I am going to interview Star Khan for "Librarians with Spines," volume 3 and I told her that I would have five questions to her by Monday but because of several familial obligations, I did not get her the 5 questions by Monday. However, we talked about the concept of "white time" so I know she will understand when she reads these questions.
1.) Personalmente, I am not un grande fan de reggeaton; I like Calle 13, but am also easily fatigued by the repetetive percussive drone of the genre. Why is Spanglish the reggeaton of dialects? En otras palabras, what about Spanglish is so off-putting to dominant Latinx groups? Should libraries delve into dialect for their signage dedicated to Latinx? In your work with libraries, might proper Spanish be more of an obstacle when serving/supporting U.S. Latinx?
2.) How can we better apoyar a nuestros bibliohermanas/hermanos in Latin America? Why have Latinx Librarians in N America not reached out to their counterparts in S America? Que es lo que Latin America nos puede brindar with respect to libraries and information professionals? Might libraries in N America choose to champion their counterparts in S America out of a professional courtersy, or do you think librarians como toda la gente are just as tribal as anyone else?
3.) According to el Pew Ctr for Internet Research, 61% of Latinx households have access to broadband at home compared with 79% of White households and 66% of Black households. How can Latinx households ensure academic acievement sin el WiFi en la casa? How do padres that can't afford WiFi right now get ahead of the curve and still find recursos for their children? How can US Latinx Librarians help to close the Digital Divide in Latinx households?
4.) Please tell us about your trayectorio as a librarian? How did you get to where you're at, and how did you persevere when your counterparts were not not particularly helpful. O sea, what is the clave for getting along in the library world as a Latinx Librarian? What does the future of biblioteacas hold in Oregon and the Pacific Northwest? How can Latinx Librarians get involved in ensuring libraries in Oregon stay funded and don't resort to layoffs?
5.) Borges said que el cielo tiene que ser una biblioteca? In your library heaven, what books, codices, or compendiums are on the shelf for everyone to look through and use for research? What texts are essential to a Latinx education? to a Spanglish education? Is there Spanglish in heaven? Do you think St Peter's like janglingn keys and abriendo puertas? In your version of heaven, who is on the roster?
Saturday, August 15, 2020
Friday, July 31, 2020
Poema para Waltercito
Chico, it's 2016 and I'm presenting to a roomful of White librarians
in the South Bay about Latino Senior computer classes in Spanish, and
I exploit your misterio quotient in one of my slides, an interstellar headshot,
elicits such a response that I rewatch those episodes of Primer Impacto on
YouTube thinking, Waltercito, you never broke character in our story of your life.
Now that you are firmly esconced into the ether architecture of our Latinidad,
you show us how to embrace love and become star-architects ourselves.
Your most terrestrial critics charge your timeless aura with sterile banter
about the gender of this one or that one, when they’re not even on the escenario.
Waltercito, bailemos un bolero on the edge of the Milky Way,
your hands and writhing wrists stick in the cosmic centrifuge that is our galaxy,
and let your dance transcended fractal refrain.
Waltercito, Moms and I are watching you on Primer Impacto.
Fam, it's 1994, which means it’s my first year at my Miami commuter college,
and we're waiting for your Scorpio edict, Waltercito, fifteen words written specifically,
prophetically about our stinging species that prove your prestige as our rabbi.
Moms and I are both Scorpios, so, naturally we’re suspicious of everyone’s motives,
but relaxed enough to let our stingers down and heed unsolicited advice from a gangster.
Your segment on Primer Impacto starts, and the producers drop you into space.
You're sitting on a Calculus White Rattan Armchair and you're wearing
a pumpkin majordomo kimono uniform and addressing the other, less-important signs first.
Waltercito, Tia Mercedes draped a PR flag on your ataud and plopped a jibaro hat
at your head. There was so much music at your funeral that Wille Acosta was photographed
mumbling lyrics into the cracks of your casket, and hugging the curves with his eyes closed.
So, there was no mistaking your loyalties to who you were at your core, the things that defined
and defied you. Waltercito, on what plane y en cual dimension do you find yourself?
It's 2020, and, of course, your Pisces-ass finds a way to pass to the portals
during a pandemic. Now, Waltercito when your message of love compounded by love,
now when we could really use your laser-guided abuelita guidance systems
and genderless excesses on orientation, now when we are calling out your name,
we find ourselves at the whims of Stupid Jupiter.
No, loquito, it’s 1987, and my parents have sent my sister and I to Baires for the summer.
It’s way past our American bedtime, but my Argentine cousins are promising us that after
“Las Gatas de Porcell,” a Puerto Rican wizard with a cape is going to spill secrets
from the Yucatan to Tierra del Fuego
in the South Bay about Latino Senior computer classes in Spanish, and
I exploit your misterio quotient in one of my slides, an interstellar headshot,
elicits such a response that I rewatch those episodes of Primer Impacto on
YouTube thinking, Waltercito, you never broke character in our story of your life.
Now that you are firmly esconced into the ether architecture of our Latinidad,
you show us how to embrace love and become star-architects ourselves.
Your most terrestrial critics charge your timeless aura with sterile banter
about the gender of this one or that one, when they’re not even on the escenario.
Waltercito, bailemos un bolero on the edge of the Milky Way,
your hands and writhing wrists stick in the cosmic centrifuge that is our galaxy,
and let your dance transcended fractal refrain.
Waltercito, Moms and I are watching you on Primer Impacto.
Fam, it's 1994, which means it’s my first year at my Miami commuter college,
and we're waiting for your Scorpio edict, Waltercito, fifteen words written specifically,
prophetically about our stinging species that prove your prestige as our rabbi.
Moms and I are both Scorpios, so, naturally we’re suspicious of everyone’s motives,
but relaxed enough to let our stingers down and heed unsolicited advice from a gangster.
Your segment on Primer Impacto starts, and the producers drop you into space.
You're sitting on a Calculus White Rattan Armchair and you're wearing
a pumpkin majordomo kimono uniform and addressing the other, less-important signs first.
Waltercito, Tia Mercedes draped a PR flag on your ataud and plopped a jibaro hat
at your head. There was so much music at your funeral that Wille Acosta was photographed
mumbling lyrics into the cracks of your casket, and hugging the curves with his eyes closed.
So, there was no mistaking your loyalties to who you were at your core, the things that defined
and defied you. Waltercito, on what plane y en cual dimension do you find yourself?
It's 2020, and, of course, your Pisces-ass finds a way to pass to the portals
during a pandemic. Now, Waltercito when your message of love compounded by love,
now when we could really use your laser-guided abuelita guidance systems
and genderless excesses on orientation, now when we are calling out your name,
we find ourselves at the whims of Stupid Jupiter.
No, loquito, it’s 1987, and my parents have sent my sister and I to Baires for the summer.
It’s way past our American bedtime, but my Argentine cousins are promising us that after
“Las Gatas de Porcell,” a Puerto Rican wizard with a cape is going to spill secrets
from the Yucatan to Tierra del Fuego
Wednesday, July 1, 2020
LAUNCHING OF THE JAMES FOLEY SCRIPTORIUM
Today, I am launching a project very close to my heart in which I send you a free, gently-used book from the James Foley Scriptorium
in exchange for a zine you send me that I will add to the West LA Regional Branch Zine Library
Monday, June 15, 2020
Wednesday, April 15, 2020
ECHOSTENCH
B asks me, does an echo have a stench?
When people talk at me I drop everything
and set my ears to listening.
Panda corrects me from the bedroom
when B asks me a physics question,
okay maybe doesn't correct me but
makes B know she knows answer too.
My parents are so bored they are going
to give themselves the 'Rona sin querer
completely by mistake but for a super
kooky reason like running out of BBQ sauce.
The Lego birdfeeders B and I made are sweet,
but we have since learned that little birds are jerks,
free-loading oafs that will spill lesser seeds
to beak at savory and scintillating flavorpods.
The baby moonwalks on your face if your sleep
in the bed, so I hangnail on the edge like a speedbump,
okay maybe not a speedbump but certainly a retaining wall.
I'm sending emails all day for work, but should I be
monitoring the acronyms for the daily dirty decree?
Should I be out beating cazuelas and bleating vuvuselas
about pandemic blues?
Do I go out then and make more trouble for myself
than I can possibly handle? Should I take advantage
of steals and bargains when the world is losing its
Purell mind, its miniature hand-sanitizer carabiner?
At the very least, you are going to have to support
the water balloon fight on the side of your wife and come
down hard on B when he sloshes an aquatic grenade at her face.
The problem with water balloons as a projectile are that they
are a dollar too late and a dollar too little.
How crisp the explosion of coldwater on my nape, down my shirt,
slaloming down my hirsute belly and quicksilver kissing my nipples.
When people talk at me I drop everything
and set my ears to listening.
Panda corrects me from the bedroom
when B asks me a physics question,
okay maybe doesn't correct me but
makes B know she knows answer too.
My parents are so bored they are going
to give themselves the 'Rona sin querer
completely by mistake but for a super
kooky reason like running out of BBQ sauce.
The Lego birdfeeders B and I made are sweet,
but we have since learned that little birds are jerks,
free-loading oafs that will spill lesser seeds
to beak at savory and scintillating flavorpods.
The baby moonwalks on your face if your sleep
in the bed, so I hangnail on the edge like a speedbump,
okay maybe not a speedbump but certainly a retaining wall.
I'm sending emails all day for work, but should I be
monitoring the acronyms for the daily dirty decree?
Should I be out beating cazuelas and bleating vuvuselas
about pandemic blues?
Do I go out then and make more trouble for myself
than I can possibly handle? Should I take advantage
of steals and bargains when the world is losing its
Purell mind, its miniature hand-sanitizer carabiner?
At the very least, you are going to have to support
the water balloon fight on the side of your wife and come
down hard on B when he sloshes an aquatic grenade at her face.
The problem with water balloons as a projectile are that they
are a dollar too late and a dollar too little.
How crisp the explosion of coldwater on my nape, down my shirt,
slaloming down my hirsute belly and quicksilver kissing my nipples.
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