11 Short stories in the time of Covid by artlegacytx

FOREWORD

How have you been getting through? During this extended pandemic, what have you held on to? Did your days feel overly long sometimes? Did you cook like a fiend? Did you forget what day or what month it was? Did you find yourself staring more, in general? At people you knew, but also at people you didn’t know, across the street in the park, teaching tricks to a dog…I found myself staring at lizards, lemons, dead tree branches, wishing them to fall of their own accord, but not when someone was standing under them. Did you find yourself reading ten books at once? How often do you talk to yourself? Do you also answer? I think it’s good to answer. It’s healthy, not weird. Conversations are a comforting rhythm …we have had so much time to meditate, to sort through our lovely personal rubble, to move things around, to reach inside to quieter lonesome places, the soft blanket of time, layers of personal and collective time, and in so many ways, reach out. Tiny stories are the way our days unfurl, rich with bits and pieces of detail, voices, questions, memories, longings, distractions that lead us into other rooms to find something we weren’t even looking for, an unexpected phone call, then bad or good news that we had to follow up on… we live wrapped in ribbons of colorful stories and sometimes, during this pandemic we’ve found that we all desperately need other people’s stories to help us see what we are living through. To help us laugh. Viva the stories! Visionary artist and talented bilingual writer Regina Moya has been my personal life raft for months now. We live in the same neighborhood, across the river from one another. We became friends about a year ago because of a box. She painted it. Now I live with it. The box is full of papers, notebooks, writing tools. Life is full of surprises. Before we all became more isolated, I visited her in her beautiful house and saw how she paints full bright joy on the walls, on paintbrushes, and on paper for stories. She sent me her personal pandemic stories regularly, and I fell in love with them. They became oars which helped me paddle through my own days. They helped me remember when my kid was small, when my dad was alive, when I thought I had tons of time left, when my husband and I were crossing borders regularly and rejoicing in mixtures, oddities, and confluences. I felt so relieved I don’t have to homeschool anybody. Her stories made me laugh at human failures and our faithful worries which hang on to us like lint no matter how much we try to brush them off. Those stories have now been given new life through the visionary work of Adriana Cisneros. In this project she has gathered 10 terrific visual artists to come together and help in sharing Regina’s stories through art to which all I can say is; Viva the artists! Gratitude to the artists! Art helps us survive! Art is the beacon! We are so lucky to have one another!

With love from Naomi Shihab Nye Young People’s Poet Laureate of the United States (Poetry Foundation) San Antonio, Texas

AKNOWLEDMENT

“11 Short Stories in the Time of COVID” is a collaborative art project conceived after the outbreak of the pandemic in 2020. I was delighted by one of the short stories that Regina Moya posted on her social media page. While reading her story, I had the crazy idea of creating a short book that included visually representations of each story, with the artworks produced by the creative minds of visual artists. I immediately called Regina and she was trilled, receptive and open to the idea. Straight away, I started to assemble all the pieces required to accomplish this collaborative art project. I am thankful to the art community and all the amazing artists that joined me in this project and placed their trust to make this book come to life: Adria Garza, Lucy Llera, Giselle Diaz, Luz Serreli, Antonio Gómez Fernando Ortega, Vic De La Fuente, Eduardo Rodriguez Calzado, Miguel Sainz, Terry Allen Jones, and Regina Moya.

Adriana Cisneros CURATOR Art Legacy Texas

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Llegaron las moscas /

The flies are here

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pg.

Ya nos cayó el chahuistle / The chahuistle has fallen upon us

. . . . . Pg. 11

Chiles en las nubes / Peppers in the clouds . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pg. 17 Volaremos en parvada / We will fly in flocks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pg. 23 Ahora es cuando, chile verde / A whole new flavor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pg. 29 Es lo que hay / It is what it is . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pg. 35 El sueño que nunca logré / The dream that never came true . . . . . . Pg. 41 El rompecabezas / Puzzled times . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pg. 47 Mamá tlacuache

Opossum mama

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pg. 53

No hay barbas en el paraíso / There are no beards in paradise

. . . . Pg. 59

Regreso a casa / Return to home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pg. 65

ARTISTS BIO Adria Garza . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lucy Llera . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Giselle Díaz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Luz Serrelli . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Antonio Gómez . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fernando Ortega . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Victor de la Fuente . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Eduardo Rodríguez Calzado . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Miguel Sainz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Terry Allen Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Pg. Pg. Pg. Pg. Pg. Pg. Pg. Pg. Pg.

70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77

Adriana Cisneros Naomi Shihab . . Mariana Tovar . . Regina Moya . .

. . . .

Pg. Pg. Pg. Pg.

80 82 84 86

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78 Pg. 79

LLEGARON LAS MOSCAS

Hoy en la mañana mi hijo mayor me anunció que tenía un ojo de pescado en el pie. Y sí, efectivamente, ahí estaba el intruso… redondito y abultado con su puntito en el centro, mirándome retador... como diciendo… sí, así es, encima de todo este desmadre, aquí estoy… ¿cómo ves? Después de un minuto de observarlo, le dije tranquilamente: Ponte un calcetín en ese pie y no te lo quites, si te lo quitas nos vas a contagiar a todos, y así anda ahora, en piyama, despeinado, haciendo tarea desde la computadora, descalzo de un pie, con un calcetín en el otro… Una visión surrealista que me hubiera puesto los pelos de punta en la era pasada, la era de la humanidad que terminó hace tres semanas. Pensar que hace sólo unas semanas lo hubiera llevado inmediatamente al podólogo y en dos por tres, hubiera logrado desaparecer ese problema. Por Dios… ¡cuánto control tenía hacía tan solo tres semanas!. Ahora, como con todo lo demás, me he visto forzada a ceder el control… Te cedo el cetro, estimado ojo de pescado, ahora tú decides, está en tu control treparte o no a los otros nueve pies de mi familia. Cada vez que leía novelas o veía películas donde se hablaba de guerras civiles, del Holocausto, del Cólera, de la Influenza Española, una ligera angustia siempre me atravesaba la mente. ¿A qué hora nos va a tocar algo? Dada la historia de la humanidad, por estadística, sería casi imposible vivir toda una vida de unos noventa años inmune a todo desastre. Se me enchina la piel pensando que ya está aquí, que ya llegó el día… cada vez que nuestra conciencia nos decía… No te gastes todo tu sueldo, ten un ahorradito por si las moscas… ¡Pues ya llegaron las moscas!… pinche plaga apocalíptica de moscas verdes asquerosas con piquetes de incertidumbre, angustia, ingreso nulo, poca paciencia en casa, intolerancia al marido, a los niños, intolerancia a uno mismo, y tremenda, tremendísima aburrición. El tiempo pasa muy lento estos días, hay tiempo para hacerlo todo. Grandes proyectos entusiastas me abordaron el primer día de la nueva era: pintar por fin el mural del cuarto de visitas, volver a escribir artículos cada semana, arreglar de una vez mi página de internet, meditar media hora, hacer un programa de ejercicio… No he hecho ninguno de estos proyectos, ni uno solo, y ya llevamos dieciocho días de encierro. Lo único que aborda es una apatía brutal, y a veces, ganas de tomar vino… cosa que no hacía antes entre semana. Como ayer que decidí hacer una receta especialmente laboriosa de Julia Child para entretenerme en la cocina varias horas. Era Beef Bourgignone y llevaba tres tazas de vino tinto… pues le eché dos al sartén y y me tomé las otras dos a las diez de la mañana, un vino barato de cocina que me supo a gloria. Todo el resto del día, me imaginé a mí misma vieja, decrépita y canosa, en algún grupo de apoyo varios años después diciendo… Hola Me llamo Regina y soy alcohólica… y luego todos… Hola Regina… y luego yo… Todo empezó en el encierro del 2020, algunos de ustedes todavía no habían nacido, pero fue un momento tremendo… Para distraerme empecé a escoger las recetas con vino…

La única idea semi optimista que me sostiene hoy es pensar… si esto sólo durara unos tres meses más, si supiera… si fuera un hecho que todo va a terminar en tres meses, ¿cambiaría hoy mi estado de ánimo?, ¿intentaría iniciar alguno de mis proyectos?, ¿dejaría de escoger recetas con vino? No sé, no sé nada… Pero al menos esta idea me hace sentarme a escribir por primera vez desde que empezó la cuarentena. Escribo este articulo en un trance de distracción total… cada cinco minutos me paro de la computadora y voy a supervisar las tareas de mis hijos… brinco del comedor al antecomedor, los nuevos salones de clase, tratando de entender un cuestionario con preguntas sobre la Guerra Fría de mi hijo de primero prepa a un proyecto de crear un pulpo con un tubo de papel de baño de mi hija de segundo de primaria… luego me siento a escribir otro parrafito más, luego lo borro porque resultó ser malísimo, luego escribo otro que me parece un poco mejor… luego veo otra notificación en mi teléfono… Uno de mis nuevos proyectos tendrá que ser armarme de valor y borrar a esa persona que todos los días satura el Whatsapp con pendejadas. Entre viaje y viaje, le apago a los jitomates que ya están hirviendo… saco el cuchillo más filoso y me dispongo a picar la cebolla y el ajo, porque hoy voy a hacer una salsa roja con chile ancho. Esta salsa roja, lo digo con toda honestidad, es el proyecto del día que más me ilusiona. Así las cosas. Pienso en cuanto chile le voy a echar, a mí me gusta muy picosa, a mi esposo nada, ¿a quién le voy a dar gusto hoy?… Sonrío. Al menos en mi cocina, sigo gobernando como se me hincha la gana.

Regina Moya, dia 18 del encierro.

THE FLIES ARE HERE

This morning my oldest son announced that he had a wart on his foot. And yes…there it was, the intruder all round and bulky staring at me with its little eye in the middle, all defiant, shouting…. Yes m’am! Despite all this chaos… here I am. What are you going to do about it, huh? After observing it for a while, I calmly said, “Put a sock on that foot and don’t take it off, if you take it off, we’ll all get it.” So now, this is his natural state, in pj’s, with disheveled hair, doing his homework from his computer, barefoot on one foot and with a sock on the other. A surreal vision that would have driven me nuts in the past era, the era of humanity that ended three weeks ago. To think, only a few weeks ago I would have immediately taken him to the podiatrist and in an instant the problem would have disappeared. My God… how much control I had only three weeks ago! Now, like with everything else, I have been forced to yield all control…. I now grant you the scepter, honorable wart. Now you shall decide, it is under your power, whether or not to creep up on the remaining nine feet of my family. Each time I read novels or watched movies that talked about civil wars, the Holocaust, Cholera, Spanish Influenza, a slight but palpable uneasiness crossed my mind. When will something bad hit us? Like, truly bad? Given the history of humanity, statistics will teach us it is nearly impossible to live a long, say ninety-year-old life, immune to any disaster. I get chills thinking it’s here. The day is here! Every time my conscience warned me… Do not spend all your paycheck… you should save a little bit “por si las moscas”… in Spanish, literally translated… In case the flies (flies like in insects)…. which makes no sense at all, but it is a Mexican saying that translates… Just in case something bad happens… well, guess what? The flies are here! An apocalyptic plague of green disgusting flies with angry bites of uncertainty, anguish, zero income, little patience at home, irritability with the husband, with the kids, with oneself, and tremendous, colossal boredom… Time passes by slowly these days, there’s enough time to do it all. Big enthusiastic projects fluttered through my mind the first day of this new era: at last I would paint the mural I had in mind in the guest room, I would now have time to return to writing my weekly articles, my Internet page would finally be upgraded, I would meditate for thirty minutes, I would stick to a tough exercise routine. I have not done any of those projects. Not one. I am spellbound under an apathetic lethargy, and sometimes I want to drink a glass of wine. This is new, I had never had this desire in weekdays before. Like yesterday, I decided to make an especially strenuous recipe from Julia Child’s cooking book to kill a few hours. It was Beef Bourguignon and it needed three cups of red wine. Well, I poured two in the pan and drank the other two glasses at ten in the morning, a cheap cooking wine that tasted like heaven. The rest of the day, I had this vision of myself as an old decrepit, white-headed lady in an AA meeting many years from now saying… Hello, my name is Regina and I am an alcoholic… and then they’d say… Hello Regina… and then I’d say… It all started in the 2020 quarantine… some of you weren’t even born yet, but let me tell you, it was not an easy time… to get my mind off things, I started to choose to cook recipes that had wine in them….

The only semi optimistic idea that sustains me today is to think…if this lasted only three more months… if I knew for sure, if it were a fact, that everything will end in three months, would this change my state of mind? Would I start one of my projects? Would I stop choosing recipes with wine? I don’t know! I don’t know anything! But at least this idea makes me sit down and write for the first time since this lockdown started. I write this article in a trance of total distraction… I stand up every five minutes and supervise my kid’s homework. I jump from the dining room to the kitchen table, the new classrooms, trying to understand a quiz about the Cold War for my freshman son and then help my second-grade daughter create an octopus from a tube of toilet paper for her art project. Then, I sit down again and write another paragraph, then I delete it because it’s so bad, then I write another that I think is a little better. Then, I see another notification in my phone… I swear, one of my new projects will have to be to get the courage to block that person that sends such stupid messages every two minutes. In between trips, I turn off the stove. The tomatoes are boiling. I get the sharpest knife I have and I start to chop the onions and garlic, because today I will make red salsa with chile ancho. This red salsa, I say this with total honesty, is the project that excites me the most today. Yes, that’s right. My new reality. I think of the amount of chili I will put in it. I like my salsa very spicy, my husband very mild. So what will it be? Spicy or mild? I smile. At least in my kitchen, I still have the power to rule as I damn well please.

Regina Moya, day 18 of lockdown.

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LLEGARON LAS MOSCAS · 2020 By Adria Garza Oil on canvas 20” x 30”

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YA NOS CAYÓ EL CHAHUISTLE

Toda la vida pensé que el Chahuistle era un monstruo, tipo el Chupacabras, pero ahora que en mi infinita ociosidad teclée en Google la palabra Chahuistle, curiosamente me apareció que es un hongo microscópico que ataca principalmente al maíz. Siendo que el oro de México fue y sigue siendo el maíz, puedo entender la gravedad del refrán. Si caía en tu milpa el Chahuistle, te llevaba la fregada, lo perdías todo. Ya sabes a donde voy ¿no? porque, sin ánimo de deprimir más, es un hecho que ya nos cayó el Chahuistle. Y hay otro dicho en inglés…. Brace yourselves! Que en español sería como… Ahora sí, ¡Agárrense! siento que este es el mensaje que en este momento nos bombardea sin control… Agárrense, que ahí viene lo peor… agárrense, que ya nos cayó el Chahuistle… y al mismo tiempo nos llegan también mensajes sin parar de ser optimistas, de no tener miedo, de ver la belleza en las cosas cotidianas de la casa bla, bla, bla…y aunque debo admitir que de repente sí tengo momentos cargados de genuina emoción como cuando hoy en la mañana vi el video de We Are The World, de Pavarotti and Friends, cosa que hizo que llorara a las seis y media de la mañana como María Magdalena, la mayor parte del día, todavía no he encontrado la belleza en barrer la cocina, en sacar veinte tandas de trastes de la lavadora al día y especialmente no le he encontrado ninguna gracia a sentarme con mis hijos a hacer los trabajos de la escuela tres horas seguidas… No, la mayor parte del día, del laaargo, laaargo día, me dan ganas de encerrarme en un baño (el otro día me encerré en mi coche a tomarme mi café en santa paz), de hacerme bolita en un rincón, cerrar los ojos, mecerme de atrás para adelante y esperar lo peor. Mi punto en este escrito es: el peor momento de una montaña rusa es cuando llegas al final de la subida y sabes que ya vine la bajada. El peor momento de cuando te tienen que sacar sangre es cuando la enfermera prepara la inyección y te amarra la liga en el brazo… ESE es el peor momento, porque todos sabemos que el piquete dura un segundo, que en la primera bajada de la montaña rusa las tripas se nos van a trepar al cuello y ya, porque ya sabemos a lo que vamos…¡ya lo sabemos! Pero como bien nos diría Cantinflas: Ahí está el detalle, porque ahora NO sabemos nada. Y los que se supone que saben… nos queda claro a todos, tampoco saben nada. No sabemos qué va a pasar con nuestro negocio, si en dos meses tendremos para pagar la hipoteca, las colegiaturas. No sabemos si nos vamos a contagiar del maldito virus o no. No sabemos si de ésta saldremos todos los miembros de nuestra familia literalmente vivos o no. Y ese momento… esa subida terrible de la montaña rusa ha durado ya un mes…¿un mes?, ¡no puede ser!… y eso, eso justamente es lo que nos está volviendo locos, porque el peor momento sólo debe de durar un instante, no más. No es humanamente posible vivir en un estado de terror durante tanto tiempo, pero pues… por lo visto, sí es posible, y vamos pa’ largo.

Al menos vamos a tener algo muy interesante que contar, eso sí. Como cuando nos sentábamos a escuchar hipnotizados a los abuelos narrando su viaje donde migraron de su país, huyendo de las guerras, buscando un mejor futuro, empezando sin nada en los bolsillos. Porque lo que estamos viviendo, señores, definitivamente sí es una aventura, una aventura sin pies ni cabeza donde el héroe más héroe no va salir a matar a los malos o a destruir a los invasores, sino donde los héroes más héroes son los que se van a quedar paralizados sin moverse en sus casas. La verdad sea dicha, a comparación con todo lo que hemos vivido antes, esto realmente sí es buen “material contable”, al menos un material muy original. Puede que sea una época que idealicemos en un futuro… que nos acordemos como… Sí, mijito, cuando yo viví el encierro del 2020 no compré ningún vestido, ningún maquillaje, y no necesité nada, ni siquiera me importaba… Cuando yo viví el encierro del 2020, fue cuando más recetas de cocina inventaba y con los ingredientes que encontraba. Cuando yo viví el encierro era cuando más me emocionaban las pláticas con mi familia aunque fueran virtuales. Cuando viví el encierro del 2020 fue cuando a tu abuelo y a mi se nos ocurrió la idea de tal o cual negocio. Cuando viví el encierro del 2020… ya no se me viene a la mente nada más, no es como que me brote mucho la imaginación esto días, pero de cosas buenas nos acordaremos, de cosas que pondremos de ejemplo a seguir más adelante, estoy segura. Alguna vez hace mucho tiempo, mi papá, que es un hombre piadoso, me dijo algo que a la fecha no he olvidado; yo le lloriqueaba por algún problemilla en turno y él me dijo: Regina, a ti que te gusta leer, lee la vida de cualquier santo, del que sea, siempre han tenido contratiempos, sufrimientos o pruebas imposibles, si no, no serían santos. El héroe no es héroe sin una buena historia. Pues más nos vale que todo esto sea una muy buena historia en nuestras vidas, que sea el capítulo más interesante de todos, que salgamos más fuertes y más virtuosos, que pensemos muy bien a qué hábitos de la era pasada no vamos regresar, que ayudemos más al de junto, que veamos menos por nosotros mismos… porque ya si nos cayó el Chahuistle, por favor… ¡que al menos nos valga la pena!

Regina Moya, día 24 ó 25 del encierro, da igual.

THE CHAHUISTLE HAS FALLEN UPON US

My whole life I had thought that the Chahuistle was a mythical monster, kind of like the chupacabras, but now, in my infinite sluggishness I Googled the word chahuistle and interestingly enough, I found out that it is a microscopic fungus that attacks maize. Given that Mexico’s gold has always been and still is corn, I can understand the severity and profoundness of the popular saying Ya nos cayó el Chahuistle. If the Chahuistle had fallen upon your cornfield, you were screwed, you would loose everything. You know where I’m getting at, right? Without wanting to bum you even more, it is a fact that the chahuistle has officially fallen upon us. There is another saying in English…. Brace yourselves! In Spanish, this would be something like ¡Agárrense! I feel this is the message that bombards us constantly. Brace yourselves… the worst is yet to come… Agárrense…¡Ya nos cayó el chahuistle! And at the same time, we are receiving contradicting messages about being optimistic, about not being fearful, about finding beauty in everyday life, inside your house, blah, blah, blah. And even though I have to admit, there have genuine heartwarming moments, like this morning when I saw the Pavarotti and Friends video of artists singing We Are the World and I cried like Mary Magdalene at six thirty in the morning. But, most of my day, I have not yet found the beauty in sweeping my kitchen floor, the thrill in setting the washing machine ten times a day, I have specially not found any amusement at all in sitting down three hours in a row with my children and help them complete their schoolwork. No, most part of my day of my looong looong day, I feel like locking myself up in the bathroom, (the other day I locked myself up in the car just to drink my cup of coffee in peace) to curl up in the floor, rock back and forth and just expect the worst. My point with this article is this: the worst moment of a rollercoaster ride is when you are almost at the end of the steep uphill ride and you are about to fall. The worst moment of when you get blood drawn is when the nurse is preparing the syringe and ties your arm with the elastic band. THAT is the worst moment of all, because we all know that the poke will only last a second, we all know that our guts will fly up to our throats in that first free fall in the rollercoaster ride. Like the Great Mexican Artist Cantinflas would have said…. Ahí está el detalle… translated… See, there’s the thing. Now, we don’t know ANYTHING! And the people who are supposed to know, we all know by know, know nothing at all either. We don’t know what will happen with our business, weather or not in two months we will be able top pay our mortgage, the school tuition. We don’t know if we will get infected by the damn virus or not in our next visit to the grocery store. We do not know if everyone in our family will end up alive after this. And that moment, that uphill rollercoaster moment has lasted one month… one month already…¿really? And that, is precisely what is driving us crazy, because the worst moment of all must only last an instant, not more. It is not humanely possible to survive in a constant state of terror for a long period of time… but, turns out, it IS possible and it will not end anytime soon.

At least we will have a very interesting tale to tell, that’s for sure. Like when we sat down and eagerly listened to our grandparents when they told us the story about when they migrated from their countries, running away from wars, seeking a better future, penniless and starting from scratch. Because, what we are living right now, ladies and gentlemen is in fact and adventure. A very weird adventure where the heroes will not go out and kill the bad guys or will destroy invaders, but where the most heroic of all heroes will be those that will stay paralyzed inside their homes. I mean honestly, compared to anything else that we had lived, this is absolutely “very good material” for us to tell our offspring, at least a very original one. This might be an era that we look up to in the future… maybe we will remember it like… Yes, my dear, when I lived the 2020 lockdown I did not buy any clothes at all, no makeup, I did not need anything, I didn’t even care. When I lived the 2020 lockdown was when I became most creative in the kitchen with whatever ingredients I had in the pantry. When I lived the 2020 lockdown was when I was most excited about meeting my family, even though it was through a screen. When I lived the 2020 lockdown was when your grandfather and I came up with this or that idea for a businessplan, when I lived the 2020 lockdown… I can’t think of anything else… it’s not like imagination is flowing freely these days, but there will be good things that we will remember, things that we will look up to in the days to come. This, I am sure of. A long time ago, my father, who is a spiritual man, told me something that to this day, I have not forgotten. I was whining for whatever problem I had at the time, and he told me, Regina, you like to read; so read the life of a saint, any saint you want. They have always had difficulties, sufferings or impossible tests, they would not be saints if they hadn’t. Heroes are not heroes without a great story. Well, this better be a hell of a story in our lives, let this be the most interesting chapter of all. Let us grow stronger and more human than before. Let us think what habits of the past era we do not want to return to, let us help our neighbor more, let us think less in ourselves. Because, my friends, if the chahuistle has already and inevitably fallen upon us… please… at least let’s make it be worth it!

Regina Moya, day 24 or 25 of lockdown… does it matter?

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YA NOS CAYÓ EL CHAHUISTLE · 2020 By Lucy Llera Oil on canvas 24” x 30”

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CHILES EN LAS NUBES

Esta semana me propuse meditar treinta minutos al día por aquello de estar un poco más “zen” y menos histérica y crear “bonito ambiente” y la fregada... El día uno no lo logré, el día dos no lo logré… Mediocremente, le fui bajando minutos y minutos a mi meta y para el miércoles, ya íbamos en cinco minutos…. Pero bueno, me senté en el piso bien derechita, puse mi alarma en cinco minutos y traté de no pensar en nada, tarea casi imposible para mi mente atormentada y turbulenta. Dicen los expertos “meditabundos” que cuando vienen pensamientos durante la meditación, los dejes pasar, como una nube en el cielo. Con esta idea, imaginé una nube pasando, pasando… luego, como si alguien hubiera prendido un proyector y la nube fuera la pantalla, se proyectó una película en la nube. En la pantalla de nube no aparareció Buda, ni Jesús ni el Dalai Lama ni alguien interesante dándome un mensaje celestial, no. Lo que vi fueron mis manos pelando los chiles rellenos que hice el día anterior… así que la dejé pasar. La siguiente nube, primero blanca y luego otra vez con la película de los chiles, también, la dejé pasar... Para la quinta nube cargada del recuerdo de los chiles rellenos, me di por vencida y decidí explorar porqué mi mente estaba tan terca con los pinches chiles rellenos. He hecho esta receta cientos de veces, pero hoy por primera vez, los chiles no se rompieron al despellejarlos, quedaron perfectos, y ese hecho es algo que por lo visto, mi mente escéptica, nomás no entiende cómo sucedió… no puede dar crédito a semejante hazaña. Que los chiles hayan quedado enteritos se ha vuelto la noticia más relevante, mi encabezado mental del momento, así de profundos y filosóficos mi pensamientos. Durante mis cuarenta y un años, mi método de despellejar los chiles poblanos, era el tradicional, el método “como Dios manda”; ponía cada chile sobre la hornilla de la estufa de gas hasta que la piel se arrugara con ampollas blancas, luego los metía en una bolsa de plástico cerrada a que sudaran. Finalmente, los pelaba y les quitaba las semillas con unos guantes de hule. Este es el método que el mexicano ha hecho generación tras generación sin fallar. Este proceso es una de las cosas que considero más latosas y desagradables del mundo. Es por eso que sólo hago chiles rellenos muy, pero muy de vez en cuando, y cuando por fin me animo a hacerlos, es porque hay un cumpleaños o algo especial. Anoche, decidí que los haría hoy. Le quise dar gusto a mi familia, no porque hubiera nada que celebrar, sino porque ya nos estamos desquiciando los unos a los otros, y necesitábamos un poco de endorfinas. Pero nada más de pensar en los gritos y sombrerazos del homeschooling de algunas mañanas, y encima, mis hijos tosiendo con el humo de los chiles asados flotando en la casa… ¿Qué no era éste un método considerado “pedagógico” entre los aztecas para corregir a los hijos mal portados?… Híjole, mejor ni me doy ideas, porque estoy a dos de volver a mis orígenes… No. Tengo que estar yo sola en la cocina, pero dadas las circuntancias históricas de la nueva era, ésto no va a ser posible, mi cocina/antecomedor se ha convertido en el salón de clases de mis hijos, así nos ha acomodado y no quiero ni moverle.

Así que me puse a ver videos en Youtube de otros métodos de cómo pelar los chiles poblanos. Por supuesto, me aparecieron ochocientos diferentes, entre ellos, un chef que explicaba un método donde se ponen a flotar los chiles en aceite hirviendo y se ampollan en un minuto, de esta manera, no hay humo ni toses ni lágrimas ni nada. Total, decidí intentarlo, con todo el cuidado del mundo, porque ya me veía a mí misma, con mi manera brusca de hacer las cosas, con toda la piel de las manos ampollada igual que los chiles. Cuando saqué los chiles del aceite con pinzas, el pellejo se desprendió como por arte de magia, como cuando nos asoleábamos sin bloqueador de chicos y jalábamos los pellejitos regresando de las vacaciones, así de fácil. Logré por primera vez en mi vida, encuerar los chiles a la perfección y dejarlos enteritos sin un solo agujero. ¿Cómo había sido esto posible? Luego pensé que he sido muy soberbia al sostener secretamente que nadie hace chiles rellenos más ricos que yo, y sí, tal vez de sabor sí son los mejores, (honor a quien honor merece), pero invariablemente me salían tan despanzurrados que bien podrían haber sido rajas con queso. Cuando uno se vuelve soberbio, también se vuelve necio. ¿Por qué me empeñaba en seguir haciendo los chiles con el método tradicional tantas y tantas veces, si a mí, en lo personal, nunca me funcionó bien? Entonces tengo mi momento de iluminación: de pronto se me pone la piel chinita y pienso: ¿Qué más en mi vida sigo haciendo con el método tradicional, “como Dios manda” sin que me haya dado buenos resultados?, peor aún… ¿qué cosas habré obligado a mis hijos a hacer nomás porque sí, porque “Así se hacen las cosas y te callas”. Y así de tajo, ya pensé por lo pronto en dos cosas a las que no quiero regresar. Costumbres que hace un mes, en la era pasada, consideré dogmas importantes: número uno: quiero dejar de tratar de complacer a todo el mundo todo el tiempo. Número dos: me rehuso a volver a usar tacones muy altos y a rellenarme en cualquier tipo de faja. Punto Final, se acabó. No quiero volver a estas costumbres, no me funcionan, no me gusta hacerlas y no son necesarias, igual que la tortura azteca que me fumé todos estos años nomás porque sí. Así que hoy, anímicamente, me la he pasado cada vez más convencida de echar a la calle esos comportamientos repetidos sin sentido, y ¿físicamente?…. físicamente nada, físicamente estoy toda enchilada de los dedos y de la cara y moqueando un poco. Ésto fue porque al despellejar los chiles me desesperé y cometí la estupidez de quitarme los guantes de hule y quité los pellejitos con mis dedos desnudos. Ya me lavé tanto las manos que parecen patas de pollo, si ya de por sí parecían… pero con todo y todo siguen enchiladas. Al menos así no me van a dar ganas de tocarme la cara hoy ¿Otra reflexión importante ahí? ¡Sí!, por supuesto. Una vocecita no tan “zen” me grita desde lo más profundo de mi conciencia… ¡A ver! si te vas a reinventar en esta cuarentena procura no hacerlo haciendo pendejadas. Y si vas a renunciar a algo, por favor, que no sea el sentido común que de por sí estos días ya lo traes tambaleante.

Regina Moya, día 30 del encierro.

PEPPERS ON THE CLOUDS

This week I set the goal of meditating thirty minutes every day. I desperately need to be in a more “zen” and less “deranged” frequency. I need to create a “good atmosphere” in my home… Okay, whatever, so: day one, I failed. Day two, I failed. Sheepishly I lowered and lowered the bar and by Wednesday those thirty minutes became five. But anyway, I sat down on the floor in a very straight position and set my alarm clock to five minutes time. I tried to think of nothing at all, a nearly impossible task for my turbulent and tormented mind. Expert meditators say that when a thought comes during meditation, just let it pass, like a cloud in the sky. With this idea in mind, I imagined a cloud passing, passing. Then, like if someone turned on a projector and the cloud were the screen, a movie was projected on the cloud. It was not Buddha, Jesus, Dalai Lama or any other interesting deity with a celestial message for me, no. What I saw were my own two hands peeling the poblano peppers I had cooked the day before…. So I just let it pass. The next cloud, first white, then again with the memory of the poblano peppers, I let it pass too. By the fifth cloud still carrying the memory of the peppers, I gave up and I decided to explore why my mind was so stubborn with the damn peppers. I have done the recipe of Chiles Rellenos, hundreds and hundreds of times, but for the first time, the peppers did not break when I peeled them, they ended up perfect. This fact was something that my skeptical mind could not understand. I could not attribute credit for such an outstanding feat. That the poblano peppers had come out without a flaw was the most significant news of the day. Yes, this is how profound and philosophical my thoughts are as of late.. In my forty-one years, I have used the same method of peeling the poblano peppers. I kept on doing it because it is the traditional method, the “proper” method. In Spanish we would say the method “como Dios manda.” I would place each pepper on the open flame of the stove until it became wrinkled with white blisters all over, then, I would put them inside a plastic bag so they “sweated” and then, with rubber gloves, I would peel them and take the seeds out. This is the method that Mexican people have done over and over. This dreaded process is one of the things I most despise. It is a major hassle and I HATE it and because of this, I only cook this recipe once in a blue moon, only on very, very special occasions like birthdays or Mother’s Day. Last night, I decided I would cook Chiles Rellenos today. I wanted my family to be happy, not because there’s anything at all to celebrate, but because we are driving each other insane and we urgently need a dose of endorphins. The mere thought of those awful mornings with all the shouting and stressing with homeschool and, on top of that, my kids coughing with the smoke of the grilled peppers floating in my kitchen like tear-gas!No, thank you. Wait… wasn´t that a method considered “educational” by the Aztecs to correct children and teenagers that did not obey?... Don´t get any ideas! I swear in this madness I´m just about to return to my origins. No. I have to be alone in the kitchen, but given the circumstances of the new era, this will be impossible. My kitchen/breakfast table has become my kid’s classroom, this is the space they have claimed as their workspace and I do not want to mess with it.

So, I watched Youtube videos with other methods of peeling poblano peppers. Hundreds of different videos appeared, of course. In one of them, a chef explained a method where the poblanos are put in boiling oil and they become wrinkled in less than a minute. This way, there’s no smoke, no coughs, no tears, nothing. So, I decided to try it, being extremely careful, because I knew that with my clumsy ways, I would end up with my hands burnt and blistered just like the peppers. When I took the poblanos out of the oil with tongs, I removed the skin with such ease that it reminded me of my youth when of course we did not use any sunblock at the beach and we entertained ourselves peeling our dead skin from each other when we returned from the holiday. It was that easy. For the first time in my life, I skinned the poblanos to perfection and left them perfectly whole without a single flaw How in God’s name has this been possible? Then I realized I had been quite arrogant to secretly suggest that nobody makes better tasting Chiles Rellenos than me. I mean, let’s be honest, the taste of my Chiles Rellenos is superior to any other, but every time, the chiles ended up so broken to pieces that they might as well have been Rajas con Queso, instead. When one becomes arrogant, stubbornness follows. Why in the world did I keep on peeling the poblano peppers with the “proper” method if it never worked for me? Not once! Then, suddenly, I had a moment of enlightenment. I even got goose bumps while thinking: What other things in my life have I done following “the proper” method without getting good results? Even worse, what things have I forced my children to do just “because”, because that’s the way things are done so just shut up and do them! And just like that, I think of two things that I do that I do not want to do anymore. Thing one: I want to stop trying to please everyone all the time, and thing two: I refuse to wear high heels and stuff myself in any form of compression Spanx, whatever again. I have done these things my entire life just because I was taught to, because women in my family have done it before me. I do not want to go back to these ways, they don’t work for me, I don’t enjoy doing them and they are not necessary, just as the Aztec torture that I “smoked” all of these years... just because. So today, spiritually, I have become more and more convinced that I want to say good-bye to these habits that make no sense at all. And physically? Physically well, physically my hands and face are on fire and I have a runny nose. This was due to the fact that when I peeled the poblanos I impatiently took off the rubber gloves and I did the job with my naked fingers. I have washed my hands so many times that they look like chicken feet, they already looked like chicken feet before this, but now, even more-so. Even with all that hand washing my hands are still hot from the peppers. At least I won’t touch my face as much today. Another piece of wisdom there? Yes, of course. A little voice, not very “zen” shouts from my conscience… Listen, if you are going to reinvent yourself in this lockdown, stupidity will not be tolerated. Also, if you ARE going to give something up, please… please let it not be your common sense, even though these days, it has become quite shaky.

Regina Moya, day 30 of lockdown.

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CHILES EN LAS NUBES · 2020 By Giselle Díaz Oil on canvas 36” x 36”

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VOLAREMOS EN PARVADA

Anoche me apareció un recuerdo en Facebook donde salimos mis hermanas y yo todas emperifolladas para una boda. Fue de hace un año, pero en lugar de pensar como siempre.. Qué bárbaro… parece que fue ayer… pensé… Qué bárbaro… parece que fue hace siglos… Dios mío… ¿volveremos algún día a emperifollarnos para una boda? Entonces me vi a mí misma como ancianita arrugada con el pelo blanco y largo hasta las rodillas, contándoles una historia a mis nietas, niñas despeinadas, todas vestidas en harapos, en una cabaña, alrededor de una hoguera. …En la era pasada mijitas, cuando dos personas se casaban, invitaban a mucha gente, hacían algo que se llamaba fiesta, donde todos comían, bailaban, se abrazaban, cantaban y festejaban… y todos estaban muy juntos, sí, a mucho menos de seis pies de distancia,… sin cubrebocas… como lo oyes… no, no es un invento mijita, sí pasaba de verdad. Y así como vemos por las mañanas que los pajaritos hacen bailes y faramallas para atraer a las hembras, en la especie humana, las hembras también hacíamos nuestras propias faramallas durante esos días de fiesta. Las mujeres solíamos hacer este ritual en grupo, nos juntábamos en una casa todas bien temprano. Nos pintábamos de colores la cara. Usábamos lápices muy negros para delinear y abrir más los ojos para que se nos vieran grandototes. Nos poníamos una cosa que se llamaba rimel para enchinarnos las pestañas y que pudieramos parpaedar coquetamente, había un líquido llamado maquillaje que te esondía las pecas y las arrugas de la cara para que parecieras más joven y dieras el efecto de estar en eterna edad fértil. Nos pintábamos de colores los párpados y los cachetes y la boca de rojo ¿Para qué abuela?… pues por la misma razón que los pájaros exhiben sus colores y hacen sus danzas, para atraer al sexo opuesto. Así, nos coloreteábamos y arreglábamos y arrasábamos con la pista de baile… igualito. Eso no era todo, una vez maquilladas, hacíamos también cola para esperar nuestro turno a la peinada. Te acomodaban el pelo en chongos y trenzas elaboradas y cada peinado era distinto. Te ensartaban diez mil pasadores de metal al cráneo. Luego venía la tortura, mijita. Te ponías una especie de media de una tela muy gruesa llamada faja que te comprimía las lonjas y hacía que se te viera la cintura más chica. ¿Por qué? Porque las mujeres que veíamos en las revistas así eran y queríamos parecernos a ellas. Queríamos estar siempre muy flacas pero muy curveadas a la vez, hacíamos dietas, íbamos a los gimnasios. Además, ¿ya ven esos hoyitos que nos salen en las piernas y en las nalgas? antes los llamábamos celulitis, en la era pasada, no eran considerados bonitos, había que esconderlos. Cuando por fin lograbas rellenarte en la faja, sabías que a partir de ese momento, ya no ibas a poder respirar a tus anchas y durante unas unas dieciocho horas, ibas a estar muy acalorada y muy sofocada, pero no importaba, porque era tu armadura para la batalla.

Luego, mijita, te ponías el vestido, esto era lo más importante. Tenías que tener cuidado de no comprar el vestido que estuviera más de moda porque no querías que nadie tuviera el mismo vestido que tú. ¿Qué tal que a la otra mujer se le viera mejor? Era una tarea difícil porque todas íbamos a las mismas tiendas. Ah... esque antes del trueque, había unos lugares que se llamaban tiendas, pero esa será otra plática… Bueno, luego, ya con la faja y el vestido, nos montábamos en unos zancos llamados tacones… Sí, los has visto en Wikepedia, exacto, esos. Todos los doctores decían que era lo más insano para la columna vertebral. Y no sólo caminábamos en estos zancos, no; también bailábamos y brinconteábamos en ellos. Eramos unas profesionales. No, no me lo estoy inventando, todo esto hacíamos. Sí, era muy peligroso, pero… pues con zapatos de tacón las nenas se ven mejor… alguien importante dijo esa frase, pero ya me falla la memoria… Éramos muy valientes, muy entronas, nos la jugábamos… Nombre, ya no hay mujeres así. Y al final de la fiesta abuela... igual que los pájaros ¿las mujeres más hermosas, las mejor maquilladas, las que mejor escondían la celulitis, las que mejor caminaban con tacones, se quedaban con más machos? Pues no, mijita, generalmente, te regresabas a tu casa con el mismo “macho” con el que llegaste. ¿Y entonces para qué hacían tanta cosa las mujeres, abuela?.... Pues… no lo sé mija, nomás por el puro gusto de ir a una fiesta… mira, mejor ya no preguntes tanta cosa y sigue desplumando la gallina… ¿Y los hombres qué hacían mientras las mujeres se arreglaban?.... esa es una buena pregunta… ¿Qué habrán hecho los hombres?… ¿qué será?... pues, no sé… te digo que me falla la memoria… ¡Ya! deténte. No ahondes más en ese pensamiento. Está terrible. Me niego. No quiero ser esa anciana sabia con pelo largo blanco que despluma gallinas y cuenta las historias de la época pasada a sus nietas despeinadas. No señor, yo voy a envejecer siendo una abuela moderna, con pelo pintado y con botox, y voy a ir a todas las fiestas habidas y por haber. Lo que son las cosas… En la era pasada, el arreglo para una boda me parecía eterno y tedioso, ahora, sueño con emperifollarme de nuevo, sueño con esa chorcha con mis hermanas y primas en casa de mis papás. Sueño con pintarme y peinarme, con bailar hasta que los pies me duelan tres días seguidos. Ahora, como en cualquier batalla, parece que nunca llegará el final, pero basta con leer la historia para saber que todo en esta vida tiene un principio y todo tiene un final. Y llegará ese feliz día cuando la especie humana vuelva a abrazarse. Las mujeres volveremos a nuestras faramallas y los hombres volverán a sus andanzas, y la gente volverá a cantar y a bailar y las tiendas y bares volverán a abrir sus puertas y nuestros negocios volverán a despertar y a prosperar. Volveremos a empezar pero lo haremos todos juntos, porque somos animales sociales y si hemos de volar, volaremos en parvada.

Regina Moya, día 39 del encierro.

WE WILL FLY IN FLOCKS

Last night, a memory popped up in my Facebook wall. My sisters and me, all dolled up in a wedding. It was from a year ago, but instead of thinking as usual… wow, it seems like yesterday… I thought…wow it seems like years ago. My God… will we ever doll up for a wedding again? Then, I saw myself as a wrinkled old lady with white hair hanging down to my knees, telling my granddaughters a story. “In the past era, my dears, when two people got married, they invited lots of people and they did something called a party, where we all ate, danced, hugged, sang and celebrated… everyone was very close together, yes, much less than six feet apart…without a face mask…. Yes! It’s true… I am not making this up. It really happened. Just as in the mornings, we can see birds doing their dances and singing their songs to attract their mates, in the human species, women did the whole enchilada during those festive days. Women used to do this ritual in groups. We would gather in a house early in the morning. We would paint our face with colors. We would use very black pencils to underline our eyes and make them look huge. We would use a thing called mascara that made our eyelashes look longer and thicker. We would smudge our faces with a liquid called makeup to hide freckles and age spots so that we appeared young and eternally fertile. We would color our eyelids with different shades, and we would paint our cheeks and our lips red. Why, grandmother? Well, for the same reason birds have lots of colors and do their dances, we too, painted ourselves with lots of colors and we would hit the dance floor… it’s the same thing, to attract the opposite sex. That was not all. Once we were all colored up, we would fix our hairs in elaborate buns and braids, every hairdo was different. Our heads would end up full of hundreds of metal bobby pins. Then came the torture, my dear. We would fit in a sort of elastic girdle made with a strong fabric that we called Spanx, we would stuff all our excess roundness in to make our waists look smaller. Why? Because that’s what the women we saw in the magazines and TV looked like and we wanted to look like them. We wanted to be super thin but super curvy at the same time. We would go on diets, we would go to gyms and exercise. Also, have you noticed those little dimples you get in your thighs and butts? They used to be called cellulite in the past era. They were not considered pretty so we needed to hide them. When at last you would stuff yourself in the elastic girdle, from that moment on you would not be able to breathe, you would sweat like a pig, and you would feel short of breath…. However, this is what you would do because this was your armor for battle.

Then, dears, you would put on the dress, this was the most important of all. You had to be careful and choose wisely. No one could wear the same dress. What if the other woman looked better than you in it? No, this was out of the question. It was a stressful task because we all shopped at the same stores. Oh… you see, before barter-trade existed there were establishments called stores, but that is another story and it will be told another day. Where were we? Oh yes, so now after we had our girdle and our dress, we would put on a sort of stilts called high heels or pumps and we would walk on them. Every single doctor said they were unhealthy, they caused damage in our spines, but we did not listen. We would not only walk on them, we would dance and jump around on them, I mean, we were professionals. No! I am not making this up. We did all that. Yes! Of course it was very dangerous, but we were very brave girls. We would be ready to fight, we would risk it!... women like that, they no longer exist in these days… So, at the end of the party grandmother… like the birds, did the most beautiful women, the ones that colored themselves better, the ones that hid the cellulite best, the ones that best walked on the stilts, did they get more mates? Well, actually, no dear, generally, you would go home with the same male you arrived with. So, why on Earth would you go through all that hassle, grandmother? I don’t know dear, just for the joy of going to a party, I guess. Look, don’t ask so many questions and keep on plucking the chicken. What about the men, grandmother? What would they do while women dressed up? See now that is a very good question, my dear…what DID men do in the meantime? …¿what did they do?... well, something… they must have done something… my memory deceives me lately.” Okay, just stop! Stop right there. Dwell no more in this thought, it’s awful! I refuse. I do not want to become that wise old woman with long, long hair that plucks chickens and tells her disheveled granddaughters stories of the past era. No ma’am. I will grow old to become a cool grandma, with dyed hair and botox on my forehead. I will attend all the parties I possibly can. Just look at the turn of things. In the past era, getting dolled up for a wedding was tortuous, tedious, and very time consuming. Now, I dream of doing it over and over again. I dream of that chit chat with my sisters and cousins in my parent’s house. I dream of makeup and bobby pins, I dream of jumping and dancing until my feet are sore for three days in a row. Now, like in any battle, it seems like this will never end. We must look back in history to assure ourselves that every single episode in this life has had a beginning and has an end. The glorious day where we will embrace again, will come. We will dress up and sing and dance again. Stores and bars will open their doors and our businesses will awaken and thrive again. We will begin all over again but we will do it together because we are social animals and if we are to fly, we will fly in flocks.

Regina Moya, day 39 of lockdown.

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VOLAREMOS EN PARVADA · 2020 By Luz Serreli Oil on canvas 36” x 24”

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AHORA ES CUANDO CHILE VERDE

Mi esposo jura que cada vez que cuento algo le echo mucha crema a los tacos... la vedad es que es pura envidia porque en el fondo sabe que yo soy mejor cuentacuentos que él y tiene que dar sus patadas de ahogado, pero nomás pa’ que no diga, el domingo, le eché una llamada a su tío Carlos, para que me contara bien bien la historia que les voy a platicar en este relato y así tuvieran la información de primera mano y mi esposo se quedara bien calladito. El tío Carlos es un primo de mi suegro que emigró de Cantabria a México hace muchos años. Por azares del destino, las cálidas tierras sonorenses lo atrajeron y acabó estableciéndose y echando raíces en Ciudad Obregón. Es por eso que cuando habla, le brota un acento muy particular, con ese cantadito bronco de Sonora, pero ceceando y usando todavía palabrotas españolas. El tío Carlos es uno de nuestros personajes favoritos. En Navidades y en reuniones familiares, sentarse un rato a su lado es de lo más cotizado porque es una gozadera escuchar sus aventuras. Le hablé para que me volviera a contar la historia de los pimientos que trajo de España que por alguna razón quedó grabada en mi memoria por los siglos de los siglos. Resulta que no hace mucho, a Carlos se le ocurrió traer de España a México semillas de Pimiento de Padrón, una variedad de pimiento originaria de Galicia. Por allá los preparan sólo fritos con aceite de oliva y sal gruesa y son una verdadera delicia. Una vez me comí tantos en un viaje a España que hasta me enfermé. Esos pimientos tienen un intenso sabor pero es raro que piquen. Total, Carlos se trajo la semilla y los sembró en tierras mexicanas con la idea de aportar un nuevo sabor a la gastronomía mexicana que ya de por sí es tan ecléctica y variada. El resultado de esta siembra fue tremendamente interesante. La semilla de los pimientos españoles en tierra mexicana dio fruto sin problema, pero los nuevos pimientos mexicanos salieron mucho más picosos. Luego me dijo Carlos que no todos los chiles resultaron igual de picosos. Algunos picaron y otros se quedaron igual, así que en un mismo plato te pueden tocar chiles picosísimos y otros nada. Por supuesto, nomás de contar esto, ya se me hizo agua la boca, y ahora ya quiero hacer la receta de pimientos del padrón. Aquí en Estados Unidos hay unos primos hermanos que les llaman Shishito Peppers, suenan como japoneses porque efectivamente esta variedad es originaria de Japón, pero básicamente es la misma gata revolcada. Los preparo igual que en España, con aceite de olivo y sal gorda. Por supuesto me los acabo toditos, no me quejo, están buenísimos, pero ni uno solo pica. Luego veo la bolsa y veo que fueron producidos en Ontario. No, pues con razón, les faltaron los aires y el calorcito de nuestra tierra, les faltó literalmente el piquete mexicano. Carlos dice que en México, los pimientos se volvieron picosos tal vez por el polen que llevan y traen las abejas de un sembradío a otro o que puede deberse al clima, si se siembra en época más fría o más calurosa. Yo más bien pienso que los pimientos gachupines, en su infinita sabiduría, supieron que llegaron a una nueva tierra, a un nuevo aire y que había que adaptarse. Intuyeron que esta era una tierra desconocida donde la gente cuando canta, canta, cuando baila, baila y cuando come se enchila porque todo lo hacen con “enjundia”.

Llegaron a una tierra donde para todo hay fiesta, hasta para la muerte... y escucharon la música de las serenatas y los dicharachos de las abuelas que les traía el viento y obedecieron y se transformaron y dejaron de ser pimientos, y empezaron a ser chiles, porque así lo exigía esta tierra colorida y bronca. Pero de todo el relato son estas palabras del tío Carlos que me retumban en la cabeza mientras me como el último de los shishitos canadienses.. No todos los chiles picaron, unos se transformaron y otros se quedaron igual. Pongamos atención a la nueva era. Este mundo ya cambió. Oigamos las canciones que traen los nuevos vientos. Tal vez podamos escuchar lo que va pidiendo la Tierra... tal vez ahora nos diga lo mismo que les dijo a los pimientos de Carlos... ¡Que ahora es cuando!... ¡Que ahora es cuando, chile verde, has de darle sabor al caldo!

Regina Moya, día 46 del encierro.

A WHOLE NEW FLAVOR

My husband accuses me of exaggerating every story when I tell it. What do I think? I think he’s just jealous because deep inside, he knows that I’m a better storyteller than he is. Just to make sure he has no room to complain this time, I called his Tio Carlos on Sunday so he could tell me the story that I’m about to tell you. Tio Carlos is my father in law’s uncle. He migrated from Cantabria to Mexico a long time ago. For one or many reasons, Sonora’s warm soil attracted him and he ended up establishing and taking root in Ciudad Obregon. This is why, when he talks, he has this tough Sonoran accent but he also still has Spanish ways and bad words. Tío Carlos is one of our most favorite relatives. At Christmas and family reunions, to sit next to him is highly desired because it’s such a treat to listen to tales of his adventures. I called him so I could listen to the story about the peppers he brought from Spain again. For some reason, this story has been stuck in my mind forever. Not long ago, the story goes, Carlos imported Pimiento del Padron seeds to Mexico, this is a variety of peppers originally from Galicia. These peppers have an intense earthy flavor but they are rarely spicy. Anyway, Carlos brought the seed and sowed them in Mexican soil with the idea to offer a new flavor to Mexican cuisine which is already so eclectic and varied. The result of this harvest was tremendously interesting,. The seed of the Spanish peppers in Mexican soil flourished with no problem at all but the new Mexican peppers turned out to be very spicy. Carlos told me that not all of them were as hot, some were spicy and some were mild. So, on the same plate, you never knew what you were going to get. Of course, just by remembering the story, my mouth is watering and now I want to cook the Padron Peppers. Here in the US we have a “cousin” to Carlos’ peppers known as Shishito Peppers, they sound Japanese because this variety in fact comes from Japan, but basically it’s the same thing. I prepare them just like they do in Spain; fried in a little bit of olive oil and sprinkled with coarse sea salt. Of course I finish them all, I don’t complain, they are superb, but not one of them is spicy, I look at the bag and learn that they were produced in Ontario. No wonder! They lack the breeze and warmth of our land, they lack Mexico’s sting. Carlos says that in Mexico, the peppers became hot due to crosspolination, the pollen that bees carry back and forth from one crop to another, or may in fact be due to the climate, if they were grown during the cold or warmer months. In my opinion, I think that these Spaniard peppers, in their infinite wisdom, knew that they had arrived to a new land, to a new atmosphere and they felt the urge to adapt. Their intuition told them this was an unknown land where when people sang, they truly sang, when people danced, they truly danced, and when people cooked, they liked to spice their food because they do everything with passion.

They discovered they had arrived to a land where there is a celebration for everything, even for death. They listened to the music of the serenatas and the sayings of grandmothers that the winds brought and they obeyed and transformed themselves and they ceased to be peppers and they became chiles because this was what this colorful and joyful land demanded. But you know what? From that whole story, the words that keep dancing around in my head while I eat the last of the Canadian Shishitos, are: Not all the peppers became spicy, some transformed themselves and some stayed the same. We better pay attention to this new era. This world has changed. So what might the Earth be asking of us? maybe, it’s telling us the same thing that it told Tio Carlos’s peppers: That now’s the time. Now’s the time when we need to transform because the Earth is demanding a new and intense flavor from us.

Regina Moya, day 46 of lockdown.

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AHORA ES CUANDO CHILE VERDE · 2020 By Antonio Gómez Technical photo manipulation 30” x 30”

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¡ES LO QUE HAY!

Esta semana ya es la última semana de homeschooling, bendito y alabado sea el Señor y todos sus santos. Prueba superada. Una batalla menos. Sin embargo, como toda batalla en la vida, trajo sus secuelas consigo… La Locura Para mí homeschooling era un concepto extraterrestre, la única gente que lo hacía me la imaginaba perteneciente a una secta extremista ordeñando a sus vacas y haciendo sus quesos en el jardín o algo así. Cuando lo tuve que hacer yo, entré en tal pánico que cree un mecanismo de defensa para no enloquecer. Cuando me acostaba en las noches, me partía en dos, una parte de mí, era la mujer serena, tranquila y sabia, diciendo frases como… A ver, bájale tres rayitas a tu histeria, no es tan grave, tampoco es para tanto… la otra, loca perdida, sollozaba en su almohada desconsolada… ¿Cómo que no es tan grave?, ¿ya se te olvidó lo que era sentarte siete horas seguidas en la escuela?, ¿apoco ya no te acuerdas de lo que es geometría, trigonometría, gramática, cálculo, álgebra?... Estas palabras retumban en mi cabeza como insultos, como groserías que me aullara algún asesino demente en la calle. Aún cuando me salgo a caminar un rato, la loca desquiciada que vive en mi cabeza me está contando los minutos en reversa…. Ya te quedan sólo 23 minutos de estar sola… ya te quedan 22, 21, 20… ¡Dios mío! Por favor ya cállate… disfruta tus últimos minutos… a ver… respira… así mis diálogos mentales… te digo que Jenkyll y Hyde están a la orden del día en esta pandemia…¡Qué cosa! La Pendejez Pues ahí estuvimos todas las mamás y yo, volviendo a rompernos la cabeza para acordarnos de cómo fregados le hacías para calcular, para despejar, para encontrar el factor x, y, z... y demás estúpidos que se perdieron en la ecuación. La conclusión a la que llegué es que los años me han apendejado el cerebro tremendamente. Luego luego me di cuenta. Es más, un día, empezandito todo este desmadre, mi hijo mayor, que va en prepa, me pregunta no sé qué cosa de la cadena del ADN y al ver mi cara de… A ver, pérame… deja lo veo en Google… mi otro hijo le dice en quedito: Mejor pregúntale a papá. y entonces engendro en pantera. A ver, ¿por qué piensas que papá va a saber lo de las cadenas del ADN? no es como que fuera doctor. Bueno sí, pero…. no te preocupes, ma, mejor me espero a que llegue papá. ¿Ves?, ¿Ves lo que te digo? Digo, no es como que yo hubiera sido un crack en matemáticas, pero no inventes ahora que Isabel está con lo de las tablas de multiplicar… me di cuenta que efectivamente, hasta la tabla del siete la tengo medio en lagunas…sí, por ahí cuando llegas a siete por ocho, siete por nueve… esas de por allá, como que ya se me están borrando. En buen plan, ¡qué vergüenza!, ¿será por usar el maldito celular tanto? Y lo peor de todo es que no sólo yo me di cuenta de mi pendejez, ahora, con esta pandemia, ¡mis hijos ya lo saben también! porque claro, cuando no estás con ellos la mitad del día, es fácil tener tus secretos bien guardaditos, ser un poco misteriosa, pero con esta intensidad macabra, salieron todos los trapos al sol de madrazo. ¡No hay derecho!

La Humillación Y ahora que hemos estado más tiempo juntos, bueno, más bien… ahora que hemos estado TODO el tiempo juntos sin escapatoria, me doy cuenta que me he convertido en un entretenimiento para mis hijos. Como ya no puedo ir a mi gimnasio, estoy tomando clases de yoga de Youtube. Uno de estos días, cuando estaba en la posición de Downward Facing Dog, osea, perro boca abajo o como se diga en español, de pronto mi “serenidad espiritual” se vio interrumpida por risitas de mis hijos, y resulta que mis licras tenían un hoyo que se abría cada vez más, estragos de los kilos de más de la cuarentena. Tuve que pedir por correo tres pares de licras, una talla más de la que era antes del encierro, en la era pasada, porque claro, toda esa maravillosa dizque “creatividad en la cocina” cobró cara su factura en mis caderas. La Impunidad Para contribuir a mi locura, las reglas de la casa se han vuelto infinitamente más laxas. Desde siempre, mis hijos tienen prohibido andar husmeando en la despensa como ratones. En este tema soy como la Gestapo. Odio ver migajitas de pan o rastros de visitantes a deshoras. Si los descubro en la despensa, no se la acaban, de inmediato saben que tendrán castigados los videojuegos durante tres días. Pero el otro día, fueron ellos los que me cacharon a mí comistrajeando galletas María a escondidas, con luces apagadas y todo. A mi defensa, ¡ya eran las doce de la noche! A esa hora cualquier vicio de carácter ya es legal porque los niños ya se supone que están dormidos, pero con este desorden de horarios, ya todo vale madre. Se me quedaron viendo estupefactos. Isabel me dijo que tres días no iba a poder ver mi celular. Obvio pegué de gritos escupiendo galleta por la boca y los mandé a sus cuartos furiosa, podía oír sus carcajadas mientras subían las escaleras. Así mi autoridad y mi gobierno estos días. Pues sí, ahí la tienen. Una señora loca, que come a escondidas, que no se sabe las tablas de multiplicar bien, que no obedece sus propias reglas. Así es. Ahora, cada vez que mis hijos me cachan con una galleta en la mano, diciendo una grosería por teléfono, o con un hoyo en el pantalón…. Repito mi nueva mantra… Esto... ¡Es lo que hay!.... les guste o no. Esta señora, esta nueva mamá que descubrieron en la pandemia, es la única que tienen, les guste o no…. así que… colorín colorado, este cuento se ha acabado.

Regina Moya, Día 70 del encierro.

IT IS WHAT IT IS

This is the last week of homeschooling, praise the Lord and all of his Saints! Mission Accomplished, one less battle. However, like with all battles in life, this one brought it´s corresponding debris with it. Craziness Homeschooling for me was an alien concept. I imagined that the only people that did it, belonged to a extremist cult that milks their cows and makes cheese in their backyards or something. When I had to do it myself, I panicked. I created a defense mechanism in order to not go mad. When I lay down at night, I divided in two. One part of me was the serene, wise woman that repeated phrases like… oh come on, it can’t be that bad…you’re exaggerating. The other woman, crazy psycho, wailing on the pillow… ¿what do you mean it’s not that bad? Have you forgotten what it was to sit down for seven straight hours in a classroom? Have you not forgotten what Geometry, Trigonometry, Grammar, Algebra means? …These words pound in my head like insults, like bad words that some demented serial killer shouts at me in the street. Even when I go out for a walk, the crazy lady that lives in my head is counting minutes backwards… you only have 23 minutes of being all by yourself… 22, 21, 20… My God! Please be quiet! Enjoy your last minutes…. Let’s see… breathe in and out… these are my mental dialogues. I’m telling you, Jekyll and Hyde are my new best friends nowadays. Stupidity I mean, it’s not like I was an A plus student, but for crying out loud…. Now that Isabel is learning the time tables, I realize that indeed, I have developed some mental lagoons in multiples of seven… seven times eight, seven times nine… I mean come on! That’s just embarrassing! Might it be because of using my cell phone so much? The worst thing of all is that it’s not only I that realizes my stupidity, during this lockdown my kids have also discovered I’m stupid! When you’re not with them half of the time, it’s easy to have your secrets well hidden. Now, with this pandemic business, being a little mysterious is impossible. This is totally unfair. Hiding little secrets must be a mother’s right. Humiliation Now that we have been spending more time together…. Well, let me rephrase… now that we have been spending the WHOLE time together with no escape whatsoever, I realize that I have become a source of entertainment for my kids. Since I can’t go to the gym, I have been taking yoga classes from Youtube. One day, while I was in the so called Downward Facing Dog position and my “spiritual serenity” was interrupted by giggles from my children. Turns out, my yoga pants had a hole that stretched out more and more. This hole was a result of my weight gain during the lockdown. I had to order three more pairs of yoga pants (my new uniform) now, a larger size than the past era, because all this so called “creativity” in the kitchen has billed an expensive invoice to my butt.

Impunity To add to my madness, the rules of this house have very much relaxed these days. As of always, my kids have been strictly forbidden from wandering about in the pantry. In this matter I am like the Gestapo. I hate to find breadcrumbs or little bits of this or that on the floor. If I discover my children in the pantry, they immediately know they will not be allowed access to any sort of video game or electronic device for three days. But, the other day, it was I that was discovered binging on cookies, hiding in a corner, lights out and everything. In my defense… it was midnight! At that time, any vice of character is legal because kids should be in bed. But, with this disorder of schedule, everything is screwed up. They gazed at me with eyes wide open. Isabel told me that I should be forbidden to use my cell phone for three days. Of course I yelled at them, projecting cookie crumbs from my mouth as I sent them to their rooms immediately. I could hear them bursting in laughter while climbing up the stairs. This is what my authority and government looks like lately. So here you have it, I’ve become a crazy lady who hides her cookie binging, who has forgotten her multiplication tables, and who disobeys her own rules. That’s right. Now, every time my kids discover me with a cookie in hand, cussing on the phone, or with a hole in my pants…. I repeat my new mantra… Hey… It is What it Is! This woman, this new mother that you have discovered during Covid, she’s the only one you have, like it or not, so…. Deal with it!

Regina Moya, Day 70 of lockdown.

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ES LO QUE HAY · 2020 By Fernando Ortega Photography 17.7”x 27.5”

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EL SUEÑO QUE NUNCA LOGRÉ

El otro día, bueno, el otro día en la era pasada, fui a una conferencia donde te pedían que cerraras los ojos y visualizaras a la niña que fuiste. Luego te preguntaban si la niña que fuiste estaría contenta con la mujer que eres ahora. Ni siquiera sé en qué acabó la plática porque me salí antes de tiempo. El tema era bueno, pero la conferencista era un pinche somnífero más poderoso que un Valium. Con decirte que preferí estar en un autolavado, que estaba a la vuelta, esperando a que saliera mi coche que cabezeando en un auditorio. De todas maneras, en lo que salía mi coche, me puse a darle vueltas y vueltas al tema de la conferencia. Vamos a ver, ¿Por qué ahora hay una tendencia de idealizar al niño que eras? Como que te hacen imaginarte a esa niña como una pequeña sabia, alma vieja, ¡santa!, con todo el potencial para llegar a ser Gandhi o Nelson Mandela algo así. Definitivamente si esa niñita me conociera hoy en día, diría que esta pinche vieja no ha hecho NADA con su vida, de eso estoy segura, porque claro, sus sueños eran mil veces más ambiciosos de lo que resulta ser mi vida hoy. Pero, vamos a ver, vamos a voltear la tortilla. ¿Qué tal si yo la interrogara a ella en vez de ella a mí? Me sentaría con ella en un cafecito, le compraría una galletota de peanut butter, con eso me la echaría al bolsillo… y yo me comería otra. Luego le diría… a ver mijita, Na, na, na… ¿qué vas a hacer cuando seas grande? Sé que lo primero que me diría, es… Número uno y más importante... voy a tener muchos hijos. Mínimo seis. Hijole mijita, si hubiera seguido tu gran sueño de tener seis hijos o más... esas pobres personitas me estarían pagando una pensión en algún manicomio, además de sus propias terapias por haberse criado con una mamá que perdió la cabeza. Se volvió loca…. y muda.. sí, pobrecita, perdió la voz por gritar tanto. Pero guardo respetuoso silencio y sigo dándole mordidas a mi galleta… ¿ah sí? Y ¿con quién te vas a casar? La niñita le brillan los ojos y me dice… No sé... tal vez con un actor, con un escritor, con un pintor… alguien así, romantico, bohemio… ¿Ah si? ¿Te gustan los artistas? La niñita me diría que sí, que le encantan. Me carcajée por dentro… Prepárate... porque tu gran bohemio va a acabar siendo un Ingeniero mecánico electricista que de bohemio no tiene un pelo. Miro a esa niña soñadora con cariño y pienso… Ay mijita, si hubieras terminado con un bohemio estarían los dos fumando mota en el Tepozteco y haciendo limpias energéticas a los turistas… Sigamos… ¿A qué te quieres dedicar? Se le iluminan los ojos. Quiero ser escritora. ¡Qué bien!, y ¿Qué te gustaría escribir? La niña me dice que no sabe, tal vez novelas, tal vez cuentos… pero sé que se imagina muy famosa, al nivel de de Isabel Allende, de J.K. Rowling, dando giras por el mundo, firmando copias de libros y dando conferencias, y pláticas motivacionales en la ONU. ¿Qué pensaría esta niña si le digo que su gran éxito y placer en la vida va a acabar siendo escribir artículos semanales en Facebook? Guardo silencio, digo, tampoco se trata de torturar a la pobre escuincla.

También voy a viajar por todo el mundo… continúa la niña… quiero pasar largas temporadas de mi vida viajando. Sé lo que está revoloteando en su cabecita, puedo ver las imágenes de ella en la India vestida con un sari rojo, con el puntito en la frente. Aparecería en un documental de National Geographic viviendo en el Amazonas con las tribus de los aborígenes. Estaría meditando en un monasterio en el Tibet rapada y vestida como el Dalai Lama. Oye mijita linda, y en esos viajes tan largos, ¿con quién vas a dejar a tus seis hijos o qué?.... Me mira atormentada… luego sonríe… No, pues… me los llevo conmigo. Claro, pienso… muy buena solución Reginita… sácalos a todos de la escuela y llévalos contigo... se ve que no tienes idea de lo que es el homeschooling... puedes cantar Do Re Mi, por los alpes como María Von Trapp en La Novicia Rebelde con tus seis escuincles viajando por el mundo… Nooombre, ¡qué buen plan! Y ya ni le digo mi siguiente pregunta, porque tampoco quiero ser una aguafiestas. ¿Y ya sabes cómo vas a pagar todos esos viajes por el mundo? Acaso tu esposo el bohemio o tú la escritora van a tener un presupuesto infinito? No, esque resulta que en su futuro, la niña ya es millonaria. No ha pensado mucho en cómo pasó, qué fue lo que hizo para tener tantísima lana, nomás ya es y punto. Lo único de lo que estoy segura hoy en día es que si sí hubiera realizado todos mis sueños estaría JODIDA. Ya te dije, estaría completamente desquiciada, con seis escuincles al lado… Me tendría que haber ganado la lotería para ser la millonaria que pensaba ser, y como eso no iba a pasar nunca, mis únicos viajes hubieran sido de hongos alucinógenos con mi esposo “el bohemio”. En buen plan, dejémonos de deprimir por no haber cumplido nuestros “dizque ideales”. Puros pretextos para andar de amargados por la vida… ¿Qué iba a saber el niño que fuiste lo que te convenía?, ¿las vueltas que iba a dar el mundo? Déjate de haraquiris y vive tranquila y orgullosa de haberte casado con el mecánico electricista, de haberte vuelto escritora en tu Facebook y vive feliz... ¡sobre todo por no haber cumplido ni uno solo de tus maravillosos sueños!

Regina Moya, Día 77 del encierro.

THE DREAM THAT NEVER CAME TRUE

The other day...well, the other day long, long ago, in the past era, I went to this conference where the speaker asked you to close your eyes and visualize yourself as the child you were. Then, you had to ask that child if she would be happy with the grownup you are now. I don’t even know how it ended because I left way before it was over. The idea was good, but the speaker was more powerful than a sleeping pill! I even preferred to be at a car wash, two blocks away, waiting for my car than forcing myself to stay awake in that auditorium. Anyway, while my car was being washed, I thought about the topic of the conference over and over. Let’s see now... I feel like there is a tendency nowadays to idolize and worship the child you were? I mean it’s like, they make you imagine this wise, illuminated kid, a little saint... with the potential of becoming Gandhi or Nelson Mandela, or somebody. If this little girl were to meet me today, I know she would say that this old lady has done nothing with her life, I’m sure of that, because of course, her dreams were a hundred times more ambitious than the results of my life today. But, let’s see... let’s turn the tortilla around, as we say in Mexico... ¿What if I was the one interrogating her? I would sit with her in a café, I would buy her a large peanut butter cookie...oh! she would love me for that... I would get another one for me, of course. Then I would ask her... Honey, tell me, what will you be when you grow up? I know that the first thing that she would tell me is...number one and most important... I will have lots of kids. At least six. Oh Dear! If that dream would have come true, all six of those poor people would need a lifetime of therapy after having grown up with a mother that had lost her mind...she went crazy, and mute... poor thing, she lost her voice with all that yelling. However, I remain respectfully silent and keep on eating my cookie. Is that right? And... Who do you want to marry? The little girl’s eyes brighten up and she says... I don’t know... maybe an actor, maybe a writer, maybe a painter....someone like that, romantic, bohemian... Oh really? You like artists? The little girl would say yes, I love them! I crack up inside... Brace yourself, little one, because your big artist will end up being a Mechanical Engineer that has not one drop of bohemian in his blood. I look at this dreamy girl with tenderness and I think... I bet if you would have ended up with someone too bohemian, you both would be smoking pot in the Tepozteco in Mexico and performing energy cleanses for tourists or something similar. Let’s continue... What are you going to become? What do you want to do for work? The girl answers right away. I want to be a writer. Oh that’s wonderful. What do you want to write? The girl says she’s not sure. Maybe novels, maybe children’s storybooks... but I know she imagines herself very famous, like J.K. Rowling or Isabel Allende, traveling the world with book signings and giving speeches for the United Nations. What would this little girl think if I told her that one of her greatest joys would be to publish weekly articles on her Facebook page? I keep quiet.

I will also travel all over the world...she continues. – I want to spend long seasons of my life traveling. I know what images are popping inside her head right now. I can see those flashes of her dressed in a red sari, with the little dot on her forehead and everything. She appears in a documentary film from National Geographic or BBC living in the Amazon Rainforest with the aboriginal tribes. She appears to be meditating in a monastery in Tibet with her head shaved and wrapped in an orange cloak like the Dalai Lama. Just one quick question my dear. In those wonderful, long travels, who will take care of your six children? She looks at me puzzled, then she smiles... Oh, I can take them all with me. Of course, I think, that is a very wise idea, little Regina. Just pull them out of school and just take them along! The more, the merrier... I can see that at this point you do not have the slightest idea of the word homeschooling. You can Sing Do, a Dear... in the Alps like Maria Von Trapp in the Sound of Music with your six kids traveling the world.... Oh! Now, wouldn’t that be SO relaxing and fun? I don’t even attempt to ask her my next question, I don’t want to be a party pooper. Do you know how you are going to pay for all those exotic trips? Maybe your husband, the bohemian or you, the writer, are going to have an endless budget? No, see, in her future, the girl is already a millionaire. She has not thought of how she got there or what she did to be loaded but, she just is. The only thing I’m sure of today is that if all my dreams would have come true, I would have been so screwed. I’m telling you, I would have lost my mind with six children, I would have had to win the lottery to become the millionaire, and since it’s not very likely to have happened, my only “trips” would have been hallucinating on mushrooms with my very “bohemian” husband. So, let’s get real and stop torturing ourselves with these depressing thoughts about not achieving our dreams. Mere excuses to stay depressed all day. What the heck was that kid supposed to know what would become of you? The twists and turns life was going to give you? Stop all that mental hara-kiri and just live your life with ease. Be very proud to have ended up with the Mechanical Engineer, to be a writer on your Facebook page, but above all... be very relieved that not one of those “wonderful” dreams came true!

Regina Moya, day 77 of lockdown.

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EL SUEÑO QUE NUNCA LOGRÉ · 2020 By Victor de la Fuente Oil on canvas 30” x 50”

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EL ROMPECABEZAS

Me estoy sentando a escribir nomás por la mera disciplina de hacerlo, porque ahora sí que todos los contagios están llegando a más y más gente conocida, es difícil enfocar la cabeza en cualquier otra cosa que no sea el maldito virus. Isabel se encontró con un rompecabezas de 500 piezas que andaba por ahí arrumbado en un cajón. Ya ni me acuerdo la última vez que armé un rompecabezas. Estuvimos juntas quince minutos y luego Isabel se aburrió y se fue, así que acabé yo sola y después de un muy buen rato de quedarme intimidada ante la cantidad de piezas y no sabiendo ni por donde empezar, empecé a formar grupitos de colores, y al rato ya andaba picadísima. De ruido de fondo podía oír a mis hijos con sus riñas habituales peleándose por no se qué cosa. Les pegué un grito con todas mis fuerzas ¡SILENCIO!... ¡Necesito concentrarme! Por mi tono de voz alarmado, entendieron que era algo muy serio y milagrosamente, me dejaron en santa paz y hubo silencio por unas horas. Armar este rompecabezas ha sido el “high” de mi semana. Mientras acomodaba las piezas, me vino un recuerdo de estar armando un rompecabezas en la mesa de vidrio de casa de mis abuelos cuando era niña. Luego dediqué las siguientes horas en revivir una bola de recuerdos de las tardes eternas jugando Pula y Canasta. Mis abuelos tenían un nombre para cada carta. Era como un slang de la familia. Vivían en la calle de Camelia en la colonia Florida. Este destino me hacía brotar la misma endorfina que ahora me causa irme de viaje a algún lado. Si pudiera elegir estar cuarentenada en alguna casa, quedarme en una pausa en alguna época de mi vida, tal vez sería ahí. Claro que el 90% del encanto de esa casa era mi abuela. A la fecha no he conocido a una mujer tan alegre y simpática que ella. Todos orbitábamos como moscos a su alrededor, como si fuéramos atraídos por un foco de luz en la noche. Una vez me pidió guardar un secreto. Sólo mi hermana María, ella y yo sabíamos la razón por la cual se había roto una costilla, y era por haber saltado con nosotras en las camas y haber caído chueco, pero nos pidió que no le contáramos a mi abuelo nada… Me va a matar si se entera, mija. Me carcajeo mientras encuentro dos de las piezas que me faltaban. Claro que como buena masoquista, después de un buen recuerdo, como si fuera una copa de vino, viene la cruda moral y me pongo a pensar si mis hijos se acordarán de esta cuarentena como yo me acuerdo de aquella casa. Entonces, como si les zumbaran los oídos, comienzan a pelearse otra vez… ¡SE CALLAN YA! ¡Estoy trabajando! Grito otra vez mientras armo la sección de la esquina derecha. No, definitivamente, ni mi casa es tan pacífica ni yo soy un foco de luz que atrae a la gente como moscas, de hecho estos días, me considero un repelente.

Mi abuela nos contaba cuentos todas las noches, Catimatinca, Rosa Margarita y Violeta y otros que no eran los típicos…. Yo a mis hijos les cuento hasta diez en las noches para meterse a sus cuartos o van a estar castigados sin electrónicos al día siguiente… ¡y ahora sí se los cumplo! …van a ver. Pero tengo que dejar de compararme con mi abuela. Hace siglos leí el libro de The Art of Happiness del Dalai Lama, no me acuerdo de mucho más que de un punto que nunca se me olvidó: El ser humano siempre va a medir su felicidad comparándose con los demás. Es un hábito que no podemos evitar. Así que si esta práctica la vamos a hacer de todas maneras, es muy sabio compararse con el que tiene menos que tú. En esta cuarentena entonces, pensaré en las personas más horribles que he conocido, en los lugares más pinches en los que he estado, y entonces pienso que soy una santa, que mi casa es un paraíso, que mis hijos son los más afortunados del planeta. En fin… ahora sí ya estoy a punto de terminar mi rompecabezas… siento una emoción bárbara, una batalla ganada, un enigma que logré descifrar yo solita. Descubro a Andrés mi hijo en el marco de la puerta con una sonrisa burlona. ¡Mamá! No estás trabajando, estás armando un rompecabezas. Mira mijito, hoy por hoy, este rompecabezas es el trabajo más importante del mundo. Así que deja de estar fregando y pídeme otro rompecabezas por Amazon en este momento.

Regina Moya, Día 92 del encierro.

PUZZLED TIMES

I’m forcing myself to sit down and write for the sake of writing, because now that more and more people are getting infected and the curve is spiking up, it’s hard to focus my head on any thought that does not include the words “corona” and / or “virus” in it. Isabel found a 500 piece puzzle that was shoved in a drawer. I don´t even remember the last time I made a puzzle. We were together for less than fifteen minutes and then Isabel got bored and left, and that’s how I ended up alone. After a long time of being intimidated by the number of pieces and not knowing where to start, I started to form small groups of colors and not much later I was so into it, I could not stop making the puzzle. I could hear my boys fighting over who knows what upstairs as a background noise. BOYS BE QUIET! I shouted with all my strength. I need to Concentrate! I must have been very loud since the boys seemed to understand right away that this was serious business and miraculously, they left me in peace. Working on that puzzle was the highlight of my week. While I fit the pieces together, feeling a tiny rush of adrenaline when one finds the correct place, I have this memory of making a puzzle on my grandparent’s glass table when I was a girl. Then, I deliberately dedicate the next few hours reviving a bunch of memories of those never-ending afternoons playing cards. My grandparents had a name for each card. It was like family slang. They lived on Camelia Street in the Florida neighborhood in Mexico City. These memories made me produce the same endorphins I now have when I travel. If I could choose to be quarantined in any house in the world, stay in a pause in any time of my life, it would be there. Of course 90% of that house’s enchantment was my grandmother. To this day, I have not met a happier, funnier woman than she was. We all orbited around her like bugs, attracted by a light bulb at night. One time, she asked me to keep a secret. Just my sister Maria and I knew that the real reason she had broken a rib one time was because she had jumped on the bed with us. She fell and landed in a bad position. She begged us not to tell my grandfather one word about it…. He will KILL me if he finds out I was jumping on the beds, mija. I burst into laughter while I find two of the blue missing pieces I was looking for. Of course like a good masochist, after a good memory, as if it were a glass of wine, comes the hangover and I question if my children will remember this lockdown like I remember that house. Then, with that mere thought, I summon them and they start to fight again… WILL YOU PLEASE BE QUIET? I am working! I shout again while I complete the upper right corner of the puzzle. YESSS! No, definitely, my house is not as peaceful and I am not a light bulb that attracts people like bugs, actually, these days, I’m more like a bug repellent.

My grandma used to tell us stories every night; Catimatinca, Rosa, Margarita and Violeta and other stories that were not the typical ones. The only thing I tell my kids every night is to go to bed or you will be grounded with no screen time tomorrow and it WILL happen this time!...you’ll see! I really need to stop comparing myself to my grandmother. A long time ago, I read The Art of Happiness written by the Dalai Lama. I don’t remember much about it, but I do remember a point that I never forgot. Human beings measure their happiness by comparing themselves to others. This is a nasty habit that we cannot avoid. So, if we can get away from doing that, it would be very wise to compare oneself to those who are less than you. Okay, with that thought in mind, I will think of the most horrible people I have met, in the most hideous places I have been to, and then I think of myself as a saint, my house is Paradise, my kids are the most fortunate beings on this planet. Anyway… I am now about to finish my puzzle. Hurray! I am filled with immense joy, a little conquest I won, an enigma I figured out all by myself. I discover my son Andres at the door frame with a mischievous smile. Mom! You are NOT working, you are making a puzzle. Look, mijito, at this point in time, this puzzle here is the most important work in the world, so stop bugging me and order another puzzle from Amazon this instant.

Regina Moya, day 92 of lockdown.

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EL ROMPECABEZAS · 2020 By eduardo Rodríguez Digital print 36” x 24”

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MAMÁ TLACUACHE

Hubiera querido empezar hoy con…. Ya pasé el enojo, ya pasé la resignación, ¡ya llegué a la Nirvana!... Pues temo informarles que no, aún no he pasado a la siguiente etapa dizque más “zen” del duelo. Sigo de amarguetas y no veo pa’ cuando pase esto. Pero, ahora la novedad es que dentro de este amargue, he adoptado un nuevo modismo: ¿Te acuerdas cuando de chiquitos jugábamos a Los Encantados y te tenías que quedar congelado sin moverte? Ah, pues así mi nueva etapa esta semana. Cada vez que veo una huella de manita en los vidrios, cada vez que oigo un… ¡mamá!, cada vez que veo ropa y zapatos fuera de su lugar, cada vez que hay un jalón de pelos y gritos entre hermanos… me quedo quieta, quieta, sin moverme y mirando fijo al horizonte, con los ojos a media asta. Esto no me lo inventé, me salió natural. Algunos animales hacen esto. Los tlacuaches se hacen los muertos, es una estrategia legítima para sobrevivir, ahora, en mi ociosidad “covidiana” averigüé que esta táctica se llama Tanatosis. Ante una amenaza, los animales no sólo se hacen los muertos, sino que bajan su ritmo cardiaco, reducen su respiración y se quedan tiesos como mecanismo de defensa. Bueno, pues mi etapa ésta de tlacuache me agarra el 10 de mayo, y mi esposo, siempre optimista, cual es su naturaleza, …¿Sí te he contado que Juan Manuel se despierta en las mañanas chiflando y cantando? Cosa que, propio de una vieja amargada, me pone los pelos de punta. Porque claro, la amargada quiere que todos sean amargados también. Me dice que este Día de las Madres, me van a consentir, que no voy a trabajar nada, que ellos van a hacer todo y que yo descanse todo lo que quiera... ¿A qué hora le confesaré que llevo toda la semana buscando en Google hoteles cercanos a mi casa a dónde irme el fin de semana para estar sola este 10 de Mayo?...Opciones donde el riesgo de contagio fuera muy bajo. Sí, efectivamente, quería que ese fuera mi regalo. Estar yo sola, con una botella de vino y con tres bolsas de palomitas enchiladas de Barcel de las grandotas, viendo Downton Abbey todo el fin de semana. Recluida lejos, muy lejos de mi casa. Así de positiva y buena madre soy ¿Cómo ves? Pero obviamente, en el fondo de mi corazón, sabía que esta opción no era opción. Porque una cosa es…”ponte la mascarilla de oxígeno tú primero” y toda la filosofía moderna que está de moda, y otra ya son chingaderas. Así que, sabiendo que por mi culpa, por mi culpa, por mi gran culpa, no iría a ningún lado, acepté la opción de que me consintieran todo el día. Les dije que fuera de mi abrazo matutino, me dejaran dormir toda la mañana y que me trajeran comida de PF Chang´s y que sí, que gracias, que aceptaba felizmente no mover un dedo en todo el día. Así que este 10 de Mayo, después de echarme toda, toditita la segunda temporada de Restaurants on The Edge, me levanté atarantada, me bañé y me puse guapa por primera vez en muchos días, con una falda larga y una camisa sin mangas que exponía mis brazos que cabe mencionar, han sufrido una transformación brutal del estado sólido al estado gelatinoso estas semanas, tanto que Isabel mi hija cada vez que me abraza, luego me da apretoncitos a la parte de arriba de mis brazos y pone caras chistosas, como de satisfacción, así como cuando jugueteas con esas pelotitas anti estrés, igualito, veo el placer en su carita.

Luego, mis hijos se pusieron a hacer el quehacer. Uno barría, uno limpiaba los vidrios, uno se hacía güey, obvio, y así alternaban… yo, que ya no me hallaba sin estar en friega, sólo me senté en la mesa del antecomedor y en mi silencio filosófico me percaté de las moscas. No sé en qué momento, se metieron un millón de moscas a mi casa, Había moscas grandotas de las verdes, mosquitas de la fruta, moscas medianas, moscas, moscas, moscas, por todos lados. Luego, me acordé de una nana que teníamos que mataba moscas con un trapo mojado. Bendito recuerdo, porque comprobé lo efectivo que es este método para matarlas. No sé si el movimiento en friega con el trapo mojado es tan rápido que no les da tiempo ni de salir volando pero puedes matar hasta varias moscas de un jalón. Inténtalo, ya verás. Total que así me la pasé este Día de la Madre Covid, estoica, tlacuache, sin hablar, sentada en la mesa del antecomedor, con un trapo en la mano derecha, esperando a que la siguiente mosca se parara cerca para darle un chicotazo…¡Esto me trajo tantísima paz! De pronto era el mismísimo Mr. Miyagi de Karate Kid, pero con un trapo en vez de palillos. Comimos PF Chang´s hasta hartarnos y luego nos fuimos a dar un paseo al Riverwalk a la zona turística donde no había un solo turista a la vista y esto también me trajo paz. Al final, ¿Pa’ qué me hago? estuve contenta de no haberme ido al hotel donde además seguro me hubiera contagiado de Coronavirus por mi mal karma. Luego, en la noche, le confesé culposa a Juan Manuel mi planes macabros. Como crecí siendo católica, sigo con eso de que tienes que confesar todos tus malos pensamientos o si no, algo malo va a pasar, por eso, luego, ahí ando exponiendo mis trapos al sol siempre. Si te soy sincera, si a mí me hubiera dicho mi esposo que hubiera querido pasar el Día del Padre, su cumpleaños o cualquier día domingo en un hotel para descansar de nosotros… el pobre hombre no se la hubiera acabado, hubiera despertado a todos mis demonios. Pero no, sólo me dijo que me acordara de cuales eran esos hotelitos que me habían gustado y que igual pronto nos podríamos dar una escapadita los dos. Sonreí. Con esta afirmación, ya me había dado la absolución de mis pecados. Así que ya sabes, como eso de “ponte la mascarilla tú primero” ya ni aplica en esta nueva era porque pinchemente, ya todos la traemos puesta, la próxima vez que estés al borde del ataque, nomás… ve fijamente al horizonte, hazte el muerto…y si tienes un trapo mojado a la mano, mejor. Namasté.

Regina Moya, día 62 del encierro.

OPOSSUM MAMA

I would have loved to start with a… my anger has passed, my resignation is over. I have reached the Nirvana! Well, I’m afraid I have to inform you that no, I have not yet arrived at the so called more “zen” stage of grief. I continue being a sourpuss and I don’t see it going away any time soon. But, the news is, within this grouchiness I now have a new expression: remember when we were kids and we used to play the freeze game? Well, that is my new stage this week. Every time I see little hand prints on the windows, every time I hear someone yelling the word “Mom!”, every time I see clothes or shoes laying around, every time there’s yelling or hair pulling, I just stay still, very still… without moving at all, looking at the horizon, with half-closed eyes. I did not invent this, this is a natural reaction that awoke in me. Some animals do this. Opossums play dead, it’s a legit strategy to survive. Now, in my “Covidian” free time, I learned that it’s called Thanatosis. When threatened, some animals not only play dead, but their heart beat and breath pattern slows down and they can maintain a stiff posture for long periods of time. So, this 2020 Mother’s Day catches me in this weird opossum stage. My husband, an optimist by nature… Have I told you that Juan wakes up in the mornings singing and whistling? Something that annoys me completely, because of course, grinches want everyone else to accompany them in their grinchness. Anyway, he tells me that this Mother’s Day I will be pampered, I will not work at all, they will do everything and I will rest all I want. Ok then, when do I confess I have been Googling options of hotels near my house to escape and spend the weekend completely alone this weekend? Options where the risk of infection was lower. Yes, you heard correctly. I wanted that to be my Mother’s Day gift. To be all alone, with a bottle of wine, three bags of Barcel’s Takis hot popcorn, (my favorite!), watching Downton Abbey the whole weekend, tucked away, far, far away from my house. How’s that for a good mother? But, obviously, in the bottom of my heart, I knew this option was not an option. “Put your mask on first” has become a modern pep talk for anyone trying to maintain a positive attitude before heading out into the world. Another option is to just be a plain old b-word!Knowing that I would not go anywhere, I accepted the offer to be pampered all day long. I told them that except for my morning hug, they let me sleep all morning, and that I wanted to order from PF Chang’s and that yes, yes, thank you, I will happily accept to not move a finger the whole day. So this Mother’s Day, after watching the whole long second season of Restaurants on The Edge, I woke up lazily, I took a shower and I dressed nicely for the first time in a long time, with a long skirt and a sleeveless shirt that exposed my arms which by the way, have suffered a brutal transformation from a solid state to a gelatinous one. So much so, that every time my daughter hugs me, she then squeezes the upper part of my arms and makes funny faces, like when you play around with those jelly like stress balls. I can see the satisfaction on her little face.

Then, my kids worked on the house. One swept, one cleaned the windows, one pretended he was doing something, of course…and they alternated. Now that I feel totally weird without doing anything, I sat at the kitchen table and in my philosophical silence, I noticed the flies. I don’t know at what point they all got in, but there were millions of flies flying in my kitchen that day. Huge green flies, small fruit flies, medium flies, flies, flies, flies everywhere. I remembered a nanny we once had in Mexico that used a damp rag to kill flies. Maybe it’s because of the quick movement that renders them unable to escape from the lethal whack, but I’m telling you, you can even kill two flies at a time with this method. Try it, you’ll see. We ate PF Chang’s until we were stuffed, then we went for a long walk on the Riverwalk, to the touristic part where oddly, there are no tourists at all these days, and that brought me peace also. At the end, who am I kidding? I was happy I didn’t spend Mother’s Day at a hotel where I would surely have gotten Coronavirus because of my bad karma. That night, I confessed to Juan my macabre plans. Because I grew up Catholic, I continue with that thing that you have to confess your sins or else…. probably that’s why I’m always “oversharing” my weird thoughts with people. If I’m completely honest, and my husband had told me he wanted to spend Father’s Day, his birthday, or any other day in a hotel to “rest” from us, I would have been furious with him, it would have awakened all of my demons. But no, always cheerful, he asked me to keep in mind those hotels I had picked out and maybe soon, we could have a little getaway to one of them, just the two of us. I smiled. With this, he had absolved my sins. So now you know... the “put your mask on first” pep talk doesn’t work because today, everyone already has their masks on. The next time you are at the verge of a nervous breakdown, just look at the horizon, stay very still, play dead… and if there’s a damp rag around, it might come in handy. Namaste.

Regina Moya, day 62 of lockdown.

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MAMÁ TLACUACHE · 2020 By Regina Moya Mixed media 24” x 30”

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NO HAY BARBAS EN EL PARAÍSO

Pues sí, todo tiene un principio y todo tiene un final, y tristemente llegó el final de esta vacación. Vengo escribiendo en mi laptop en el coche, tengo 18 horas para hacer este artículo, así de eterno el regreso de Colorado a Texas. En estos viajes largos las idas son siempre… Miren… ¡un río! Miren ¡las flores!… Miren, ¡un cañón!… y de regreso son… ¡Niños, ya esténse quietos!, ¡Ya deja de molestar a tu hermana!… ¡Un grito más y ahora sí te quito tu Gameboy… Mamá, ¡Que no se dice Gameboy! Se dice Nintendo Switch… Este último comentario me hace sentir de 150 años, así que haciendo honor al sentimiento de vieja amargada, me pongo mis audífonos, lenguaje no verbal con la orden de: Nadie me dirija la palabra, por favor. Veo de reojo el tablero de la camioneta, poquito a poquito los números de la temperatura van subiendo y subiendo. Llegó una alerta que el mero día que llegamos a San Antonio, o sea mañana, la temperatura batirá el récord de calor este año con una máxima de 104, con un “feeling” de 110. Eso es 43 grados centígrados para que se den una idea, o sea más que si te sumergieras en un jacuzzi hirviendo. Vengo más callada que un vegetal, pobre Juan Manuel, soy la peor copilota en este largo viaje. No puedo hablar, vengo ocupada en mis pensamientos. Mi mente, cual verdugo despiadado, no para de restregarme en la cara que en dos días empieza otra vez el tremendo, temido, tortuoso, terrible homeschooling. Nadie me cuenta, este duelo mental que estoy viviendo es porque YO YA SE A LO QUE VOY. Ya sé que los siguientes meses voy a pasar todos los días sentada supervisando lecciones de primaria, secundaria y prepa, yo que para todo lo que tenía que ver con matemáticas y todos sus derivados, fui la peor estudiante… la Iglesia en manos de Lutero, de veras…, además de que mi paciencia se acorta cada vez más. Dios mío… Apiádate de mí en este Valle de Lágrimas… como decía no me acuerdo cuál oración. Me ha dado últimamente por leer libros de las guerras, desde que empezó la pandemia, ya llevo como cuatro; historias de la Primera y Segunda Guerra Mundial, la Guerra Civil Española, etc. En el fondo ya me caché que es una herramienta del inconsciente para comparar mi realidad con una mucho más terrible y sentir que lo mío no es nada, herramienta bastante efectiva, por cierto. Pero al mismo tiempo, me viene a la mente la frase sabia de Como Agua Para Chocolate, donde la nana Nacha, siempre sabia, le dice a Tita mientras llora desconsolada derramando lágrimas en la masa del pastel de bodas de su hermana… “Sólo las ollas saben los hervores de su caldo... pero yo adivino los tuyos”... me uno al sentimiento de todas las madres estos días.

Pues así las cosas, mis queridos amigos, hoy no tengo ni media perla de sabiduría que aportar al mundo, sólo comparto mis pesares… sólo les ofrezco como regalito bien envuelto mi tormento de saber a lo que regreso, así que si no te sirve, mejor ni lo abras, déjalo ahí quietecito en un sillón. Ya estamos casi llegando a una de nuestras paradas. Great Dunes National Park. Si esta parada la hubiéramos hecho de venida, seguro iría describiendo la maravilla del paisaje, la belleza de la naturaleza, bla bla bla, pero como vengo de regreso y con el alma atormentada por el tsunami del homeschooling que se nos deja venir, me viene a la mente la idea de al menos darme una manita de gato para salir guapa en las fotos. Me acerco un espejito redondo que tengo en la bolsa. Dios mío, ¿En qué momento me salieron esos dos pelos en la barba? ¿Por qué no me los había visto antes? Por la simple razón de que hasta hoy en la mañana estaba en el Paraíso… y en el Paraíso no hay pelos en la barba. Pero ahora, mi pobre corazón en duelo sabe que nos dirigimos derechito al infierno de 110 grados Farenheit, de horas y horas y horas de escuela virtual, de poner en pausa tus proyectos hasta nuevo aviso… así que más me vale que me arme de paciencia, que haga meditaciones y yoga y que me pare literalmente de cabeza para intentar calmarme. Más vale que me arme de valor, más vale que me consiga unas buenas pinzas de depilar… porque si de algo estoy segura es que por el momento señores y señoras, ya se acabó la fiesta.

Regina Moya, día del temido regreso.

THERE ARE NO BEARDS IN PARADISE

Yes indeed. Everything has a beginning and everything has an end, and sadly, our vacation has come to an end. I am writing in the car on my laptop computer. I have eighteen hours to write this article, that is how long our way back to Texas from Colorado is going to be. In these long road trips while you’re heading to your vacation the trip is always like... Look! A river. Look! Flowers everywhere. Look! A canyon. Of course, on the way back, the trip is more like... kids, can you please be QUIET? Stop bothering your sister NOW! Any more yelling and I swear this time I will take away your Gameboy for the rest of the trip. Mom, it is not a Gameboy, it’s a Nintendo Switch!... this last comment makes me feel 150 years old, so, keeping up this old hag feeling, I put on my ear pods, nonverbal language directing ... No one talk to me please. I look at the thermometer in the car. The temperature keeps creeping up. We got an alert on our phones that tomorrow, the day we will arrive back in San Antonio, the temperature will beat the record of heat this year with a high of 104, and a feeling of 110. That is more than if you dunked yourself in a steaming jacuzzi, for the love of God! I am as still and quiet as a vegetable, poor Juan, I am the worst companion on this trip. I cannot speak, I am busy with my own thoughts. My mind, like a ruthless butcher, keeps reminding me that in only two days the awful, feared, terrible, homeschooling will begin again. Nobody can console me. I know what I am headed to. I know that in the next months I will spend all hours of the day sitting down and supervising elementary, middle and high school lessons. I, the worst student of them all, the one that never understood math. My patience thins out more and more every day. Lord, have mercy on me in this valley of tears... that was a prayer or something, right? Lately I have read books telling stories of wars. Since this Pandemic began, I have read about four of them. Stories of World War One and Two, the Spanish Civil War. Deep down, I realize that it is a mechanism of my subconscious mind, to help me feel like my worries are nothing. It is a wonderful tool, by the way, a very effective one. But at the same time, a phrase of the movie Like Water for Chocolate comes to my mind, the part where Nacha in her wisdom says to Tita while she sheds her tears into the cake batter... “Only the pots know the boils of their broth, but I can imagine yours...” My heart goes out to all those mothers that have to homeschool these coming days. Anyway, such is life, my dear friends. Today I have no pearls of wisdom to contribute to the world, not one. I only share my sorrows... I can just offer you my torment, all wrapped up like a little gift. So, if it does no good for you, don’t even open it, just leave it there, sitting on a couch.

We are almost arriving at one of our stops. Great Dunes National Park. If we had done this stop on our way to Colorado, I would surely have described the marvel of the view, the beauty of nature, blah, blah, blah... but since we are on our way back and my soul is heavy with the tsunami of homeschooling that is heading our way, I think of looking at myself in the mirror and putting a little bit of makeup on, so at least I look nice in the pictures. I reach for a small mirror I have in my purse. What?? When did I grow these two little beard hairs on my chin? Why had I not seen them before? For the simple reason that until this morning I was in Paradise... and there are no beard hairs in paradise! But for now, my poor mourning heart knows that we are heading directly to 110 degree hell, of hours and hours and hours of virtual learning, of putting my whole life in pause until further notice... So I better gather all the patience that I have, I better gather my strength, I better get a good pair of tweezers... because if I am sure of anything at this point, ladies and gentlemen, is that the party is officially OVER!

Regina Moya, day of the dreaded return.

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NO HAY BARBAS EN EL PARAÍSO · 2020 By Miguel Sainz Oil and acrylic on canvas 40” x 40”

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REGRESO A CASA

Está bien, admito que no estuvo tan peor la llegada a San Antonio. La pasé muchísimo peor las dieciocho horas de carretera de que lo que realmente está resultando ser el homeschooling. Me encontré con que los maestros trabajaron todo el verano para organizarse mejor. Ya no es un caos sin pies ni cabeza. Somos como esos anfibios que se transforman y se adaptan a lo que la atmósfera les presenta. Me encontré con que mis hijos ya están con más clases en zoom y con menos tareas, eso significa que ellos tienen más independencia y yo más libertad. Ya ni una sola vez me he metido a Google a ver cómo resuelvo fracciones o decimales ni para preguntarle a Siri desesperada cuales éran los ángulos obtusos y cuales los agudos. Por primera vez hago una declaración importante: Si así va a ser el resto del semestre, no está tan grave la situación. Durante el regreso de Colorado me dio gastritis nomás de imaginarme el caos que nos esperaba. Ahí andaba ya ese ardorcito que subía y bajaba en la boca del estómago, como si un enanito estuviera prendiendo cerillos en mi corazón uno por uno. Así soy yo, un alma atormentada por el futuro. Se me olvida que soy escritora, y mi cabeza, extraordinaria directora teatral, se dedica a fabricar historias espeluznantes, thrillers de terror. Retrocedamos al viaje. De regreso pasamos por Sand Dunes National Park. Ya habíamos ido a ese maravilloso lugar hacía añísimos. Juan Manuel, que tiene el hábito de guardar todo, llegando a San Antonio buscó una foto de cuando estuvimos en las mismas dunas doradas hacía una docena de años. Lo primero que me impactó fue lo chiquitos que estaban mis niños, dos chiquitines, colgados uno en cada uno de mis brazos, como dos changuitos con su mamá. ¿En qué momento estos bebés tan míos se convirtieron en casi hombres, en humanos llenos de complejidades? Siento que esa foto fue hace nada. Como buena escritora, tengo muy buena memoria. Juan Manuel no me cree, pero a veces, puedo ver una foto y acordarme de lo que estaba sintiendo ese día. Cuando vi esa foto me acordé muy bien que ese día, mi alma atormentada andaba haciendo de las suyas. Juan Manuel y yo no llevábamos mucho de casados. Nos fuimos también en un roadtrip de San Antonio hasta Colorado no por una pandemia sino porque nos salía más barato que irnos en avión y en ese momento, contábamos los centavos. Nuestra historia, como muchos otros recién casados es que empezamos con baches en el camino. Juan Manuel puso un negocio de pollos rostizados que nomás no arrancó. Yo extrañaba mucho México, mi familia y de todas las editoriales a las que mandaba mis escritos no recibía más que cartas de rechazo. Juré que a ese paso, nunca podría publicar otro libro. Aquél roadtrip fue también largo y tortuouso, me acuerdo que iba tejiendo una cobijita a gancho, y en mi cabeza era como si a la par, estuviera tejiendo una red de pensamientos, de nudos imposibles de resolver.

Qué ganas hubiera tenido de platicar con esa joven mamá hace doce años. A ver Regina, pon mucha atención. Todo eso que estás pensando que va a pasar, todos esos escenarios en tu cabeza, a ninguno le vas a atinar. En unos años, esa idea de la que de repente te platica Juan Manuel, la de casas verdes... ponle atención, tenle fe... ya verás lo grande que va a llegar a ser. ¿Te acuerdas de ese sueño de vivir en una casa antigua? Te va a llegar. ¿Esa hija que tanto anhelas? la vas a tener, preciosa... se va a llamar Isabel. No sólo vas a publicar otra novela, vas a publicar muchos cuentos, artículos... vas a dar clases, conferencias... vas a aprender a pintar, vas a hacer todo tipo de proyectos que te van a fascinar, proyectos grandes... ya verás... tus sueños se quedarán cortos. Te felicito por tu vasta imaginación, pero esos escenarios que pintas en tu mente, son puros inventos, úsalos para tus escritos, ponlos en papel y sácalos de tu corazón. Dentro de muy poco, esta época, será apenas un mero recuerdo, como la foto de las dunas. Mi única y gran sentencia en este momento es estar con mi familia en casa, pasando horas y horas juntos, todos sanos, con mucha comida, muchas risas, muchos pleitos, pero juntos. ¿Cómo puede ser posible que en toda esta pandemia no se me haya ocurrido que este momento, estos meses de encierro serán en mi vida, el pequeño espacio de tiempo cuando más cerca estuve con mi familia? Nunca más volveremos a estar tan unidos. Mañana no sé si vuelva a engendrar en pantera, si la angustia vueva a secuestrar mi cabeza. Pero hoy, no te miento cuando te digo que es en esta casa, con este equipo con quien quiero estar... De pronto mi enemigo ya no es el Covid, ni mi angustia, ni siquiera el homeschooling... mi único enemigo es el tiempo que muy pronto me va a arrebatar este momento.

Regina Moya.

RETURN TO HOME

Okay, I admit that our return to San Antonio was not that bad. I had a much worse time during the eighteen-hour road-trip dreading the homeschooling that awaited, and really, it wasn’t at all what I had imagined. I found out that the teachers worked hard the whole summer to get better organized. There is less chaos now. We humans are like amphibians that transform and adapt to whatever clemencies the atmosphere has in store for us. I found that my children are in more Zoom classes and have less assignments, that means more independence for them and more freedom for me. I have not had to Google how to do fractions or decimals. I have not once asked Siri what the hell are obtuse and acute angles. For the first time I have a statement to make: If this is what it’s going to look like the rest of the semester, IT IS NOT THAT BAD. The trip from Colorado was terrible. The mere thought of all that chaos that awaited gave me a heartburn. I felt that familiar burn going up and down my stomach, like if a tiny elf were inside of me lighting matches in my heart. That’s me. A soul tormented by the future. I forget I am a writer and my head, an extraordinary theatre director, fabricates the most horrific stories, amazingly well crafted thrillers that would give anyone goose bumps. On our way back we stopped at Great Sand Dunes National Park. We had already been to this magnificent place years ago. Juan has the habit of keeping everything, so when we arrived to San Antonio he found a picture of when we were in those golden dunes twelve years ago. The first thing that struck me was how tiny my boys were. A toddler and a baby, one hanging on my left, the other on my right, like baby chimpanzees clinging to their mama. When did these babies that were so mine become these almost men, these complex human beings? I mean, this picture... it was not so long ago! Maybe because I am a writer I have a very good memory. Juan doesn’t believe me but sometimes, when I see a picture I can remember what I was feeling that day. When I saw that picture I remembered that that day, my tormented soul was working like crazy. At that time, Juan and I had married not long ago. We had also driven from San Antonio all the way to Colorado, not because the world was upside down in pandemic mode, but because we could not afford to fly and at that time and we were counting our pennies. Our story, like many other newly wed beginnings, had it’s bumps on the road. Juan started a rotisserie chicken restaurant that never really hit it off. I missed Mexico and my family so very much and of all the publishing houses I sent my stories to only answered with rejection messages. At this rate, I would never publish a next book. That road-trip was long and torturous, I remember that I was knitting a blanket and in my head, it was like I was also knitting a web of negative thoughts with impossible knots.

I would have wanted to have a talk with that young mother twelve years ago. “Look honey, pay attention to what I’m going to say to you. All those things that you think are thinking that are going to happen, all those scenarios you have created in your mind, NONE of them will happen. You know that idea that Juan talks about now and then? The idea of the sustainable green houses? Pay more attention, have faith in him... you’ll see him thrive. Remember that dream you had of living in a very old house? You will have it. That daughter that you want more than anything in the world? You will have her too, a beautiful girl you will name Isabel. You will not only publish a novel, you will publish children books, articles... you will teach classes in schools and detention centers... you will learn how to paint, you will be involved in so many projects that you will blow your mind... big projects... you’ll see... I congratulate you for your crazy, wild imagination, but those scenarios that you paint in your mind, are just fiction, use them for your writings, put them in paper and take them away from your heart. In no time, this time of your life will be just a memory, like the picture of the Great Dunes. My only sentence in this moment is to be at home with my family, spending hours and hours together, enjoying health, with lots of food, lots of laughter, lots of fights, but together.” How can it be possible that in all this time it had not occurred to me that this very moment, these months of lockdown will become a small lapse in my lifetime where I was closer than ever to my family? We will never be this close again. I don’t know if tomorrow I will become a wicked witch again, if anxiety will highjack my head once more, but today, I can honestly say that it is in this home, with this group of people that I choose to be with. Suddenly my enemy is not Covid, not my fears, not even homeschooling... my only enemy is time... time that will inevitably steal this moment away from me very soon.

Regina Moya.

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REGRESO A CASA · 2019 By Terry Allen Oil on canvas 48” x 60”

ADRIA GARZA

Artist Bio

Adria Garza is a visual artist living and working in San Antonio, Texas. In 2015 she received a Bachelors Degree of Fine Art from The University of Texas at San Antonio with a specialization in drawing and painting. Garza currently works from her studio at Hausmann Millworks and was a featured artist for the San Antonio Tricentennial. She exhibits an energetic, painterly texture in her artwork with a passion for the human figure and portraiture. Depicting the human form expressively while interpreting the mood of the image with an intuitive sense of color is the driving force behind her work. In addition to her figurative work she enjoys depicting objects with surface qualities she considers to be dynamic and alluring. Using various mediums she strives to create depth and balance using abstract mark making paired with the representational subjects she chooses to explore.

LUCY LLERA Lucy Llera was born in Cayey, Puerto Rico. She has a Bachelor Degree in Education in Art. She was a highschool art teacher in Puerto Rico for 13 years. In 1982, she came to San Antonio and studied art at The University of Texas at San Antonio. The following year she became a bilingual elementary teacher and taught for 17 years. In 1984-93, Lucy studied under the direction of well-known water color teacher, Warren Hunter. She has participated in painting workshops with Daniel Green, Dalhart Weinberg, Lesta Frank and Gladys Roldan de Moras.

Artist Bio

Since 1986,she has been a member of the Puerto Rican HeritageSociety (PRHS), Watercolor Society, Calligraphy Guild, Decorative art society and Coppini Academic of Fine Art. As a member of the PRHS Lucy has designed 16 posters for their biennale PRHS Festivals; her inspiration has been Puerto Rican culture. Lucy won the Artist of the Month award at the Coppini Gallery. She won second prize in portraits and many awards as a bilingual teacher. In 2008, she won The United Way of San Antonio award as the volunteer of the year in art and culture. As an artist she has participated in group exhibitions: Artistas Boricuas en San Antonio, Mujer, Artist for Monique, Ayuda Arte and various festivals in Houston, Killeen, Austin, Dallas and San Antonio, Texas.

Giselle Diaz

Artist Bio

Giselle Diaz was born in San Juan, Puerto Rico. She received a Bachelor’s Degree in Fine Arts and a Bachelor’s Degree in Art History and Criticism from The University of Texas at San Antonio. Diaz currently lives in San Antonio, Texas. Currently her work is part of the permanent art collection of The University of Texas at San Antonio. She has exhibited work in Mexic-Arte Museum, Austin, TX; Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center, Blue Star Contemporary Art Center, Duran Art Gallery, Frost Bank Plaza Club, Debra Benditz Gallery, Centro de Artes, City of San Antonio, TX. Her paintings are in numerous private collections in San Antonio, TX; Boston, MA; San Juan, Puerto Rico; Bologna, Italy; and Paris, France. Her work consists of memories acquired from her native island of Puerto Rico and the culture is her inspiration. Its’ beautiful landscapes, colors and scents are mirrored in most of Giselle’s paintings. She begins by taking photos of objects that she gravitates to and of places that she has traveled. The mixture of these images and memories are then poured over Giselle’s palette to create this unique blend of colors. Giselle works in The UTSA Art Collection at the University of Texas at San Antonio.

LUZ SERRELI

Artist Bio

Luz del Carmen Serreli was born in Ciudad Juarez, Chihuahua, Mexico, in 1979. From a young age Luz was often in contact with art thanks to her grandmother, who was an art collector. She remembers her grandmotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house being like a museum, with fine paintings and works of art everywhere. Given that Luzâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s father was Italian, during her childhood she traveled frequently to Europe with her family, where she was often surrounded by art, visiting the great European museums and masterpieces, thus, she cultivated a love for art from an early age. Growing up, Luz knew she wanted to become an architect. In high school, she took drawing courses and she went on to study Architecture at the UDEM University in Monterrey, Mexico. She also took a course in watercolor painting in Cagliari, Italy. Currently, she lives in San Antonio, TX with her husband and their two children.

ANTONIO GÓMEZ

Artist Bio

Antonio, was born in Guadalajara, Jalisco, México in November 18th, 1965, he studied Industrial Engineering at the University of Guadalajara, at the same University took a course in Contemporary Art Concepts. Art History and Museology with Laura Ortiz, and with some other friend’s self-studied techniques in acrylic, oil and some other media. Art critics, sculpting at the Roxy Cultural Center in Guadalajara, and with his friend Dr. Ayotl studied Prehispanic Art. Since 2005 open his Studio in San Antonio where he keeps working and time to time invite Artist Friends to collaborate on Art projects, opened his Studio on 2006 & 2007 join the First Friday Art Walk, participate in several occasions at the Blue Star Art Center, the Instituto de Mexico San Antonio and some others. “Color and Movement are the Subject of this Abstract digital Art Works employing photography and pure digital Manipulation. Inspired by San Antonio City Scape and the digital movement., the details and textures I discover through the camera lens seize the imagination, begging to be captured. By blending the organic with the unfamiliar viewers often have a sense that they’ve seen aspects of the image but can’t entirely discern what they are looking at., translated in surreal scenes, fantasy landscapes, dream art. Making an authentic expression of an artistic vision”

FERNANDO ORTEGA

Artist Bio

Fernando Ortega (Murcia-Spain 1969) Lawyer, businessman, writer, photographer... in a word, entrepreneur. Established in the city of San Antonio since January 2016, Fernando Ortega has developed his creative, especially literary activity throughout the 21st century, focusing on photography since 2006 when in Spain he began to collaborate with cultural and fashion projects. He is author of the exhibition ‘Ellas, jugadoras’ (2015), a tribute to women rugby players of the Club Industriales de Madrid, of the photographic project ‘19 mujeres’ (2015) focused on the fight against breast cancer, the exhibition ‘Auschwitz-Birkenau: a vision in 35 mm’ released in Torrelodones (Madrid) in April 2015 on the occasion of the 70th anniversary of the liberation of the Polish camp, presented in Jaén on January 27, 2016 on the occasion of the Day of memory of the Holocaust and in the city of San Antonio, headquarters of the UNAM, in October 2018. In February 2019, released the premier of ‘Back roads’ premiered in the city of San Antonio (Lone Star Art Space) a collection of photographs of abandoned corners taken in the states of Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Utah and Idaho. Fernando enjoys street photography. His latest collections ‘Lines’ and ‘It’s not about silence. It’s what you can’t hear’; are focused on the empty spaces that have left the mark of the COVID19 pandemic in the city of San Antonio.

VICTOR DE LA FUENTE Victor De La Fuente was born in San Antonio, TX the eldest of four, a first generation MexicanAmerican. He grew up on the Southside where he resides with his wife Lisa and four children. Internally driven, and emotionally charged in his creative practice, Vic aims to imbue his city, with drama, mood, and a passionate personality. He paints his immediate surroundings with intimate, dynamic expression and works in a wide variety of mediums. Painting on large scale substrates using Oil’s is his main preference. Vic utilizes a number of techniques: paint drips, staining the surface, wiping away paint with solvents, applying broad, gritty marks with an ink brayer, hand trowel, spatula and many other unconventional items. He also works with an ancient medium called Encaustics, which is using molten beeswax, dammar resin crystals and pigments as hot paint. He paints with confidence and flair, addressing complex compositions with colors both vivid and atmospheric.

Artist Bio

Vic’s art has evolved over time to become more expressive and narrative. On a constant quest to push new boundaries, he is persistent in experimenting with his inspirations and artistic translations, pursuing more difficult compositions and achieving grander exhibits. Vic’s art has graced the Hollywood screen in several occasions, working with Producer Robert Rodriguez, in From Dusk Till Dawn the TV series and in other shows like Extreme Makeover Home Edition and other movie films. Vic is primarily self-taught, and even though he has been creating art in various forms throughout his life since a very young age it wasn’t until recently he began taking formal classes under the tutelage of Tony Pro at the Coppini Academy of Fine Art where he also serves on the Board as 1st Vice President. Vic’s expansive works command the attention of passers-by, reward the focus of new as well as seasoned local/international collectors as an up and coming emerging artist and transforms a bland wall into a beautiful eye-catching space.

EDUARDO RODRĂ?GUEZ

Artist Bio

Eduardo Rodriguez Calzado is a visual artist of Mexican origin who, with his brilliant ability and the creative energy of his brushstrokes, inevitably transforms us into a pictorial world of fascinating chromatic vibrations. In it, it seems each of the small units of squares and contours that make up the composition were a representation of hundreds of pixels of a circuit that together emit multiple melodies, interlaced by an artistic force in each canvas, that delight us through the powerful movement of lines and effervescent colors, stimulating our imagination and shaking our conscience. In each work, Rodriguez Calzado leads us through a visual whirlwind creating a variety of planes, at first through two dimensional figures that when overlapped give life to a surprising third dimension. The harmonious movement of these planes and fragmentation of color create complex forms and perspectives, swaying to the rhythm of the melodies, inviting us to explore the magic of the paintings.

MIGUEL SAINZ

Artist Bio

Miguel SainzÂ was born in Culiacan de Rosales, Sinaloa, Mexico. He studied Painting at the Arts University of Sinaloa. There, he absorbed the formal learning of drawing and painting, refining his own talents and validating his purpose of life to become a full time artist. His artworks are a representation of the energy he was born with and what he has mastered through time with the technique of oil and acrylic, combaining these two medias with the use of an airbrush. Sainzâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s artwork has been exhibited in multiple galleries in Mexico, his first exhibition in America will be at the International Airport of San Antonio, TX.

TERRY ALLEN Terry Allen Jones was born September 11, 1948 in Uvalde, Texas. He began drawing as a child. As a teenager he studied the art of fired porcelain painting for several years with the well known porcelain artist Jewell Phillips. In 1974 he received a bachelors of fine art in studio art from Angelo State University.

Artist Bio

During his career as an investigator with the Texas Environmental Agency, he was able to explore the rivers and streams of Texas from the Rio Grande to the Guadalupe Rivers, continuing to paint the areas of Texas he has lived and loved most of his life while combating pollution. He lives and paints near Rio Medina, Texas with his wife JoAnne, his two grown children Katie and Chase, and numerous dogs and cats. A short list of publications, exhibitions and awards he has received over the years include: The San Antonio Art League and Museum juried shows, The Pastel Journal Magazine, The University of Texas in San Antonio permanent collection, published in Art Journey, Abstract Collection Painting by Jamie Markle published by North Light Books. Terryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s paintings are in hundreds of private collections around the state and country.

ADRI ANA C I S N E R O S

International Creative Director Curator & Producer

Career Background

Adriana Cisneros was born and raised in Mexico City, where she earned a bachelor’s degree in Translation (English, French and Italian), a Diploma in Curatorial Studies and Art Institutions Management. After attending college, she worked at the Mexican Ministry of Agriculture, where she gained experience in public affairs while leading the public relations department. She was the CEO of GMIT Mexico, one of the most prestigious medical groups in Mexico, for which she managed public relations, special events, client relations with different enterprises, such as Walmart, Bimbo, TV Azteca, and others. During more than 18 years she has been devoted to work towards designing and implementing public relations, developing marketing strategies, and improving business development for several companies. She also served as a Board member at World’s Foundations, a foundation chaired by a former President of Mexico, where she was in charge of high-profile public figures and artists in Mexico. In 2012, she moved from Mexico City to San Antonio, TX with her husband and her two daughters, Maria and Karla. From 2015 to 2017, she was appointed to lead the Cultural Committee with the AEM – The Mexican Entrepreneur Association. She is the Founder and Director of Art Legacy, a company dedicated to promoting and supporting the work of well-established and emerging artists from across the world, where she represents various Hispanic artists of international stature, such as Jorge Marín, Eduardo Rodríguez Calzado, Alex Martin AKA “Otto”, Adria Garza, and Terry Allen Jones, among others. At San Antonio TX, she constantly promoted not only the artists that she stills represents, but also worked towards building stronger ties among cultural institutions such as San Antonio Opera, San Antonio Ballet, The Classical Music Institute and The Southwest School of Art. From the years 2016 to 2020, she had curated and organized more than 30 art exhibitions at The Botanical Garden of San Antonio, The Mexican Institute of San Antonio, and Maestro Entrepreneur Center, Plaza Club, Credit Human Bank as well as the San Antonio International Airport. In 2018, she was honored to receive the Innovation Award from the San Antonio Hispanic Chamber of Commerce. She has served as a Board member of different cultural institutions. Additionally, from 2017 to 2019, she was the Chairwoman for the Arts and Culture committee with the San Antonio Hispanic Chamber of Commerce. Cisneros has served as a juror for various photography and art contests. In 2019, she successfully acted as curator and liaison between the McNay Art Museum in San Antonio, TX and The Museum of Shenandoah in Winchester, VA, for acquiring the sculptures of the Mexican artist, Alejandro Martin AKA “Otto”.

NAO

Young Peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Poet Laurate of the United States Naomi Shihab Nye is a Palestinian-American poet, Young Peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Poet Laureate through the Poetry Foundation, editor of poems for the New York Times Sunday magazine, and on faculty at Texas State University. She has written or edited more than 30 books, most recently Cast Away, The Tiny Journalist, Voices in the Air, and Everything Comes Next.

naomi shihab bio

Naomi Shihab Nye was born on March 12, 1952, in St. Louis, Missouri, to a Palestinian father and an American mother. During her high school years, she lived in Ramallah in Palestine, the Old City in Jerusalem, and San Antonio, Texas, where she later received her BA in English and world religions from Trinity University. Nye is the author of numerous books of poems, most recently Cast Away: Poems for Our Time (Greenwillow Books, 2020.) Her other books of poetry include The Tiny Journalist (BOA Editions, 2019); Voices in the Air: Poems for Listeners (Greenwillow Books, 2018); Transfer (BOA Editions, 2011); You and Yours (BOA Editions, 2005), which received the Isabella Gardner Poetry Award; and 19 Varieties of Gazelle: Poems of the Middle East (Greenwillow Books, 2002), a collection of new and selected poems about the Middle East. She is also the author of several books of poetry and fiction for children, including Habibi (Simon Pulse, 1997), for which she received the Jane Addams Children’s Book award in 1998. Nye gives voice to her experience as an Arab-American through poems about heritage and peace that overflow with a humanitarian spirit. About her work, the poet William Stafford has said, “her poems combine transcendent liveliness and sparkle along with warmth and human insight. She is a champion of the literature of encouragement and heart. Reading her work enhances life.” Her poems and short stories have appeared in various journals and reviews throughout North America, Europe, and the Middle and Far East. She has traveled to the Middle East and Asia for the United States Information Agency three times, promoting international goodwill through the arts. Nye’s honors include awards from the International Poetry Forum and the Texas Institute of Letters, the Carity Randall Prize, the National Book Critics Circle Lifetime Achievement Award, and four Pushcart Prizes. She has been a Lannan Fellow, a Guggenheim Fellow, and a Witter Bynner Fellow. In 1988, she received the Academy of American Poets’ Lavan Award, judged by W. S. Merwin. She served as a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets from 2010 to 2015, and is the Poetry Foundation’s Young People’s Poet Laureate from 2019-2021. She currently lives in San Antonio, Texas.

MARI ANA T

Designer & Dancer â&#x20AC;&#x153;Designer by profession, dancer by conviction... My life has been full of art and dance since my earliest memories, aesthetics and proportion are the central axes of my work. Passionate about finding a graphic solution with added human value to each project that is presented in my lifeâ&#x20AC;?.

MARIANA TOVAR BIO

Mariana Tovar is a young Mexican artist, dancer, and graphic designer. She owns a bachelor’s degree in Graphic Design and a long career as a dancer. Mariana has worked with important Design agencies in Mexico, leading projects for well-known national brands such as Superama, Walmart, Chedraui, Lowes and Aksi. Later, her skills in the editorial area placed her in projects with international brands like Estee Lauder, Heinz, Manhattan, Intellinet and Alka USA Inc. among others. Her portfolio is proof of her work within editorial ads, catalogue designs and various advertising campaigns. Her clean and structured designs distinguish and stand her out. After several years, Mariana decided to focus her attention on her dance career, which leads her to combine her passions, this is how she discovers a new graphic style and creates a concept based on the use of personalized golden grids as the main axis of his editorial compositions. Mariana designed editorial content for one of the most important Ballets in Mexico, “The Ballet Bali Hai by Clara Snell”, taking her designs to bigger events like “The Merrie Monarch” in Hilo, Hawaii, and the “Te hura te heiva” at “Les Grands Ballets Canadiens in Montréal”. She is currently living in Vancouver, Canada where she works as a freelance designing editorial project.

Writer & Artist What does being a mother, an artist and a writer mean to me? Yes, I juggle with being a mother, a writer, a plastic artist, a cook at the same time. No, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not too much, human beings are designed to do all of this and much more. We only get one life. If thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s one, two or twenty things we want to do, we need to go for it.

REGINA MOYA BIO

STATEMAN: My writing focuses in everyday life. Common things, often food or cooking a recipe start out as the main theme, while making fun of myself and my circumstances, and slowly, become more profound reflections. It often incorporates my Hispanic background and sometimes takes a critical view of social, cultural or political issues. My visual artwork is heavily influenced by my Mexican roots, and I incorporate bright colors and mixed media techniques in my illustrations, paintings and sculptures. Each project is very different from one another, I am always open to explore new territories.

Writing: Regina Moya is a writer and illustrator born in 1978. She has published three novels, Memorias de Dos Mujeres Mexicanas, Donde Anidan las Palomas and Turkey Day. Regina has written and illustrated two children book stories, The Counting Machine, commissioned in 2012 by Deutsche Bank and The Gift of Water, commissioned in 2013 by Mexican leading non-profit Kaluz, they both talk about environmental awareness. The Gift of Water was converted into a short animated film. Regina wrote The American Dream, a column in the AEM Magazine for seven years. The Last Butterfly, is her latest children’s book, a story coauthored with Dr. Carmen Tafolla that will be published in 2021 by Flower Song Press. Regina has worked for Gemini Ink as part of the WIC program and has taught several workshops in poetry and illustration in public schools, battered women’s shelters, juvenile detention centers and children’s migrant detention centers in San Antonio for several years. In conjuction with Attic Rep, Trinity University and Mexican Cultural Institute in San Antonio she wrote Through the Wall, a play directed by Roberto Prestigiacomo presented at the Tobin Center during 2017 International Fest of Theater.

VISUAL ARTS: Regina created an altar to honor Emma Tenayuca in 2017 and 2018 displayed at Historic Pearl. In 2018, Regina donated Sor Juana, an 8ft catrina for the Public Library of San Antonio that is now part of their private art collection. In 2019, Regina was commissioned to create a giant skull as part of the displays for Day of The Dead. She named it The Migrant. She has created the awards for Texas Institute of Letters (2018, 2019, 2020) and Power of Preservation Society (2019), and American Association of Hispanic Higher Education AAHHE (2020). She was commissioned to create the official image and medal for the 2020 King William Fair. Regina has illustrated children’s books for local authors and paints personalized portraits and paintings from her home on commission.

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D e s i g n b y M a r i a n a To v a r

11 Short stories in the time of Covid

Articles inside

Eduardo Rodríguez

Terry Allen

Victor de la Fuente

Fernando Ortega

Antonio Gómez

Luz Serrelli

Giselle Díaz

Lucy Llera

Adria Garza

Regreso a casa / Return to home

No hay barbas en el paraíso / There are no beards in paradise

Mamá tlacuache / Opossum mama

Es lo que hay / It is what it is

El sueño que nunca logré / The dream that never came true

Chiles en las nubes / Peppers in the clouds

Ahora es cuando, chile verde / A whole new flavor

Volaremos en parvada / We will fly in flocks

El rompecabezas / Puzzled times

Llegaron las moscas / The flies are here

Ya nos cayó el chahuistle / The chahuistle has fallen upon us