Joe Barrera In the nostalgia time that comes at the end of December every year I remember my past life and what that past means for me now. In this town full of military veterans I think a lot about my Army life, the combat I saw in the Vietnam War, the long twisting road I have walked since I came home from the war, and the many other veterans who have walked that road with me. Christmas time is a powerfully special time, making every memory more real, making every reliving

The explosions wake me up at night. I'm back in the war. I almost roll off the bed to lie on the floor.The enemy is at it again. Mortar rounds. Then a shriek, a blast as the 75mm recoilless rifle round lands close. I'm caught in the open, in between waking and dreaming. It only lasts a moment. I wake up. I remember. It's the preliminaries for the 4th of July. Bottle rockets and the thick firecrackers that look like sticks of dynamite. Fireworks, just fireworks. The neighborh

I embrace the perpetual life link to the multitude of experiences, ordeals, occurrences, escapades, adventures, as well as the delightful, amusing, entertaining, pleasant and satisfying episodes that span my past life and that have impacted my present views that in turn continue to build my near future. Our entire life is filled with so many happy, sad, and fulfilling activities. Some we try to accentuate while others we attempt to squelch and yet, they all emerge at unexpect

Life was a whirlwind, never enough arms to haul and carry groceries, babies, and books. I seldom had enough time to hold and play with my little girls, cuddle my baby, or cook. The meat and vegetables I threw in the old crockpot were mush when I got home in the evening. I ate on the run rushing to college, I could barely taste it as I drove gulping my food, One day I read what the children had contributed to the Head Start cookbook. There were all kinds of cute dictations li

I remember my mom telling me that when she was a child growing up in Walsenberg, Colorado, how her teachers would hit kids on their outstretched fingers if they were caught speaking Spanish, either in the classroom or anywhere else on school grounds. She told me how, because of the constant humiliation she experienced, she'd promised herself she wouldn't teach her kids Spanish. In her youth, she was affected by what I call, "internalization of inferior status." Her opinion of

Maria Ramirez My heart was pounding with excitement to return to central Mexico. The scenery was breathtaking. I could not wait to visit other amazing states in the Republic. I didn’t nap, I did not want to miss a thing, especially the people that got on the bus offering their homemade delicacies. Their humble baskets cradled finger-licking treats. No companion was necessary, I had no worries about being hijacked by the cartel. I no longer travel by bus due to the risk of be

In 1965 I was seventeen, about to enter my senior year at Harrison High in Colorado Springs while I chased good times in the city of Pueblo with pals from my hometown Florence. Good times meant parties, dances, and admission to clubs with live music, even if we were underage. I’ve written before about how I was into soul music -- Motown or otherwise, including Chicano bands and singers from Pueblo who did their best to emulate the style and sophistication of groups such as t

Two women who lived with several Mexican states between them found themselves in a common place and time in a breath-taking setting, El CREFAL (Regional Center for the Education of Adults in Latin America) in Pátzcuaro, (Michoacán,) México. They shared an experience they had in common. The two women had been sent to prepare to go to the United States as exchange teachers. I had hosted these ladies in past years at my Colorado home for these programs of which Colorado and Mexi

Writing to me is like making tortillas for the first time. You must have the right ingredients and utensils: Ingredients Needed: Writing Tortillas Craving Four Hunger Salt Desire Baking Powder Persistence Shortening Momentum Hot Water Pride Heat Imagination Dreams Utensils: Pencil or Pen Rolling Pen Paper

My heart was pounding, not from fear like in these present times, but with excitement. No companion necessary, I had no worry of being hijacked by the cartel. The only delay, a quick stop, the driver opened the door and a line of thirsty, desperate migrants walked into the bus and quickly sat on the empty seats. My heart raced, not knowing what was going on. I stretched my neck and stared toward the driver, the other passengers behind me, and in front of me. No one said a wor