LA Phantom Sightings

The last weekend of the monthlong Somos Medicina celebration organized by Mujeres de Maiz coincided with the opening of The Los Angeles County Museum of Art's "Phantom Sightings: Art after the Chicano Movement." I am proud to say I made it to the video screenings at Self-Help, a soul stirring presentation of conscious hip-hop, rap, spoken word, jaraneras and the closing ceremonia at Proyecto Jardín as part of the former. Can't say enough about how true and powerful and uplifting the art exhibit and the films and the energy were. If I'm mum for a moment about the hotly anticipated LACMA show, it's because I agree with Oscar Magallanes and feel like the sisters got it going on with the kind of work that people need to know about. I can rattle off names, hurl shout outs to film and visual and word comadres Dalila Paola Mendez, Felicia Montes, Claudia Mercado, Marisol Torres, Maritza Alvarez, and Cihuatl Ce, all chingonas who don't need to be validated at the institution or by dry academics who barely ever even make their way to the Eastside unless it's to check out a collection of Chicano art owned by luminary collectors such as Gilbert Cardenas. It means more to me that Gloria Alvarez and Yreina Cervantes are invited and included by their legitimate heirs. It's the conversation that flies in the face of this tacit generational erasure, as if to say that Chicano art and movimiento politics are evolving into a more hybrid mainstream, one that brings a few emerging art stars to an invitation-only party at LACMA. Of course there are hold-outs, my own contemporaries who do stand up with serious critiques... Sandra de la Loza, la Space Chola and Arturo Romo are head on here. Ms. de la Loza was in both shows. And she is an El Sereno native. Call her a bridge and artist that can help redeem the inexcusable elitism of an exhibit that only tries to patronize and annoint... the kind of exercise that only further encourages some cool, hip youngsters. They are the kids who can tell you about ASCO and Rage Against the Machine. They'll know all the groovy nightspots around town but are losing the legacies of Emma Tenayuca or Reyes Tijerina or Raul Salinas in the process. Meanwhile, lofts and development get approved and poor people have to leave. Excuse me if I'm a little jaded and cynical, but I'd still much rather talk and write about what's happening in the 'hood. How come we haven't allowed the conversation to include the influence and beauty of Centro America on our politics and struggle? Why has Chicanismo not been there to prevent the exportation of a deeply embedded gang culture, furthering the criminalization of our youth in a global context and an interminable line of kids going to jail for making "terrorists threats" or just hanging out together on the street in the same neighborhoods being gentrified to may way for the next wave of starving artists? Why have we not spoken about the next generation of resistance to hegemony and colonialism coming from the artists that have as many roots in Mexico City and Guatemala as they do in the City of Angels?

Enough tirade. Go to First Street Studios and check out the new show curated by Lilia Ramirez and Juan Ochoa. Go there before you make the trek out west to LACMA. These are companion and complimentary exhibitions, in my own personal and highly opinionated point of view. I do want to see the "Phantom" show, and support the artists who have contributed work but I also want to be like Adelina Anthony, a Tex-Mex-patriot, playwright and luchadora. I want to cross my arms, click my teeth and palette and say for all time that I'm Xican@ with an "X" and an "at" sign at the end.

Y mis mas sinceros perdones/disculpas al anónimo quien dijo que debo aprender no mirar, porque me podrían picar los ojos. I apologize profusely and confess that I have no idea where I'm looking at most times. I've been so severely inhabiting my own head and heart for two years now and especially since a return from the tomato fields in Florida, that I'm not exactly sure how I could be faulted for looking too long or untoward at anyone. If there was a mistaken perception that I was staring or engaging in some form of lurking disrespect, I would like to know and would be happy to have my eyes poked out by an honest, truthful person willing to tell me neta, to my face that they were feeling something I did was unkind or came from some machista objectification. This is exactly what I'm rebelling against. And it's what we all need some good healing from.

Immokalee, U.S.A.

Immokalee, Florida sits 80 miles southeast of Ft. Myers. Appearing out of morning mist within the lush palm, pine, cypress and orange tree groves that stand sentry as a gateway to the Everglades, the small agricultural outpost is "My Home," the Seminole word hanging as ironically in the air and as divorced from reality as the the nylon banners hanging from street corners on its modest Main St. with silkscreened images of a cornucopia overflowing with fruit. For the last week, between serving soup as a volunteer at the Guadalupe Center kitchen where Chiapanecos, Oaxaqueños and Guatemaltecos who can't find work in the fields come for lunch and a visit to the hyperreality of Disneyworld, I find myself in the middle of a post-industrial, slave-wage, stoop labor central, harvesting tomatoes alongside said undocumented migrant workers who speak Zapotec, Tzotzil and Quiche just as readily as they do Spanish. For fifty cents a bucket, I toil in a quivering exhaustion, my neck and shoulders beet red from the ravages of an unforgiving tropical sun. It is the first year in eight that I have not been in Los Angeles for the annual Ollin San Patricio show. Appropriately, the Rodarte twins, Scott and Randy, were actually gigging outside of LA this year and my so sojourn to the lands where the harvest of shame is far from over did not actually overlap the traditional Pogues cover tribute.

Imagine being on the Dana Point bluffs on the Pacific coast midway between San Diego and Los Angeles for the NALIP conference with independent Latino filmmakers and emerging industry players--among them Frida Torresblanco and Carlos Cuarón, two darlings of the recent renaissance in Mexican cinema--for two days of surfside schmooze and Mariott Hotel shenanigans then flipping the script 180 degrees for a rude awakening on the other side of the continental U.S. among the most humble and hardest working people on the planet, gente who work 12 hour days in an effort to earn 50 cents for every 20 pound bucket of tomatoes they harvest by hand. To call it a study in contrasts would be overstating the obvious, but here it becomes necessary to underscore how shallow and meaningless all the movie business and creative pretension seem alongside the sweat and pesticide-stained efforts of so many who toil under brutal and savage anonymity so that we can glibly and innocently consume our salads, sandwiches and pasta sauce. The next time some anti-immigrant, zenophobic rube tells me that Mexicans are breaking the law and should be deported, he'll be lucky if I don't slug him. I know. I did it. I picked 50 buckets and earned a measley $22 for an interminable day in the mud and steam of ripe tomato decay, picking green tomatoes in exchange for plastic coin-sized, wafer-thin chips, each the equivalent of two quarters. Those who rail against immigration only blame and persecute those least likely to defend themselves. They would wither and die in the shoes of the fieldworkers who pick the crops we see so many days later in the grocery store. Take your Whopper. I won't go near one. Go try to pick tomatoes in Immokalee for a day, then talk to me about how "illegal aliens" are taking jobs from U.S. citizens. I dare you. Grow some courage, please. Earn your right to talk about who this country belongs to and then tell me I'm unpatriotic. You took the land by force and now you're afraid that the brown-skinned natives from southern climes will inherit the soil you so easily claim as your own. Five hundred years does not an owner make. The earth will belong, as even your biblical references proclaim, once again to the meek. Those quiet, long-suffering Indians you hound and defile with your illiterate and uneducated invective, your hate and fear, are the only ones left with the strength and perseverance to harvest your meals at pennies per pound... And lastly, let me ask you to please support the Coalition of Immokalee Workers in their efforts to end exploitation in the Florida fields by signing the petition to end sweat shops and slavery and by avoiding Burger King, which refuses still to pay an extra penny per pound.

All the Streets and Saints and Sinners

Head nigh into spring, otra primavera colorida en Califas, check your shoelaces and remember to greet the Southern California sun, which has rolled in mightily almost as if to snub the cloudy fog, the remnants of our public sayonara to the poet-mentor. Threaded throughout, are the engines of prose, the need to organize at least of few of these writerly impulses, an incurable curiousity and the need to celebrate who we are and where we live. Couple these with any number of similarly LA-born effusions and you get a flurry that motivates and stimulates.

The Flowers, by Dagoberto Gilb, who likewise rolled through mightily (and oddly enough, during the week we lost the beloved elder) is a perfect place to begin and simply one more lustrous example. On a brief local tour that included a vivid LA Library conversation with poet Marisela Norte, Dago introduced us to his new novel, a rivetting tale told in the elegantly provocative and tastefully restrained prose Gilb is known for. The story is delivered through the precociously muted voice of Sonny Bravo, the proto-antihero who embodies the search for self amidst the chaos of a suburban landscape that we know without a single specific reference to be Los Angeles. The streets team with danger and possibility in a world where black, white and brown dance with shadows and skirt the hidden layer of tension that informs a stark reality grounded in truth and tenderness. 'Nuff said.

With another worthy riff on the streets we've come to know as our own, artist and author J. Michael Walker has concluded his seven year love letter to Los Angeles with a major exhibition at the Autry Museum of Western Heritage. Walker walked the nearly 100 streets in LA named for saints and has created an epic elegy with paintings and drawings that reverberate with meaning and emotion and history. Caught a brief glimpse at the opening and obviously need to go back because it was just too much to absorb during a crowded reception. All of the Saints of the City of Angels is presented in a baroque, very bilingual manner that enhances the intensity of work that addresses contemporary issues of class and race and gender with remarkable sensitivity. Walker is unafraid to speak truth to the dominant elite within their very own sanctums of privilege and cultural power while addressing the turmoil and tension that keep so many of us from connecting with others. A companion hardcover book wasa published as part of the project and a booksigning at Book Soup is scheduled on March 6th.

Others who spoke truth did so in theatrical presentations and panel discussion offered as part of a two day conference on the prison industrial complex and the proliferation of torture and violence as legitimate tools of the state to suppress dissent, interrogate alleged enemies and as part of a multi-million dollar for-profit "correctional" enterprise that makes mass imprisonment and dubious criminalization of our young people big business and a tragic fact of life. On Saturday night, poet, professor and now playwright David Lloyd presented a staged reading of The Press, a play revolving around a painter and a poet imprisoned by a brutal regime. The proceedings, loosely tied together as "The Politics of Art and Imprisonment" took place at the the 24th St. Theatre and were followed on Sunday by an afternoon presentation of a play developed by USC professor Brent Blair and writer/youth activist Mario Rocha--himself once imprisoned for ten years as part of two life sentences for a crime he did not commit. The production culminated with the real parents of real children who have been incarcerated filing across the stage, carrying photographs and sharing their own stories, many with very real tears in their eyes, their voices trembling in English and Spanish. Blair is a cofounder of the Center for Theatre of the Oppressed and Applied Theatre Arts.

Roll Call Dispatch & Radio Days

The February 16th funeral services for maestro raúlrsalinas in South Osten near the campus of St. Edwards University where Raúl taught as an adjunct professor in media studies were met with chill winds, a cold, drizzling rain and finally a rainbow, a fitting signal that the poet had been lifted into the great hogan in the sky and declared a human being. The list of despondent and solemn mourners who offered music, sage, poems and prayer was long. Among those who paid their respects were: UFW's Dolores Huerta; poet and famed Royal Chicano Airforce founding father José Montoya; San Francisco-based writer Alejandro "Gato" Murguía; Dr. Louis Mendoza, who co-edited Telling Tongues: A Latin@ Anthology on Language Experience published jointly by Red Salmon Press and Calaca Press; artist/activist Jane Madrigal; Pocha and Victor Payan who are now coordinating the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center Cinefestival in San Antonio; director/actor Rodney Rodriguez; documentary filmmaker Andrea Melendez; playwright and poet Sharon Bridgforth; NOKOA Newspaper publisher Akwasi Evans; painter Anna Salinas; cinematographer Lee Daniel, documentary filmmaker Susanne Mason... the list goes on and on. Laura Varela is working on a documentary about "Tapón" as we speak and made her way north from San Anto to attend as did Victoria Garcia, another S.A. artist/administrator. The creative tide left in our mentor's wake was and is a tanglible gale force of energy that goes on. This week's national broadcast of Latino USA offers my own humble tribute to Raul. The radio essay is called "Death of a Poet."

Amorindio... descanse en paz, maestro raúlrsalinas

Llantos y lamentos y aullidos y un dolor profundo desde el mero corazón, because the world has lost a blazing warrior, a down crusader for human rights and social justice and a literary lion. Just a month or so shy of his 76th birthday, my mentor and honorary godfather and the vato who kept me off the streets and out of trouble for so many years during a troubled post-adolescence, one ex-pinto, self-described cockroach poet and the founder/owner of Resistencia Bookstore, author of Un Trip Through the Mind Jail y Otras Excursions and so much more, raúlrsalinas caught the bus early this morning. The legendary poet, who shared the stage with Oscar Zeta Acosta, José Montoya, Ernesto Cardenal, Piñero, Pietri and a multitude of others took me on twenty-four years ago and put me to work. Dusting bookshelves, painting rooftop bookstore signs and loading boxes of books onto the back of a pick up for trips to the San Antonio Inter-American Bookfair where he introduced me literally to Luis Rodriguez, Dagoberto Gilb, Trinidad Sánchez and many others, I soaked up jazz monsters and read with a voraciousness that stemmed from his plain, matter-of-fact revolutionary stance. From Angela Davis and Leonard Peltier to Charlie Parker and Miles Davis, my South Austin residency at Resistencia, Casa de Red Salmon Press was all about the education I would never have gotten in the halls of academia. I was proud to lug around the jailhouse graphics department in a plastic file folder case. We ran together for ten years until I ventured out into the world as a reverse mojado in Matamoros, then a music flack for La Mafia in Houston and finally as a sometime wordsmith in East LA. The last time we spoke, a month before Christmas, he had not even the energy to give me my requisite regañada. Just a year before that, at a fundraiser tribute for him hosted by actor Jesse Borrego, he'd given me a serious tongue lashing over the fact that I'd let a good woman get away or run her off, rather. "Nephew, what did you do to her?" he'd asked with his traditional good-natured gruffness, the slight scolding implicit. I could only look away in shame and offer a nervous laugh while shrugging.

Raul spent many years in the prison system and thus became an engaged political activist. His transformation enabled my own eventual commitment to kids caught up in the juvenile justice system. It's ironic that his passing comes a week or so after my own introduction to the inside of a county jail complex and a troubling first hand glimpse at how that jail machine is built to break you down. Raul stood up. He wrote and he taught and he blessed us with his wisdom, a sage body of knowledge acquired through a lifetime of experience filtered through one of the keenest intellects I've ever encountered. His work on behalf of Native American rights and at-risk youth in detention facilities across the nation, his struggles against oppression and political censorship around the globe, and his gentle demeanor as a humble bookminder shall be heralded through the end of time. Adios, uncle. I'm a better human being for having known you and need you to know that your work will go on. It will continue far beyond those admiring liner notes for your first spoken word CD from Calaca Press, te lo prometo... La lucha continua.

Even Malverde Nods to San Valentin

Insiders know that Machete Music recording artist Malverde, who takes his name from the patron saint of smugglers, is on the verge of a national breakout. His conscious hip-hop and bilingual rap first came to my attention at about four years ago when he crashed a couple of NALIP conference receptions and offered a demo and some righteous plática. The lyrical eloquence of his palabra, bespoke an awareness of his role as an agent of change, as a young man concerned about the violence in our communities and a visionary who crossed easily in and out of either language. The CD release party held downtown last night was a celebration of his maturation and a second major label release. Distributed by Universal Music, Malverde rallied guests from here to Riverside. Spotted in the crowd were jeweler Araceli Silva and Magdaleno "Guic" Robles, who launched Creativo Management after our own ill-fated feature film project (and his directorial debut) went haywire and bust amidst dubious support from our producers. Taco Chihuahua catered directly from the discos and Jarritos introduced their semi-urban marketing campaign which is highlighted by the phrase "What the fruit?!" Gimmicky but effective. It bears mention that the fiesta was sponsored by MTV3. Mad, mad props to a young artist who's paid his dues and continues to spread positive messages. Aplausos para Daniel Hastings as well, the Chicano-panameño NALIPTster and long-time member of NALIP and president of the Atomicus Creative Group who directed Malverde's scorching new video and a long-time NALIPster who wants to get us in to a Grammy after-party on Sunday.

After the primaries and the optimism derived from Obama's muscular showing in a gap-closing Super-Tuesday election, Malverde was a follow up signal that life is looking up. Malverde delivered his own flows as well as refrains from "Volver" and "Tragos de Amargo Licor," both chicano and paisa sing along standards. He also offered a track to his grandparents who have been married for about 50 years, evidence that life-long love is possible and it leads directly into a round up of the Valentine's Day events and activities that will perhaps make all of our love lives (or lack thereof) interesting this weekend. I'm pleased to confess that I'll be writing love poems on demand with original illustrations by José Lozano at the Self-Help Graphics "Botánica de Amor," a love fair featuring tarot readings, love potions and prints from the SHG print taller. Spoken word artists who will share "sexy-love" poetry include Adolfo Guzmán López and Consuelo Flores.

And if that weren't enough, San Anto-bred Ana Guajardo, la switchera extraordinaria, also hosts a can't miss artesanía and love-stuff happening on Sunday. "Amorarte," as she's dubbed the sale and gathering of good friends over food and wine, brings together a number of LA's best Latina/Xicana/Mexicana artisans, designers and fashionistas who craft their wares by hand at home. Contact her at her website for an invite and details. Meanwhile, Karla Lopez, founder of the enormously popular Mamacita's Market has organized "A Day for Love: As Sweet as Chocolate" with a special performance by musical soulmaster Alex Painter on Sunday as well over at Placita Olvera in conjuntion with Casa de Sousa. Support local artists and taste the fruits of cariño in the process, por fa'...

La Candelaria & the Beyond the LA County Blues

Today marks the second anniversary of the celebration I came to host at my cantoncito in honor of "Candlemas," La Candelaria. Traditionally, if you find a baby Christ figurine in your slice of rosca cake on Jan. 6th (Epiphany/Reyes Magos) you are obligated to host a fiesta on February 2nd. This year, we've moved the feast to Ave. 50 Studio in order to honor our brother Peter Harris and the spoken word event he's put together as part of the LA Black/Brown Dialogues, a series which seeks to shed light on how we can better understand one another. Peter created and hosted "Inspiration House" over at KPFK once upon a time and actually participated in a journalism program for writers of color at Berkeley alongside my sister almost a lifetime ago.

And on the subject of family tradition, here's the latest from queridisima Vicky Grise, playwright and dramaturge from San Antonio, as well as author of the Panza Monologues, who's written a play about her Mexican/Chinese ancestry. Check out her blow by blow on the nascent production of the piece at Cal Arts where she's getting a Masters.

It wouldn't be a blog without a weary confession of the fact that I'm still nursing my soul after a sojourn into the maelstrom of the LA County lock up on an old traffic violation I never took care of. More on how I earned my County Blues in another blog or an article. It's enough to say that you never want to go there. On another level, it brings me closer to the kids I've worked with in juvenile hall as a creative writing teacher for the last four years and gives me a bonafide perspective from the inside. It was, simply, a tragic and overwhelming, soul-searing, chain-gang rattling mindfreak through the halls and cellblocks of misdemeanor time. Never before had I been on the receiving end of such a brutal, systematic process, a journey that strips you of your dignity and humanity in the worst possible ways. In light of this, the Candelaria has an exponentiated significance... I am once again on the outside under the vibrant glow of a Southern California sun. Light a candle and thank your lucky stars. A community of artists and writers was ready to send out the search party, and I realized, once again, how fortunate I am clan-wise. Mil gracias a mis amigos y a mi familia. Los quiero muchisimo...