Califas en Comunidad
Califas en Comunidad-(W)Riting Community was initially intended to be delivered in-person to the community members of the Santa Barbara surrounding areas. Like everyone else confronting the global pandemic, we adapted our program online and decided to open it to folks all over California. Our anhelo was to dedicate this space a nuestra gente y sus historias. Para escucharnos y hacer de nuestras historias un homenaje a aquellos lugares, momentos de nuestras vidas, o personas quienes nos inpiraron. Califas en Comunidad saw 23 intergenerational participants from all walks of life come together to write and honor their stories. We gathered for three weekends with Cathy, our Artist in Residence, to discuss selected readings ranging from poetry, short story, to excerpts of novels and nonfiction memoir. Cathy, along with our invited guests Reid Gómez, Sarah Rafael García, Norman Zelaya, and Herold Terezon, offered our participants a unique opportunity to develop their stories as they shared writing exercises that enabled them to use dialogue to give voice to their characters or helped find inspiration where they least expected to see it, like the savory aroma of food!
To close our program, Las Maestras Center offered our participants the opportunity to honor their stories with a public reading and closing ceremonia led by Maestra Celia Herrera Rodríguez. The ceremonia was an intimate gathering, and each of the excerpts you will read in our Califas en Comunidad Blog was an ofrenda dicated to their loved ones and the altar Maestra Celia prepared for the occasion. As each participant read their story, in the company of their loved ones via Zoom, el humo del copal las bendecía. Cada uno de nuestres participantes dedicaron parte de su tiempo durantes estos tiempos difíciles para hacer de sus historias una realidad. We hope you enjoy the exceperts!
- Mariela Aguilar (Summer Program Coordinator)
TIO JOE
By Desiree Ewing
Somehow, despite all the drugs and fighting, Joey made through the sixties and the Summer of Love, and he was a fixture down at the Fillmore. Its family lore that he once streaked naked across the stage during a Janis Joplin concert, and he may or may not have hooked up with Janis afterward. Tia Lupe remembered how when she was a teenager and first went to a concert down at the Fillmore, she caught sight of her big brother Joe- resplendent in wide bell bottom pants and a long, teal suede cape with a leather collar.
Thirteen
By Maria Mejorado
No “surprise” party.
No decorated cars driving onto our property nor family-only hayrides.
“Let’s wait til the pandemic is over,” his eyes beg.
“What will my friends say?”
“We promise to keep a safe distance,” I assert.
“But Mom, I saw you hug your brother.”
“Shall we cancel?” facing my husband.
“It’s his birthday. It’s up to him,” he sensibly acknowledges.
Emails and texts dispatched apologizing for cancelling same-day.
“Such a responsible young man, thoughtful, smart kid, impressive, wise, sweet,” reply parents.
His first decision on his 13th birthday about his birthday.
On August 11th, the surprise was on us!
The Nature of Love
by Celine Pun
my vines
I yearn them to glow
their happiest green, inching
from hearty soil and water, thriving
from values and ambitions. My lilikoi smile
round and heavy and with both hands
I gift three to you.
thrumming in my roots hopes
your eyes sing with my soul—glittering
like waxy leaves sunkissed; hopes
your words and my words weaves
fertilizer for our minds; hopes
flowers you gift are not luck
growing on brown-speckled branches,
binded roots—infestation
gifted from toxicity of others.
remember to water yourself
and gleam your best green
so you will grow capacity of offering
fruits and flowers abundantly.
Stitches
By David Alberto Quijada Cerecer
Rocking. Rocking back and forth on the chair that is too big for me. I’m on four legs of the chair, then its two legs. The chair slips under me. Wet, sticky, bloody scalp makes me realize I should cry more. It hurts. The divorce is near, but not today. They stitch my head. I get to keep the scissors. As a kid, the one dinner I remember with my mom and dad is bloody, crying and hurting. They drive me to the hospital. My family is together. We live in a house, there is a dog and accidents happen.
Smoke Seer
by John Jairo Valencia
There is a misconception about ghosts.
If you can see,
you will know that they live
inside us too.
They attach themselves
to limbs,
to your lower back,
to your gut
and your heart.
If you don’t make peace with them,
they will play with your mind,
and keep you on repeat.
You can inherit ghosts too,
they are transmitted
through blood,
even through touch
and looks of the eye.
If you choose to sit with them,
give them something to drink.
If you choose to sit with them,
they will teach you
how to be free.
Queer Magic
by Bee Curiel
You are brave like being born into this world twice
Brave as in shed one life to put another on
As in, “I don't give a fuck what you think”
As in, a tree that transplanted its own roots
Dug a hole, cleaned off the root rot and onto another soil we go
You are Magic that is so queer, so divine
Queer magic restored
Remembering what was lost before
Queer Curanderxs - the way it should be
Queer as in time-traveling healers
The only people that can see in-between
The only people that bring this world to its knees
Pensando en Ti
by Gloria Reynoso
El amor de Gloria fue inmensamente incondicional permaneciendo al lado de su esposo hasta el último suspiro de su existencia, estrechando sus manos, con la voz quebrantada por las lágrimas y un corazón lleno de dolor, susurrandole al oido “Aqui estoy Jesus, aqui estoy Jesus, Jesus te amo”.
Madre, la vida ha sido muy dura contigo, pero eso te ha enseñado a ser la mujer guerrera, amorosa y sabia que eres hasta el día de hoy. Gloria mujer audaz, inteligente y capaz de dar todo pidiendo a cambio solo amor. Si, es un gran honor llevar tu nombre, Gloria.
My Greatest Loss
By Neue Leung
My beloved mom, full of gray hair and her face, overflowing with lines of grace and wisdom. Her lips, dry, cracked, and soft. I carelessly wipe my tears with my hands, messing up the foundation and blush on my cheeks. The oak wooden clock on the kitchen wall, just keeps ticking in sync with mom’s slow and shallow breaths. My cries go from soft to loud, and still, I cannot find it within myself to tell her, “Niam, kuv hlub koj,”but to sob and say I am sorry, Niam. Never once, did I say I love you, Niam.
Muñequita Linda
By Maribel Martínez
Mariela stands tall, one leg on a step showing off her botas. Her hair is slicked and she’s painted a thin mustache.
Muñequita linda de cabello de oro...
Mariela, staring into the mirror, takes careful inventory of all her features, her golden skin, dark hair; her big eyes scour over every inch of her face.
“Yo no soy como la canción.”
Mamá Lupe pauses taking in the deep revelation.
“Pues, si tu quieres le cambiamos.”
Mariela looks down.
Instead of changing the station, Mamá Lupe begins to sing.
Marielita linda, de cabello negro, de piel morenita, se parece a mi.
Mi Figura Principal
By Alma Guadalupe López
My maternal grandmother. Mi Grammo. Mi Figura Principal. Presente. Born as the dust settles on a new century. 1906. Nuevo Mexicana. Springer, New Mexico.
Sus ojos ~ claritos like mother earth under the land of enchantment's
sky. She is tall for her time and quiet.
My maternal grandmother, devoted wife and mother. She raises three sons. One daughter. My mother. All while my maternal grandfather works his hard work at Kaiser Steel in Fontana.
My maternal grandparents. Married for more than 50 years. Their golden celebration is one for the ages. And when my maternal grandfather dies in 1982 at the age of 78, my maternal grandmother presses on and on . . .
Jerry
By Maria Figueroa
My jefito can story tell the hell out of any memory. His use of sound effects involving screeching car tires, hand gestures and voice inflections are his trademark. Truck stop stories invoke characters like El Angel de la Guardia, phantom prostitutes, and of near-death experiences with cargo sliding down highway 5. All amalgamate into a perfect narrative. Hasta me toco ver todo el desmadre despues del earthquake que pego en San Francisco. A knee surgery and after a few months or recovery, Hines Nursery let him go forcing my jefito to retire his trustworthy Thomas Guide and 4-color retractable pen.
He Said/She Said
By Cesar Reyes
My body brushes by her as I head for the door. I can feel her hands flinging from her body - pointing to the memories she recalls like a youtube suggestion page of our worst moments. These words - machine gun volleys; the expended shells falling from her lips. And like a sniper she locks - quick, the bullet leaves the tip of her tongue without even realizing and it stuns me from opening the door.
I turn, “What did you say?”
“Nothing… Just leave.”She looks away, her black hair slowly falling over her eyes.
“No, no, what did you say? You mentioned Victor.”
Enchiladas
By Stephanie Yolanda Martínez
I didn’t grow up with one of those moms that claimed to make or be “the best” anything. Despite her humility, she claimed that her father, Alejandro “Don Caleco” Fernandez–who claimed Vicente as a first cousin–was born with that don of the buen sazón. She reminded her daughters that most of us, women especially, have to work harder at earning our dues, at everything. This would be one of the first lessons in understanding the longue durée of internalized not-enoughness, of patriarchy. Meanwhile, Caleco proudly boasted that his secret ingredient was not washing his hands before he cooked.
Dearest home girl
By Vero Majano
Dearest home girl,
You asked me:
“Where’s Shorty from?”
They’re from the DNA of fog
Mixed with angel dust joint
Mixed with fake mota joint,
nothing but oregano.
Mixed with back in tha day
Mission St.
When it was
a hoe stroll.
Mixed with Mission Creek.
Mixed with Hunts Donuts,
open 25 hours,
with everything that was sold inside
that wasn’t a donut:
Socks
food stamps
pork shops
fake Rolex
shoelaces
sensemilla
green cards
punk mix tapes
and other cosas.
Mixed with Mary Wells
Mixed with the first
Paisa
Jotos
that claimed 16th St.
Mixed with Mission light.
Cirila
By Rosana Reyes
In 1912, forced to leave her three daughters, Cirila joined her brothers in San Francisco,
California. It was rumored that the littlest, Maria Francisca, or Paquita as she would later be called, was raised on the milk of an ornery goat on the hacienda whose runt had died a few days after it was born.
How could she leave them- que barbaridad the women of Tizapan whispered as they crossed themselves passing in front of the hacienda. Pobre Julian como va hacer con esas tres niñas sin madre. This would be the beginning of her reputation- one she would never outlive.
Chavito
By Pat Alderete
Chavito was 10 years old when he got his first pair of brand-new-never-worn-by-anyone-else shoes. He got them at Cuca’s Tiendita, where most of the stuff was used, but he could tell the soles had never touched dirt before. They were gold with pink and blue stripes. He spun and twisted for Fluffy, his pet snapping turtle and Fluffy nodded his head in approval. His sister, Cara de Vaca was her usual cabrona self, telling Chavito that he looked like a joto but Chavito didn’t care. They were his new shoes and nothing and nobody could take away his joy.
Excerpt from “Brotherhood”
By Betty Pazmiño
Mija, vamos al parque? Sííí! Let’s go to Golden Gate Park, papa! Vamos ir a visitar a tus hermanos. YIPPEE!!! We’re gonna go see my brothers! I was my father’s favorite companion on the weekends. My mother never really liked going anywhere because she was always feeling sick. So I would jump in her passenger area and go with my papa to all kinds of places. Some Saturdays, we would go to the Cow Palace to see Pepper Gomez wrestle Ray Stevens in the 18 Men Battle Royals. But Sundays were for driving to our favorite park in San Francisco.
Birdie Love
By Ixchel Hernandez
Highlighter-bright iterations of “I think your parrot pooped in your hair?”
Perico’s manner of ending too many of my facetime calls. Cochino! That's it, time to get down As if he's going to cooperate.
My Sundrop’s small body is feathery soft and warm in my fist where he comfortably fits Our Dance. I’ll spin him around, because he acts like he's stuck, all tangled up in my now-dirtied locks but I know he's not. Mentiroso. I can see it, there, in the snitching glass his little taloned toes are all curled up Holding on, he doesn't want to let go.
Carnival 2222
by Humberto BJ Avila
Apa jumps so high, he steps on clouds to catch a ball. They see it, but I believe it! “¡Levántate!” Huevos con Weenies. Breakfast of Champions. Mom says SkyBall is an electric field of beautiful Brown and Black boys playing the wrong game. My opponent crawls towards me, skin sizzling like Carne Asada. I grew up with him. Wrapped up in his Hot Chocolate hug, electric memories of childhood light up Las Islas. Ocean switching from oily black to a green, pink, and purple prism. Huevos con Weenies are washed back into the water. “Me Bañe En Tu Agua Bendita.”
From ‘The Nappy-headed Poems’
Just a Joke
By Gloria Yamato
Q: Why did God give black people rhythm?
A: Because He was so sorry about what He did to their hair
Dear God,
You hear that shit?
Even You don’t escape judgement
Fools have decided it’s Your fault
That our hair is so fucked
You tried to syncopate Your way out of it
to make amends.
Amen
Super Man
by Prado Gómez
I am solid Always watching
Dependable Always listening
Unshakeable Always watching
Bedrock not silt Always listening
Bedrock not landfill Always watching
I am the glue Always listening
That holds it all together I won't let you drown
Keeping my people secure My beloveds
Keeping my people safe I will catch you when you fall
I am the glue My beloveds
Gorilla glue I am Super Man
It bounces off me so it won’t stick to you I am Super Man
My beloveds I am Super Man
I am the environmental master Except, I'm not.
I am the lifeguard
What we could do with our words
By Maylei Blackwell
Words so fierce hearts change
Minds open like books
Books stop in their tracks and yell, preach!
These words incite seismic systemic shifts
Crumble hierarchies of oppression
Build utopia with the rubble
Dreams so fierce the communal calls
petty differences abandoned to
create another world
together
we shift the paradigm
That new paradigm ends racism
colonialism,
capitalism,
heteropatriarchy,
and all -isms bow to the greater good with humility
Friendship so fierce
Divas lay down their attitudes at our feet
Dysfunctionals drop their defenses
And enemies forget they ever held a grudge
All that trauma released
fuels alternative energy power grids
and the Earth recovers
Together we walk so free our ancestors are healed
We breathe liberation