What Love Really Means

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Writer, humanist,

          dog-mom, horse servant and cat-slave,

       Lover of solitude

          and the company of good friends,

        new places, new ideas

           and old wisdom.

The answer to what love is has defied the best efforts of philosophers and poets, yet we know it when we see it, as these keen observations from children prove. 

“Karl, age 5: ‘Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other.’ 

Billy, who is 4, had to think about it, but decided, ‘When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You know that your name is safe in their mouth.’

And Rebecca observed, ‘When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn’t bend over and paint her toenails anymore. So, my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis too. That’s love.’”

And Teresa (TK) age. . . never mind . . . said, ‘Daddy is love–you can crawl onto his lap, and he will read the comics in the newspaper for you; you can crawl on his shoulders, and he will flip you over and over again! You can know you will always have a place to go if you need it; he will always be there.’

Thank you, Papa for everything and always. I love you . . . and that’s the most important thing.
T.K.Thorne is a retired police captain who writes Books, which, like this blog, go wherever her curiosity and imagination take her.  More at TKThorne.com

Mi Chicana Garden

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June 23, 2022

mi Chicana Garden Southern Colorado 2022

Dear Reader,

It is officially summer, and I spent the solstice riding on a quad runner with mi esposo in the Sangre de Cristos near the cell phone towers at 10,000 feet (about twice the elevation of Denver, Colorado). The air felt thin and caused me to get short of breath. But the oxygen was thick and smelled like wildflowers and mountain meadows and forests. Just what the doctor ordered. I am working on being a better human being and it begins with me and my happiness. A friend suggested I try MACA powder for my low energy and depression during the pandemic and damned if he was not right in his diagnosis and prescription. He is my friend of thirty-two years and my acupuncturist. He is a keeper. He goes ice fishing and hiking with mi esposo. They are like minded. Nature lovers and animal lovers.

 

I am planning a birthday party for a few relatives and celebrating the fourth of July, Independence Day. Whose independence you ask? Some people are saying we are free, but I say until we are all different but equal, until we are undocumented not illegal human beings, until the LGBTQ community and people of color are no longer afraid to walk with pride down main street, I say we are not free. We are all slaves. Slaves of greed, power, sex, drugs, rock, and roll. Lol.

 

That was my Independence Day rant. Every year I suffer through the holidays. Columbus Day, Thanksgiving, Winter Wonderland, St. Patrick’s Day, Valentine’s Day, etc. When is my holiday? I am going to celebrate this fourth of July as a sacred ceremony honoring my ancestors’ who lived and died on this soil in Southern Colorado, New Mexico, the New Mexico Territory, Mexico, los genizaros. The indigenous slaves. My ancestors were not free they were herded into missionaries and pueblos and became indentured servants and laborers. The truth hurts because it is the truth. Deal with it. If you do not want to learn this country’s history, you will never know the people who live here and what they have endured just to survive in a world of colonialism. You heard me. Decolonize your diet. Beans, rice, green chile, tortillas. But what do I know. I know after sixty-five years and a life of hard knocks and abundant blessings, that dying is easy; it is the living that is hard.

 

Lynette Aragon Patrick and Juliana Aragon Fatula at family home Southern Colorado

 

 

Untitled Post

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Scouting for Good Reads

by Saralyn Richard

 

One of my most memorable activities from childhood was being
a part of the Girl Scouts. My Girl Scout troop was phenomenal. Our leaders,
Mrs. Taylor and Mrs. Martin, made sure every meeting was a learning experience
and a social experience worth our time and effort. We went on several trips,
including one to the Alamo in San Antonio, the State Capitol in Austin, and to
a dude ranch in New Braunfels. Many of the girls in our troop are still among
my close friends today.

The scout program encouraged each girl to select an area to “specialize”
in, with the goal of earning a badge in that field. I earned many badges in my
time, but my favorite was—no surprise here—the reading badge. The reading badge
didn’t require me to go out into scorching hot, mosquito-infested campgrounds.
I didn’t have to prove proficiency at knot-tying (although I recall doing
something like that anyway), sharp-tool-wielding, or fire-starting. All I had
to do was chill with a book in the comfort of my house, which was my favorite
activity anyway.

The reading badge turned out not to be that easily obtained,
however. If memory serves me correctly, I had to read a hundred books, most of
them required. Lots of these books were Newbery Award winners. Many of them
were classics. Most were long. Some of the titles I remember were Hittie:  Her First Hundred Years, Desiree, King of the
Wind, Johnny Tremain, Adam of the Road, Caddie Woodlawn, Little Women, Black
Beauty, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, Pippi Longstocking, Robinson Crusoe. I
remember sitting in the elementary school library, reading every chance I could.

Even though I was an avid reading before I decided to work
on the badge, I benefitted in numerous ways from reading so many excellent books. My vocabulary increased, as did my understanding of diverse cultures and
themes. Most of all, my love of reading grew exponentially. The more I read,
the more I craved clever story lines, exquisite descriptions, fascinating
characters.

I’m sure the reading badge contributed to my choosing to
major in English and to teach high school English. More than likely, it inspired
me to try my hand at writing, too.

I decided to see what the requirements are for the reading
badge today, and here’s what I found out. Girl Scouts has modernized its “curriculum.”
The options for badges, awards, and pins include more practical topics, like
saving the environment, becoming financially literate, becoming a space science
researcher, and leading in the digital world. See
here for a complete list. A scout can earn a reading diva patch (see here),
but so little is required that one could earn that in a week’s time.

At the risk of sounding like an anachronism, I’m sad that
the opportunities afforded by the rigorous reading badge no longer exist for
young girls. At the same time, I’m extremely grateful that I earned mine when I
could.

Were you a big reader when you were younger? What were some
of your most memorable books read?

 

Saralyn
Richard’s award-winning humor- and romance-tinged mysteries and children’s book
pull back the curtain on people in settings as diverse as elite country manor
houses and disadvantaged urban high schools. Saralyn’s most recent release is Bad Blood Sisters. A
member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America,
Saralyn teaches creative writing and literature at the Osher Lifelong Learning
Institute, and continues to write mysteries. Her favorite thing about being an
author is interacting with readers like you. Visit
Saralyn here, on her
Amazon page here, or on Facebook here.

 

 

Getting Stronger

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By Barbara J. Eikmeier

I lift weights. Twice a week my husband and I go to the gym.
The nutritionist at the army health clinic told me about the weight training
room. She said as we age it is important to do weight bearing exercises to keep
our bones strong and joints limber. “Just go twice a week. Go in the middle of
the day – there’s no one there at that time.”

Another year passed before I went. The catalyst was my
annual cholesterol check. I begged for 6 months of diet and lifestyle changes
before going on medication. Thus, the gym – and less wine and more veggies.

But there is another reason I started lifting weights. I had
become weak. When I travel to give quilt presentations, I bring multiple suitcases stuffed with quilts, pushing the airlines 50-pound weight limit with
those big bags. The check-in agent, eyeing my bags, would say, “put that up
here” motioning with their chin to the scale. I’d laugh and say, “It’s not over
50 pounds because I can’t lift 50 pounds.” Each spring, when my travel season
began it was true, I couldn’t lift 50 pounds, but as the trips added up, I
could feel myself getting stronger. Yes, that may have been me holding up the line
while pulling items from an overweight suitcase and stuffing them in my carry-on. Just by handling
those heavy bags I became stronger. Strong enough to lift more than 50 pounds
by the end of the season.

Then came Covid-19 and my work became a series of Zoom
presentations. And I grew weak.

When my travels resumed, I lifted my bag onto the scale that
first trip and it was heavy! I was visualizing what I could move to my carry-on
bag just as the scale settled on 43 pounds. Only 43 pounds? I quickly moved shoes and jeans from my carry-on to the checked bag. That’s
because I have another problem once I board the plane – getting my carry-on in
the overhead bin. My rule is, if I can’t lift it myself, I must check it. But
I’m 5’3” and it’s not a matter of strength as much as a matter of height. (At
least that’s what I always tell the nice tall man in the aisle seat who jumps
up to help me!)

The army gym is not a flashy place. It’s old, and kind of
run down. I wish someone would sweep the floor. It’s often only the two of us there.
It’s quiet, almost meditative. But when soldiers come in the atmosphere
changes. They are young, and strong, and physically fit. They sweat and grunt
and the weights come clanging down as they finish their routines. There’s a
demand for the best machines and a polite toe taping or pacing when they must wait. Among
the most popular machines is the leg press – it’s for the quads and glutes. I
like it. And the sit up machine. I like it too. And there is the Graviton
machine. It’s meant to condition your arms to do pull ups. I can’t do a pull
up. I’m not sure this machine can even help me get there. But I do it. Every
time.

There is a less popular machine called the Overhead Press. My
husband skips it. He explained, “I don’t think there is much benefit in that
machine.” I said, “I hate this machine.” He asked, “Then why do you do it?” I said,
“Watch my arms.” I lifted the weights over my head. He watched. I lowered the
weights and said, “It’s the muscles used to put my carry-on in the overhead
bin.”

The gym, even on the slowest days, is a good place to shop
for character traits. There’s another older couple who come in wearing street clothes,
and each do a few machines, talking the entire time. Their workout takes 10
minutes. Should that even count as a workout? Who am I to judge?

And there is a young woman who
runs on the treadmill in the cardio room before lifting weights. Her dark hair is
pulled back in a bouncy ponytail. I like following her on the weight circuit
because she is my height, so our settings are the same.  I don’t know anything about her but in my
writer’s mind she is an Army lawyer. She runs fast and lifts fast and is very focused.  

And there is a group of firefighters from the post fire station. They move from machine to machine keeping their hand radios within reach. Their big red firetruck is just outside the gym parked along the curb, ready to go at a moment’s notice. One of them wears a bandanna around his head, Karate Kid style. Another harasses his buddy to speed it up on the Biceps machine. His buddy’s response is to go slower.

And my favorite, the retired marine whose
shaved head glistens with sweat when he works out. He looks intimidating – all
muscle and sinew. He only does three machines but with many reps and huge
stacks of weights. One day I asked him, “Do you alternate upper body and lower
body workouts?” He smiled. Maybe you’ve heard the term ‘resting bitch face’?
This guy has resting ‘fierce face’. He looks scary. But when the marine smiles
his face will melt your heart a little. He shows his bright white teeth, his
double dimples dimple and the deep creases in his forehead relax. And over that
one question we became friends. He took me to the free weight room down the
hall and taught me how to use a standing machine for an intense abs’ workout.
He said, “You are a little short, but you are doing it perfectly.” He told me
it’s easy to talk yourself into skipping the gym, like 90% of the people he
knows. With that gorgeous grin he added, “Now if only I had a refrigerator that
automatically locked at 6 pm, I’d be in good shape!”

I lift weights. I’m getting stronger and my character file
is growing. What’s your favorite place to shop for characters?

Barbara J. Eikmeier is a quilter, writer, student of quilt
history, and lover of small-town America. Raised on a dairy farm in California,
she enjoys placing her characters in rural communities.

Mental Health and the Pandemic by Juliana Aragon Fatula

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May 25, 2022

Dear Reader,

This year I’ve written book reviews, judged book contests, entered two manuscripts for publishing and started writing a new novel. My writing has been sporadic, and my submissions have been few, but I continue to write and read and do research and learn every day.

I’ve been writing for the Stiletto Gang for years and have written several posts about my life as a writer and educator. I’ve also written about my genealogy research and stories about my ancestors. I’ve posted book reviews and interviews. I’ve posted photos of my Chicana Garden and my flowers. I’ve written about my music therapy for the blues, and I’ve written about my dysfunctional family. I’ve told the stories of my life and how I ended up the Crazy Chicana in Catholic City in Red Canyon Falling on Churches, Colorado. My characters are based on the compilations of people I’ve known. Many of them are dead but I’m still here telling their stories. My imagination is wicked, and my sense of humor is dark and disturbing. I write from the heart and tell the truth, not the facts, the truth. 

My therapist tells me to get my joy back I need to think about the good things in my life and so I’m going to tell you about some of the good things that make me unique and adored. I am kind and generous and funny and smart and creative and silly. I like my eggs hard-boiled and with no runny yokes in my fried eggs. I only eat my meat well done never rare. I love children but have a soft spot for the elderly. I’ve rescued hundreds of at-risk teenagers and given them guidance and love. 

I’ve been married twice. Once when I was twenty-one. Divorced at twenty-two. It was a disaster. Married again and found my lifelong partner of 32 years and counting. I have one son, no daughters, no grandchildren, and lots of siblings, nieces, nephews, and cousins. All my aunts and uncles on both sides have died. My parents died on Christmas Day and Christmas Eve, many years apart. I am an orphan. 

I love zombies and werewolves and vampires and love stories about the unlovable. I listen to a variety of music but love Reggae and Dance music. I love to dance and have danced in too many saloons, dives, bars, and joints to count. When I was in my twenties, I played soccer in Colorado Springs and enjoyed running on the field playing fullback defense. 

I love animals and spoil my pets. My home is filled with houseplants and my garden is flowering from May to October with flowers and herbs. I grow my own cannabis for medication and make a salve for pain and edibles for dosing for my depression. I’ve had the same small-town country doctor for 40 plus years. I’ve known him longer than my husband. 

I began therapy again during the pandemic and am on my way to healing but it is a process, and you can’t rush or count on pharmaceuticals for a cure. It takes work. I’m working hard at healing and returning to my joyful self. I haven’t been joyful for a couple of years. I’ve stayed away from people and practiced social distancing to the extreme. I’ve been vaccinated, boosted, and boosted some more. I fear getting Covid or the Monkey Pox and avoid gatherings with people who are not vaccinated. My life has changed, and my joy has diminished but I’m striving for a better future where I travel and visit friends and enjoy going to writing workshops and comingling with strangers. 

Until I no longer fear the outside world, I’ll continue to hibernate in my comfy little house with my husband, Big Bad Baby Boy Bear, and Yogi. I’ll continue to write and read and submit my work and when my first novel gets published, I’ll celebrate. There is hope for me and I know I can be a better human being and that is what I’m working on. 

These photos of books in my library speak clearly about my choice of authors and subjects. I have a collection of poetry and novels by writers of color and it continues to grow. My skin color, brown, has been underrepresented for centuries and today that fact has changed. Please read books by writers of color and the LGBTQ community and broaden your understanding of the world. If you need any recommendations, I’m happy to suggest a book or two for you. Thank you and keep the faith. 

April 2022 the Year of the Miracle by Juliana

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Louise Mondragon Aragon April 7, 1923-December 24, 2008 presente

 Dear Reader, 

I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but…

This is the writing prompt: I’m challenging you to write a page, paragraph, or sentence and tell me your story. I love this prompt because it forces me to think out of the box and be original,  innovative, and magical. Magic to me is the unexplainable, like finding a $20 bill in your glovebox in your 65 Mercedez Benz just when you ran out of gas and were broke and poor. 

Back in the 80’s I had a boyfriend named, the Caveman. He was a Viking with blue eyes and long ginger hair and beard. He drank a little. He drank a little a lot. We lived in his schoolbus hippy cave. It was a mancave on wheels, big wheels. We lived in his cave for a summer in the Colorado Rockies near Woodland Park up Ute Pass on Hwy 24. We roughed it for love. I was in crazy Chicana love. He was in Caveman Biker Dude love. Insane doesn’t begin to describe what it was. But it ended and I survived and learned valuable lessons about real love. That’s my story. What’s yours? 

I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but…

In 1995 I joined a group of musicians and comedians named the Latin Locomotions. It was three crazy Chicanos two women and one vato extraordinaire. We toured for the Department of Defense after Desert Storm. We started in Europe and traveled to the United Arab Emirates and ended at Camp Justice in the middle of the Indian Ocean between Africa and India on the island of Diego Garcia. We traveled with the military on cargo planes and treked through deserts, jungles, beaches, and cities. It was a magical time in my life where I left behind my mother, son, husband, friends, and colleagues to give back by entertaining the men and women who defend our country. I fell in love with the U.S.A. by leaving it and traveling to other places, meeting other people from different religions, cultures, languages, and ideas. I looked into the eyes of those people and knew that my life had meaning. I felt proud and small in a world filled with people who look like me and don’t look like me. 

Looking back on that time, I was blessed to have people in my life like Sherry and Manuel, the Latin Locomotions. They taught me to cherish the life I’ve been given and never take an opportunity for granted. I never went to graduate school. I gave my time and energy to learning about the world from traveling and meeting people. I lived my life. I’m the Crazy Chicana in Catholic City from Red Canyon Falling on Churches on the Road I Ride Bleeds. 

I probably shouldn’t tell you this but…

When I was a teenager I drank, smoked, and cussed like a sailor. I was a chingona. Still am to this day. I’m not all talk though. I can definitely hold my own in a bar fight, or cat fight, or wrestling match. I’m not passive, I’m not aggressive, but don’t piss me off. I stand for the underdog. I protect the weak and those unable to stand up for themselves. I stand for justice. I promote peace but know that in war many will die to fight for freedom. 

When I was fourteen I got knocked up. He was nineteen and had a Thunderbird. I was a child infatuated with a Chicano from San Francisco that arrived in my small town in Southern Colorado and blew my mind. I dropped out of highschool and rode in his Thunderbird all the way to California. Fifty years later, my son is grown, my ex is dead. 

I’ve graduated with a GED, a bachelor’s degree in English and Creative Writing, published several books of poetry and poems in anthologies, I’ve taught in my hometown in the building I used to attend junior high. I’ve taught writing workshops to countless children through Writers in the Schools, I’ve mentored young women in Building Bridges, a leadership program for disadvantaged girls. I’ve performed on stages all over the world. I’ve written my poetry, fiction, and memoirs and write for the Stiletto Gang. But what really makes me proud of myself is that I’ve never given up on my dreams to be successful, to graduate from college, to teach, to learn, to lead. 

Now I’m 65, my husband is 60, my son is 50 and we have all become eligible for AARP. I have survived long enough to witness this event and I’m so glad I didn’t give up, give in, fall down and not get back up again. I look forward to whatever comes and however many days I have left in this world. I learned that peace comes from not letting the bullies win. I’ve stood up to the bullies and they’ve beaten my head and kicked me in the gut, but I kept getting up until they gave up and left me with my resolve that nothing is going to keep me down, not even hate. 

I probably shouldn’t tell you this but…

I always wanted to be a grandmother. My mom was the best mom. Not perfect. Not even close. She was imperfect like me with flaws and humanity. She taught me to be a chingona and to fight for the less fortunate. She taught me to love the sinner and hate the sin, but sometimes I hate the sinner and the sin. She was a world class grandmother and great-grandmother and great-great-grandmother. She had lots of grandchildren. Some weren’t even related to her but called her grandma. 

My students called me Mama Fatula and still do to this day. I have a couple of soul sistas that share their grandchildren with me. They call be tia abuelita Juliana. So what if I never have my own grandchildren. There are enough children in the world that need love and don’t have grandmothers. I’ll be their abuela. I’ll love them as if they were my own. I used to tell my students goodbye after class by saying, Look both ways, have a nice day, hasta luego, te amo. They asked me do you mean it when you say I love you? I meant it. 

Spoiler Alert!

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By Shari Randall

Spoiler alert. Those warnings are ubiquitous nowadays. We just wrapped up the Olympics, where the difference in time zones made watching television or reading the news a minefield for anyone who wanted to be surprised by the outcome of an athletic event.

 

I even heard “spoiler alert” at a recent book club meeting. Half the group had finished the book —a bestselling literary novel— and the other half hadn’t. The group voted to not talk about the ending in order to avoid spoiling it for those who hadn’t read to the end. I was the only dissenter (full disclosure – it was a very book clubby book, by which I mean it wouldn’t have been so popular if the main character hadn’t survived, nay, triumphed, against the odds and lived to fight for justice another day. I was correct and I admit, I wasn’t a fan of the ending. It would’ve been much more realistic and enjoyable to me if the author had killed off the protagonist. Sorry, I digress.)

 

In general, I don’t mind knowing how a book ends. As a reader —and a writer— I find it enjoyable to see how the author weaves the story line into a satisfying conclusion.

 

But if the club’s choice had been a whodunit or work known for a big twist…I definitely wouldn’t have wanted the ending spoiled. Imagine the ire heaped on any book club member who spoiled the twist of Gone Girl or The Murder of Roger Ackroyd? What your friends would say if you spoiled the ending of The Sixth Sense or The Prestige or Murder on the Orient Express?

 

There was an article about spoilers in Psychology Today by a professor who studies decision making. You can read it here.

 

A group was given short stories to read. Some were given the story plus the ending. Then researchers asked if having the ending ruined their pleasure in the story. The outcome? Most of the study’s subjects said it didn’t.

 

My fellow mystery reading fans will immediately see the flaw in the construction of this study.

How many of the study’s subjects were mystery readers?

 

The team ran the experiment again, with a another group of subjects. This time the results were different. Ha! We know why. The group must have included mystery readers who read for the pleasure of puzzling out the clues to how-, why-, or whodunit. The study’s organizers posit there is a group with a higher “need for cognition” who like to figure out the story for themselves. (read: mystery fans)

 

The mystery reader reads because – what were Sherlock Holmes words? — “My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation.”

 

What do you think about spoilers? Do spoilers bother you or do they heighten your pleasure in a story?


Shari Randall is the author of the Lobster Shack Mystery series. Her debut, Curses, Boiled Again, won an Agatha Award for Best First Novel. As Meri Allen, she writes the new Ice Cream Shop Mysteries.

 

 

The Letter to My Granddaughters by Juliana Aragon Fatula

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Dearest Granddaughters,

I’m a mother, an aunt, a great aunt, and a great-great-aunt, but I’m not a Grandmother. Not yet. Maybe never. But my sisters have shared their grandchildren with me and my nieces have shared their grandchildren with me; therefore I am a tia abuelita. This letter is to these granddaughters of other women who are included in my circle of love. The generations of women leading us into the new world.  I want to share with you not only my love but my knowledge and what I’ve learned from my mistakes. 

Juliana 2021 age 64

One of my great-great-grandmothers, Abrana Quintana was born in the 1800s in New Mexico Territory before it was a state. We didn’t cross the border, the border crossed us. We’ve always lived in this land. She was a full-blooded Ute woman who married a white man, a traveling preacher from Maine. He moved to Santa Fe and converted indigenous people to Christianity. She may have been his translator through Indian country. They had several children and my great-grandmother, Abrana Jacobs, was born in New Mexico. 

She was half Ute and half European by way of England and indigenous New Mexico ancestors. She married a full-blooded Navajo and became Abrana Gomez. They had several children and my grandmother, Phoebe Gomez, was born in Alamosa, Colorado in 1890. 

She married a man from Alamosa and became Phoebe Mondragon. My mother, Eloisa Evelyn Mondragon was born in Howard, Colorado in 1923. She married my father, Julian Aragon, and became Louise Aragon. 

My father and mother were known as Jack and Louise. I was born in Canon City, Colorado during the blizzard of April 1957 and was named Juliana Aragon. This is my story of my ancestors and how I came to be during the 1950s and lived to be 65 years old and discovered my heritage and DNA. Many of my ancestors were indigenous to the Southwest and their bones are buried here. 

My son, Daniel, hasn’t married or had children and so the story ends with him. Except, I have you, my granddaughters, to carry on my story of being a Corn Mother and how I came to this world and how I left. You will tell my story to your children and they will tell their children and so my name will be heard and my stories will be told by you and your descendants. 

I have had the blessing of being born into a world where women had the right to vote and to make decisions about our bodies, but it wasn’t always true. Our Corn Mothers weren’t allowed to vote, practice family planning, or even wear pants. They were ruled by the patriarchal society and were told what to do, who to marry. Today, we can wear whatever we want, and we can vote for whoever we choose, so don’t forget the sacrifices made so that we have this freedom.  

What I discovered in tracing my ancestors’ journey is that we are all related. We are all a combination of DNA from many people and from many places. My mother’s people were mixed and included Ute, Navajo, and European blood. My father’s people were mixed and included Pueblo, Navajo, and Spaniard blood. But I can trace my DNA back to Africa, Saudi Arabia, Jamaica, South America, and North America. We are all related. Remember this. 

What I learned from my journey in life is that I have the blood of warrior women coursing through my veins and so do you. We are survivors. We are Corn Mothers who brought everything holy into the world and we created life and gave love to all our children. I have loved thousands of children in my lifetime. I have taught and held and hugged countless children who needed hugs and love. I am blessed to have the ability to love not only my son but everyone’s children. 

I will be honored as a Corn Mother in the Return of the Corn Mothers 2022 Exhibition at the Colorado History Center this October, and I’m proud of the work I’ve done in my lifetime. I honor my Corn Mothers who did not get recognition in their lifetimes but led the way for us. Go into the world and teach the children to love everyone and to be kind to those in need.  You will be blessed in your life and you will learn what it is to truly love and be loved. 

Corn Mothers Aimee Medina Carr and Juliana Aragon Fatula 

Banned Books and Tip Lines to Snitch on Teachers by Juliana Aragón Fatula

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1990’s Cast from Su Teatro Intro to Chicano History 101 by Anthony J. Garcia 

Dear Reader, 

I woke at 4:30 a.m. and realized that I’m losing my mind. I thought about the state of the country and I began to cry and laugh simultaneously. I wondered if I’d gone insane to be able to laugh about the news that Governors were not only banning books but creating tip lines for parents to call in to report/snitch on teachers teaching history, culture, art, music, etc. that offends their students by revealing the atrocities perpetrated against women, people of color, religions, gender fluidity, whatever. I began to cry again at the absurdity of our nation and the political turmoil that surrounds us because the left and right are strangling each other with hate against anything they don’t like. 

I watched last night’s DVR recording of my favorite journalist, Ari Melber, and his guest the world renowned astrophysicist, Neil Degrasse Tyson. I love them both. I watched the interview and couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Neil was speechless several times because the clips that Ari showed him from the new blockbuster movie, Don’t Look Up, showed Meryl Streep as the President of the U.S. telling her supporters lies. They believed her lies instead of the scientists who were telling the world that an asteroid was hurling towards Earth and would destroy everyone and everything much like the extinction of the dinosaurs. He laughed at the clips but explained that it was frightening because it paralleled what the previous leader of the U.S. had done by lying to the world and claiming that he had won the election and lying about the insurrection at the Capitol on January 6th saying it was a peaceful protest of patriots. wtf.

I listened to the two men, who I respect, talk about this movie that explained how we are headed for doomsday because SCIENCE and facts/truth no longer matter to people. I wondered what the fudgecicle happened to people to make them so easily duped. 

I had a good cry and remembered that books were being banned because they were teaching students to open their eyes and learn about how this country was stolen, how indigenous people were slaughtered, how Africans were kidnapped, and made to work for those same people who slaughtered the indigenous and forced to work as slaves and make those murderers rich. Students’ books and libraries are being listed as books to ban because they tell the truth about how this country came into being and how people were beaten, hung, murdered, raped, humiliated because they were other. LGBTQ books would be banned, books written by people of color about their culture would be banned, religious books would be banned if they didn’t teach Christianity. I threw up a little in my mouth and began to sob. 

I must have cried, laughed, puked, shat, farted, broke into hysterics for hours. Then I drug myself off the bathroom floor and began to write this post. My books would be banned because I dared to write poetry about drug addiction, child molestation, rape, genocide, alcoholism, cultural appropriation, religious persecution. I felt sick again and dragged myself back into the bathroom to purge the negativity out of my soul and watch it swirl down the toilet.

I for an instant thought, I don’t want to live in a world where books are banned and then I realized that if I flushed myself down the toilet and died nothing would change and THEY would win. I made a pact with myself that I would keep writing my stories, poems, plays, novels, essays and telling my truth because the truth matters. And I know that when I was teaching I would have been one of those teachers that was snitched on the tip line for teaching the truth/science/facts/history/world culture/world peace because the haters gonna’ hate and the only way to fight them is with the truth, and books that are banned are the ones the students need to read. FREEDOM.

Juliana Aragón Fatula’s ancestors indigenous to Aztlan, migrated from New Mexico to Southern Colorado. In 2022 she was awarded the title of Corn Mother for the Return of the Corn Mothers Project funded by the Colorado Folk Arts Council, Chicano Humanities Arts Council, Metropolitan State University of Denver and US Bank. She is the author of The Road I Ride Bleeds, Crazy Chicana in Catholic City, and Red Canyon Falling on Churches (winner of the High Plains Book Award in 2016.) She has been a Macondista since 2011, was a Hispanic Association of Colleges and Universities ambassador and Director of Creative Writing for las mujeres unidas de CSU Pueblo and she conducted writing workshops for Colorado Writers in the Schools K-12, Bridging Borders, Cesar Chavez Academy, and Cañon City Middle School. She performed in the nineties with Su Teatro Cultural Performing Arts Center and after Operation Desert Storm, she toured in the Persian Gulf for the Department of Defense with the Latin Locomotions. She is shopping her first mystery, The Colorado Sisters, for a publisher. She believes in the power of education to change lives.

2021 Survivor’s Notes by Juliana Aragon Fatula

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Dear Reader,
The smile on my face in my Aspen Grove several years ago shows that I love living in Southern Colorado. What the smile does not show is that living in my hometown of Canon City, aka Klanyon City, has never been easy for me but my grandparents, parents, and several siblings are buried here and this is my birthplace and will probably end up being my final resting place. I will have my ashes scattered with my Sister, Irene, on Irene’s mountain about fifteen minutes from my home. 
The difficulty for me in living here are all of the memories, good and bad. I lived here for fifteen years before I left home and headed to San Francisco, California to have my son, Daniel. He was born when I was fifteen and a year later before his first birthday, we returned to Colorado and to my parents home. 
I worked and attended high school until I was sixteen and went to work full time for the phone company as a telephone operator. I made lots of friends with the ladies and learned skills in communication and business. From there I moved to Denver, Colorado Springs, Old Colorado City, Green Mtn. Falls, Divide, Woodland Park, and transferred from Mountain Bell to higher paying jobs and better positions. 
One day, my life changed and I lost everything and returned to my parents home. When I figured out what I was doing, I returned to work and began my higher education at Pikes Peak Community College in Colorado Springs. I attended Pueblo Community College, Denver University, Denver Metro, Arapahoe Community College and eventually graduated from Colorado State University – Pueblo with a degree in English and minor in Creative Writing. 
I became an educator and taught in Pueblo, Colorado at Cesar Chavez Academy for a year and loved teaching middle school language arts and teatro. But the next year I went to work in my hometown as a 7th grade language arts teacher and began my full circle of teaching in the same building that I attended almost forty years ago. 
The building had lots of memories and I felt proud to be able to visit my mother in her home everyday and go home for lunch from my job as a teacher in my hometown. It was too good to be true. I failed as a teacher in my hometown because I refused to accept the conservative and close minded parents and administration who told me that I could not teach diversity in my classroom. I did not return the next year to teach. Instead I went to work for Colorado Humanities Writers in the Schools. I taught K-12 students in writing workshops that lasted ten to twelve weeks and ended with their poems being published in an anthology of their work. It was the most rewarding job of my life. Until I began teaching writing workshops for Bridging Borders a leadership program sponsored by the El Pueblo History Center, CSU-Pueblo, Social Services, and the Rawlings Library. 
Mentoring those young women changed me. I became a role model and a leader in my new community of Pueblo. Pueblo accepted my liberal ideas and creative lessons in diversity and one World one Love thinking. I found my calling. 
Today, I continue to write for the Stiletto Gang, write book reviews for la Bloga, attend writing workshops via Zoom, read my poetry and sell my books at conferences and book fairs. I have found a way to enjoy living in my hometown without being part of the community. Instead, I travel the state and nation to places filled with diversity, and open minded individuals like me who appreciate my crazy ideas and flamboyant lifestyle. 
I graduated college at the age of fifty. I  blossomed at mid-life and now that I’m nearing 65 and senior citizen status, I’m semi-retired and loving reading, writing, researching, learning, and growing into the best human being I can possibly be. If my hometown taught me one thing it is that home is where the heart is but happiness in your community can only come when you surround yourself with like minded people and I’ve found my tribe. They are writers, educators, performers, activists, and students who are life long learners like me.