La Tolteca Spring 2015: Año Cinco, Vol. Uno by Ana Castillo

Promoting the Advancement of a World Without Borders and Censorship

LA TOLTECA THE HEALING ISSUE

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SPRING 2015 AÑO CINCO VOL. UNO

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Publisher & Editor-in-chief Ana Castillo

Managing Editor & Director of Design Ignatius Valentine Aloysius

La Tolteca Staff Copyedit/Proofreading

Hon. Leslie E. Harris

Contributors [Photography]

Sergio Wals, Socorro Pasco, Nancy Aidé González, and La Tolteca

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La Tolteca ‘Zine is published twice a year in spring and fall. L/T ‘Zine is not responsible for the authenticity of contributors’ content. All contributors are solely responsible for their submissions. SUBMISSIONS POLICY: All Ana Castillo workshopistas are invited to submit original, unpublished work in any genre or media for consideration: tolteca@anacastillo.com. Please Note: Only Microsoft Word formatted files will be accepted. PDFs and e-books are not accepted. Review all your text for errors prior to submitting.

Our Fall 2015 theme is Education. Please check out the La Tolteca Zine Facebook page for more details in our regular posts. La Tolteca ‘Zine welcomes new books to review: P.O. Box 1405, Anthony, NM 88021

THE HEALING ISSUE

CONTENTS Healing and Selfies

Publisher's note . . . 6

Interview: Chief Luisah Teish

By Shy Pacheco Hamilton . . . 8 Remembrance

Beyond Barrios, Bodegas, and Borders: A Remembrance By Nancy Aidé González . . . 12 En memoriam: Michele Serros . . . 14 Poems

Indran Amirthanayagam . . . 16 Ire’ne Lara Silva . . . 22 Interview: Francisco Goldman

By La Tolteca . . . 26 Poems

Cynthia Gallagher . . . 30 Steven Romero . . . 34 Memoir: BREAKING MY FATHER'S RULES

Maria G. Martinez . . . 38 Poems

Isela Ocegueda . . . 42 Memoir: La Doctora Corazón

Jo Anna Mixpe Ley . . . 46 Poems

Sylvia Chávez . . . 50 Memoir: embracement of nothingness

Piotr Sassar . . . 52

Favorite Book Picks . . . 58 Announcements . . . 60 4

waterfall,

A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR

our years ago I entered in the adventure of establishing the La Tolteca ‘Zine. Along the way I’ve had the assistance of numerous writers who’ve put on hats as designers, proofreaders, photographers and reporters. Since La Tolteca remains a labor of love flying by the seat of its metaphorical pants I am grateful to all those who contribute their work, time and energies. Until present times, many poets and writers were resistant to showing their faces in public. Heaven forbid should a critic recognize a writer on the street and take the opportunity to give his opinion directly. Somewhere I read this happened to James Joyce the night before one of his books was to be released. He was on a stroll with the missus when such an individual, appeared out of nowhere it seemed, like the flu, and whispered, “You’re a terrible writer.” Joyce was mortified. In the current issue we asked contributors to submit a selfie: a photograph self-portrait usually done with a phone with a camera device. It may be argued that writers, like all creative people, have fragile egos. We may puff out our chests when being complimented for our work and deflate instantly at the first rejection. So, goes for our self-image. Writers work mostly in solitude. Who knows if they ever get out of their nightclothes or even bathe while in the throes of a project. In the public eye, however, a persona is created by everybody. Smile! Say cheese! Pose! In that spirit, we asked our contributors to submit their best ‘selfies.’ Judge for yourselves if you think the writers have allowed us a glimpse of the person behind the pen. This spring issue is dedicated to healing. The selection of essays and poems here was based on reflections on the internal and external restorative process. We are pleased to feature new poems by current poets, our book recommendations, and memoir essays developed by workshop participants. The two interviews featured here are of internationally esteemed writers. Chief Luisah Teish, a spiritual leader, is also a public speaker and performer. Francisco Goldman, an acclaimed fiction and non-fiction writer talks to us of the personal story behind his novel, Say Her Name. In the Zine we are limited by space but perhaps, it whets the readers’ appetites. Check out these writers, we say here at La Tolteca ‘Zine. Patronize their venues. Buy their books. Tell others. Many are actively around giving readings, teaching and publishing. Pass the word. Altogether, we believe you will enjoy the healing issue for its inspiration and aim to bring back hope, exactly when we need it.

AnaCastil o

Editor-in-chief and Publisher

SHY PACHECO HAMILTON SPEAKS WITH AN OSHUN CHIEF IN THE YORUBA LUCUMI

INTERVIEW WITH CHIEF LU The following interview directs itself to what Chief Luisah Teisch explains are “energy patterns” which we all possess.

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I TRADITION

UISAH TEISH Luisah Teish is a writer, performer and teacher. She is the author of Jambalaya: The Natural Woman's Book of Personal Charms and Practical Rituals. An Oshun chief in the Yoruba Lucumi tradition. Chief Luisah Teisch grew up in New Orleans, Louisiana. Her father was African Methodist Episcopal. At some point, she converted temporarily to Catholicism. Today,she teaches classes on African goddesses, shamanism, and the Yoruba Tambola tradition. She founded "Ile Orunmila Oshun (The House of Destiny and Love)" as well as the "School of Ancient Mysteries/Sacred Arts Center. Bay Area based Chief Luisah Teish is also is director of "Ase Theater." Shy Pacheco Hamilton: What are generational energy patterns and what role do our ancestors play in these patterns? Chief Luisah Teish: As human beings we inherit the gifts and liabilities of our ancestors as members of our biological families, as members of our culture, country, and world. Our biological families may gift us with desirable physical traits such as good legs (for example, everybody in the family may dance, run, excel at

things requiring physical strength) family talents (“We all play a musical instrument because we grew up in a house of music”) or a cool temperament (We lived in a peaceful household.”) Conversely, we may find that we are experiencing the negative effects of being the adult child of an alcoholic (“because Mother was drunk during her pregnancy”) may have a pattern of nervous upset (“Daddy was a rage-a-holic”) or we walk with our heads dragging on the ground because everyone in the family sat on a “secret shame” that expresses itself through our personal carriage. Our culture and country may encourage us to subscribe to a certain religion, hold a particular political viewpoint, and/or exist in a social milieu that go unquestioned, as a matter of habit.The pattern of human life and growth is recognized, managed, and manifested only as birth, growth, maturation, demise, and death. However, the ancestors play a role in shaping the patterns of our lives at every level. SPH: How does one recognize if they are experiencing a negative generational energy pattern? CLT: On the family level we can recognize negative

SHY PACHECO HAMILTON SPEAKS WITH AN OSHUN CHIEF IN THE YORUBA LUCUMI

INTERVIEW WITH CHIEF LU energy patterns manifesting when several people in the family exhibit the same negative behavior. This behavior becomes obvious in the individual (“Johhny drinks too much, just like Daddy did”) and in the group (“Alcoholism seems to run in our family’). Sometimes the pattern is less visible but, more visceral. Then we discover that Sister is uncomfortable in her body because both Mother and Grandmother and possibly Great Grandmother were all victims of incest. Oftimes we find out about these invisible patterns through dreams, finding old photographs, or listening to the whispers on the wind. SPH: How would you suggest we begin to change a negative self-perception of ourselves so we may live more in balance with our communities and the Earth? CLT: You have to begin by asking yourself the question, “Who do you think you are?” First, you must begin by releasing the idea that you have to be who somebody else wants you to be; that you have to pretend to be someone that you are not; and especially release the notion that you might be a “nobody.” Every person born came to Earth to be, to do and to have. Once you are willing to sit still, face yourself honestly, listen to your own consciousness, and then

begin to work on yourself, to identify your gift, to evaluate your shortcomings and take responsibility for improving yourself, then and only then can you live in balance in Community with Self, Nature, and Spirit. In order to discuss this question fully and to offer advice, rituals, and exercises to help people find their Life Purpose I’ve just launched a series of eight videotapes that are being released by Balade Black Productions. (See link below.) SPH: What is our best defense to prevent negativity, or those with negative intentions, from pulling us back into energy patterns that work against our best interests? CLT: The first step is to learn how to put up what are known as your ‘energetic shields.’ This is done by extending the light around you until you can see yourself sitting in the center of a circle of light. Then, you must call in the benevolent ancestors from every direction to stand guard on the edges of your circle so that you have protection from negative energetic invasion. From this place you can examine the thoughts, words, and actions of others that are intended to take you off your path. There are so many tricks that people play when trying to pull you off your path. They will use a call for pity

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I TRADITION

UISAH TEISH

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(“But I really need your help!”). They might trick you with false flattery (“But you so strong. I do you like I do you cause I know you can take it”). And the most dangerous adversary is the one who has been close to you, knows all your faults, and knows that they will no longer be able to exploit you when you determine to work in your own best interest.

LINK: http://www.balade.black/at-the-crossroadsfinding-your-purpose-chief-luisah-teish www.yeyeteish.com

SPH: What is the best way to assist someone toward their path to healing, if they are resistant to doing the work? CLT: As a priestess, my first response is to inform the person of all the assistance available to them: they can sit in self-examination, they can call upon their ancestors, they can read many books giving spiritual advice, use self-improvement exercises, or they can seek out a wise teacher. As a relative or friend, you may make a recommendation no more than four times. It takes that many times for the subconscious to fully receive the message) and then you must leave them alone. Healing is a gift that one can choose to accept or reject and experience the consequences. As a priestess I have had to learn to make a distinction between “healing the sick and putting bandages on dead people.”

Editor's note: Shy Pacheco Hamilton's selfie appears on the front cover of this issue.

a personal essay on author michele serros By Nancy Aidé González

Beyond Barrios, Borders, and Bodega

first came upon her words when I was a senior in high school, wandering around a bookstore, and a title instantly caught my eye. After reading the book, I remember having the deep sense of “this is it,” someone understands my experience. Michele Serros understood the feeling of not belonging and being a Chicana who did not speak Spanish well. Just as I, she was raised in Southern California. She could be a prima. After reading her book, I thought to myself, “One day I will meet her. Maybe I can be a writer, too.” Michele Serros was an author who spoke to a recent generation of Chicanas and Chicanos. Named by Newsweek magazine as “One of the Top Young Women to Watch for in the New Century,” she challenged barriers and borders. Her best selling books, Chicana Falsa: And Other Stories of Death, Identity, and Oxnard and How to be a Chicana Role Model, are filled with poignant humor and truth. She was a poet, novelist, essayist, humorist, and motivational speaker. In the 1990’s, Michele toured with rock stars and poets on the Lollapalooza tour.

“Special Assembly: Part Two.” Michele spoke eloquently and the audience laughed throughout the reading and cheered heartily when the reading was done. Afterwards, I stood in line clutching my dog-eared copy of How to be a Chicana Role Model. Michele smiled and asked my name. She wrote with a sharpie “Nancy!” and signed her name with a heart on the title page. I told her I was a writer and I admired her work. She smiled and said, “You are a writer? Our voices need to be heard. Keep writing. Don’t ever give up!” Tears welled up in my eyes. She had said exactly the words that I had needed to hear. After just receiving a rejection notice from a literary journal, I had felt like giving up. We took a photograph together, two medium brown women writers, our eyes gleaming in the fluorescent lights of the university hallway. Later that year, Michele was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer.

Michele Serros once told NPR, “It was always about barrios, borders, and bodegas, and I wanted to present a different type of life, a life that truly goes on, that we don’t see in the mainstream media.” Her stories examined that life with incisive wit and keen observations.

On January 4, 2015 I attended the Mucha Michele Benefit, to help with the writer’s ongoing enormous medical costs, which included, alternative treatments such as acupuncture, and curanderismo. A hundred people gathered at UC Berkeley Alumni House to celebrate her work and life. The event was organized by Joseph Rios, Jennifer Mora Hernández, and Suzy Huerta. Several famous artists donated their work for an auction. We all shared stories and warm memories about an author we so admired.

As it happened, she came to California State University, Fresno in 2013 to give a reading of her works in a large auditorium filled with professors and admiring students, including me. She read “Attention Shoppers,” “Dead Pig’s Revenge,” and

Poet Joseph Rios spoke of the impact Michele had on him as a writer and friend. He shared a story of a road trip in which Michele made him drive around in order to get a perfect picture of a water tower in the city of Gonzáles because she thought

as: A Remembrance a good friend would like it. He told of her having him read his essay about Fresno in a field, and how she encouraged him by asking him on a weekly basis how his writing was going. Alberto Ledesma shared the story of a prank by Michele: She called Victor Villaseñor, saying she was a representative from Harvard, and was inviting him to do a reading. She offered the author an all-expense paid trip to Boston and a fifty thousand dollar honorarium. Before hanging up she said, “I can’t wait to meet you, Rudolfo Anaya.” Everyone laughed and applauded at Alberto’s anecdote. Michele’s closest friends spoke of her fierce grace and inner beauty. Long time friend, Jennifer Mora Hernández recounted how Michele always made her smile. Cindy Cruz, Suzy Huerta, and Melinda Palacio gave an emotional reading of Serros’ work. A video crew had taped messages for Michele. Other fans shared stories of meeting her and explained on video the impact that she had on their lives. The benefit was both a sad and joyful celebration of Michele’s life and work, which, she unfortunately would not get to see. Later that same evening, Michele passed away at the age of forty-eight.

Nancy Aidé González (Workshopista, Los Angeles, 2014)

is a poet, educator, and activist. Her work been recently published in Lowriting: Shots Rides & Stories from the Chicano Soul and Poetry of Resistance: A Multicultural Anthology in Response to Arizona SB 1070, Xenophobia and Injustice.

Michele Serros captured our hearts with her vivacious personality and positive outlook. Her thought provoking stories challenged stereotypes and made us look a little more deeply at the world. We must continue her legacy by living life to the fullest. Michele Serros will always be my Chicana role model.

En memoriam

Michele Serros (1966–2015) List of Publications Chicana Falsa and Other Stories of Death, Identity, and Oxnard, Lalo Press 1994 Chicana Falsa and Other Stories of Death, Identity, and Oxnard, (reissue) 1998 Riverhead Books 1996 ISBN 1-57322-685-8 How to be a Chicana Role Model, Riverhead Books, 2000 ISBN 9781573228244 Honey Blonde Chica, (SimonPulse/Simon and Schuster) 2005 ISBN 978-1-4169-1591-1 ¡Scandalosa!, (SimonPulse) 2007 ISBN 978-1-4169-1593-5

Michele's photo (L): labloga.blogspot.com

POEMS: INDRAN AMIRTHANAYAGAM

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SPIRAL

Haitian Conundrums

I, too, am a camera, and all that passes before my eyes,

Rum, nuts and cod at the Diederich house, and a conversation about the young,

by happenstance, or to Kant's steps making his rounds, will transform into verse that documents the inchoate grey and the dazzling bright blue, life divided between night and day, storm and drought, the mystery turned into a bicameral parliament, a double helix, your body wrapped in mine, thrashed in time.

how one in three Haitians are under fifteen, and how can they know of the sorcerer who lived in the palace, of the pleasures and sorrows of exile, of the murdered in Fort Dimanche, disappeared from earth like bones moved from Petionville's cemetery, but 300,000, rubbed out by the earthquake, are still part of near-term memory, which we sift, sippng drinks. and sharing disparate worlds, New Zealand, Ireland, Sri Lanka, Haiti, the United States, in war and love, meeting on Hispaniola to weigh domestic and global variations of Man eating from his own yard or from his national granary, in Port au Prince, partout, similar questions of politics and excess, but, dare I say it, this Haiti has its particuar loas1 and ways, inscrutable to the untrained analyst, unschooled in history, who cannot appreciate the irony, of a fort, a killing field, called Sunday

1 Haitian spirits in Voodoo, agents between people and the good god.

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POEMS: INDRAN AMIRTHANAYAGAM

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Out of the Thorn Funny how, tied down, hunched, back bent, hips on fire, the mind can put out the hurt dredging memories from the lived and fantasied past, this time contemplating a field of daisies and buttercups, hands entwined, strolling over crests into dales, a sound of music, but we have yet to stride over moors, our common language made in Spain,

our vows in Marrakesh,. to learn Berber, Arabic and French, to smoke in a souk and eat dates, to say our love travels the planet on a whim and a prayer, a lyric and magic carpet spoken into air.

appearing now in these words on demand, to love as well in English. Ah, the tests Cupid invents to keep the game afresh, afresh, to renew

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Sin alimento Queso fresco y aji amarillo, investigo los anaqueles de mi nostalgia, aqui en el mercado coreano donde solia buscar los sabores de tu pais. ¿Te acuerdas de las papas rojas y pescado blanco que compraba cada domingo a pedido tuyo? El fin de la historia es un poema sobre una cocina vacía.

Without Nourishment (translation by the poet) Fresh cheese and yellow pepper, I investigate the bookshelves of my nostalgia, here in the Korean Market where we used to look for the flavors of your country. Do you remember the red potatoes and white fish I would buy every Sunday as you requested? The end of the story is a poem about an empty kitchen.

POEMS: INDRAN AMIRTHANAYAGAM

•• Mosquito-Bitten Bones groan, creak and crack, woken up to trundle, from bed to cul de sac, where pots and pans await morning oil and cracking eggs, while the back, like a sandwich's flat bread , covers heart and blood crushed inside, and the body tries to straighten like a rod to receive some sort of prize for having lived and shared the bounty for the time of my life. This is what chikungunya feels like.

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Photo: La Tolteca

POEMS: Ire’ne Lara Silva

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YOU DO NOT LISTEN you do not listen in broad daylight alone amongst others you do not listen i fight surrendering to you i fight fighting you i fight what you have given me and what you have not you take away as much as you give allowing me to foresee the peace beyond mourning beyond loss beyond grieving i cannot wrestle you cannot defeat you why must i look to you when i am alone and when i am afraid and when i am lost you are a river of rage—you—many-headed and many-limbed you are the chaos of ecstasy and the hurt of blood seeping through borders—you are not just you are not mercy you have given me loss you have given me loss you have given me loss you have given me loss some mornings i do not want to live you send me yellowwinged butterflies some mornings i do not want to speak you send me the wind some mornings i do not want to fight you send me machetes fitted to my hands some days i do not want to grieve you send me love i cannot refuse you have brought me song when i have raged you have brought me song when i have hurt you have brought me song when i have loved you have made me song you have made me song and made me sing to a broken broken life a beautiful world a broken broken world a beautiful life i cannot breathe anymore life i cannot sigh anymore life everywhere on the road there are roses and everywhere there is clamor and you will not hear me life when i whisper thank you

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•• TWOSUGARS .white.granulated. soft sweet sand crystal clouds rasping on my skin cold to the touch strange and hidden chemical scent heavy sweetness that won’t stay won’t hold it isn’t real remember being six crying a cherry lollipop in your mouth and making a hundred sugar cookies bright lime colored frosting ama’s oatmeal the spoons of sugar melting swirls of a woman’s hair blowing in the wind fish with long feathery fins undulations of sand dunes and the drums white ash here bones here desperation and a word softer than pleasure poco veneno no mata holly sugar sugar beets my skin doesn’t want to eat this .turbinado.raw. dark and ripe woman-sweet sunlight swimming through green leaves dark earth small intensities bursting on the tongue lingering cinnamon sand andthe remnants of shells the scent lingers the taste lingers you can bite it we were walking in sugarcane fields cutting the stalks that first taste of green sweet the tall green leaves swaying in the wind the blue sky the birds swooping overhead watching sticks being planted in the earth one stick touching the next stick delight rain on the window dancing ladies volcanoes the sound of rattlesnakes rendered a whisper drums more drums pounding away in your blood dancing feathers this is all you need

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POEMS: Ire’ne Lara Silva

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shame: a ghazal in pieces

a body should have its wildness yes this body yes your body who are they to name your body my body a shame body shame my weight shame your weight shame how i look shame how you look shame my disease shame my story say we have made ourselves sick we keep ourselves sick what is the blame body would it be easier if my body did not exist if your body did not exist if all our diabetic bodies did not exist oh we will not blame my body blame our bodies when my body has only done everything it could to survive my body is a flame body alive with fire fire pulsing inside shouting live live live my story which is only triumphant because i am still here neither pain nor shame will erase me or silence me there are poems here too here in the places where all maps end your body has survived my body has survived i will not be ashamed of surviving

Ire’ne Lara Silva (Workshopista, Austin, 2014)

is an award winning poet and fiction writer. She is also co-founder of the Flor y Nopal Literary Festival in Austin, Texas. These poems are in her forthcoming poetry collection, blood-sugars-canto which will be released this summer by Aztlán Libre Press; San Antonio, TX. 24

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LA TOLTECA ZINE CONDUCTS AN INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR ON THE PROCESS

LIFE AFTER HER: FRANCIS

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S OF HEALING

SCO GOLDMAN LA TOLTECA: You were married a relatively short time, before you lost your wife to a tragic accident. Since that time, if you will, share with us about the healing process.

you are supposed to do it, with a therapist.

FRANCISCO GOLDMAN: Well, we lived together nearly five years, two officially married. So it wasn’t that short a time. I don’t know that there is a healing process, I don’t think of it like that. At a certain point grief doesn’t dominate your life anymore, past and present come back into balance. That took me about six years. I guess I’ve written two books now to narrate – to recreate or reimagine or explore in words—parts of that process. Everybody’s road through grief is different. My only advice is to live it honestly, eyes open, don’t hide from any of it. It’s not necessarily a good idea to write a book about it so soon after your loss, when you are so overwhelmed by it, but I certainly had no therapeutic intention, honestly, I just had to write it, and I didn’t care if the pain of it or whatever else destroyed me. Often I had fun writing the book, the fun of hearing Aura’s voice, keeping her with me, and then at the end of the workday, the loneliness and devastation, the sad truth of it all, was sometimes too much. I nearly became an alcoholic, or maybe I became one, but I don’t think so, hope not. But I finally did OK. I did my therapy where I think

FG: I was born in Boston, and spent my childhood there, in the burbs, and in Guatemala City. I spent so much of my early childhood in Guatemala that I actually spoke Spanish before I spoke English. Subsequently the American public school system – they prohibited my mother from speaking to me in English – did damaged to my bilingualism, but eventually I got it back. Mexico City is my home now, even though I spend about ten weeks in New York every year, during which I commute to a teaching job in Hartford that I love and am lucky to have, but I much prefer to live in the DF than in NYC. My last book, The Interior Circuit, is all about that, the sense of the DF as home and why. Of course a lot of it has to do with it’s being the city where Aura died, which connects me to it in a way that I’ve never felt connected to any other place, and to our friends there. I’ve actually written most of my books, and I think parts of every one of them, even the first one, in Mexico City. There’s just an energy there that seems to thrum up from the earth that I thrive on. I even like the air.

L/T: You have made Mexico your home, tell us about that as a writer.

LA TOLTECA ZINE CONDUCTS AN INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR ON THE PROCESS

LIFE AFTER HER: FRANCIS L/T: Say Her Name, your novel is a fictional account of a real personal tragedy. How did you come to write it? FG: I think I mostly answered that in the first question. I will add that I began it over Christmas, a little over four months after Aura’s death. I had spent the first three months in a terrible drunken downward spiral, which culminated in my getting hit by a car at about 5 am on Sixth Avenue in NYC, in the Village, I almost died of a brain hemorrhage. When I got out of the hospital a few days later I said, Well, that was your chance. Now you have to do something, you have to try to live in a way that wouldn’t embarrass Aura. Etc. If I were a surgeon or a carpenter, I’d have gone back into the operating room or picked up my tools. I’m a writer. It was the only thing I had standing between me and the abyss, a job, in a sense, a way to put myself to work. Obviously I could only have written about Aura and what had happened, there was nothing else in my brain, only the past existed for me at that time. L/T: Please share with our readers about the writing award you have established in Mexico in memory of your wife. FG: It’s a great prize. With my partners at the Oaxaca

Book Fair we run this prize for women of creative prose in Spanish, 35 years of age or under, living in Mexico, the US or Canada. There’s no other prize like it. The prize is giving every other year at the fair, but every year we have the Cátedra Aura Estrada and do an onstage event– on the prize year the writer also presents the prize. So far we’ve had Paul Auster and Siri Hustvedt; Jon Lee Anderson and Alma Guillermoprieto; Junot Díaz; Colm Toibin; Rivka Galchen and Nicole Krauss; Richard Ford; Leila Guerriero (Guadalupe Nettel was invited that year, 2014, but had to cancel; next year, 2015, we will have Michael Ondaatje giving the prize. The winner gets 10,000 dollars, an invitation to four residencies, Leddig House, UCross Ranch, Santa Maddalena and Villa Guadalupe in Oaxaca. Also publication in Spanish Granta. It is a beautiful prize. The jurors are volunteers. Our fabulous winners so far are Susana Iglesias, Majo Ramírez and Verónica Gerber. All have since published or are on the verge of publishing their first novels. Aura was a brilliant writer and on the verge – this is a way of symbolically keeping that promise and dream and memory alive by helping other young women writers, in a literary world, certainly Mexico’s, that young women often feel isn’t exactly a level playing field.

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S OF HEALING

SCO GOLDMAN

Continued

L/T: What stirs your intellectual curiosity at the moment? FG: Haha, for my novel I am recreating a very strange course I took as a freshman, doing the reading I did then when I couldn’t understand it. I can't give it away. It’s very funny. Lots of things stir my curiosity, though I often, in the writing of a novel, follow a trail of obsessions: history of false teeth, Boston and United Fruit Co. during the Cold War years; different forms of deaf muteness and little known, especially Native American, sign languages; aspects of Marcel Proust’s biography and also Georges Simenon’s; fish processing and, well, everything having to do with the New England fishing industry and the dire state of the oceans; anything to do with immigration from Central America and Mexico; I currently wish I could make the time to read more Samuel Beckett and also that book New Directions recently brought out on the course in English Literature taught by Borges, will do as soon as the semester is over anyhow.

POEMS: CYNTHIA GALLAGHER

•

THE HUNGRY AMERICAN I tackle ten blocks of traffic to turn in toward that nagging addiction for double-beef patties, ‘round the drive-thru to the window filled with Wendy. She lets me stay safely in my car, where I lie to myself about the fat and sodium, that might put me in the trunk somewhere in a clogged future. I wait for change, while a Mexican busboy emerges from bushes, runs between sprinklers toward my car, in catsup, writes “MUERTO” on the face of a Whopper, smears a scarlet banner across my windshield.

The man folds a comic-strip placemat and slips it through the sunroof, “Now here’s the real news,” he says. I see Ronald standing in front of his “House” wringing out napkins filled with tears for Little America, But on the flip side he delivers money to fat, sweating men in cowboy hats, who sit at a huge table, herd enormous ranges within a tiny electronic map and say, “If the wages don’t kill them, then their revolution will.”

A black man steps to my passenger side, quietly offers the Sunday paper, which headlines blare “Cattle Industry Opens Jobs to Guatemalan Indians.”

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••

THE UNEVENTFUL LIFE I received a free card in the mail, “Read your own palm,” which led me down the paths of the life, heart, and head line. “The absence of a fate line indicates an uneventful life,” it said, and as fate would have it, it was conspicuously not there. I could have gone to school in Normal, Illinois, but decided against it, making it even more of a non-event. I saw a cute little schoolhouse remodeled into the perfect home in Plain, Wisconsin, I look into a mirror and see a teacher, if I wear my glasses, but I’ve never been a certified one nor have I played one on TV. I’ve been caught more than once sipping vanilla shakes or rice milk, and often paint my nails with clear polish. I own a beige raincoat, though seldom wear it. An uneventful life can be a blessing, no impending jail time, assurance of not being a bomb or burn victim, a guarantee to keep a safe distance from sharks or the maw of an earthquake. I know from now on I will be hounded by neither fans nor police, I am neither infamous nor famous for being famous.

POEMS:

•• And it is far too late to be a juvenile Broadway actor as was my Uncle Donald, who had many dramatic events in his life, as well as undramatic ones, such as dying drunk and in anonymity. I have skirted the edges of event makers, dated the cousin of America’s number one pop singer, been acquainted with some of FBI’s most wanteds, French-kissed an Academy Award winning actor, been photographed by Skrebneski when I was 19, Acting as mere audience, ear, tongue and reflected light to the great, famous or infamous than being great or famous myself. When your life is eventful, you are responsible for those events, but the uneventful life frees you to do whatever you want, thus clearing up my nights and weekends to pursue What I love in lounging pajamas, fishnet tunics or nothing at all, accompanied to the tune of a humming laptop, and what may be the most eventful of non-events, making poems.

CHICAGO workshopista, 2010

Her most recent publication is a chapbook, Omnivore Odes: Poems About Food, Herbs and Spices (Finishing Line Press, 2013).

CYNTHIA GALLAGHER

POEMS: STEVEN ROMERO

•

Spending a Day with Your Father for the First Time in Twenty Years The kitchen sweats wallpaper, pockmarked and black with mold. Unopened mail lay stacked on the dining table next to an Allsup’s burrito and a coffee mug with vodka & lime-green Kool-Aid. Your bedroom door struggles to stay upright, a horrible poem in a velvet painting how an old rider never loved horses loomed over the doorway like a cancer. If it were not for this, I could have admired you.

If it were not for the fact you always cooked with manteca, or the perpetual pain in your sciatica, or the alcoholism, you might have died sooner—

when you still had all your muscles & desire and believed less in God and more in talking, less in photographs and more in asking exhausted & vulnerable.

The dresser next to your bed is chipped, spray-painted white, begging for a reason to exist. I reach my hand to your face, wipe it clean, press my ear flush against your mouth and try to listen.

•

••

WE SWALLOWED GOD

•

I remember the masking tape, the moonshine, how we spoke of lying awake at night tossing coins across the room, rubbing bare feet between bedsheets, of the compulsion to rip at skin as though it were covered in fiberglass.

We were only boys then, we looked up to each other as though each of us had answers, as if we knew the distance between existence and annihilation, or had anything to offer besides something fragile and ordinary. You knew better than to drive me to the Emergency Room where they’d only give me pills to take the shakes away the same way La Jefita took my grandfather’s hand in marriage, after her first love left for Vietnam. (Though she’d marry each of them because no one would tell her who to love, or in what order.) You told me how you were envious of women because you’d never be able to carry a child, to feel it grow & weep. It’s biology, chemistry, dialectics, or whatever. You took my hand, said Let’s go to the bar where a beer is just a beer, and six won’t get you drunk, but break you down just enough, less anxious to fuck without asking, “Is this good enough for both of us?” The air around you is white and thin like a syringe made heavy with flesh folding into ionic darkness: three years later You called & wept. I was the first one to see her hanging naked from the tree in her front yard. Me and my tío had to cut her down.

•

••

I wanted to say something that could settle the shiver in your words. Everyone tells me she was selfish but I can’t blame her—she was just a house full of cat hair…como glitter for the lonely. I put on a pot of coffee. Say something, bro, please. I haven’t thought about any of it for years—the longing to remember what it means to take control of life by choosing to end it, how your body was a narrow bridge I gently crossed, how I ran my fingers against your head, dandruff blowing away like topsoil, your last words to me: if all the women in the village would have rallied, their voices could have swallowed God’s, “Hey King Sol, ¡Pinche joto!, we don’t have to cut the baby in half anymore and we get to keep the crib too!” Clouds spread across the sky like bruises, my mother is asleep beside the sun—red, thick as bloodied wool—the rain spills across the San Geronimo hills. We are light-years away, chafed raw, lashed tongues lost among prayers, miming Everything dies, though we did not die just then.

POEMS: STEVEN ROMERO Steven Romero (Workshopista, Española, NM, 2011)

He is one of the first place winners of La Tolteca's sonnet contest in 2014. A poet and musician, he also teaches at Central New Mexico Community College.

Memoir By MARIA G. MARTINEZ

Breaking My Father's Rules

was born in Durango, Mexico, in a house with flowers in the entryway and a courtyard. In the back of the house, we had chickens, pigs, and our dog Patol. On the same day that I was born, same time, in the back of the same house, our pig had piglets. My father was disappointed in my birth, “A third Girl!” but he was very happy about the pigs. I grew up hearing my father tell this story over and over again, especially since my birth was followed by three boys. I understood it when my first brother was born. My father was very proud and happy. He even bought him a crib and placed a portrait of my brother dressed in a “cowboy outfit” in the entryway. There were no pictures of me as a child. I grew up knowing that I wasn’t good, I wasn’t bad, I was just “not special.” Growing up, my father had these rules: No running inside the house; no screaming inside the house; no slamming of doors; and no lights on in any unutilized room. All his rules started with NO. We had to address him as “Señor.” ¡Si Señor! ¡No Señor! ¡Lo que usted diga, Señor! “Whatever you say, Sir!” He always talked about how other kids were good, but not us. It was fine with me because “I was not special.” He did not have any expectations from us except for: You shall always have outstanding behavior in your report card. You shall never depend on Federal programs. You shall be self sufficient but do not take risks. You shall always be early, not on time, at least one hour early! Not being special had its benefits. I liked taking risks, being late, and challenging his rules.

My father did not like us to show him affection, especially the boys in the family: A handshake showed respect, a hug was barely welcomed, and a kiss was totally unacceptable. I remember when we were little my brothers, sisters, and I were running around the house, screaming and accidentally slammed the door. That was against the rules! That was like three rules broken! My father had us line up, by height, from the shortest to the tallest. I was about eight years old and in the middle. He said, “You are going to stand here until you tell me who slammed the door!” We stood there like soldiers, without moving. Then, he asked us one by one, “Did you slam the door?” Of course we were all innocent. “No, Sir. I did not, Sir!” When he got to me, I couldn’t hear his words. I could only see his face, his mouth, his exasperation. And to me, it was all funny, really funny. I started laughing and laughing. So he thought that I was the one who did it and I was punished. My punishment was to stand in a corner while he constructed a closet with me inside. He was so upset that he would hammer those nails really hard. Pum! Pum!! Pummm!! I looked at his face, his cheeks trembling, and his body so tall. I covered my mouth so he would not know that I was laughing. But, he knew. He said: “Oh! You think this is funny? ¿Qué? Soy tu payaso o qué?” (Am I your clown or what?) I could not answer him. I just laughed. He said: “You’re laughing at me! Okay, one more hour in here!” My father took a rest, sat outside of the closet as I stood in the corner, imagining, that I had been kidnapped, waiting for my real father to come and save me. I

also realized that I had the power to get my father so upset and I felt good about that. My father couldn’t go anywhere because he was guarding my palace. My father was born and raised in Arizona. In 1930, right after his high school graduation, he went to Mexico. He married my mother and had eight children. My father and his sister, Nina, spoke English at home, in Mexico. They talked about Metcalf, Miami, Clifton, and other small towns in Arizona. When we asked them why they ended up in Mexico, my father would say that he went to look for his father. However, the one word in their English vocabulary, that I could understand, was repatriated; it was so similar to repatriado. My grandfather had worked many years in the mines in Metcalf, Arizona; whenever I asked my father, if my grandfather had been repatriated, he would tell me to stop asking questions. That word we, the children, were not allowed to use at home. My father applied for a government job in Mexico but he was not eligible. He was not a Mexican citizen. Unable to find a job that paid enough to support the family, my father returned to the United States. He was an American Citizen. We stayed behind in Mexico. He got a job as a machinist and stayed in that job until he retired. Eventually we joined my father. Once in the States, my father added new rules: No television during the week; no coming home after 10 p.m., and, no mixing of English and Spanish. When I was going to enter junior college, my father dropped a new rule on me. I was working

part time, and I had a boyfriend. According to my father, school, work, and boyfriend did not mix. He made me choose two of the three possibilities, as he emphasized that the boyfriend was no good. He also explained that he, my father, could not pay for my books, so I needed the job, I needed time to study, and I had to do good at work and at school. I followed his advice, which was really another rule. I went to school full time and worked part time. When I graduated from junior college, he did not show up at my graduation. Eventually I became involved in the Chicano Movement. It was 1970. I attended demonstrations against the war in Vietnam, against the system and against rules. My father and I had big arguments. I wanted changes. I wanted to scream “Chicano Power!!” “¡Viva la Raza!!!” He wanted to keep the rules, enforce the rules, in other words, he wanted to remain in control. My mother was always in the middle trying to keep the peace. The whole world was changing and he refused to change. I called him “¡Vendido!” “You’re a Sell Out!” Always working, being the perfect employee, so American. “You were repatriated! You were not wanted here!” He fought back: “I was not repatriated. I was born in Arizona. I am American. I got on the train on my own to go to Mexico to look for my father!” “Yes!” I would say, “Because your father was repatriated. Why can’t you accept that?” And again, I would see him upset and with trembling cheeks he would say: “Obey the rules or leave.” So I left! And for a while, I lived with no rules. And, when it was against the law to go to China, I went! I broke, not only one rule, I broke the law! When I came back, my father did not pick me up

Memoir By MARIA G. MARTINEZ

Breaking My Father's Rules at the airport even though he went to pick up my brother that day at the same airport. My brother was coming back from serving in Viet Nam. He was a hero. I was a militant. Later, my father came to my apartment looking for me. He was worried, because the FBI and police had come to his house with a warrant for my arrest. Nevertheless, once, my father showed up at an immigration rally with my mother and younger sisters. We never spoke about it, but I saw him from the stage. As I spoke at the microphone, his eyes lit up. It wasn’t easy for my father to share his emotions unless he was upset or drunk. That day he was proud of me. Eventually, I came back to my parent’s home. I was pregnant. His cheeks did not tremble. He was ashamed and disappointed. No one in the family had left the house before marriage, and definitely, no one had become pregnant without being married. He wasn’t mad and he wasn’t happy. He was just, once more, in control. I worked full time and attended school at night. I got my college degree and worked for the City of Los Angeles. My father would tell me that I needed a real job. He insisted that my city job was a federal program. I disagreed. We no longer screamed at each other. I still questioned his rules, but now I understood most of them. As my father and I matured, we became close. He retired and spent more time with my daughter, Katynka. He was her father figure. As my father grew old, he became more sensitive, or maybe we understood him better. He loved to mow the lawn,

Continued

enjoy a good meal, but most of all he enjoyed a good conversation. From those conversations I learned that he never praised us because he wanted us to prove him wrong. With tears in his eyes, he told me that he did not hug us because he just didn’t know how. He wanted to very much, but he just couldn’t. He thought there was only one good person in the world: His sister, Nina, and no one else. Their mother died when Nina was born and he had always looked after her. I no longer argued with him. I accepted him as he was. But now we, his children, were the ones that had to set up some rules for him: No more driving; no walking away from the house; and definitely, no, I was not going to quit my city job just because he considered it a federal program. It was his turn to break the rules. He did drive and got in a car accident. Another time, he walked to the park when his eyesight was already failing him and he was mugged. Whenever we were close to getting into an argument, he would say, “Don’t fight with me, I only have three days left to live!” But he would always find a reason to keep on living, like the birth of the next grandchild, to witness the Y2K, or to pay his taxes. Ironically, he died on April 15th, Tax Day. His returns were already filed. My father has been gone for fifteen years. I have accepted that some of his rules were good while some needed a little adjustment, for instance Be self-sufficient. To this rule, we added: “but ask for help, if needed.” Do not depend on Federal Programs, “unnecessarily!” Be early, not one hour early. “Just be on time!” In my family, as it has turned out, we implemented

these rules with our children. We also gave them unconditional love and made them feel special. Sometimes it has backfired. My younger daughter, Jessica, for example, complains now how we made her feel “special,” always telling her that she was the best softball player, best student, and that she could go to any college she wanted. Then when she went out into the world to U.C. Berkeley, she found out that she wasn’t all that special! As I grow older, like my father before me, I have become more sensitive. My father grew up without a mother. There were no books or counseling sessions for him on how to be a good father. I now realize that my father was not good and was not bad, he was just my father.

MARIA G. MARTINEZ (Workshopista, Los Angeles, 2014)

is a poet, playwright and performance artist. Her poetry most recently appeared in Ofrendas of the Flesh, Zine12.

POEMS: ISELA OCEGUEDA

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SANTA CRUZ Freedom flows down Ocean Street up Bay Drive to campus: strange freedom, spellbinding freedom.

What does one do with freedom like that? Crash oceans with forests, collide meadows with wines, grind rollercoasters with streams. We passed our time in a room atop grassy hill as off-white sheer drapes blew in white frills of azure waves.

We were bewitched by tall redwoods that enveloped us in darkness, transfixed by cool breezes that hoisted our whispers into the morning fog,

mesmerized by the details of each other amidst the details of Santa Cruz.

Its magic flowed into that room, into us, a freedom that proved too much.

Maddened by the gravity and lightness of it all, we waited for love’s arrival then braced for its departure. Now, Santa Cruz, so far away like a delicate sepulcher, is percussed by waves trundling in from its bay, nudging into its peeling, moss-covered exterior then rejected every time.

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POEMS: ISELA OCEGUEDA

•

SIERRA MADRE Small room after small room, darkness upon darkness… Our rooms crunched up against theirs, no wonder we heard everything. Memories of angry murmurs, blows softened by layers of plaster between us, Mother’s whimpers pillow muffled. Tiptoed back into box kitchen quivering fluorescent light above sink and against wall, no window to dream out of while washing dishes. Gas stove grilled weenies tucked into white sliced bread, orange canned Fed-Mart juice served on cramped table my little-girl-mind falsely thought was gigantic.

Back screen door welcomed cool night breezes flowing through patio garden of strawberries and lilacs to meet notes drifting off shiny black spinning vinyl: Santana, Temptations, The Miracles. Two steps: one room Two steps: another room Ten steps: grand tour. Now we two stood in the kitchen all grown up. You looked at me. I looked at you and you turned away when you saw surge of tears gathering in my eyes. Right then, we were children again. In that house we were sardines gasping for air in claustrophobic sadness suffocating on bitterness no place to hide away unscathed from young exasperation.

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••

HEARTCRUSH But we reigned in our kingdom, the backyard. Constructed a home of our own with cardboard and cotton sheets draped over sturdy grey metal ladder. Raised snails, made soaps to sell and cooled off with lime Kool-Aid under the Texas summer sun. Brother and me and our imagination, our salvation. We drifted into temporal disjunction at Sierra Madre and punctured old wounds the day we heard Cornel West talk about justice and love.

He remembered us, his students in New Jersey. But no one remembered the us from Sierra Madre, no one but you and me.

The unfair moment a love opponent walks away doesn’t stay. Fervor so dense now makes no sense. Where’s the respite, azure spirit?

I want to take these fragments slices guises pieces caprices scoop them into my hand like the yellow crumbs swept across laminated tabletop collected in my palm to dust off into garbage can.

Isela Ocegueda (Workshopista, Chimayó, NM, 2014)

was La Tolteca’s sonnet contest winner in 2014. Dra. Ocegueda teaches in El Paso, Texas.

Memoir BY Jo Anna Mixpe Ley

La Doctora Corazón

ne day my friends kidnapped me to escape a life I thought had no possible goodness to offer. The mountains have always given me clarity in the past but the heartache of my break up followed by a car accident during my gramma’s slow death was all too much to bear. As if living within the smoldering walls of my pain was the only way to exist, I made every possible excuse not to go. Call it self-pity, but fear has a pretty conniving way of heckling you to not step out of your avarice boundaries. Ultimately, like a scab worker at my own strike, I decided to go to the mountains with my friends. Yet before I left, I made sure to smudge myself with sage asking the wind, fire and ancestors to cut me a break from the damned slew of events. Journal, water, medicine pouch and vegan snacks in tow, I crossed my own picket line and into dearest friends’ car. Besides being told that the land was going to do me good, I was uncertain of the exact destination. Like una hierba silvestre I uprooted myself because, now I knew it was a time for a change. An hour into the road, I gave myself to the infinite silence of the lands spread before me. Clouds pinned from the sky cast shadows on the road when suddenly a sharp noise emanated from the bottom of the truck. Bad luck had struck again! A laceration on the back wheel dragged us to a momentarily pause under the scorching Nevada sun. It made me think of my gramma and I wondered if that was how the cancerous lacerations looked in her lungs and liver. In supercilious undertones, I apologized for my bad luck which had surely contributed to the incident because I swore I brought the cause but my pillars

of strength told me that I best stop the nonsense and we soon resumed our adventure. When we arrived from Los Angeles to the Nevada Mountains, I humbled myself upon the presence of such wondrous beauty and was reminded to breathe. No guide in sight, we explored, walked upon, up to, down and through land that was clearly doing us all good. At the top of a beautiful mound I sat down in once black-turned-red-shoes from the color of the dust and was left alone. I gave in. Crying, I wondered how I allowed myself to be taken astray by my feelings those past months and to actually believe I was somehow deserving of one loss after another? My homegirl walked up and put her arm around me, “Girl, I know things have been tough but you also have to consider to see them as potential blessings. It’s time you get rid of your self-doubts and all that you’ve held onto that does you no good.” With trouble, I returned her smile, “Yeah, time to shed skin but it’s so damn hard.” Nevertheless, I had to trust things happened for a reason and let go. I didn’t believe in serendipity for serendipity’s sake. Nature’s gifts are all around us: it just depends if we take the time to acknowledge them. On my walk, I found a rock unlike any other, not because of its color or texture but rather, because of its shape. It was an off center heart shaped rock, leaning to the left, of course, because that is where all revolutionary love exists. With my heart shaped rock in my hands, we left the mountains and I instinctually knew this would be my new amulet of strength for whatever came next. I found my heart shape rock just in time because

Jo Anna Mixpe Ley (Workshopista, Los Angeles, 2014)

is currently working on her first novel, excerpts from which recently appeared in Regerneración Tlacuilolli: UCLA Raza Studies Journal.

a week after the mountain venture, my grammas condition worsened and my familia took the next step to provide home hospice. I moved in with my familia and became one of her caretakers. It was when la gramma rebirthed me by naming me her Doctora Corazón. It was humbling to take care of my hardworking, feisty gramma that had taken care of so many of grandchildren and other people’s children in her lifetime. Because she was not too happy that she could no longer take care of herself, she playfully

Memoir BY Jo Anna Mixpe Ley

La Doctora Corazón threatened to box me as she waved her two tired perrucha arms in the air while laying in bed, clenched fists that were really meant to break me into carcajadas de amor. She was embarrassed (yet thankful) to be cleaned by me after she used the restroom at three in the morning. On one of her last days when avarice cancer left her no energy but to lay down with eyes closed, she shared her sudden ‘smiles for miles’ cuando le dije en su oído que “ya llegó tu Doctora Corazón.” Then there was the car accident. My body was nearly healed from the injury when less than three and a half weeks I decided to train for the LA Marathon. Then I had that bad feeling again. My lovely friend asked how I felt about all that was going on in my life. My only response was, “I hate it, but I have a strong feeling my gramma will pass that weekend.” I know it’s horrible to think such things but the day before the marathon my grandmother stopped eating and opening her eyes, but still held on while her condition deteriorated. There was no way I was doing the marathon, I thought. My cousin and mom sat me down, “Jo Anna, you have to run,” they said. “Run for her. Run for your Abuelita. She’ll wait for you.” And thus began my ‘offering ceremony’ to send her off in a good way to the next life. I was sent off by my familia at five in the morning, taken by my brother and cousin to Chávez Ravine where I was greeted by my running familia. As we approached the ocean on the 24th miles of the most hottest LA marathon to date, my mouth dry and with the sun in my eyes, I declared into the sky, “every step and every breath is for our abuelas.” I crossed the line, received my medal

and called home to find out she had a few hours left; she waited. I returned home to my familia and was blessed to be there to take my gramma’s vitals but with finger pressure no longer found a reading. We called in the rest of the familia, three generations sending her off in the best way possible, undulating rivulets of reassuring caresses, besos, smiles, hugs, letting her know, we would all be good. It was okay for her to go with her father whom, she had told us was waiting on the other side. It was the closing to our letting-go ceremony. Two months after, still disoriented by my gramma’s death, I occasionally uttered nonsensical words and my fingers resisted agendas structured to align purposeful work. Voices ricocheted throughout my entire body that once brought a certain sense of comfort and growth. I still got up twice a night, listening for the sound, reaching for plastic gloves waiting to be greeted with a fatigued yet immense smile. The mourning process was surreal. I’d birthed a certain sense of guilt. Perhaps, it enabled a certain sense of closure. Nonetheless, living but loving, La Doctora Corazón restlessly co-existed beneath full moon skies. One night I asked the moon to come through my window and press its face against mine. Its huellas sobre mi rostro tell of times when letting go was like asking the impossible. Huellas guided me back to la olla, the place where my growth began in the sacred womb. That night I asked: Moon, as you press your tender face against mine, let us be one as we walk together, resilient. The following day as I set about like una sonámbula to clean my gramma’s room, my mother and I were startled by the sound of a large object falling. The room grew cold as I reached

behind the dresser and found my heart shaped rock. I hadn’t moved that rock from my medicine basket since I showed it to my gramma the day of my journey to the mountains. As I faced my mother, our eyes filled with tears. We knew gramma was with us at that very moment. It had been three months since my gramma’s death and I gave into life. At some point one just has to take control and learn to walk in beauty. Under the red lunar eclipse I spread prayers towards the cosmos like an intricate crocheted rebozo, hoping to catch some guidance for my next step. And I did. Immediately, I booked a flight and returned to the Nayarit ocean. Since I was five-years-old it had swaddled me with joy and made me feel secure. I buried my feet beneath the scintillating golden sand as I stood against the current, ready to begin. With my aching heart in my hands and also using my arms, I began to push from within my body, with outward movements. Arrojé hacia el mar things I no longer needed. I let go of fear, of feelings of not being good enough, fear to be alone, and fears that impeded me from being truly happy within my own skin. I let it all go, knowing life would continue to present itself with challenges. I realized that when these insecurities appeared, it was all about the manner I would deal with them. Then, motioning with my arms, le di al reversa and pushed into my body the ocean’s elements, its air, the resiliency of all the elements and my ancestors and allowed them to bring life into me.

that was no longer necessary to keep. Everyday, I step outside and reach up into the sky. With my hands, I take the sun’s energy in my mouth and I try to break the cycles of inferiority complex passed down by one too many generations by embodying the compassionate and unwavering woman that was always within me. I let go and walk in beauty: Sky above me, ocean within me, and expansive path before me.

Now, La Doctora Corazón sits here grateful, no longer afraid, and even glowing with resiliency emanating out into the world. It’s all been falling into place once I made space for it and let go of all

POEMS: SYLVIA CHÁVEZ You, My Safe Space

UNDONE

You, my safe space― no matter what life threw at me, it led me to you.

today the bed wouldn’t be made first thing

Floating like a crumpled autumn leaf on a river. I floated till I landed on your grassy soft edge― caught between moist soil, shady trees, and the sounds of calling birds. I found home.

•

this morning, the bed needed to be aired out― remembered crumpled sheets, clothes on floor, a bed undone mementoes of last night a reminder that the bed― like myself, had come undone

Sylvia Chávez (Workshopista, Los Angeles, 2011)

has recently been featured in the Chicanas, Cholas, Y Chisme Theater Festivals (2013-2015). Most recent publication are poems in Mujeres De Maíz and Brooklyn & Boyle.

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MEMOIR Piotr Sassar

Embracement of Nothingness

here was a time in my life when I had no control over my life. It made me live in a lie. But, now, I have my life. Finally, I am myself. It took my father’s death for me to get here, but now I hold my life dearly and I am becoming more open and alive with each passing day. I was about sixteen. My life was in ruins. My father was diagnosed with a terminal cancer in early May. The doctors expected him to live six months to a year. He died within nine. I felt completely numb when I heard the “news” about my father. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t devastated. There was nothing. Emptiness. It was all caused because of a single choice that I had made earlier.

was and am gay. I think that my lack of selfacknowledgment was caused by my family that still proclaims itself Catholic (even though it is now only my mother who is attending every Sunday sermon) portraying homosexuality in and of itself as repulsive. This knowledge made me befriend ‘Ana’-- become anorexic--months before my father’s diagnosis, helping me to slowly withdraw from my family and suppress my sexuality.

Before my father’s diagnosis, my life was already living its existence somewhere outside of me. I felt deprived of my life. It felt as if I were locked in a cold, dark chamber with a dim light above me, while I kneeled on rough ground with trembling hands before me, ready to grasp my life, but could only watch it falling toward me in the form of ashes. My life was uncontrollably slipping away. This feeling made me live in pain so great that it turned into numbness. I didn’t know how to gain control over my life. I didn’t know how to grasp it. I think that it was because of this powerlessness that I discovered ‘Ana.’ I think that it was because I was losing control of—not only my life but the self—that weight was the only thing that I could control.

Since I thought that being gay was something that I should be ashamed of, I didn’t want to get too close to people. I didn’t want to be rejected. I knew that my family would never accept or support me. It was because of my fear of rejection that I came to deny my sexuality. I don’t know how to explain it. I think that forcing myself to be someone I wasn’t made me live in such pain, hatred, disgust, depression that I had to find a way to distract myself from all these feelings. I had to do it. I was thinking of killing myself at times. My life felt empty. I couldn’t go on living in that emptiness. All I know was that if only I had a choice, if I was only told that it was “alright” to be gay, I would have never had to give my life to ‘Ana’ in the first place. It was my fear of rejection that made me give my “wrong” life away. However, in doing so, I was left with absolute nothingness. It was because of this nothingness that I became numb. It was in this nothingness that ‘Ana’ came to flourish and build a life of her own.

I always knew that there was something “wrong” with me but I never associated it with the notion that I was gay. My loss of control over everything coincided with my acknowledgement that I

I was already running before anorexia took control. At first, running made me forget about my internal pain and feel a different pain. It made me focus on the art of running. Breathing. Solitude.

It made me free. It made me feel alive. But then it wasn’t enough. I needed more. I began running longer distances. I came to a point when I was running ten miles every day. Then running itself was not enough. But I still needed more. I had to feel alive. I began to get over the physical pain caused by running. I adapted to it. Next, I began dieting, while still overly exercising. Then, I cut out some foods—all sweets and junk food. Next, I became a vegetarian. “Over my dead body,” my mother said during dinner when I announced it. “What? Are you going to force me to eat meat?” I asked. She didn’t like it. I lied to everyone that it was because I cared about animal rights and how meat was being processed. I did care about these issues, but not to the point of becoming a vegetarian. I stopped eating meat as to decrease my dinner portions and protein intake. I am still a vegetarian, but for the righteous reasons. My mother still has troubles accepting that lifestyle. It makes me wonder, though, what she would do or say if I told her that I am gay. It is a scene both scary and fun to imagine. I always picture this scene during a family dinner, or some celebration when we are all gathered together, eating and discussing the unimportant when suddenly, with a mischievous smile, I announce, “I’m gay!” This is the fun part when utter silence follows as my family freezes for a moment and then slowly turns their heads in my direction, mouths agape. However, that is how far I am willing my imagination to carry me. I am scared to imagine what comes after their silence.

first one to wake up no one realized that I never ate it. By that time, I was already conducting some research on anorexia. I remember how surprised I was to find all the websites concerning my friend ‘Ana.' Oh…the wonders of the Internet! I thought, as I read how to effectively lie to my stomach that I was not hungry by punching it with my fist or drinking a lot of cold water, I also learned how to lie to my family. I came to sneak into the kitchen when no one was there and quickly make a few plates dirty and leave them in the sink or take them to my room as to have my mother believe Continued on next page.

Piotr Sassar (Workshopista, Chicago, 2014)

is a sophomore at Dominican University.

However, vegetarianism wasn’t enough. I then stopped eating breakfast since I was always the

MEMOIR Piotr Sassar

Embracement of Nothingness that I was eating and wasn’t cleaning up after myself. ‘Ana’ enabled me to perfect lying to the point that it become my second nature. She made me put a mask on and pretend that everything was perfect. She made me feel in control. At the time, ‘Ana’ seemed to give me some peace and helped me to forget about my sexuality. My father’s quickly deteriorating health also helped me to deceive my family. We were all preoccupied with him. By June, he was already taking chemo and was losing a lot of weight himself. It helped to distract my family from noticing my weight loss. But my father’s condition made me angry at him. He was losing weight faster than I. I think that that was the reason why I couldn’t feel anything except envy during his sickness. It was this enviousness which made me distance myself from him to the point that I saw him only as a competitor. I remember one night seeing him go to the bathroom in his shorts and feeling envious of his thin legs. I wanted to be as thin as he. During one of my father’s countless hospital stays, during which he had a chest-tube insertion, which, drained one or the other lung from excess fluid, I decided to pay a visit alone. I never visited him alone before. I knew that we would have little to talk about, but I felt a strange force that wanted me to see him. As I suspected, it was a very quiet visit. Two minutes after I walked into his room, I wished I hadn’t gone. Wherever the force which made me visit my father in the first place came from was gone once I saw him miserably lying in his bed. He was so weak. So hopeless. We had nothing to talk about. He asked me a few hollow

questions about school to which I responded with an “Alright” and “Not that much,” ending all that there was to talk about. I then asked him the same hollow questions about the hospital, having my own answers shamefully thrown back at me. I left fifteen minutes later, lying that I had too much studying so I couldn’t stay any longer. Perhaps I had to leave because a small part of me saw myself in my dying father. Perhaps this explains why, when my father was too weak to eat by himself, I found it difficult to feed him, even though by that time I had already “recovered” from anorexia. Yet, I never realized then that it was ‘Ana’ who kept me away from my father. All I knew was that she was the perfect solution which would turn me into a “perfect” son. ‘Ana’, however, became the goddess of my lies, the tip of a pyramid of lies. There were so many things that I had to lie about. Becoming anorexic helped me to bury my true sexuality under a multitude of other lies. I had to be careful about what I was saying, doing, or forgetting to do at all times. Having control became my obsession. I think that I found a secret order in my disorder. But, even though lying came easy for me, it was the worst part of being anorexic. I lost myself somewhere in all my lies. The lies turned me into a completely different person. They made me numb. But I still believed that ‘Ana’ was making me perfect. I still believed that in the end (whatever the end meant) I would be “perfect.” I remember how one night in mid-June after coming out of a cold shower, I was pleased with what I saw in the mirror. By that time I was taking only cold showers as to decrease my body temperature and have my body burn more

calories to warm itself up. I was finally happy with the person that I was becoming. I was already resembling my father. I weighed a little less than a hundred pounds. When I turned around and looked at my back, I could count all of my twelve ribs. My spine looked as if its bones would break through my skin at any moment. I remember touching my back with my cold fingers and being thrilled, feeling my fingers traveling up and down between each rib. But it wasn’t enough. I looked at my stomach and still felt disgusted. It seemed too fat. I still needed more (or rather, less). It was also in June, a little over a month after my father’s diagnosis, when ‘Ana’ made me feel deep hatred toward myself. I thought that anorexia must have worked since I didn’t hate myself for being gay anymore. All I hated was my body. All I cared about was how I could lose more weight. My problem with anorexia became so serious that that month I ate during one day out of all thirty. It made me tired but also proud of myself. I was so weak that I had to stop and rest while going up the stairs to our apartment on the third floor. When I was lying in my bed reading, I could feel my heart palpitating so hard and loud that I thought that its force would shatter my sternum. It was a strange feeling. It scared me sometimes. But I couldn’t stop. It was already almost the end of June. Only three more days! I thought. However, my birthday destroyed my goal two days before accomplishing it because my family bought me a cake. There was nothing I could do to hide or leave with my piece of cake to throw it away. I was enraged. I could not believe that I had to “give up” after twenty-eight days of starvation. I hated

my family. It took me months to realize that they actually saved my life. All I knew then was that they destroyed the one thing that made me proud of myself. I think that it was then when I realized that ‘Ana’ made me feel that there was something wrong with me. That June of my sixteenth birthday was also the last day I cried. I had a breakdown during one of my cold showers. I was cold all the time. It made me feel utterly numb. I wanted to go back but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. ‘Ana’ didn’t allow me to. I was too entrapped in all my lies. I couldn’t ask for help. ‘Ana’ was ultimate. ‘Ana’ was my cancer. It was during that shower breakdown when I realized that I couldn’t stop. I realized that I was going to starve myself to death if someone would not notice what was happening to me. However, my ordeal with ‘Ana’ ended in July, a month after my birthday breakdown. That day, I was sitting in the living room, watching television and feeling disgusted with myself because I was eating an apple, when suddenly someone slammed the entrance door. “Who is it?” I shouted. When I turned around my older sister, Joanna was standing right behind me. “How long?” She asked with a trembling voice. I could see that she had been crying. Her face and eyes were red. “What are you—?“

Continued on next page.

MEMOIR Piotr Sassar

Embracement of Nothingness “Stop! Just stop! Tell me how long you have been starving yourself!”

since, after ‘Ana’ was gone, my life turned into nothingness again.

It happened just like that. I was scared shitless but knew that my secret was out. There was no point in denying anything anymore. I also knew that it was the only way through which I could free myself from the deadly trap that I got myself into, without feeling like a loser. After all, my secret didn’t get out because of me. It was Joanna’s and my common friend, Anna (irony of life!), who told her that I was anorexic. Anna, however, found out because she asked me if I was anorexic. I didn’t answer her, which was an answer in itself.

I needed something new to fill the nothingness. I couldn’t exist not feeling anything. By obeying my family, I began lying to myself again. I became bulimic. What little I ate, I purged by vomiting. I didn’t binge eat, though. My family didn’t notice that either. They were all concerned about my father’s declining health. I could not accept myself. Eating made me feel ashamed. With every bite I took, I was being reminded of the idea that I “gave up” on ‘Ana,’ despite the fact that I never “gave up.” Also, with every bite, I was getting closer to the root of my problems. However, my bulimia nonsense lasted only a few months. For some reason, I didn’t see the point in it so I simply stopped.

I told my sister everything--except that I was gay. I knew that it would make her feel further devastated than the fact that I was anorexic. (Even now my family still doesn’t know that I am gay.) I think that my family is ashamed about my anorexia because they never seemed to notice anything and today, never mention my being anorexic. I don’t know whether they are ashamed because they have never noticed anything was wrong or because they feel it is something that I should be ashamed of, like being gay. All these feelings of shame going around explain why during my recovery, I behaved as if I had never been an anorexic. Suddenly, I was expected to eat everything. Someone was always watching over me. My family didn’t realize that I should have been given some time to adjust. But I kept silent. I obeyed just like I obeyed ‘Ana’ to take control of my life. Perhaps I have kept silent purposely as to have something, someone to blame for my feelings of self-hatred and utter numbness

Instead, I turned to books--the world classics. I came to read up to six books a month. I found refuge in the stories I read. In part, I think that it was reading all these books that got me through my recovery. Reading made me forget that I was getting “fat” again and that I was gay. However, it also made me even more distanced from my family. My father passed away at 5:19 p.m. on February 5th, 2011. That day, I was reading Wuthering Heights in my room while everyone else were with him, watching him struggling to gasp for air with every breath. I couldn’t watch him suffer. It was after my other sister, Malwina, who came to my room in tears when I finally went to see my father. I don’t know what I was feeling or thinking as I walked toward his room. I only remember feeling

my heart pounding as hard and loud as when I was starving myself. On my way to my father’s bedroom, I hugged my mother who was crying in the living room with Joanna and my two aunts. I then went to my father, kissed his cool forehead, remembering the coolness of my own skin when I was starving myself, and returned to the living room to be with the rest of my family. After we calmed down, I called 911 and went outside to wait for the ambulance. I remember standing in front of my apartment building looking ahead at the building on the other side of the street, wanting to cry but being unable to because ‘Ana’ and all the lies that made up my life deprived me of shedding tears. However, as I stood there, I felt something within myself crack open, releasing an overpowering sensation similar to drowning. This sudden feeling, whatever it was, made me gasp for air with overflowing tears that burned my eyes. I was terrified. I didn’t know what was happening. As I was about to fall on my knees, suddenly, the feeling was gone. I stood motionless for a few seconds. I looked up at the deep blueness of the afternoon sky and, feeling the burden of having watched my father dying (along with the constant reminder of my anorexia) radiating away from my body, I whispered, “Thank you.” Hearing the sirens I closed my eyes.

FOR SPRING &

LA TOLTEC

Favorite B The Possibilities of Mud by Joe Jiménez Korima Press; San Francisco, 2014 Paper $15.00 This first collection of poetry by Texas poet Joe Jiménez recommended by Ire’ne Lara Silva (Workshopista, Austin, 2014) “The speaker in The Possibilities of Mud roots down and out in the Texas Gulf. He puts himself in league with the deer of the arroyos and the other animals in the world. “The cattle egret is a golden life as much as she is white”– each creature seems a lesson in how to let the world be enough. The speaker’s insistence on likening animal and human bodies is wonderfully devastating: in “By the Arroyo We Asked For Water and Survived” we begin simply with the speaker observing a coyote search for water, then comes the merciless sun on this tableau, all elements and creatures arranged in congress with each other, literally at eye level. The “us” in the poem’s final line, which names the coyote, the speaker and the mesquite pods, feels true to the poem’s world and the speaker’s want to value, to love, everything living.” See more at: http://www.lambdaliterary.org/reviews/07/03/the-possibilities-of-mud/#sthash.MmUiBP7Y.dpuf

SUMMER 2015

CA ZINE'S

Book Picks Born to Run by Christopher McDougall Random House Hardcover $24.95 This non-fiction narrative recommended by La Tolteca Staff, Brenda Romero: “A fabulous and intense tale about running, science, and the Tarahumara Indians of Mexico. After reading this book I wanted to throw away my tennis shoes and take off running!” From the back cover: Full of incredible characters, amazing athletic achievements, cutting edge science, and, most of all, pure inspiration, Born to Run is and epic adventure that began with one simple question: Why does my foot hurt? In search of an answer, Christopher McDougall sets off to find a tribe of the world's greatest distance runners and learn their secrets, and in the process shows us that everything we thought we knew about running is wrong. The Distant Marvels by Chantel Acevdeo Europa Editions, NY; Summer, 2015 Paper $16.00 This 4th novel by fiction writer and poet Chantel Acevedo. Cuba, 1963. Hurricane Flora, one of the deadliest hurricanes in recorded history, is bearing down on the island. Seven women have been evacuated from their homes and herded into the former governor’s mansion, where they are watched over by another woman, a young soldier of Castro’s new Cuba named Ofelia. In a single room on the top floor of the governor’s mansion, Maria Sirena begins to tell the incredible story of her childhood during Cuba’s Third War of Independence. Stories, however, have a way of taking on a life of their own, and, swept up by her story’s momentum, Maria Sirena will reveal more than anyone ever expected.

Announcements Save the Dates! The 2015 Flor De Nopal Literary Festival

will take place August-December, 2015. In our fifth year, we will be featuring poets from Texas and beyond. Most workshops and readings will take place at the Mexican American Cultural Center, Austin, TX. All workshops and readings free. For more information:Â www.flordenopalliteraryfestival.wordpress.com

Ignatius Valentine Aloysius was recently awarded a Ragdale Residency (http://ragdale.org/residency/residents/2014-2/). He is also a finalist for The Claire Rosen and Samuel Edes Foundation Prize for Emerging Artists 2015 competition at Northwestern University.

Our Fall 2015 theme is Education Please check out the La Tolteca Zine Facebook page for more details in our regular posts.

HERE & NOW IS A SMALL HEALING ARTS CENTER LOCATED IN THE BEAUTIFUL HILLSIDE COMMUNITY OF EL SERENO IN LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA. More specifically, it is the vibrant turquoise corner building that opens up the love corner on the northwest side of huntington dr. Part of historic route 66. Here & now opened itsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; doors with a soft opening in the late spring of 2014, with its grand opening happening in conjunction with the summer solstice of 2014. Since then, it has been a safe space for healing practitioners of all different modalities to come through and offer workshops, classes, & private sessions for the community and all surrounding communities. The space was brought into fruition by the combined efforts and visioning of catherine uribe abee and iris de anda, both long time residents of el sereno. They both decided it was time to bring home the work. After having practices in surrounding areas, they wanted to offer their passion for healing and self care to their neighborhood. Here & now is all about intention and creating a sacred space for people to connect, grow, and ground.

CATHERINE URIBE ABEE, ENERGY HEALING PRACTITIONER AND IRIS DE ANDA, REIKI MASTER, ARE BOTH AVAILABLE FOR PRIVATE SESSIONS. Here & now programming includes las lunas locas a womyns writing circle on mondays at 7:30pm, kundalini yoga tuesdays @ 7pm, everything is medicine wednesdays @ 7pm, here & now poets thursdays @ 6:30pm. Here & now is focused on promoting self care and anything that supports mind, body, spirit. Healing is a personal journey but it can be helpful to have a community that supports you along the way.

CONTACT: Here & Now 5471 Huntington Dr. N. Los Angeles, CA 90032 323-223-9000 hereandnowcenter@gmail.com

Follow Facebook Page: Here & Now Instagram: hereandnowcenter

LA TOLTECA THE HEALING ISSUE

Año Cinco Vol. Uno Spring 2015

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