Rick Noriega y la frontera

Rick Noriega, the balding man in the yellow tie, surrounded by students in front of City Hall in Houston, students rallying in March for immigrant rights, for Latino Pride, for a future despite the deafening roar of a city bent on growth at the expense of the vast majority of laborers. He stands in the middle in all his complicatedness. Rallying with them, monitoring them, encouraging them to go back to school and concentrate on their standardized tests...

Rick Noriega - a state representative who represents my neighborhood, the East End and other Latino/Mexican American/Chicano barrios on the East Side; he just got back from a tour of duty in Afghanistan with the National Guard. His wife Melissa has functioned as politician while he has been out soldiering. Now, just after getting back to Texas, Bush and Rick Perry, the Texas governor, are sending him to the Texas-México border to work on the new National Guard mobilization to further militarize the border.

I find this Houston Chronicle article on Noriega compelling. It reflects his position, between it all, unable to clearly articulate a position against the mission now that he is being deployed to the border. And now, he contradicts everything he said to "serve the nation." Sad. Troubling. So indicative of where Texas is right now, in the middle of wars, border fortification and hurricanes, praying that someone it all goes right. Steadily unaware of how all our labor is serving to create contradictions, destruction, a superior position for Texas, but on such unsteady ground.

Girodet

The Met in NY has an expo on Girodet. The NYTimes writes about it here.

The "Portrait of Citizen Jean Baptiste Belley" from 1797 was the one that most quickly caught my eye. The painting is in the Musée National des Chateaux de Versailles. I think it is beautiful and someone, if they have not already, should incorporate this image into an amazing dissertation on any number of subjects including, but not limited to: African colonial imagery, the place of liberty and freedom in the time of slavery, gayness and the body...or any number of other topics. The painting is amazing. The expression and the wrist/hand are to die for...

Anson Jones Closes

The elementary school at Canal and Navigation in Houston, near the "Bienvenidos al Segundo Barrio" sign has been closed. The principal had this to say at a ceremony:

"To many, it will be remembered as merely the familiar stoic landmark anchoring the gateway to the Second Ward. But for those it embraces, its memory will be etched on their hearts and seared in their memories forever — its legacy secure, its mission complete."

A sad day in Houston, Texas. Gentrification rears its ugly head...and not for the last time. Read more here.

El mundo old

In Eshpaña for a conference on Chicano Studies, presenting a paper, "A brother in the desert: La obra poetica de Arturo Islas". This is my first time in Western Europe and it is wild. Punks, tourists, old men in suits, loads of blind people with canes, colombianos, other Latin American immigrants, Africans, Arabs, and the occasional eshpañol peninsular con raices aquí de verdad. I wasn't going to come here at first when I heard the news that I had a paper accepted at la Quinta Conferencia de Literatura Chicana but, igual y, I came, what with el dinero que me dieron y todo. Por un lado, me gusta aquí. Es bonito, the air is not humid and thick and sweaty, the wind blows, it is cool at night. Everything smells like a mix of freshness, cigarrete smoke, faintly sweet. Wandering from place to place in the Metro or in the tren, walking as if it was New York up and down flights of stairs in long, long tunnels, advertisements.

I came with a group of compañeras from the programa de español en la Uni de Houston. We started in Madrid and Alcalá de Henares. Then when this was over, two of us wandered Madrid and then in the 10pm alsa.es bus came to Barcelona para quedarse con un novio de esta amiga. The bus stopped twice in strange locales, one hillside with a convenience store that sold comida típica, bocadillos de tortilla, que es huevo con papa en un baguette. The doorways were made of thin see-through plastic tubes, a kind of curtain to cover the portal. And outside the pollen, thin white puffs, like dry snow, blew about in the wind, in the light from across the road, a bright light that illuminated everything, the bus, everything. One tall, thick, bulging blue jeaned eshpañol beauty seemingly cruising me, or I cruising him, but who knows, really? That feeling of, ¿is he looking at me? ¿is he? and if he is, qué bueno, and if not, he will probably enojarse y atacarme en una rabia de loco y machista. Me divertí bastante con la onda del dese.

As I was getting to, Barcelona: wide avenues, Chanel, Zara, design stores, hordes of tourists standing in line seemingly without reason, waiting for quién-sabe-qué each one with their pull-behind suitcases in the middle of the avenida alongside the Plaza Catalunya. Palm trees and German tourist girls in designer cutoff capri pants and gold, yellow, lemon green, women in veils with bright-eyed, curly-haired children and Catalán everywhere. The center of Catalunya, the would-be capital of the independant nation-to-be.

Like the lady's bag in the Metro said, Le centre du monde et partout. And that is how I feel. A bit disoriented by all the motion, a bit as if, oh yes, I live in a small corner of the world, comforted by my things, by the flatness, by the comfortable bilingualism and not tri or quad. And now it is as if, oh, look at this world, these old men on benches, these old women in stylish brown skirts with a fashionable uneven cut. These old ladies with their short hair in various shades of old - blue, green, grey and dirty yellow. These ladies on the widest sidewalks imaginable in a group of four, each one touching the other and each one rattling on to the other their stories, their moments, todo en Catalán, as hordes of international tourism afficionados storm by on the Ramblas, making their way to the sea and to the statue of Christopher Columbus, off all of us to the end of the city, to the end of the metropole to drown in the port or in the Straits of Gibraltar and if not there than to speed across the Atlantic and if not to drown in the Canarias or in the open sea to make it all the way to the other side of the earth and not to fall off and at all and then to be somewhere, to have made it somewhere, and then, there, to make it, to forget that mundo viejo, its ways, its superiority. To imagine ourselves somehow alone.

In the bookstores, piles of books I want to read, Nina Marie Martínez, Pedro Lemebel, so many authors, so much writing, piles of translations of literature from around the world, and I am reminded how little I know, how little more likely it is possible for anyone to know, o pretender saber, porque nuestras mentes son demasiado chiquillas y nuestras imaginaciones igualmente empobrecidas por las condiciones de la vida monótona y diaria. Europe brings out something in me and to be honest, I am fine with coming back. Fine with being American (in the continental sense), but fine with perhaps experimenting with largeness, with Whitmanlike Atlanticism.

Shut up, striver, go back to Telephone, there's nothing for you here but being lost, no cosmopolitanism that can save you, no way out, no break, no going away that will not ultimately end in going home. No escape from your grandmother, from the bench where her Negro washerwomen worked, no way out but back, no way out at all entonces, no way out at all. But still, the beat of Eshpaña, the neo-mullet hair cut, the way things could be, if only, if only, the Conquista, the Manifest Destiny had never happened, had never clashed in your land and created you in all your meanness.

Seamouse Ink

Seamouse Ink is my friend Seamus' website that has his amazing cartoon books that he makes, some on view and some on sale for ridic. cheap. They are the most plaintive little cartoons, they really tug the heart strings. I remember one day in Austin in 2004 and reading one of them and I just broke out crying because of one of the clouds in the book and one of the little bubble men and it made me weep right there about something, the smallness of life, the hardness of it, the difficulty of pushing through it, the weight of it. Life was heavy, the cloud was light, the little bubble stick man was weighted down. And I cried because the little bubble stick man understood me and I understood him. On beauty...

Check out new website: Seamouse Ink. The prices are so cheap. I am buying one of them all. You should too. You will be happy about the decision.

In Memory of Sakia Gunn


I remember hearing about the killing of this young person in Newark three years ago. Well, it's the three year anniversary and it is good to see some people still remember. Kim Pearson writes in a May 11 post on her blog:

Today is the third anniversary of the murder of Sakia Gunn, the 15-year-old African American lesbian from Newark whose killing ignited a movement and led to New Jersey's first bias-murder prosecution. Gunn was stabbed to death when she and four friends were attacked by two menafter rejecting their sexual advances by declaring themselves to belesbians. In April, 2005, Richard McCullough, 32, drew a 20-year prison sentence after admitting that he stabbed the Westside High 10th-grader in the heart whileyelling homophobic slurs.According to poet, scholar and activist Cheryl Clarke, "[Sakia's] death was symbolic, or emblematic instead, of the psychic and emotional death of so many of our young people." Gunn did not conform to the expectations of how she should behave, [her killer's] expectations of what women should do. For that ... she was slaughtered."

Everyone seems to fixate on more media-ready images of "innocent homosexual" deaths like Matthew Shepard. It's worth reading about what happened to Sakia...and remembering.

Sumashedshi Means Loco

Sumashedshi means loco...¿y qué significas tú?

Words for Peace

For all the crowds of people who read this blog but were not there tonight at Words for Peace (anyone?) it was rockin. Yall missed it. That is all... Leí en español también, lo cual me dio cosa, pero igual y lo hice, y me siento bien. Bueno, es todo...nada más que tengo que decir que me encanta el sentido de comunidad que tenemos ahora en Voices Breaking Boundaries, la riqueza de nuesto trabajo y voluntarismo, la capacidad de dar y de disfrutar. Es super-padre...That is todo...

I go to Tijuana

For all my non-espanish speakers out there. I go to Tijuana for to write workshop for on border six weeks. Happy me to be like cloudy skies go away. Yes. Yes. These top four photos on Google of Tijuana. English go bye bye. Let's learn español:

el mapa - the map

el centro cultural tijuana - the cultural center t.j.

la calle de ajonjolí - sesame street

la joda - the border

Voy a Tijuana

¡Acabe de recibir las noticias de que me aceptaron para participar en el Laboratorio Fronterizo de Escritura este verano en Tijuana! Aquí está el email que me mandaron hoy...

Hola, estimados todos:

¡FELICIDADES! El Comité Dictaminador integrado por el poeta Reynaldo Jiménez, la poeta y traductora Jen Hofer y la narradora Cristina Rivera Garza, los seleccionó para participar en el Laboratorio Fronterizo de Escritores/Writing Lab on the Border.

En el transcurso del lunes 8 se publicará la carta del comité en la página de internet y se les enviará la información relativa a los trámites que corresponden.

Atentamente,
Rosa Elisa Rodríguez


Voy a estar estudiando y escribiendo con Cristina Rivera Garza y muchos más...me suena increíble...estoy super-emocionado...

Bueno, les quería avisar de mi suerte...

Baghdad Burning

If you have not read the blog Baghdad Burning, you should really look at it. It is written by a young Iraqi woman writing from Baghdad, this is a piece of what she wrote this week:

The big question is- what will the US do about Iran? There are the hints of the possibility of bombings, etc. While I hate the Iranian government, the people don’t deserve the chaos and damage of air strikes and war. I don’t really worry about that though, because if you live in Iraq- you know America’s hands are tied. Just as soon as Washington makes a move against Tehran, American troops inside Iraq will come under attack. It’s that simple- Washington has big guns and planes… But Iran has 150,000 American hostages.

You should read more here...a totally different perspective than one normally finds here in the U.S. of A. Scary stuff.

¡Voices of a People's History!


Here's another event I will be in. It's this Sunday...

Voices Breaking Boundaries
presentsWORDS FOR PEACE 4 ¡Voices of a People’s History!
Sunday, May 7, 2006, 7:00pmDiverseWorks, 1117 East Freeway, Houston, TX 77002
Admission $5 (no one will be turned away)
For reservations, call 713.524.7821, or email
info@vbbarts.org
More info:
www.vbbarts.org

Intros by Howard Zinn (via telephone) and Anthony Arnove, editor of Terrorism and War (in person)·

Featuring local artists/ activists rendering a dramatic version of Howard Zinn’s Voices of a People’s History. Artists include: Paula Anicete, Hitaji Aziz, Duane Bradley, City Council Member Ada Edwards, Chuck Jackson, Autumn Knight, Vivek Mittal, John Pluecker, Sehba Sarwar, Anita Wadhwa, students from Lee High School and Community Builders Cadre·

Open mic and poetry led by Equality, graffiti art by Hyroglifx Koncepts, capoeira by Grupo de N'Golo, music by Free Radicals, refreshments by Nusrat Malik, drinks and much more.

WORDS FOR PEACE 4 ¡Voices of a People’s History! is cosponsored by DiverseWorks and KPFT Pacifica Radio 90.1 FM.