This photograph captures Dr. Ricardo Bogaert-Alvarez in a moment of true conviction. He is mid-reading the poem "Oh Americano," his hand raised emphasizing the urgency of his words. I took this photo during a Su Teatro's WordFest, which I attended as a CALMA intern. I witnessed how storytelling can serve as both a reflection and catalsyt for social change. During the event, I heard "Oh Americano" for the first time. This poem calls for courage, unity, and responsibility in th

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

March 31 is the birthday of Cesario Estrada Chavez, the Chicano labor union organizer who gained fame in the 1960's and 70's for his achievements in the farm fields of California and the five-year-long grape boycott. After service in the U.S. Navy, Cesar, with Dolores Huerta and other activists, created the United Farm Workers, the UFW, the first viable agricultural worker union in the country. The UFW is eclipsed now, but it did have a strong impact on worker rights in the U

Americano There’s no room for tears today Believe in your heart Don’t have to be a soldier To fight against injustice Americano There’s no room for fear today Raise up your forehead You can make a difference In our troubled society Americano There’s no room for hate today In our troubled minds This is time to link our hands To strive hard for our future Americano There’s no room for doubt today These times need your voice These times need your clear vision These times n

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

It's time to accept that we are hopelessly multicultural. Too many powerful streams are flowing into the American ocean, each one bringing its own flavors into the cosmic mix. In spite of hostility to multiculturalism and the fear that accompanies it, we must be honest and admit that we enjoy drinking heady draughts out of those rivers. They are surefire cures for the boredom of sameness. A strong drink is coming up: Los Días de los Muertos, The Days of The Dead, November 1-8

Growing Intentionally via Systemic Thinking (GIST) A Conscious Awareness Approach Frank S. Dávila, PhD June 2024 Introduction Have you ever wondered where you would be at this very moment if you had chosen a different profession or career? You are not here by accident. You made a choice to pursue a career or your passion or simply to follow a new and exciting experience. And if you didn’t take any initiatives to find your best pathway, that too was a choice! Once you lan

Ricardo LaFore and Ernesto Alvarado, Musicians and Poets at St. John Frances Chapel Regis University

“The clock is ticking.” How many times have we used or heard that expression? Our daily activities replete with projects, activities or mundane pastimes whether uplifting or uninspiring, are measured by how much time we are able to dedicate to each one of them. And on occasions we are also reminded of our individual time as breathing human beings. Once we die, some will say, “his time was up!” And yet, time just keeps rolling along, with or without us. Age, catastrophic occur

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

Hispanic Heritage Month, Sept.15-Oct. 15, is upon us. Hispanic, Latino, Chicano, Mexican Heritage month is one of many ethnic months. Some people object to Hispanic Heritage Month because they fear Mexicans and other Latinos. That's what happens when there is a constant propaganda barrage about the "crisis at the border," when border guards push mothers and babies back into the water, balloon obstacles float in the water and chains and razor wire lace el Rio Grande, the Big R

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

Recently, I was asked how I decided what to write and how I approach the subject. I had never given this much thought but it appears I write about what is happening where I am. During the height of the Chicano Movement, I wrote and presented my poetry at rallies, meetings, and evening sessions with other poets. In the 1980s I worked on a Ph.D. and wrote three thirty-page term papers every three months to fulfill the requirements for my doctorate. Before I retired as a tenured

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

I don’t know what today may bring, yet, I rejoice that I have life and eyes to see the priceless marvels God so gracefully gifts me. In this mid-winter season, I gaze at the majesty of the Colorado Rockies in all their splendor. The noon-day sun illuminates their summit to sparkle like diamonds. Yesterday, many moons ago, I faced these same mountains with a heavy heart. What I faced seemed insurmountable. I wiped my tears and kept climbing. I will not dwell on yesterday’s pai

Even though I’m thousand of miles away from you I cry for you Kyiv Even though I was not born in your wonderful city I cry for you Kyiv Even though I can’t fire a rifle for you I cry for you Kyiv Even though I can’t stop the damn Russian tanks I cry for you Kyiv Even though they bombard you and may conquer you

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