la voz - september 2015
DESCRIPTION
MujerArtes Barrio de Barro; Women to Walk 100 Miles to Greet Pope; Running Away to Mental Illness by Josie Méndez-Negrete; Breathing in the Panic by Greg HarmanTRANSCRIPT
a publication of the Esperanza Peace & Justice Center
September 2015, Vol. 28 Issue 7 San Antonio, Tejas
Barrio de Barro
exhibit opens Sat., Sept. 12, 2015 • 6 pm at Esperanza Center
La Voz deEsperanza
September 2015vol. 28 Issue 7
Editor Gloria A. Ramírez
Design Elizandro Carrington
Contributors Greg Harman, Josie Méndez-Negrete
La Voz Mail Collective Georgina Cortinas, Brenda Davis Juan Díaz, Rachel Jennings, Rachel Martínez, Ray Mc-Donald, Angie Merla, María Porter, Mary A. Rodríguez, Blanca Rivera, Zapopo Sánchez,
Dave Stokes, Tony Villanueva
Esperanza Director Graciela I. Sánchez
Esperanza Staff Imelda Arismendez, Elizandro Carrington, Elisa Pérez, Gianna Rendón, René Saenz,
Susana Segura, Amelia Valdez
Conjunto de Nepantleras
-Esperanza Board of Directors-Brenda Davis, Rachel Jennings, Amy
Kastely, Jan Olsen, Kamala Platt, Ana Lucía Ramírez, Gloria A. Ramírez, Rudy Rosales,
Tiffany Ross, Lilliana Saldaña, Nadine Saliba, Graciela I. Sánchez, Lillian Stevens
• We advocate for a wide variety of social, economic & environmental justice issues.• Opinions expressed in La Voz are not
necessarily those of the Esperanza Center.
La Voz de Esperanza is a publication of
Esperanza Peace & Justice Center 922 San Pedro, San Antonio, TX 78212
210.228.0201 • fax 1.877.327.5902www.esperanzacenter.org
Inquiries/Articles can be sent to:[email protected] due by the 8th of each month
Policy Statements* We ask that articles be visionary, progressive, instructive & thoughtful. Submissions must be literate & critical; not sexist, racist, homophobic, violent, or oppressive & may be edited for length.
* All letters in response to Esperanza activities or articles in La Voz will be considered for publication. Letters with intent to slander individuals or groups
will not be published.
Esperanza Peace & Justice Center is funded in part by the NEA, TCA, theFund, CoYoTe PhoeNix Fund, AKR Fdn, Peggy Meyerhoff Pearlstone Fdn, the DOTE Fdn, Horizon Fdn, New World Fdn, y nuestra buena gente.
ATTENTION VOZ READERS: If you have a mailing address correction please send it to [email protected]. If you want to be removed from the La Voz mailing list, for whatever reason, please let us know. La Voz is provided as a courtesy to people on the mailing list of the Esperanza Peace and Justice Center. The subscription rate is $35 per year ($100 for institutions). The cost of producing and mailing La Voz has substantially increased and we need your help to keep it afloat. To help, send in your subscriptions, sign up as a monthly donor, or send in a donation to the Esperanza Peace and Justice Center. Thank you. -GAR
VOZ VISION STATEMENT: La Voz de Esperanza speaks for many individual, progressive voices who are gente-based, multi-visioned and milagro-bound. We are diverse survivors of materialism, racism, misogyny, homophobia, classism, violence, earth-damage, speciesism and cultural and political oppression. We are recapturing the powers of alliance, activism and healthy conflict in order to achieve interdependent economic/spiritual healing and fuerza. La Voz is a resource for peace, justice, and human rights, providing a forum for criticism, information, education, humor and other creative works. La Voz provokes bold actions in response to local and global problems, with the knowledge that the many risks we take for the earth, our body, and the dignity of all people will result in profound change for the seven generations to come.
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Rare is the piece of legislation that can save lives, save money and improve safety in communities all with the stroke of a pen. Such a bill did exist in the Texas Legislature’s most recent session. Labeled Senate Bill 359, it would have given hospitals a modicum of power to hold a patient for four hours if doctors consider that patient to be a danger to himself or others... The bill sailed through the House and Senate, and why not? The common-sense measure had the full support of the Texas Medical Association and the Texas Society of Psychiatric Physicians. But when it landed on Gov. Greg Abbott’s desk, the measure died under a strange and unexpected veto. —Dallas Morning News, August 19, 2015
Clearly, Texas is behind in prioritizing mental health services for its people. Recently, there has been much debate about whether Texas is dead last among the 50 states of the U.S. or second to the last in providing mental health services. One thing for sure, help for residents who suffer from mental health issues in this state and throughout the U.S. is severely lacking. We have witnessed, time and again, mass shootings, family violence and senseless killings from perpetrators that had exhibited signs of mental illnes but were not helped or taken seriously. We know that most people that suffer from mental disabilities do not end up as mass murderers—but they do wind up living a poor quality of life—seen as being responsible for their own state of being—if they are seen at all. Entire lives are wasted to mental illness because we do not have proper resources or care.
This issue of La Voz begins a focus on mental illness. Even though Frank Valdez, one of our writers, has tried to make us aware of the issue—we have not done enough. It is something that I personally have been wanting to delve further into. Persons suffering from mental illness are a group that is generally oppressed by society and discriminated against. According to data compiled by the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Adminis-tration (SAMHSA), mental illness affects one in five adults in the U.S. whether it’s depres-sion, bipolar disorder or schizophrenia and a good percentage are not able to function well enough to take care of themselves or hold down a job. We need to be advocates for them.
Full disclosure: Josie Méndez Negrete is a close friend of mine and I knew about her son, Roberto, and his suffering from schizophrenia early on. I also knew that she was writing a book on her experience in dealing with this mental illness. The book, A Life on Hold, Living with Schizophrenia published by University of New Mexico Press is now out and Josie will be having a reading here at the Esperanza on Satur-day, September 26 at 7 pm. An excerpt of her book is included in this issue of La Voz.
This summer, Greg Harman also published his book, After Deprssion, about his experience with this illness since he was 14 years old. An excerpt of his book is also in-cluded in this issue of La Voz. Both Greg and Josie are courageous human beings who have shared a sacred part of their lives so that we can learn more about mental illness and began to dispel the stigma. Look for more on this topic in future issues of La Voz.
Best of luck to Monica Velásquez, design person for La Voz and staff person of the Esperanza as she moves on to new ventures. Buena suerte, also to Itza Carbajal who will begin studies in archiving at the U.T. graduate school in Austin and to Saakred who is going to Ireland to pursue studies at the Burren College of Art. ¡Abrazos, adios! ¡Muuuuah!
Itza
Monica
Saakred
The casita at 1412 El Paso St., across from Our Lady of Guadalupe Church, in the heart of the Westside of San Antonio has housed a cultural treasure for the last twenty years. The MujerArtes Cooperative, sponsored by the Esperanza Peace and Justice Center, opened its studio doors in June of 1995 as an avenue for working class Latinas from 18 to 80 years old to attend classes in the clay arts at no cost. Inside the 1930s bungalow, the women shape clay into snapshots of their lives–personal and political. Through sculpting, drawing, painting and the telling of stories—MujerArtes has created clay artwork that reflects their lives, as women, as Mexicanas/Chicanas, and as Westsiders. They recognize that they are the keepers of culture, traditions and memories that will be remembered by the next generations through their art. It is not uncommon to see children at MujerArtes with their mothers or grandmothers. For the past twenty years, over 200 women have joined the cooperative—on and off—some embarking on their own careers in the arts. Initially, the women introduced the San Antonio public to their art by hosting cafecitos on Sunday mornings. The open turquoise door at the studio invited
churchgoers and passersby to come in, browse and talk about politics, cultura and art—strengthening their ties to community. Many visitors walked away with clay treasures leaving behind more ideas for the women to build on. MujerArtes then began to make its presence known in the arts community by participating in First Fridays at the Alamo City Garden, at events in the Blue Star Arts Complex and at the popular annual markets—the Esperanza’s Peace Market and the Guadalupe’s Hecho a Mano.
Eventually, MujerArtes beg an to host its own special markets at La Casita and whole art exhibits at the
Esperanza Peace and Justice Center. For their 5th anniversary MujerArtes featured the exhibit Sentimientos y Cultura in July 2000 with over 200 pieces including cooperatively-made lamps in the shape of nopales (cactus) and a variety of dinnerware depicting Westside lives. For Día de los Muertos, MujerArtes builds an annual ofrenda for their dearly departed and may host a performance, calavera readings, an open house or a Mercado
Mujerartes celebrates 20 años with new exhibit:
Barrio de Barro, Reclamando y Recordando El Westside de San Antonio
MujerArtes, 1995, Front: Carmen Medrano (deceased), Gloria Gamez, Becky Cuevas, Verónica Castillo, Teresa Koslow (deceased). Back: Rosie Livar, Olga Cardona, Magda McChesney (maestra), Mary Jane Salas, & Rachel Delgado.
MujerArtes made lamparas de nopales (cactus lamps) for their 5th anniversary exhibit, Sentimientos y Cultura. They were an instant success!
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de Muertitos with creative representations of Catrinas, calacas and calaveras not found anywhere else in San Antonio. Pan de muerto, ponche de muertos, calaveras de azucar and mole may also be offered to visitors at la casita on the Days of the Dead. For Mother’s Day, exhibitions and mercados have offered unique clay creations ranging from: candelabras of various shapes and sizes to handpainted tiles; figurines of mujeres with or without children; and clayware depicting childhood memories or historical scenes. El Día de La Virgen de Guadalupe has also been celebrated by MujerArtes offering a mercado and an exhibit with a variety of creative clay interpretations of La Virgen—traditional and modern. For the posadas navideñas, MujerArtes has offered nativity scenes and even sponsored posadas in the neighborhood. On any given year, one can be sure one of these unique mercados or exhibits will be offered to celebrate one of these special days in San Antonio In the last ten years the mujeres have honed their skills visiting museums, cultural centers and community centers eventually taking trips outside of San Antonio that have included trips to New Mexico, Alabama, California and even Mexico. A life-changing exhibit for the mujeres was Lamento Por Las Mujeres de Juárez/Elegy for the Women of Juárez in July 2003. MujerArts paid tribute in clay to the young women murdered in the decades-long femicides known as the Maquiladora Murders. Working with Dr. Alicia Gaspar de Alba of UCLA who invited them to participate in an international conference, The Maquiladora Murders, or Who Is Killing the Women of Juárez?—the mujeres traveled in caravan to the conference stopping in Juárez to meet some of the victims’ mothers. They also stopped in New Mexico to meet famed indigenous artisan, Pablita Verlarde, who died shortly thereafter. At the conference they participated in a panel and their clay depictions of the murders were exhibited at the UCLA Fowler museum along with a special árbol de muerte made by their instructor, Verónica Castillo, who obtained special permission from her father to make the tree of death.
In 1999, the MujerArtes women had been panelists as part of Women’s History Week sponsored by the The Center for Women and Gender Studies at UTSA. In 2004, they returned to UTSA to speak about the Juárez femicides. MujerArtes
continues to make presentations in other academic and community venues.
In 2005 MujerArtes celebrated their 10th anniversary with the exhibit, Árboles de MujerArtes: Recuerdos, Tradiciones, y Vida featuring MujerArtes own trees of life. Originating from Izucar de Matamoros, Puebla the Tejano version of árboles resulted in a new art form uniquely San Antonian.
The women respectfully asked permission to make the árboles of Don Alfonso Castillo Orta, winner of Mexico’s most prestigious award, Premio Nacional de Ciencias y Artes, and father of maestra, Veronica Castillo. Over the years, MujerArtes’ teachers and coordinators have
taught the mujeres different techniques and introduced them to different life experiences. They have included: Magda McChesney (formerly,Chellet) their first teacher; Mary Helen Tamez, a MujerArtes student who later became their instructor; local artist, Deborah “Kuetzpalin” Vásquez and Gabriela Gutiérrez, coordinator; and Cindy Rodríguez who was also a MujerArtes student, then teacher. Verónica Castillo of the Castillo family of Puebla, creators of the famed árboles de vida. who came to San Antonio in 1994 as part of the Peace Market became part of MujerArtes from its inception weaving in and out of its sphere as instructor, workshop coordinator
and artist in her own right. In 2013, Veronica left MujerArtes after being awarded an NEA
National Heritage Fellow that enabled her to fulfill a lifelong dream to open her own arts center. Imelda Arisméndes, a constant presence in MujerArtes since its early years has served as coordinator and is currently the instructor.
MujerArtes 2015, left to right front: Rosa Vega Cruz, Juana Hilda Ruíz, Raquel García, Terri Borrego,
Olga Martínez. Back row: Grace Sánchez, Patricia De La Garza, Anna Laura Martínez, Gina Sombrano,
Imelda Arismendez, Arlene Martínez. Not pictured: Anna Uviedo, Grace González, Sonia Díaz, Amalia Ibarra.
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Ana Uviedo works on her Our Lady of Guadalupe Church for the Barrio de Barro exhibit.
As the women of MujerArtes have developed their art recalling their cultural roots and childhood memories they have also become more politically conscious—participating in marches and rallies, making presentations to city council and exchanging ideas with women of other organizations (like Fuerza Unida) and from outside the U.S. They’ve
welcomed caravans and visitors into their space and moved beyond their level of comfort at La
Casita learning more and more in the process. In their 20 years of existence MujerArtes continues to bring new women into the project and bid farewell to those that leave as necessity or life dictates. This summer
MujerArtes bade farewell to one of it original members, Teresa Koslow. Each group meets the challenges brought about by the state of world, the nation, the city and their families by working their hands and hearts into clay. The current struggle of displacement and ongoing gentrification within their communities spurred the women to create clay replicas of Westside businesses, churches, and homes for their 20th anniversary exhibit. These pieces remind
us that our communities are changing rapidly as old homes are torn down, and original residents are forced to move out when their hearts still live in their old neighborhood. For the near future, MujerArtes is looking to the construction of a new building made of adobe in Esperanza’s Rinconcito de Esperanza on Colorado St. The challenge of raising funds for a new home and constructing it to fit the needs of MujerArtes is one the mujeres embrace. In the meantime, the support MujerArtes has enjoyed from their own families, community and neighborhood remains strong. Join us at their celebration!
MujerArtes presents
Barrio de Barro, Reclamando y Recordando El Westside de San Antonio20th Anniversary & Sale
Opening ReceptionSaturday, September 12th6pm @ Esperanza 922 San Pedro • 210.228.0201esperanzacenter.org
Teresa Koslow May 26, 1955 - June 18, 2015Terry Koslow, local folk artist and former owner of Artwerx Alley, was born on May 26, 1955, and passed into spirit on June 18, 2015, at the age of 60. She was preceded in death by her mother Ellen Castillo and is survived by family, friends and her lifelong companion, Rebecca Cuevas. Teresa was an artist skilled in painting and clay art. She preserved traditional Mexican imagery in her pottery, kitchenware and furniture. From tiny wooden shelves to tables and chairs, bowls, dishes and sets of tableware—Terry’s artwork proved irresistible to shoppers at the Esperanza’s annual Peace Market and markets throughout San Antonio and beyond. Teresa was also one of the original members of MujerArtes, the women’s clay cooperative of the Esperanza Peace and Justice Center. In 2010, Terry was one of MujerArtes’ honorees when they celebrated their quinceañera. She will continue to be honored as MujerArtes celebrates their 20th anniversay. Memories of Terry’s life and art will remian in many hearts, minds and homes. The Esperanza staff and board extend heartfelt condolences to all who were touched by Teresa’s life . —QEPD
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La Chiquita Bakery formerly located at 1227 El Paso. From Barrio de Barro
We Belong Together, an initiative of the National Domestic Workers Alliance and the National Asian Pacific American Women’s Forum, along with other groups announce the Women’s Pilgrimage for Migrant Justice. The women will conduct a pilgrimage from September 15th through the 23rd beginning at the York Detention Center in Pennsylvania, where several have had loved ones jailed inside. They will walk 10 to 15 miles each day, passing through Baltimore on the 19th, and arriving in DC with 100 women for a prayer vigil on the evening of the 22nd, the night before the Pope’s scheduled meeting at the White House. Inspired by the Pope’s powerful statements on immigration—migrant women and their supporters will set off in hopes of greeting the Pope in DC and ensuring that their message of dignity and justice for immigrant women, families, and communities is at the center of his conversations with elected leaders. Citing the on-going practice of detaining asylum seeking women and children, the abuse faced by
transwomen in ICE custody, and the continued threat of deportation for the undocumented, they say there’s an urgent need for a compassionate conversation on migration. “Pope Francis has said that the globalization of migration requires a globalization of charity and cooperation. He describes a world where no one is seen as useless, out of place or disposable, a church without borders, and nations that welcome the stranger,” says Juana Flores, a former nun and domestic worker, now Co-Director of Mujeres Unidas y Activas in California. Locally, Domesticas Unidas of San Antonio will be sending three representatives—María Victoria De La Cruz, Araceli Herrera, and Rosa Elia Guia to the
pilgrimage. For information visit: webelongtogether.org/100women
En el 2013, Nos Mantenemos Unidas, una iniciativa de la Alianza Nacional de Trabajadoras Domésticas, llevó las voces y el liderazgo de las mujeres al primer plano del debate sobre inmigración con un acto de desobediencia civil masivo de 100 mujeres en Washington, DC. El año pasado, mostraron valentía y sacrificio cuando 100 mujeres se unieron para hacer un ayuno de 48 horas, con motivo de mantener unidas a sus familias.
Este año del 15 al 23 de septiembre, cien mujeres harán un peregrinaje de 100 millas, caminando desde un centro de detenciones en el condado de York, Pennsylvania hasta Washington, DC. Llegando justo cuando el Papa se presenta ante el Congreso y se reúne con el Presidente, caminarán
desde un sitio que representa el sufrimiento humano para pedir que el Papa honre la dignidad humana ante el sistema migratorio de nuestro país.
El Papa Francisco ha dicho que la globalización de la migración requiere una globalización de la caridad y de la cooperación. Él describe un mundo en el cual nadie sea considerado inútil, fuera de lugar o desechable—con una iglesia sin fronteras y naciones que den la bienvenida al desconocido.
Cuando el Papa llega a Washington, personas de todas las religiones y fes estaremos allí también para asegurar que su mensaje de justicia para l@s migrantes sea oído por los políticos con quienes se reúne
En San Antonio las representantes de Domesticas Unidas, María Victoria De La Cruz, Araceli Herrera y Rosa Elia Guia participarán en el pregrinaje de 100 millas.
Si tienen preguntas o buscan información, hablen con Anna al 440-204-8284 o envien un mensaje a [email protected].
Para ver el horario completo visiten: www.webelongtogether.org/100women
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Women to Walk 100 Miles to Greet Pope in DC, Lift Up Call for Migrant Justice
Domesticas Unidas participarán en el peregrinaje de 100 millas
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Editor’s note: This excerpt (p. 147-157) from Life on Hold is used with permission from the University of New Mexico Press. A reading with the author is scheduled for September 26th at 7 pm at the Esperanza. (see back page)
Tito has lived in every type of facility there is for mentally ill men: shelters, independent living, group homes, and semilocked homes. I only know what my son copes with from the outside. While I am familiar with the conditions of the facilities in which he has lived and I make sure to know those who are in charge of running those facilities, I cannot imagine what it’s like to live in them or to deal with the residents. “You really don’t know that it’s like to live my life, do you?” Tito said to me one day. “Seldom talked to you about the details of the revolving doors. All the board-and-care and group homes I’ve lived in, from 1993 until I got to Casa Olga. God, I’m so sorry for what I’ve put you all through. With names such as Love’s Board and Care and Heaven’s Gate, more like cults, not warehouses of broken-down men and a few women who could not or were not able to live at home—these were but two of the places among many. You remember any of the people who passed through my life? Most have moved on. Some are still around, going from one place to the next, and sometimes even sleeping in the park because there is no other place to stay.” Tito recited their names: “Jimmy. Tim. Juan. José. Lala. All these people were either newly ill or middle aged without a place to go, who ended up warehoused in those homes of oblivion. Their families could not or were not able to deal with their illnesses. You remember Jimmy?” I nodded in response.
“Yeah, Jimmy—he was a Gulf War veteran—lived with the images of war so horrible, some of us nut cases had to hold him down when he had flashbacks of burning flesh flying all over the place. His best buddy was blown to pieces in front of him. Acted like the bits of his buddy, who was a Chicano like me, were being slung at him. When Jimmy had these flashbacks, he got into kicking and flailing fits to avoid the imaginary flesh slung at him. I could always calm Jimmy; he listened to me. Except for those episodes, he was a walking dead—he never talked to anyone, although he sometimes followed me to Taco Bell or to get cigarettes. At the board and care we shared, he went from here to there, from corner to corner of the reception room, and he always looked like he was waiting for someone who seldom came. Jimmy’s father, serving in the Middle East, would sometimes pick him up.” Focused on Jimmy, Tito continued: “Took him horseback riding. Jimmy told me it was the only way he felt alive. Being from Texas, Jimmy believed he was a cowboy. Always slept with his boots and Lone Star buckle on—this made him a target for ridicule by his roommate, who often made fun of Jimmy to get a rise out of him. Didn’t work. Jimmy didn’t see anything wrong with sleeping buck naked in his lucky charms or ‘amulets.’ What he called his Lone Start buckle and his boots when he was clear of mind. You know what, Momma? He would always respond to me—must’ve reminded him of his buddy. How sad, huh? His friend—the one I told you about that he lost—was only nineteen when he died.” Moving on to other people who had passed through his life, Tito said, “Tim was an artist. All his paintings hung at Love’s Board and Care. Somber faces with flesh in colors of green, orange, and purples attracted those who visited. Found his work ‘interesting though peculiar’ as some of the do-gooders would
Running Away to Mental Illness[A] mentally ill Southern man with a history of schizophrenia and
depression was unceremoniously dumped by the Nevada facility
[and sent to Sacramento, California] . . . . The patient is but one
of millions of mentally ill Americans—and especially those with
housing insecurity—who find themselves falling through the cracks
in the social safety net.
—Sy Mukherjee, “How Mentally Ill Americans Are Falling through
the Cracks in the Social Safety Net”
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say. Residents thought his work too weird for contemplation. They already carried enough creepiness in them, so they gave him no mind. Most stayed out of his way when he painted, ’cause he became irate and violent when we told him flesh was not the color of the tones he chose. Though there were times we went to bother him just to get some excitement going. Soon he would ignore us and go back to his painting. “Remember Juan? He was originally from Tucson, Arizona. He came to Santa Clara when it was known as Santa Claus County, as some people around here still think of it because it was like a horn of plenty, a cornucopia to everyone who needed services. Here, Juan found a home, after roaming all the county’s homeless shelters. In San José, he didn’t have to roam anymore because there was a place for him. Waiting for those visits that never came, Juan lived hoping someone would take him away. At the board and care, his spot of choice was the porch. Juan would be the first one to spy you when you came to visit. He got me so you wouldn’t have to wait. Other times, he opened the car door for me to get in when you picked me up. Remember, he really liked you and appreciated that you came to see me and brought me things.” Is that what happens to you when I waited too long to visit? I wanted to ask him. But he barely paused before going on. “Often heard him tell those who came to visit that his parents were coming to see him, but he had no parents; they had died when he was nine years old. Other times he tried to impress the visitors by telling them his case manager, who neglected him, would be coming to see him. He was like a little kid who still believed in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny—it was only in those holidays that visits came and gifts arrived. Never told me who sent them, but he must’ve had someone who cared. To me, it seemed as if Juan would have to wait forever. Wait for something or other that never came. But you know what? Miracles do happen. One day, before I got kicked out for being a druggie and getting into arguments and fistfights with the residents, someone from Juan’s mother’s side of the family came and took him back to Arizona. The visitor Juan expected finally came. Took him away. And the mail Juan had waited for stopped coming when he left. Don’t know what became of him. “Momma, we are so disposable. Couldn’t tell you where most of the people I shared space with ended up, except for
Juan, who returned to Tucson, and Bill, whose family took him back to Boston. We move with the wind and become transparent as it is because no one sees us, even when we’re right in front of them. You know what I learned? According to the experts, in our later years schizophrenia becomes less severe. We are easier to deal with. So it must’ve been their time—both Juan and Bill were middle aged and pretty manageable. They had very few personal problems when both returned home. Or, maybe, they just learned to fade into the wall, not making any trouble or questioning their surroundings. Don’t know what happened to Lala. One of the few women who lived among us—they were like fleeting ghosts in our lives, as most of us who live in these institutions were men.” In an abrupt break of topic, he asked me, “Momma, you think that may happen to me? Do you think you’ll take me
home when I’m their age?” But Tito didn’t want a vague response from me. He interrupted me and continued talking, with the hope that he could return to our home. “With families who don’t understand or cannot tend to us, we end up housed in these places eating day-old food or mush that takes our appetites away. We find ourselves saving every penny, conning each other or panhandling, to go to Taco Bell to buy fifty-nine-cent tacos—ease the hunger that permanently lives in our bellies.” As he continued talking about his life, Tito became more agitated. Our conversation turned into another one of his efforts to persuade me to bring him home—to San Antonio, where he has never lived. “Discard,” he said. “That’s what we are. Society’s unwanted. There is no place for us. Why can’t you see how hard it is for me? When I first got sick, I couldn’t stay at our house, and not finding a facility that would take me, I ended up at Julian Street Inn in San José, a homeless shelter. I had two problems: schizophrenia and self-medication with drugs. Most places didn’t want to deal with someone as messed up as I was. The facilities either housed the mentally ill or drug users, but not both. At the
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shelters, even in the depths of my illness, it was difficult for me to say there. There’s a pecking order for who sleeps where, who gets to stand in line first, who gets to shower, who gets to eat. Often got pushed around because I’m short. Made me afraid to stay there, so I bailed. Decided to be on my own. Guilt engulfed me as Tito reminded me that I have pushed him out and sent him to places in which he might not have been treated well. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to take care of you, I thought. It was that I couldn’t. “Stuck in-between. Couldn’t stay at your house. Wanted to, but I didn’t want to be a burden to you and Dad and I wanted to do it my way, without any expectations from either of you. So I left and ended up in a state park in Aptos, California, near Santa Cruz. Since the weather wasn’t that bad, I was able to hang. In the daytime, I could be found at the Metro Center,
where all the buses start and end their routes. Fit in really well with all the unkempt hippies who littered the streets of the Pacific Garden Mall. Didn’t even have to ask for help, people offered it to me, giving me a quarter here and a dime there. Things got better when I hit upon the idea of reselling bus transfers for hardly anything, to get money. Didn’t want to panhandle, though. Then I got used to being sick and liked the easy access to illicit drugs. Those board-and-care homes were drug havens. They were really no help, except for pointing me in the direction of dope. There was the trafficking of drugs that went around—crank, marijuana, PCP, you name it—drugs were everywhere.” My intuition told me this was so. I had protected him from that type of life, and here he was in the middle of it all. I hear you, Tito, I thought. “At first, they offer drugs without expecting anything. Then, when they hook you, some of the people I lived with even went as far as selling themselves or stealing to buy their drugs. Didn’t do that. Instead I begged, asked, and cajoled money from you, my aunts and uncles, and whoever came to see me, so that I could get my stash. With excuses of needing
food ’cause the food was awful, I got a bit from some. Feigning to need shoes, I got some from others. With tales that my clothes had been ripped off by some of the residents, one story or another, most of the relatives provided me the money I needed to score. And when I had no money, I just got it on credit. Later, I would bug you to help me pay my debts. Told you residents would beat me up if I didn’t pay. If I got you fed up enough, I knew you would give me what I needed to shut me up, so I pushed you to the limit. “Remember the time you brought Susie Q. López to visit with you? I remember her because we had our last name in common. That was the first time I got kicked out of Love’s Board and Care. The dual diagnosis program person, my case manager, found me another place. But the program had no money to pay for yet another first and last month’s rent plus deposit for me to move into a new place. So I called you for
a hand. It was the second-to-the last place before I went to Casa Olga. Didn’t think you would help me, though. Last time this happened, you had said, ‘Enough.’ But somehow you got the money. This was a place I would share with three other guys. It wasn’t a licensed facility; it was a group home run by an expert at scamming the
mentally ill out of their county or Social Security checks in exchange for a room and measly meals. Anyway, Susie Q. and you came and brought the money. And you left me twenty dollars for personal needs. What I didn’t tell you was that Susie Q. gave me money on the sly. That night I got so high freebasing that I burned off my arm and face hairs. That scared me into quitting drugs. I’ve been clean and sober for almost fifteen years, except for the bundle of prescription drugs I take.” Without hinting that he was moving on to another topic, Tito started talking about the side effects of the medication he takes for his condition. He told me he was beginning to experience some. “Now, it’s not just the mental illness,” he said. “It’s the high blood pressure. The diabetes and whatever else is fermenting in my body from taking too many chemicals. I am a walking laboratory of one. For me it’s ‘better living through chemistry,’ as my dad says, but not really. Things don’t get much better, we just get numbed or somewhat silenced.” Helping me out of my chair, Tito said, “Time for you to go, visiting hours are over. Had enough. Didn’t even feel like
artwork by Josie Méndez-Negrete
talking to you, anyway. Told you more than I care to. ’Bye.” Tito walked me to the garage area where he goes to chain-smoke—the only area that’s not off-limits. It was hard to believe my son had so much to say. But I finally got to hear how he survived those early years of his illness. While he talked a lot and told me much, there were things he did not discuss with me—that he will never discuss, even when I ask him. Still, the one-way conversation about how Tito survived gave me insight. Recently, a pattern has emerged. When Tito talks about his living arrangements, about when he first got sick, the issue of going at it alone, renting a room, moving out of institutional settings often comes up—and it feels like he is beginning to experience a break. Like the time he was going to move away with Carol Silverstein, one of the many pearls on the string of women he was going to marry, or when he was going to room with Bryan. It’s his way of bailing out of institutional living. He will take anything but living in an institution, even if it’s only make-believe. Often, relationship breakups predict an impending change in him, but Tito usually attempts to shield the emotions tied to his losses. However hard times are for him, he is forever searching to have a relationship that gives him the companionship he needs. Telling Tito I would call him when I got home, I left the residence. When I got to San Antonio, I phoned him to let him know I had arrived. He said he had news for me. Sienna, a resident who is younger than Carol but still ten years older than he is, was his new girlfriend. Things had not worked out with Carol. They had broken up after Tito figured out that she only wanted him for the cigarettes and other gifts his family brought him. When no one visited or there was no money, Carol stayed away from Tito. He was talking marriage again. He wanted a good life with someone—or with anyone who would take him. He warned me that he would be asking me for help to buy Sienna a wedding ring, but I advised him to put it on hold, not to rush into anything. I didn’t want him to be disappointed yet again. He insisted that Sienna was the one, the one he had been waiting for all his life. Using a Mexican cultural practice, I told him to test out the relationships with a plazo—a period of waiting. That way they could get to know each other. Then, if they stayed together for a year, I would gladly support him and attend his marriage. I’d even help him to buy the ring. At first, when I suggested the idea, Tito fought it. So lonely and so desperate to have a family or someone to be physically there for him, he longed to get married. It was
the solution for him. After some thought, he decided that a plazo was a good way to test their commitment to each other. “We will wait,” he told me. “Both of us will work on our relationship. We will try to make it last so we can get married. Thanks, Momma.” I hung up the telephone, wondering if this relationship would end as the others had. Most of the time I’m with him, I pray that he finds someone to share his life with. Not so that I can be released from the responsibility, but so he can have love and companionship. Oh, how I wish that for him. Later, Tito called me again. He had more to share. The times we spent on the phone were never sufficient for him—and this time he wanted to hear more about the last
time he took a flight into health with our family’s assistance. “Last time you came to visit we talked, I didn’t tell you everything, Momma,” he said. “Forgot to tell you about what brought it to a head. Well, Love’s Board and Care evicted me once again. I lost count, but it’s somewhere around thirty.” Tito talked as if I had not been the one
who made all of the arrangements for his last move: “My Uncle Ricardo turned me on to his former mother-in-law who lived in Hialeah, Florida. She runs a facility for people like me. That was when the idea of moving became like a light bulb attracting bugs. Obsessing on that place as the magic pill to my problems, I asked you to send me there. Then I started begging you, not leaving the issue out of our conversation until you finally gave into my demand. In my deluded mind, I thought this move would get me away from everything I experienced, and everyone that persecuted me. It made perfect sense to me—I was in the middle of one of those paranoid phases—that the distance would take me away from it all and make me less of a burden for you and our relatives. Thought I could run from all I feared, all that bothered me, away to that paradise I imagined Hialeah to be.” Taking me back to that flight into health, Tito said, “When the eviction came, I had finally convinced you to look into that place called Casa de Paz, or House of Peace, in Florida. Even its name called out to me. It turned out to be a legitimate business that checked out with everybody. It was licensed, and having Xiomara—not a Mexican but a Cuban who ran the place and was a retired pharmacist who understood how to work with people like me—made it even sweeter for you. Remember? You made all the arrangements. You reserved a place for me with $1,500. Helped me transfer my case. Jenny Nolan, the case manager who tried to discourage me at first, also did all she could to help. But deep
Away from all that was familiar, which he imagined as bad and harmful, Tito believed he was in a better place . . .
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down inside, I suspected she wanted me out of her caseload. I really made her work for her money. “Not convinced that this was the best thing for me and with reservations, Jenny transferred my Social Security to Florida. When all was finally arranged and payment reached them, a room was set aside. And Momma, whether you agreed with it or not, you bought me a one-way ticket, warning me that I had to deal with my new environment in the best way I could. But you didn’t make it easy for me to leave. You tried to convince me that I was running away from myself. Told me schizophrenia would go with me and unless I left my mind behind—I laughed at your unintended humor—It would all go where I went.” I now better understand the fear that had pushed Tito away. I remembered. He didn’t want to hear anyone tell him that all would come to naught. Away from all that was familiar, which he imagined as bad and harmful, Tito believed he was in a better place without acknowledging that he would find himself immersed in the fears that instigated his anxiety. “In spite of everything, and against everyone’s advice, I left the area. Failed to listen when you told me that if I were running away form gangs and drugs, I would likely find them in Florida. My mind was set. I had already decided to get away from it all, and the only viable solution for me became Florida. Only other option I would even contemplate was to live with my family—there was no other recourse. But I had burned all my bridges and no one wanted me in their places—I was trouble and all knew about my manipulative ways. I guess that’s what a mentally-ill-in-training-of-twenty-something-years does when he has no explanation for what ails him. None of us had a clue, least of all me.” “So I took my one-way ticket ride. Went to Greyhound. Still can’t believe I did it, what with all the paranoia I carried. But I stayed to myself. Didn’t talk to anyone. Just minded my own business. When I arrived in Florida, I tried to become part of the new place. But what I didn’t count on was the way these people would feel about me, a Mexican cholo-identified retard. That’s how I think the Latinos saw me. From the beginning, I had troubles with the caretakers—I think they were undocumented workers from Colombia or Panama. The only thing that saved me was my family-member status of sorts. My relationship to Uncle Ricardo protected me somewhat, but not with those who wanted to keep me in my Mexican place. This was when I learned that some Cubans and Central Americans are just as anti-Mexican as gringos. “Soon I began burning the telephone wires with calls to you, every chance I had. I called, called, and called. Told
you I thought I had made a mistake but I would try to stick it out. Two, three, four, and five weeks passed. It was hard not seeing the family, just like you had told me. If I had been afraid of being lonely with some of you around, I now felt completely isolated, with absolutely no one to visit. I truly was on my own. And here I was on the opposite side of the country, thousands of miles away. Wished I had listened to you and all who warned me.” Things did not get any better for Tito. He was more needy, and just as desperate for attention, but he took on a more acceptable demeanor. “There, I made some appearance changes,” he continued. “Shed my hard-guy, ese-vato-loco image. For fear of being harassed, one thing I did was to drop the red rag. No more colors. No more Dickies. Gave up my Chinese slippers. I got rid of my cholo-ized ways of dressing, fearing that gangs would soon find me, even in the remote corners of Florida. Dressed more in a preppy old-man style, with slacks, suit jackets, and a tie. Florida was good for me. After two months, though, I realized that this was not the place for me. And as you and Jenny had warned, the things I was running away from never left me. Still, filled with ideas about what it means to be a man about it, I tried to make it work.
“One problem I had was with my roommate, who was more depressed than me. One time I found him trying to hang himself. Don’t know how, but I talked him out of it. Kept him distracted. Told him about my situation so he would see he wasn’t the only one. That he wasn’t alone anymore. He listened and was fine for a while, but that only worked once. His pain
must’ve been too great, greater than his fear of dying. He needed to get away. The day came when he killed himself. Good thing I wasn’t in the room. But I found him. He succeeded in hanging himself from a beam in the bedroom we shared. Blue-black and lifeless, there was nothing anyone could do. The morgue came and took him.” I never imagined the horrors, but it was at your own insistence that we relocated you, I thought as I listened. You really believed things would change, and I wanted them to change for you. “Frightened by what I had experienced and without a roommate to distract me,” Tito went on, “I became fixated on my fears and started begging to come home. It was then that the urgency to return dominated my mind. Again, I began burning the telephone wires with my calls to you, Momma. The trip to Florida was a hard lesson learned, though. All of you had been right. No matter where I went, I couldn’t get away from myself.”
. . . without acknowledging that he would find himself immersed in the fears that
instigated his anxiety.
Note: Check back page for info on the reading of A Life On Hold.
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Breathing in the Panic(From Chapter One: Things As Things Are)If you desire healing, let yourself fall ill. —Rumi
I’m grasping the top of the desk, whorls of white-creased joints trembling behind eight blood-drained fingertips, resisting the impulse to run. My entire biology screams for flight. Instead I freeze in place, oblivious to the blare of the music coming from the designer’s desk just outside my door. I’m staring dutifully into an oversized Apple monitor like most of the editorial team scattered around the second floor of the weekly magazine office. I’m staring into stacked lines of text, carved out pecks and scratches running along furrows in a nonsensical rhythm. Somewhere in my core a wild shuttering threatens to surface. I wheel in long, thin breaths as if from some distant well. The inhalation clamps down on the rising panic, compressing the rebellious tremors in my stomach, bearing down with the weight of desperate intention. Each exhalation softens my grip, allowing these layers of fear to peel away, a weightless moult drifting on the air. In again—rushes fresh terror and another temptation for the will to crumple, to give in to what I assume would be irreparable madness. Another threading breath. Another tightening.
I’ve got to get the fuck out of here. Perched at this endpoint of the productivity humming beyond my walls, I force myself to sit with the obligations and expectations of my position. After what feels like a respectable period of panic, I stand uneasily. Stumbling over the streaming cords at my feet, I push forward, walking just fast enough to avoid any interrupting signals from the staff. I have to instruct my legs not to run down the stairs, stairs to the exit sign and into the air. A small kinky-coated dog paces on the other side of the glass and watches me vanish beyond the parking lot and up the street as the Catholic school students meander distractedly to the assortment of trucks and SUVs waiting to
carry them home. Terrified of being observed, I move down a set of limestone steps to the shaded path alongside the river. My breaths grow deeper and slower.The air is thick with flower fragrance and the light and shadow dance above and across the winding waters. I hone my focus, hoping to rein in this quaking, these racing thoughts, with outward-directed attention. I’ll cry, just a little, once, twice, as I plead with whatever power is beyond me. What is wrong with me? Why am I not getting better? Once or twice I’ll retreat
to old affirmations of a groundless faith, thanking a God for taking away my anxiety. Speaking things that are not as if they were. There are so many strategies. My breath plants me in the present moment and I observe intensely, intentionally, the shape and rustle of trees, the near imperceptible movement of clouds, the sound of my feet sweeping over the cement path, the press of gravity, my embodied thickness. I repeat the Buddhist blessing, “May all sentient creatures everywhere be happy.” I imagine my
As a columnist and
investigative journalist,
Greg Harman has long
written about issues of
environmental justice
and public health in
Texas. But in 2012, his
decades of struggle with
depression and panic
disorder came to a head,
inspiring him to make his
own recovery a full-time
pursuit. A year later, he
began writing about that
process, which, for him,
included participation in
an experimental device
trial targeting those with
so-called “treatment-
resistant depression.”
He published his first
book, “After Depression:
What an experimental
medical treatment taught
me about mental illness
and recovery,” in July
hoping to contribute to the
destruction of the “deeply
damaging and misguided
stigmatization of those who
suffer from depression’s
drag and the broad array
of mental intensities trailing
along in its billowing cloak.”
(Introduction quote)
—What follows is an
excerpt from “After
Depression” used with
permission from the author.
For more information, visit
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respiration as a wind filling not my lungs but my heart. It enters as through a curtain; it passes through in a prayer. It’s still a month before I will quit my job and slide a rope around my neck, seeking to silence the unbearable flashes of lightning-like panic, the terrible current buzzing like a jammed doorbell that rushes from mind to body, scrambling reality and reason. Right now, I am sitting by the water. I am crossing a bridge. I am on a dirt path. I am losing focus. I’m sweating. A barge moves by — I don’t remember hearing it — and the water folds back, back upon itself, inverting the wall, the path, the bushes and trees of the opposing bank. I am losing focus. One fold into the next, water always changing hands in light, then hiding another emptiness. I imagine falling beneath the dancing surface and into its unreflecting fluidity, its meanderings imperceptible beyond the occasional snip of cottonwood leaf or disintegrating plastic. The dance is lifting sediment that shelters and soon buries the homes of river cooters and aluminum cans, engine parts and leaden fishing weights. Sometimes there are fish, their only evidence in the murk a sudden, audible redirection of the shimmering and streaming ripples traveling until they die, this way or another. One less insect sitting on the light. A convincing teacher once said, “Suffering is the repeated unwillingness to accept things as they are.” Internalizing that message, I made lists of everything I regretted, disliked, resented. Then I turned these surveys into chronicles of acceptance. I accept completely who I am and take full responsibility for all my actions: good, bad, neutral. I accept that I am prone to panic attacks and suicidal bouts of depression. I embrace my heart, full to bursting with the desire for love, service, companionship. I return to a desk of tightly pressed and polished wood dust and glue, an object full of emptiness and poison. I answer a few emails. I watch a video. No one comes to my door. They only watch, warily, uncertain about the changes that have overtaken me these last months. This is how it’s been since I gathered them together to tell them of my panic attacks, that I’d be cutting my hours and going into an outpatient mental-health program. A few will approach in the weeks to come to tell me of their secret struggles. There’s a law of vulnerability at work here, a tender reminder of the life’s indiscriminate hardness and our need for connection. Perhaps such intimacies could have prevented this confounding obliteration of personal power. Perhaps if they had started years ago before my relationships began falling away in clumps with each job-related move. But there’s a momentum behind these forces that can no longer be avoided or redirected. I’d talked about leaving my job at
the news magazine for years, dispirited by an accelerating pace of staff dismissals, the ownership’s apparent lack of interest in our news mission, and a constant low-level
pressure to sell our readers on the hamburgers, nightclubs, and craft beers
our advertisers promoted. But now? There was no more
debate. I knew I’d have to leave, make way for someone still
blessedly unsavaged by stress, one of those fortunates who had so
far dodged this colliding symptomology. Nothing
is certain, I think. Everything is tenuous. But I’ve lost focus. I have
to focus again.
—Overcoming depression is a critical challenge for
tens of millions of people around the world. Many
continue to suffer silently from this global epidemic due to the stigma that still
surrounds mental illness. Harman hid his own illness for more than 20 years, despite the difficulties this created in his personal and professional lives. But a convergence of suicidal depression and raging panic attacks finally forced him to make recovery his primary concern. Quitting his job as a newspaper editor, he joined an experimental device trial promising relief via magnetic waves. This is the story of his involvement with synchronized transcranial magnetic stimulation (sTMS), the evolving world of brain medicine, and the depression epidemic at large. It is also, perhaps more significantly, a story about the human problem of suffering and the challenges and joys of recovery—a story of one person’s ongoing effort to live meaningfully with illness and transform his life into one of service. It is a story of dreams, determination, spiritual conflict, and complicated histories. As the title suggests, it is a passionately recounted quest to discover what comes after depression. —Check amazon.com.
image by Greg Harmon
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Notas Y MásSeptember 2015
Brief news items on upcoming community events. Send items for Notas y Más to: [email protected]
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The 3rd Biannual Sal Castro Memorial Conference on the emerging historiogra-phy of the Chicano Movement takes place Feb. 26 & 27, 2016 at the University of California, Santa Barbara. Graduate stu-dents and faculty who are writing on Chi-cano history or the movement may submit a 5000 word proposal and short CV. to Pro-fessor Mario T. García at [email protected]. Deadline: September 1st.
The Flor de Nopal Literary Festival 2015 at the Emma S. Barrientos Mexi-can American Cultural Center in Austin promotes the work of Mexican American poets and writers. Writing workshops will be offered on September 5th led by Wade Martin and Vincent Cooper and on Oc-tober 10th led by Nicole Moore, Sarah Shaney and Ben Olguin. All workshops will be held at the Raul Salinas Room from 2-5pm. Free and open to all! Contact: [email protected]
On September 10th and 11th Greenlights of Austin will present Mission Driven, A Summit For Social Innovation at the Wes-tin Austin at the Domain. The conference presents a unique opportunity for nonprofit
and social enterprise leaders, mission in-vestors, funders and other social change leaders to come together in a format that will spark new relationships and solutions to persistent social issues. For info see: greenlights.org/training-events
The MALDEF 2015 San Antonio Awards Gala is on for Friday, September 18th at the Westin Riverwalk at 420 W. Market St. A 6pm reception will be followed by a 7pm Dinner and Awards Program hon-oring Al Kauffman, Professor of Law, for Lifetime Achievement, Excellence in Legal Service; Marcela Díaz, Executive Director of Somos Un Pueblo Unido for Excellence in Community Service and Pedro A. Rodriguez, former Executive Director of The Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center for Excellence in Community Service. For sponsorships and tickets: call 213.629.2523x114, email [email protected] or visit maldef.org
Jewish Voice for Peace San Antonio will be screening the award-winning documen-tary “5 Broken Cameras” on October 3rd at 2:30 pm in the auditorium of the Central Library, 600 Soledad. It will be followed
by a discussion. The film documents the at-tempts of one Palestinian village to resist the expansion of Israeli settlements onto their farmlands. Free. Email [email protected] or check facebook.
Mark your calendar for the Texas Book Festival’s 20th anniversary! More than 250 authors will invade the city of Austin at the TXBOOKFEST on October 17 & 18th. See texasbookfestival.org for details.
The Paul & Daisy Soros Fellowships for New Americans supports 30 New Ameri-cans, immigrants or the children of immi-grants, who are pursuing graduate school in the U.S. Applications for 2016 are now open to college seniors, students in early stages of graduate school and those in the workforce seeking graduate training. Each Fellowship supports up to two years of graduate study in the U.S. with up to $90,000 in support. The deadline for ap-plication is November 1, 2015 at 11:59 pm EST. Thirty Fellowship winners, se-lected from among 77 finalists, will be no-tified in March of 2016. Check the website
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Sinister WisdomCALL FOR ENTRIES
... writings intersecting performance & lesbian feminism. All creative forms and expressions encouraged.
Contact Alexis Clements [email protected].
Deadline is December 31, 2015.
The Tomás Rivera Mexican America Children’s Book Award 20th Anniversary sponsored by Texas State University, San Marcos, Texas
September 25 & 26, 2015The Rivera Book Award Literature Fair San Marcos Public Library & Activity Center
Saturday, September 26, 10am - 3pm —with award-winning authors & illustrators, readings, performances and more...
The Rivera Book Award Conference LBJ Center, Texas State University campus
Friday, September 25, 8:45am - 4pm Keynotes: Rosie Castro & Juan Felipe Herrera
To register go to: riverabookaward.org/20th-anniversary
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LA VOZ de ESPERANZA • September 2015 Vol. 28 Issue 7•
Non-Profit Org.US Postage
PAIDSan Antonio, TX
Permit #332
Esperanza Peace & Justice Center922 San Pedro San Antonio TX 78212210.228.0201 • www.esperanzacenter.org
Haven’t opened La Voz in a while? Prefer to read it online? Wrong address? TO CANCEL A SUBSCRIPTION EMAIL [email protected] CALL: 210.228.0201
Noche Azul de Esperanza
Serenata MexicanaA tribute to Mexico’s greatest composer of ranchera music,
José Alfredo JiménezSaturday, September 19, 2015 | 8PM @ Esperanza | $5
Second SaturdaySaturday, September 12th
10am @ Casa de Cuentos, 816 S. Colorado
Gather your Westside photos, 1880 -1960 & bring them to El
Rinconcito de Esperanza
for photo scanning and story sharing
ApplicAtionS26th Annual Mercado de Paz /
Peace Market • Nov. 27 & 28, 2015
Due Thursday, October 1st DownLoad Apps from our website or pick them up at, 922 San Pedro, SAN ANTO, tX
ww.esperanzacenter.org | 210.228.0201
by Josie Méndez Negrete
*published by University of New Mexico Press
A Life on Hold: Living with Schizophrenia*
Phot
o: ©
2013
Jes
ús M
anue
l Men
a G
arza
Book Reading and Pláticaby Josie Méndez-Negrete
with special guestsSaturday Sept. 26, 20157 pm • FreeEsperanza Center
A reading by Latina/o LGBT activists from SA and beyondSat. Oct. 10, 20157 pm • Free • Esperanza Center Plática on Sunday, October 11, at 10 am, Casa de Cuentos, 816 S. Colorado St., SA TXpublished by University of Texas Press
October 5th DEADline for submission of Calaveras y Ofrendas for November 2015, La Voz de Esperanza
Cal
aver
a by
Am
anda
Haa
s