Breaking Boundaries

 Breaking Boundaries

By Armando Ortiz

-Mountains

These words flow

like the water that cuts through 

the Manzanar detention center,

exiting rusted barb wire fences

hiking up the alpine trails

dreaming of swimming icy waters,

dead wind passing between bones

brittle and cold, a makeshift cry

a cairn shrine with jagged horizons.

-Deserts

These words wander

like sweaty bronzed bodies walking north

that are captured and caged,

brushing against the golden ocotillo

traversing strange desert canyons

digging for water to soak the mouth,

midnight howls between rock and femur

stinging nights, pounding afternoons

baked boulders glowing at night. 

-Seas

These words wash up on the coast

swollen bodies float ashore 

the last breath of hope is spoken,

determined they boarded

sailing north, crossing the gulf

anxious to step on land,

waves drown out wails

tempestuous night crashing balsas

paper boats drifting like torn flags. 

-Highways

These words hum

wails drowned out by endless rolling

exhausted, the car is spewing black clouds,

crammed like sardines 

every breath is a last stand

seeking air as tolerances squeeze,

each exhale closer to that edge of delirium

holding back tears, but other’s cries pass

bodily fluids mix and the journey is at the brink.

-Skies

If words were ants they’d fly on drones

hover over the border and celebrate 

a grand entrance from sky to the floor,

like tiny spiders we’d float in the air past the walls

climb up to the highest tree on a windy day

and weave a string that would take us away,

if we had money we’d buy a new identity

then go to an embassy and apply for a visa

better yet, we’d enter as tourist and never return,

clouds are puffy with no worries to ponder

too old and wasted, but our children 

youth and energy can still make it.

-Perimeter patrols

These words are surrounded by mountains

barren land amongst tattered buildings 

barbed wire making cages,

breakthrough the boundaries

cancel the reservations

and escape from the ghetto,

boxes where we get encased

mind boundaries of color and identities

legal walls surround the body and mind,

take back what was lost

regain freedom and reconnect with earth

communities unite and break the gates.

Hiking White Mountain Peak Trail: Road Trips From Los Angeles

White Mountain Peak Trail, The White Mountain Wilderness of California

By Armando Ortiz

The White Mountain Wilderness hike is a visit that brought me great pleasure. Driving from Los Angeles, I took Interstate 5 north and continued on highway 14 until I eventually reached U.S. Highway 395. From there, I drove on the 395 until I reached Big Pine, CA, and soon afterward turned on highway 168, which heads east. After a few miles of climbing, I reached a slight plateau that led me to the intersection with White Mountain Road. This road takes you all the way to the White Mountain Peak Trailhead. 

It took me four hours to reach Grandview Campground, where I camped for the night. The Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest Visitor Center is about 15 minutes away from here, but this time does not include driving the final fifteen miles of gravel road, which can take up to an hour and a half.

One of the highlights of hiking this trail is the drive up to the trailhead, and how the terrain changes as you drive. Starting from the valley, I wound my way up to camp, driving through narrow canyons that took me through lime green pinyon groves. The road to this area is steep and winding, but the views are fantastic. Later, I learned that Native Americans seasonally lived in the pinyon sections of the mountains, harvesting the nuts inside pinecones and making homes from the bark of the tree. They also formed artificial ponds to have water accessible to them throughout the year. As you continue, pinyon trees get replaced by dark green junipers as big as oak trees, producing a purple berry that was also harvested and processed by the Paiute-Shoshone people. 

Additionally, this hike requires a car with good ground clearance to reach the trailhead. Although the dirt road to the trailhead is only 15 miles, the rocks and gravel  make it so that it takes more than an hour. So, as you plan this trip, take this into consideration. There is a camp 5 miles away from where the road turns into dirt - Grandview Campground. This place is an excellent spot for stargazing and a good rest stop.

The next morning, as I drove to the trailhead, I began to see fauna that you hardly see anywhere else in California, such as the ephedra plant, and mountain sagebrush. In addition, the juniper trees found at Grandview Campground were huge compared to other groves I saw in Utah on my visit to Zion National Park.  As these groves begin to thin out, ancient bristlecones begin to appear in small patches that top the slopes of the mountains. There is a grove of trees along this road called the Patriarch Grove that has a tree called Methuselah, and it is supposed to be 4,854 years old. You drive into an ecosystem that lives according to its own time, and its reality is far more enduring than all our lives.

Regarding the hike, make sure to pack snacks along with the 10 basic essentials for hiking. The fifteen-mile trail is a round trip hike with an elevation gain above 3,000 feet, so being well-prepared is of utmost importance. I remembered to put my phone on airplane mode to be accessible along the trail since the GPS continues to work even in airplane mode, making it convenient. Nevertheless, the trail is well defined, and seeing the directness of the path allowed me to focus on other matters.

As I started the hike, the trail’s grade was steep, but I paced myself, and all was fine. If you are unsure if you can make the hike to the top or because the fear of AMS is lingering on the back of your head, make the first section to the Research Center your goal. Then, try hiking about two more miles before you reach the high valley, where you will be granted a downward slope. 

Along this section of the trail, I occasionally spotted marmots watching my every move, and the clouds on both sides seemed out of this world. The ancient people would seasonally hike to these areas and hunt mountain sheep, processing the meat on top of the boulders laying across the ridge and valley. The brief descent was pleasant compared to the work ahead because once you hit the bottom, it will be all climbing, with the elevation increasing. Along the way, a runner passed me by, and a few minutes later a person who looked as if they had camped at the top of the mountain.

As I reached the high point at the other end of the valley, I began to see White Mountain Peak. Hiking this section feels like a dream because you feel like you’re walking on land floating in the clouds. The rocky trail that snakes itself to the top is also visible from here. Turning around, I could see the progress I’d made, enjoying views of the solitary valley that is peppered with boulders, wildflowers and unique wildlife. 

Next, I followed the trail down and soon found myself descending to the base of the ancient volcano, where I had to begin the climb once again. I ascended, and the air became crisp and thin, making breathing a conscious effort. At times I wondered if I was winded and needed to turn around, but my legs kept pushing forward. Upon reaching the point where there is an outcropping of black rock, the wind began to pick up, and I began second-guessing myself. The winds felt unusually strong, and looking around, I realized I was exposed to nature’s whims and desires. I paused for a moment, feeling the light drizzle, and could see the mountain ranges on the other side of the Owens Valley. 

I kept climbing, and the trail became rocky. The colors of the path seemed to change into darker and muted colors, black, rusty reds, and oxidized browns. I reached a point where there was a big snow patch blocking the trail, but the path took a sharp left turn, with small cairns serving as sign posts, reminding me that I was approaching a special place. The climb was steep, and at this point, I was taking breaks every couple of steps, but I knew that somehow I was nearing the top. 

Reaching the summit of White Mountain Peak, I was awestruck getting sight of melting ice forming trickling rivulets, splitting and flowing delicately towards the lower valleys thousands of feet below. This is where water originates, these mountains are sacred. But then again, our whole earth is just really a magical place. The views from here were incredible, with the Eastern Sierras in view, the southern mountain ranges I was hiking, and parts of Western Nevada. At the top. you look around and are in awe of everything. If you get near the edge, you’ll see drops that are hundreds of feet down- scary.

Driving to the trailhead takes you through many old trees, some of which look like they have been uprooted naturally, while others may have been affected by the road system that was recently built, according to human years, impacting these delicate groves. Driving through here is like a continuum into this other world, a vortex or earth ventricle of time and reality. You truly don't appreciate the sights until you drive through here and touch the trunks of these ancient ancestors. Later, as I was descending the trail, I suddenly heard the singing of a bird. As I searched for the origins of the sound, I saw a small bird with a yellow crest, and black horns. At this point, I felt like being at this high elevation was really having an effect on me. Later, I discovered that it was a horned lark greeting me along the trail. As I walked past the bird, I could see that I was actually walking on an Alpine saddle that was perfect for hunting.

Knowing that one can escape into such a different world that is actually tangible and yet so far from our daily lives makes hiking and the search for such adventures invaluable. It's one thing to visit temples and buildings that were built hundreds of years ago, but to drive through groves that are thousands of years old, to see rocks that had been in some way affected by humans that were in these areas hundreds if not thousands of years ago, made me reflect on how our interactions with nature are sacred and very special. On my return home, I did some research and found an online edition of the book Natural History of the White-Inyo Range: Eastern California published by the UC system, which provided me with valuable information in writing this piece. 

MacArthur Park: Santos

MacArthur Park: Santos 

By Armando Ortiz

Santos had recently arrived in Los Angeles. He’d taken the train to the U.S., the one they call La Bestia, and spent a few months wandering around Mexico to get to the US. Bella, his sister, found it odd that along the way he’d been stranded by several coyotes. Usually a coyote committed themselves to taking the person the whole way till they reached a destination where a known business associate would complete the trip for them. His journey had been different though, because after he managed to get to Guadalajara, he apparently got stranded, and turned up in Mexico DF a few months later. In between he’d call his loving sister and beg for money. Bella didn’t have much, but would figure things out, like find a cleaning gig in West Los Angeles or help clean the Laundromat that was two blocks away from her house on 3rd street. Every ounce of sweat that came out of that 5 foot figure was worth more than gold to her, since it was the family that was being helped. 

For Santos, it seemed that Bella had made it in the U.S., since every time he found himself in a bind he’d just dial the numbers and in a few days money filled both pockets. Santos was escaping Honduras. His parents thought he’d moved out and had been working at a tobacco company, which he had for a while, but he’d really started to gamble, drink and hang out with the wrong crowd. Circumstances made it necessary for him to relocate somewhere far as soon as possible, hence his abrupt decision to head north. It seemed that kind eyes were looking after him from above.   

When he finally arrived in LA he was sent to MacArthur Park to get his papers in order. Any person who had recently crossed the border and needed a fake identification card or green card went to the park to get them- a bazaar of illegal documents for sale. He’d been walking north along Alvarado Blvd. when suddenly he saw his elementary school friend, Jose, who was standing by the corner of the Botica Del Pueblo. He looked different, but his facial features were distinguishable. He wasn’t wearing shorts nor was his old friend barefoot. Instead Nike Cortez protected those running feet, and for some reason his hair was slicked back, like a cow lick. His brown slacks were ironed clean as if a black pinstripe ran along the front and back of his legs. 

“Jose, is that you? It’s me Santos from La Colonia Ceiba. We used to play ball.” Jose at first gave him a dirty look, a chiseled looking profile made of stone turned into astonishment, which as if elastic transformed into a smile of familiarity. 

“Santos, wassup foo, wachu doin around here?” 

“You know, work,” replied Santos in Spanish. 

Bella was familiar with the area, since she’d occasionally go buy toiletries at El Piojito, but she never really stuck around the area since she was too busy with work. She had given Santos a piece of paper with a small map that she had drawn. Santos knew he was near. Only a few more blocks to go before reaching the place his sister said reliable green cards were sold. He showed the sketch to Jose telling him he was sent to that location. Jose looked at the paper and spat on the ground and his face had suddenly become wrinkled - his cold stare returned. 

“Who the fuck sent you there, ese?,” inquired Jose, with a hard nod to the skies while keeping eye contact. 

“My sister said that’s where she got her papers,” replied Santos. 

“Well your sister is wrong ese. No seas bayunco, si tienes pedo ponte listo cabron” Jose sounded angry. 

“Calmado, calmado,” said Santos, slightly raising his arms and showing Jose his palms. “Mira loco, I just got here and all I am trying to do is get my papers to get a job. If you can help me with that then I’ll be grateful.” 

“How much you got foo?,” he was asked. 

“Pues, this is what my sister gave me. She said it was enough get a mica,” he replied. 

“Aver,” there was a moment of pause before his voice broke through the sound of passing cars, “esos cabrones te estan robaaando. I sell papers much cheaper than that, vente conmigo,” he swung his arm forward signaling Santos to follow him. Like a blind man following another blind man, Santos followed disappearing, into the alleys that were barren under the noon sun. 

To be continued…

Mark Danner's The Massacre at El Mozote: Book Review

 The Massacre at El Mozote: Book Review (7/22)

By Armando Ortiz

Reading The Massacre at El Mozote by Mark Danner left a deep impression on me. Danner narrates a massacre that took place in El Salvador in the 1980s in a series of towns that had been believed to be friendly to leftist guerrillas. Between the late 1970s and the mid-90s El Salvador was involved in a civil war that killed many people and displaced countless more. The book itself has a bit of a slow start and details a rough outline of what the book is about -the civil war of El Salvador. As you continue reading the book you begin to see the tragedy that is told and narrated by people who saw the executions take place, and the reports generated by journalists that visited the location.The last part of the book is a collection of all the documents used to support Danner’s narrative.

As I read the book I was struck by the way people were assassinated. An image began to develop in my mind. It wasn't an image that sprung forth from the writings found in the book, but came from my childhood memories. When I was just a child, my mom would receive different evangelical pamphlets, booklets and small posters from the church that we attended. These various zines and fliers talked about the coming of Jesus, the end of the world, and judgment day, where everyone’s actions would be judged by god. If you were found guilty of being a sinner you would face eternity in hell. 

These images on paper showed characters that lived in sin and had died only to come face to face with the creator. In addition to that a poster that had been pinned on the side of our pantry showed the different forms of torture that would happen to real Christians. According to the book of Revelations, the devil would come down and start his reign of terror killing all who did not ge the mark of the beast. All the people that would die in the name of Jesus would be resurrected on the final Judgment Day. 

These cartoon-like images showed people being burned at the stake with yellow, orange and red flames engulfing the person, being shot to death by machine guns and gun shells flying out of the muzzle, and people being hacked to pieces by people armed with swords. Well, to me the book not only detailed the apocalypse that the people in El Mozote experienced, but also described how some Christian groups who had decided to not side with either the guerillas or the army became targets. 

Danner goes on to describe the death of a young woman who gets assaulted repeatedly and as that happens all she does is sing Christian songs. Reading through this section was as if my childhood memories were no longer really what they had been after having had this veil of truth removed before me. It was disturbing to read these facts, and as I kept reading the book I began to remember a song from a musician that was very famous during that time and is probably still played today, Stanislao Marino. In his song, La Gran Tribulacion he talks about the great tribulation, and describes how all true Christians would rise up to heaven to meet their creator. 

In this song he states, “se oye un grito, un lamento, un soyoso much gente esta alarmada, que a pasado se pregunta, que a pasado en el mundo,”  “you hear a scream, a lamentation, a lot of alarmed people, what’s happened they ask, what’s happened in the world, and hums a hymn.” He continues his song with, “una joven, va gritando, mamaaa! Un esposo va buscando su familia, unos dicen que una nave mucha gente se llevo, pero escuchen alo lejos alguien grita, cristo  vino, cristo vino, y su pueblo se llevo, no hay remedio, no hay salida, es la gran tribulacion,” “a youngling screams, moooom, a husband goes around looking for his family, some say that a spaceship a lot of people took, but listen at a distance someone yells, Christ came, Christ came and took its community. It's the Great Tribulation!” This song kept playing in my head, haunting me, like a scratched record that takes you back to the beginning. 

Reading the book took me back to my youth. It also made me think of this nauseating situation where I was listening to these songs, and began to imagine and to think of the people over in El Salvador and Guatemala that lived through these tribulations. Children being bayoneted and parents being hacked for being from a community that had to deal with groups that were both enemy and friend. 

The week spent reading the book was also the week I drove to the White Mountain Trailhead to hike White Mountain Peak. As I drove to the location I had to pass through the ancient bristlecone forest. Driving on that road and through the forest was an unreal experience. Not only did it seem that I was entering a different world, but it seemed that the book had had such an impression on my psyche that the fallen trees looked like petrified mummies, some looked like they were characters from the movie Pan's Labyrinth, other trees looked like they could be memorials to the people killed in El Mozote. This was especially true on my return drive through the gravel road that takes you back to the main road. To me the root systems of these ancient trees showed frozen images of people in agony, crying eyes, frightened faces, and still born babies. The branches of these old trunks looked like arms that were extended to some imagined place of safety, and had been begging for life before they were pulled out of the ground. 

I wondered if all that I was seeing was somehow connected to the book that I had been reading or was it that these ancient trees tell us something about our destruction of each other and our environment. Driving through the curves of the mountain I wondered if the singer knew what was happening in Central America when he made the song. How had he managed to get such a feeling through his music, but then was that feeling projected to those that had not experienced those tragedies. Was his music being played in the communities that would one day be burned to the ground or only in places where the fiction of the mark of the beast and the second coming of Jesus was preached? Eerie question to consider.

The River Speaks

The River Speaks

By Armando Ortiz

The river

speaks a language

reflecting on its day

the river 

moves gently

while aspens wave

a bird dives down 

and disappears into

the growing shade.

The river

talks with the moon

late into the evening

the river’s 

story empties

into a liquid garden

unending flow

time unknown

its sounds widen.

Redwood National and State Parks: Road Trips from Los Angeles

Redwood National and State Parks

By Armando Ortiz

Visiting the Redwoods in Northern California is a trip that everyone should have as a goal. This place is one of the most unique places in the world, where you get to walk through redwood forests and see wildlife by the road’s edge. To get here from Southern California you will take Interstate 5 and head north, and you will drive through the Transverse Ranges of Southern California which lead you to the bountiful and long San Juaquin valley. The drive through gentle hills and windy passes of the valley is long, all mixed with the smells of domesticated animals and their byproducts, produce being processed, and petrol being pumped from the ground. As you reach Los Banos you will be faced with various directional options that take you north. 

At Los Banos you could take the 152 to the U.S. Highway 101 where you will pass Gilroy, the garlic capital of the U.S. You drive a few minutes north and take the 130 which connects to San Jose. If you join the 101 at Gilroy you will drive through different cities like San Jose, and San Francisco, and will have the pleasure of seeing how the landscape slowly changes as you go from urban landscapes to suburbia and into clear open spaces that merge into the forests. 

Once you drive past Santa Rose you will begin your climb up the rolling mountains with oak trees lining the highway. The weather here will be hot if you come during the summer. It will be like being in Southern California in the hottest months of the year. Once you get into the Leggett you will begin to spot solitary redwoods and begin to notice a slight change in the weather although it might still be warm. Continue to drive north, observe the differences between this area and the northernmost areas of the Redwood forest, and appreciate how resilient and adaptable these trees are. 

Another option is taking the 580 or simply staying on the I-5. If you choose to stay on the interstate highway the drive will be direct, a bit faster, but the landscape will simply be an extension of what you’ve already seen driving through the Southern part of the valley. Once you reach Red Bluff, CA the landscape will begin to change. To your left and right sides of the road you will see oak trees begging to show up and you will have the choice of getting on California State Route 36 and heading west. This road connects to the 101 at Fortuna, CA. You may continue on to Redding. Once you get to Redding the trees that you see will be pine. At this town you can take the California State Route 299 west which also connects to the 101 at Arcata,CA. Once here you decide what places you want to explore and visit, which can probably take a lifetime to do.

The drive to this park from Los Angeles is long and at times boring, but believe me, the trip will be well worth your time. The trees look like pillars to cathedrals, and camping by the creeks that flow through some camps will make you feel like a millionaire. Being shaded by the redwoods and sycamores is also pretty awesome. Just pack your stuff and go there, just go there and experience what was once so common along the north coast of California a few generations ago.

Once you’ve passed Mendocino county you can explore the towns of Arcata and Crescent City with the other smaller towns that pepper the areas between these two towns. The main draw to this region are the State and National Parks, so go ready to spend time outdoors. If you have the time, consider going further north on the 101 and into Oregon. There is a trail up there called the Oregon Redwoods Trail which is not so far away and worth a trip.

El Dorado: Sketches of Los Angeles

El Dorado: Sketches of Los Angeles

By Armando Ortiz

They rushed towards the park knowing very well that there would be kids with their parents everywhere. They unloaded their carts from the pickup truck, and as soon as fat rubber tires touched the ground they began pushing towards the direction where Pan Pacific Park was located, as if all roads lead to that place. For these paleteros all sidewalks led to the park, it was their Rome, their source of income, where the circus was, and the money flowed into their pockets, while their popsicles left their carts at equal pace. 

They all pushed their carts at an ever increasing speed. Some hadn’t walked a full block from where they had started and tiny little sweat droplets were beginning to form on their forehead, perfect popsicle weather. Equivel couldn’t pick up their pace because he’d been assigned the cart that had other items besides popsicles, like automated bubble makers, bags of potato chips, water guns and sand box toys. His, and others’ ill fated attempts at pushing the cart faster only made their mobile store shake and rattle, while the wheels began to feebly turn unevenly. The others, though, were able to make a beeline to the park, because their wheels were like those of a small all-terrain vehicle. The weight of the cart and aggressive tire pattern were perfect for sidewalks and green parks.

Raul and Diburcio were the ones ahead of everyone else, which meant that they’d be the first ones inside the park and would get to hustle the prime areas where the real money was made. Nevertheless, there was one area that was deemed “El Dorado.” El Dorado means the gold nugget, but it could also mean the fried one, and with this weather they’d be cooking themselves by the time noon hit. This tiny little spot was called that because of the amount of kids that gravitated to the playground and the total number of adults that kept their eagle eyes on them. 

There one could find single moms taking their sons and daughters to the park, nannies that had recently arrived to the US, and came from countries like Mongolia, Mexico, Cambodia and El Salvador. There were the old grandmothers strolling around with their kid’s kids, and the dads that didn’t have anything else to do but take their children to the park to run around and let the sun exhaust all the energy from their child’s bodies. 

This wasn’t the only thing that made this particular spot into prime paletero real estate, no there was more, beside the playground there was a baseball field that had people playing baseball, practicing Frisbee and kicking soccer balls. People were always there and they always seemed to be tired and sweaty, which made a nice cold popsicle an alluring and refreshing snack. 

All five paleteros had to make it to the park and get to their tiered spots. Esquivel, pushing the cart with all the other goodies couldn’t help but reflect on the day he’d have, walking around the park and honking his horn, all while the blazing sun was out. He took a deep breath and accepted that the heat would be tough, but with the rays it was a good chance he too would sell out. Diburcio and Raul were half a block away from the park and at points their short bodies seemed to stretch beyond the limits and make their legs give leap-like steps. They were young and their early years of working alongside their parents on the maize fields had built them up a bit.

As they came to the last stretch before entering the park both had to turn their carts on the corner. Diburcio had taken the lead and had managed to cross the intersection, while Raul instead of waiting for the green light to turn on decided to make a left on his side of the street and push the cart with more leverage in order to catch up and surpass Diburcio. They were like deer running towards an unknown destination, two tugboats pushing their goods to port where all the people would soon swamp them like flies and take all the popsicles away. They both wanted to reach the spot and claim it as their own. Of course, to think that today was the only time that this happened was to think that in Los Angeles the sun came out once a month. No, this was a daily occurance, and a daily challenge, but they all took it with good stride, because all the paleteros knew each other. 

Parks in the Los Angeles area is where the popsicle market was always, always hot. It only rains about a month out of the year and the rest of the time it is nice and sunny. Even in the middle of winter, their customer base would change and you’d have people from the Midwest or East Asia proudly buy popsicles and state that the cold of L.A. was child’s play compared to their lands of origin. To the paleteros money making was their aim they’d all come from the same small town somewhere in Mexico or Central America and they gladly sold to anyone.

Raul and Diburcio were cousins, but both were very competitive when it came to sports and meeting women, but when it came to making a day’s wages they were cut throat with each other. Raul had finally caught up with Diburcio, but he was still across the street. They were pushing their carts at a similar pace, they were neck to neck, the scene was beginning to resemble a horse race, but in this race the photo finish would not tell who the winner was, no, who ever managed to roll his cart down the hill and onto the playground would win, and competition amongst human beings, like horse races, sometimes included cheating or chance circumstances. 

Raul knew he had to cross the street and start heading to the park soon, so he knew that despite his precarious lead he would have to push the cart much harder and much faster than he already was doing. Diburcio on the other hand seemed to relish the challenge, and let Raul pass him, and began to slowly let Raul get ahead of him. Hopefully he’d get exhausted pushing the cart by the time he got to the park, or he’d trip over the protruding root of a tree. 

The entrance to the park was next to the public library. The library was also a decent spot to have a popsicle cart, but it wasn’t as exciting. Most people that walked into the building stayed there longer than expected. They all guessed it was because of the air conditioner that kept the library at a cool 68 degrees in the middle of summer. Both their goals were to be the first to reach “El Dorado,” and to spend a few hours there and sell everything inside the cart and then go catch a soccer game at the other side of the park where there was a barren soccer field. The field had a rotating order of use, children’s teams practicing, grown up leagues from the community, and recently arrived folk from down south that played against each other.

Raul got far ahead of Diburcio, managing to cross the street, and go through the entrance and straight to “El Dorado.” But before doing that he needed to go down hill while keeping his 75 pound cart steady. He pushed the cart across the parking lot and kept adding speed to his pace, finally reaching the giant oak tree that was the marker where the down hill began. They both paused for a moment to adjust their baseball caps, Diburcio’s was blue with the logo of Barcelona’s yellow, gold and red embroidered on while Raul’s was off white and had MFC stamped on for Real Madrid.

He couldn’t help laughing and looking back as he reached the oak tree, he saw Diburcio sweaty, pushing his own cart, and with a smirk on his face. He began his descent to the playground. Pushing now became holding and keeping steady the cart. He soon realized that keeping the cart steady was difficult, but he thought he’d manage, and besides he had all the momentum on his shoulders, the Virgin Mary was on his side. Today would be the day he’d get to relax two hours before the truck came bye and whisked them away to their homes.  

The cart kept going faster, and his legs began to leap, and at times he felt that he’d missed a step and was being led by the cart itself. He was reaching the base of the playground and there was only a few more meters of descent before claiming his territory. He’d been so busy looking at the spot where he was going to be posted that he failed to see that the cart was heading towards an empty water bottle. When he finally refocused his eyes to what was in front of him, he immediately feared that the bottle was unopened. He tried to move the cart a bit towards the left by pushing the right side, but then he remembered that that was a bad idea, and instead he was supposed to slightly pull the left side of the handless and let the cart move to the left, but it was too late, in his attempt to avoid the bottle he forced the cart to uncontrollably shake, like a car misfiring on its last mile, and the next thing that happened was all but too comedic.

The cart began to shake, and after the front wheel hit the bottle it flipped over and rolled a few times, popsicles of all the flavors that children and adult alike enjoy, flew everywhere, like kids splashing into the water, everything flew like candies flying out of a pinata after the biggest kid in line strikes it right in the center. There were strawberry, walnut, rice pudding popsicles, choco pies, push-ups, water based popsicles, and all the dry ice flying everywhere. Raul tripped, landing on the grass and rolled down the hill a bit before stopping and managed to get a look at what was happening.  The cart kept flipping, spreading its goodies everywhere.

People that were busy doing their own thing immediately turned to see what was happening. The bells of the cart, along with the cart itself made a thumping and brass jingling sound as it kept rolling towards the bottom of the hill. The kids immediately thought about running towards the popsicles lying on the grass, but were held back by their parents. Those that were walking or laying on the grass sunbathing kept staring at what was happening. In a matter of seconds the popsicle cart rolling down the hill caught everyone's attention, all eyes were on the cart that had finally made it to “El Dorado.”

Cormac McCarthy's All the Pretty Horses: Book Review

All the Pretty Horses: Book Review

By Armando Ortiz

I’ve watched many “Western” or “Cowboy” films that I forget that at some point, that way of life was quickly ushered out of existence about a century ago. The novel All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy takes place in the mid-20th century, where cars are beginning to replace the old and traditional way of transportation- walking or riding horses. This essay will discuss the impact of technological change on traditional ways of life and explore the consequences of holding onto familiarity. McCarthy’s novel exemplifies this theme of adapting to change and clinging to the familiar.

Seeing that being a cowboy in Texas and the rest of the American Southwest is nearing its end, John Grady, and his friend Lacey Rawlins decide to head south of the border and find work there as cowboys and horse trainers. On their way south into Mexico they find a wandering kid, Jimmy Blevins, who claims to be from Oklahoma. Rawlins doesn’t like him much and despite the fact that they leave him behind, Blevins attaches himself to them and soon becomes a temporary member of the group. Jimmy looks and acts suspicious and at some point during a storm loses his horse. He convinces them to help him find his horse and gun, and in the process, more trouble arises, causing Belvins to separate from them.

After crossing through Coahuila and seeing some amazing views of the Cuatro Cienegas Basin John and Lacey finally find employment at a ranch. They seem to thrive since they are skilled at their work and easily communicate with the locals. In Mexico, they both fit in well, because cattle ranching and horse training is still part of their economy. Although they speak Spanish, they remain outsiders who can’t be trusted. John ends up meeting a young woman at work who turns out to be the daughter of the ranch owner, leading to some friction and trouble.

To their dismay, Blevins reappears but meets an unfortunate demise. One gets the impression that his life was mostly trouble, and might have very well been what we call today a throw away kid. Like many songs of bandits and criminals escaping law enforcement, Blevins seems to have sought refuge in Mexico. Being a foreigner in Mexico he naturally attaches himself to the main characters who are also from the U.S. Because of their association with Blevins, and Grady’s relationship with the ranch owner’s daughter, Grady and Rawlins end up in jail where they fend for themselves and fight for survival. Along the way they make some friends there, but have to engage in more gladiator combat. The novel reaches its climax with a prison fight, offering an inside ring view of the brutal bloodsport that tests the character’s resilience and survival instincts.

The underlying driving force of the story is trying to find one's way in a changing world and using the skills at one’s disposal to make a living while doing something that one enjoys. Despite Grady being from the U.S. his status among the other ranch employees is not much different. He is just a poor and broken cowboy. To make matters worse, he’s crossed some social boundaries which come to alter his life trajectory, along with his former female friend. Eventually Grady and Rawlins make it back home, somewhat recovered from their injuries. 

Once back in Texas, Grady takes it upon himself to find Belvins’ parents. The novel leaves us reflecting on the choices we make and their consequences. Sometimes one’s life trajectory is hard to see and we either adapt to the new world or the new world forces a change on us. The only thing we can go by is doing what we do best- following our heart, but beware, because life is not a dream.

Fortuna

 Fortuna

By Armando Ortiz

Accariciando el cielo 

con pluma y pintura, 

me tienes pensando

en esta fortuna

Andando juntos

mirando estas vistas

pasando paisajes

con una sonrisa.

Caminamos sobre olas

el tiempo se espuma, 

este momento es

mas que fortuna.