. (Lo podemos ver con un sentir en esta sala.) Y si empezamos a visibilizar esto en Estados Unidos, como lo hemos visibilizado en México, creo

[To spiritualize politics.]

que podemos contribuir un poco más a dignificar a las víctimas y tratar de parar esta guerra y hacer justicia para que las familias no sigan perdiendo seres queridos, para que ninguno de nosotros estemos en riesgo.

Me gustaría agregar algo importante del movimiento caravanas. Retoma la vieja, ancestral práctica, tanto en el mundo prehispánico como en el mundo cristiano, que es la peregrinación. Esa peregrinación en el espíritu del dolor que se ha vuelto amor, para nosotros eso es un llamado al corazón y a la conciencia de nosotros.

[Yes, now we're thinking of getting the support of Mexican, Central American and North American organizations to sensitize North American society and the government of the U.S. They have a great responsibility of this suffering. Drug consumption, weapons, drug prohibitions, and the weapons that enter in Mexican territory illegally are greatly responsible for all of this.

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And you can also see the pain here with those people who live on this side of the border.

Their relatives are kidnapped over there, and they are extorted over here. And surely the same goes for immigrants from the Central America, who suffer and go through similar situations as Mexicans. (We can sense it with those in this room.) If we make this visible in the United States as we have made it visible in Mexico, I think we can contribute somewhat in giving dignity to the victims and to try to stop this war and bring justice so that families don’t continue losing their loved ones and so that no one is in danger.

I would like to add something important concerning the movement of the caravans. ] RM: And that opens a space that is both political and metaphysical and moral. Estamos

abriendo una puerta que es no sólo política sino espiritual, metafísica. Hablar de la hospitalidad, de la ética. En México no era posible abrir esa puerta por el temor. Precisely, that fear had closed the door in the face of the pilgrim in need.

[We are opening a door, which is not only political, but spiritual, metaphysical. It speaks of hospitality, of ethics. In Mexico it wasn’t possible to open that door because of fear.]

JSA: Sí, yo creo que si no volvemos a llenar la vida social y política de realidades éticas y de esta tradición profunda de la hospitalidad--que entre unos cristianos puede ser la caridad, el acoger al otro, el darse a otro, pues--difícilmente podremos sanar la vida social y política, no sólo de México. Los Estados Unidos se ha hundido en un individualismo atroz. Tenemos que cambiar, espiritualizar la política.

[Yes, I think that if we don’t nurture our social and political life with ethical practices, and with the profound tradition of hospitality--that among some Christians might be charity, to

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lift one another up, in other words, to give to one another—it will be very difficult to heal society and politics--not just in Mexico. The United States is submerged in a terrible individualism. We have to change, to spiritualize politics.]

RM: If we don't recover this sense of this ethics of hospitality, of charity, of giving to one another--how are we to heal society of the problems that we face today?

We have to change.

JSA: Espitualizar la politica.

[To spiritualize politics.]

RM: Espitualizar la politica.

[To spiritualize politics.]

JSA: JSA Suena raro.

[It sounds odd.]

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FIRST BEST PHOTO CONTEST: Open to any 18 years and over. Both amateurs and professionals are invited.

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