May my voice not falter,
so my throat doesn't tighten up.
May my voice not falter,
so my throat doesn't tighten up.
By Juan David Cruz Duarte
One afternoon, darker than the others, as she read a novel she had just bought at a bookstore downtown, another violent storm broke out over the city. After the shipwreck, stormy afternoons would make her cry in silence.
The weather forecast called for a 70 percent chance of rain on Friday night—just another one of those jokes we’ve come to expect from the Queen City. The only prediction that came true was that the night of October 13 brought a deluge of art and culture to close out Hispanic Heritage Month.
“Here to Stay: The Art of the Immigrant” flooded the Bohemian Garden and Carillon Gallery with all the color, flavor, tradition, dreams, and stories that more than 20 Latino immigrant artists shared that night.
A piercing, irritating light, a light that taints everything and covers the sky with a reddish hue. The light disturbs the universe, vibrates in my chest, clings to my skin like sweat, like the remnants of an old, musty, warm dampness. Everything glows, and the glow is unbearable: red, red, red.
By Jesus Redondo
Child of the mountains,
valleys, gorges, and the weeping
of springs,
carved bark
half a century on,
how much have they changed
those dreams
that you never
managed to sketch in
native strokes
I’m going to start this article by telling a new story. The story of Nelly Tamez, a Mexican woman with a deep sense of connection to her Mexican roots, to her essence, and to her literature…