The Calderon Prophecy

It's uncharacteristically quiet along a Juarez avenue, the silence broken only by the slow beat of a solitary drum. 300 marchers took to the streets in Juarez, hardly a drop in the ocean compared to the city's 1.5 million residents.

It's the latest call to end violence in a city that has seen over 8,000 people killed over the last three years. Mexico is at war, make no mistake about it, the beat goes on without pause or remorse. The procession was led by several protesters carrying banners with the names of all 8,000 victims. Julia Monarrez of The Northern Border College in Juarez explains the significance of the banners: "If their names are not registered, it's like their deaths are not worth crying for and their lives were not worth living" she stated emphatically. 

Can a people stoically resigned to their fate rally for a cause?  Other demonstrations took place across Mexico, the largest gathering converged on the plaza of El Zocalo in Mexico City. There banners decried corruption and the escalating violence, gangs of youths dumped red dye into fountains to symbolize the continued bloodshed. We as Americans have long held onto the notion that a life has less value in Mexico. Given the current circumstance, who's to say that we're wrong, the carnage has reached levels that make it a reasonable assumption.

Calderon's government is engaged in mortal combat with powerful and violent drug trafficking organizations. The President is under mounting pressure to either negotiate with the cartels or to back off his strategy of aggressive engagement, either would be suicidal both for his administration and Mexico as a nation. "It's not an option for the government, nor can it be for anyone in our country, to quit the fight against this criminal and social disease," says Alejandro Poire, the government's spin doctor on these matters. Calderon brought the military into the fray upon taking office in 2006, there are now 50,000 soldiers engaged in the battle. Nobody in Mexico from the Halls of Moctezuma to the shores of Rosarito Beach expects the battle to end before Calderon's term expires in 2012. 

Mexico's defense ministry reported that soldiers have either killed or recovered the bodies of 338 cartel gunmen so far this year, many of the slain sicarios died in gun battles with rival cartel gangs.  This is just in the area along the Texas border in the Mexican states of Tamaulipas and Nuevo Leon. By comparison so far this year, 22 American soldiers have died in Iraq, 165 in Afghanistan. Since 2003, 4770 coalition soldiers have been killed in Iraq, an additional 2446 in Afghanistan. 

Since Calderon took office, a 4.5 year period, 35,000 have died in Mexico as a result of the drug war. Almost 4,000 were gunmen killed in shootouts between various gangs, another 550 died during attacks on authorities (military or police) Compare these numbers to U.S. losses and you can see that the cartels are bleeding themselves to death. This lends credence to the government line that Los Zetas and other cartels are using forced recruitment to replenish their rapidly depleting ranks. 

However, if the army is taking far fewer casualties and yet the cartels still hold their ground, then what does that tell you? It seems that the real war is between the cartels, with the Mexican Army picking and choosing when and whom to engage.  A cynic would say that each Army Commander is either cutting his own deals or involved directly in the drug trafficking.

Los Zetas are locked in a fierce turf battle with the Gulf cartel that has turned much of Tamaulipas state into a virtual war zone. In addition Los Zetas are engaged in a rapidly escalating battle with The Sinaloa cartel in the state of Durango. The discovery of mass graves in San Fernando,Tamaulipas, the same area where 72 immigrants from Central America were found murdered, underscores the area's severe security crisis. Even with thousands of soldiers and marines massed along the border, large swaths of  the region remain under the control of cartel gunmen.  


The deteriorating conditions along the Texas border were brought to light in this country, by the unsolved murder of David Hartley. Falcon Lake, a dammed section of the Rio Grande has become a choice location for smugglers bringing their payloads across the vast sprawling body of water. On Sept 30th. 2010, Hartley and his wife journeyed across the lake  on personal watercraft, they photographed a historic church on the Mexican side of the lake and then headed back to the U.S. side.  

Along their route they were intercepted by  river pirates or cartel gunmen, who shot and killed David Hartley, his wife was able to escape unharmed. Hartley's body has never been found and the investigation was further stymied by the murder of the Tamaulipas state police commander and chief investigator, Rolando Flores. He was murdered while the search for Hartley's body was underway and his decapitated head was delivered to a nearby army base.

Mexican investigators then surmised that Tiffany Hartley, David's wife, had in fact killed him and was now covering up the crime by blaming cartel killers. This story was quickly quashed and discredited by Texas law enforcement officials also investigating the murder. There have been no further leads or breaks in the case since. Falcon Lake was back in the news on Mother's Day, Mexican marines patrolling along the shore stumbled upon a drug gang camp on an island, the ensuing gun battle left 13 suspected Los Zetas gunmen dead along with one marine. A Mexican naval spokesman said that the camp was used as a launching point for speedboats smuggling marijuana into Texas.   

The drummer keeps drumming, only now the beat is accented by sirens and the distinctive rattle of the AK47, as darkness falls not even the drummer has the courage to continue, the city is returned to the men in black.

Blog This

I'm no expert but I have learned a thing or two about blogging, 1. There are millions of them out there  2. Nobody really likes to read anymore  3. the majority of blogs are written by women with children who want to record every minor detail about their upbringing. 

Even the most mundane of these blogs have 40-50 followers, family are automatically obligated to follow as are co-workers and hubby's co-workers and their wives. It's a captive audience, and you see the goofiest god damn children on those sites. You were thinking it, but I said it, it's like playing Blogger roulette, click on the "next blog" feature and I bet you dollars to donuts that you land on a picture of freaky looking kids blowing out birthday candles.

It's a passive aggressive way of saying "My kids are more adorable than yours" or "Our lives are better than yours and I have proof."  It reminds me of the scene in Angela's Ashes, where the neighbor lady stands at her doorstep calling her kids home "Come get yer mutton stew, mint jelly, biscuits and tea" while the McCourts stand there with their stomachs growling.

Fuck 'em,  when you start writing a blog there are two ways to go: you can assume that everybody will read it and format your writing along that those lines (cheery, hopeful, funny, sincere) This approach does restrict what you can write, if Aunt Tillie and Uncle Joe might read it than cuss words are forbidden. Also if you wake up one morning hating your life or you've fallen into a pit of despair, stay away from the keyboard. You must avoid any mention of race, politics or religion (unless you belong to the LDS church) crossing those lines could have dire consequences in the workplace or with your co-workers. 
 

The other approach is to assume that nobody will ever read your blog, so you can write whatever you want. I use swear words on my blog, many bloggers do, in my case I don't do it to offend or shock, it's just the bi-product of having grown up and worked with people who swear out of habit.  Starting at 12 years old when I spent a summer working with a crusty World War II vet, who introduced me to this classic "God Damn It! I just fucked myself and didn't even get a kiss." he had hundreds of wise sayings like that. That's pretty bold stuff for a 12 year old kid, it wasn't long before I was repeating everything he said. Serving in the military and many long years working construction didn't help, watching every single episode of Trailer Park Boys, Deadwood and The Wire only added fuel to the fire.  

I manage three different blogs, the one that I use the most swear words on is the most popular by a long stretch, the one where I never and I mean NEVER, swear is the one that nobody reads. Unless you are steadfast and determined about your purpose for blogging, do not use the stat counter, Blogger has that feature and there are other counters available. When the number of total views sits at 12 for two months, it might be discouraging, on the other hand if  you start racking up some crazy numbers, it can be exhilarating. 

The down side to having lots of views and followers is the pressure that starts to build when you don't post anything. My remedy is to keep a backlog of stories and articles in reserve for that week or month that I just don't feel like writing. Statistics show that 1 out of every 3 blogs will be abandoned within a year, if it becomes too much of chore, just delete it, life will go on.  

Pick your theme with care, blogging about how wonderful your kids and family are is acceptable, blogging about how wonderful you are is not. The sleaziest blogging trend I've found so far is on Networked Blogs, there people troll for followers, "Follow me and I'll follow you back" which of course leads to messages like this "Ok I followed you, now follow me back", "I'm following you, but you are not following me", "Why are you not following me?, we agreed, I follow you, you follow me!" I'm not making this up, this was from an actual forum at Networked Blogs. This spirited discourse involved an angry African man and god know who else, maybe I've missed something here, could it be that whomever has the most followers wins?  

"What? You seek something? You wish to multiply yourself tenfold, a hundredfold? You seek followers? Seek zeros!"  Friedrich Nietzsche                            

Horizontal Departure

Mexico is still mired in a pitched battle with powerful and well-financed drug cartels. For now, the war seems to be shifting east, back to Tamaulipas, only this time it's a battle between Los Zetas and The Gulf Cartel with The Sinaloa Cartel conspicuous in its absence. 

The entire situation is ever changing, what was fact yesterday may not be so today. What does seem certain is that La Gente del Chapo are settling in as overlords of the Northern Chihuahua plazas.  The violence while still high is on a downward trend from it's sickening peak in 2010. 

However, the killings in Juarez still continue, seemingly with little rhyme or reason.  While at first glance the violence seems completely random, that is not the case. It's harder to get a grasp on what is really happening across the border, the players keep changing. This holds true especially for La Linea, which has been gutted and is now a mere shadow of its former self.

Yet, they are still dangerous, the continuing violence in the city of Juarez, could be rear guard action as they fight for survival. It could also be a sign that La Linea is punishing  anyone with even remote ties to the Sinaloa Cartel. Chapo may have taken control, but there is still much unfinished business at the Pass.

While the front lines in Chihuahua seem to have stabilized, in the east there's some strange shit going down. Los Zetas, who find themselves engaged in a death struggle with their former bosses, seem to have gone ape shit kill crazy.

Spurred on by rumors that hundreds of young men were being recruited by the Gulf Cartel, they responded in their typically brutal fashion. The rumor was that these men would be traveling north by bus along the coastal highway.  For Los Zetas that meant stopping buses, abducting all male passengers and killing them.

Mexico is rife with rumors, the true motive for the bus abductions remains unclear. Mexican prosecutors have suggested the gang may be forcefully recruiting people to work for it. However, history tells us that forced recruitment is a failed tactic, used only as a last resort. To a casual observer it doesn't seem that The Gulf Cartel has Los Zetas back on their heels. 

The discoveries of the mass graves sparked sporadic protests by citizens, and galvanized public opinion against them. However, in territory controlled by Los Zetas it's best not to protest too vigorously. Of the main cartels, they are the most brutal, they uphold their reputation through unspeakably depraved acts. In the failed state that Mexico is rapidly becoming, fear rules the land. Los Zetas have got fear down to a science, as the drug war in Mexico drags on the cartel's hired killers get better at what they do best: killing.  

It's plain to see that there are some serious fucking problems south of the border. The Mexican government says more than 34,600 have been killed in the four years since President Felipe Calderón took office, with the toll for 2010, 15,237, the heaviest yet.  Alejandro Poire, the government spokesman for security issues, insisted "the government is in control of Tamaulipas." however, the families of the 193 victims would beg to differ. Poire, who has to be the worst spin doctor ever, went on to say  "The government has sent more federal police to the state and is aggressively investigating the mass killings and working to prevent more deaths." That sound you just heard was either a sigh of relief from the people of Tamaulipas or the thunder of feet as they made a run for the border. 

It's hard to find a town or village in Mexico that's not somehow touched or controlled by the drug traffickers. Since President Felipe Calderon began using the army to contain the violence four years ago, the killings have escalated. Some areas like El Valle de Juarez have been laid to waste, the macabre has become the norm.  

Mexico has never been particularly adept at bringing criminals to justice, and the drug war has made things worse. While ordinary Mexicans live with the outright fear of becoming the next body in the street, they are as much to blame as anybody else. Fatalistic passivity will only get you a prolonged ass fucking. 

Mexicans have long turned their heads away from the corruption that is now at the heart of the present troubles. Following the assassination of JFK,  Malcolm X was asked for his thoughts, he replied "The chickens have come home to roost." Mexico's long legacy of corrupt government officials and law enforcement officers has come home to roost, and it's the chickens that are getting fucked. 

You can't pick your relatives and in most cases your neighbors, we are stuck with Mexico and nothing will ever change that.  The only logical solution left would be to force change on Mexico.

Chance City Chronicles

Steins Townsite

David Ristovski a 32 yr. old California man was traveling on I-10 near the Arizona-New Mexico state line when his vehicle ran out of gas. He informed a family member by cell phone of his predicament and then vanished into thin air and has not been seen since. Ristovski, a native of Bosnia who was taking medication for some mental health issues, abandoned his car and walked into New Mexico. Trackers lost his trail north the railroad tracks, near Steins Pass several miles west of Lordsburg. Why Ristovski chose to head into the wilderness, rather than follow the highway back towards Road Forks or the Steins ghost town is a mystery.  As of this day he still has not been found, although there have been some false sightings, including one at a sandwich shop in Silver City.  Mr. Ristovski may have had a tenuous grasp on reality and the godforsaken badlands of the Bootheel are not very forgiving of those who suffer from errors in judgment.  It's easy to forget as we whisk along the interstate, just how small the margin that separates us from real honest to god wilderness is. Regardless of the situation, the best advice to give greenhorn travelers is don't stray far from the roadbed.

It's official Martin Heinrich, first term U.S. Rep. has announced that he is a candidate for incumbent Jeff Bingaman's U.S. Senate seat. Bingaman who won re-election to a fifth term with 70% of the vote in 2006 is retiring from public office after 30 years in the U.S. Senate. Heinrich is a shoe-in for the Democratic nod as he's opposed only by a couple of fringe candidates. Although the names of some big guns have been mentioned, former Albuquerque mayor and perpetual candidate, Martin Chavez and Diane Denish, who shamefully lost the gubernatorial race to Susanna Martinez in 2010, have had their names tossed around. However, New Mexico Democrats, while corrupt and sleazy (with the exception of Sen. Bingaman) didn't just fall off the pumpkin truck from Wagon Mound. The New Mexicrats will take great pains to avoid an inter-party bloodbath, even if that means locking Martin Chavez in a u-store unit until after the elections.  The ever unlikeable, former U.S. Representative Heather Wilson, is leading a mangy pack of Republican candidates that includes, Businessmen Bill English and Greg Sowards, neither is a viable threat to Wilson. Let us not forget the walking cologne fog that is Lt. Gov. John Sanchez. He is taking his chances seriously, even if no one else is.  As for myself, I'm not running for office, but I am pissed off that former New Mexico governor, Gary Johnson has chosen to squander this perfect opportunity to return to public office. Sure he's running for President, but his true calling is in the Senate. Gary Johnson, known for his odd ways and for thinking outside the box, is simply the best  governor this state has ever had. Johnson was an effective governor because he ran the state the same way he ran his company, keeping an eye on the bottom line and profit margin.  He put his foot down, and kept the politico bandidos in check with an amazing 750 vetos and some good old New Mexico common sense.  Gary Johnson, a man who if I'm not mistaken, has never lost an election, would ride roughshod over Wilson or Heinrich. Gary, I'm begging you, puff puff give but don't puff puff pass up this chance to take out Heather Wilson, once and for all. New Mexico needs you Gary, like the desert needs the rain. This is what the fine folks at Publius, a New Mexico centric political blog who call themselves  "A Voice of Reason in the Wilderness of Enchantment" have to say about the former governor: "Deep down, people want to be led.  They want to be told what to do and what to think.  People are sheep.  They won’t go for this Gary Johnson.  He wants to legalize drugs. Bongs in the White House?  Oh, I don’t think so."  As for bongs in the White House, either Bill Clinton or George W. already took that honor. I don't want Gary Johnson in the White House either, but I do want him in Washington D.C., Gary Johnson for U.S. Senate!

Memory Bank

You reach a point in life where memories outnumber  hopes and you find yourself looking behind you, rather than looking ahead. We exist simply to accumulate memories, of a love, a moment, an action, a reaction. We progress and then regress, time waits for no one and it won't wait for me.
The stark reality is, that we begin to die as soon as we are born, we are given a blank page, then we fill in the blank spaces.

In high school at the end of the year the creative writing class would publish a collection of poems submitted by students. The process was cut and dry, you submitted your work, each submission was assigned a number and then judged. As always I was up against the wall, you had to submit at least six poems, however your grade improved with the number of submissions. 

At the time, I was fascinated by the word structure of  Springsteen, David Bowie and Marc Bolan. They had opened the doors to another realm of thought, their encrypted and abstract lyrics sparkled with a cool cadence. So, I knew what I had to do... cars, suicide, sex & self loathing = poems that will get me a passing grade. I started writing and I kept writing, I submitted 20+ poems and most of them were published.

When the review came out, my sister Emma, read it and asked how I came up with the poems. I was too embarrassed to tell her they came from a dark corner of my mind, so I lied and told her they were song lyrics I had copied. That wasn't the end of it, just before I left for boot camp, I opened the local paper and found three of my poems printed on the editorial page. It seems that my creative writing teacher had taken it upon herself to have them published.

The subjects were predictable: murder in my heart, suicide by car and a hooker who kills herself, I was mortified.  She wrote about how mature and introspective they were, that their relentless dark nature reminded her of Dante.  My sister raised an eyebrow as she looked up from reading the article, then she sneered at me "Wait till they find out you stole those poems." I was confused, Dante?, that's high praise for a freak who spent every last day of high school on the outside looking in. 

Nurturing talent, is a luxury few can afford, it wasn't in the books for me.  Reality took hold, the military, work, unemployment, money, more work, more money, drug abuse, depression and finally sobriety. In retrospect, being on the outside just gives you a better view of what takes place within the circle.  Cue Bowie's "Quicksand" again, I needs to get my poetry on.

A Trail of Dead

The story is told that Chapo Guzman traveled in a convoy of black Humvees right into the center of Juarez, stood on top of his vehicle and declared "La Plaza de Juarez belongs to me" the opening salvo in a war that has left thousands dead across Chihuahua. 

Just a few months back the U.S. State Dept. declared that according to their intelligence, the Sinaloa Cartel had won the battle for Juarez and was now in control. The outcome was decided long before Guzman's  brazen appearance in Juarez. The Sinaloa Cartel is a well oiled machine, in order to understand the outbreak of violence along our border with Chihuahua, you have to understand the Sinaloa Cartel. It's a ruthless organization that rewards those who are willing to kill without remorse. 

It's a fine line to walk, as the Gulf cartel found out with The Zetas, sometimes the killers you hire decide they want to kill you. What the Sinaloa Cartel does best is keep its soldiers in check, don't allow your appetite for destruction to devour you from the inside.

The Juarez cartel's frontline in Chihuahua consisted of several established smuggling families and associates. Over the years resentment grew as the mafiosos paraded around frontera towns like Palomas, Ascencion and Nueva Casas Grandes. 

The mafiosos dress in a bizarre style that mimics American western wear.  Garish colored, ostrich skin cowboy boots with the toes curled up like pro wrestler The Iron Sheik. Cowboy hats with the brims rolled up tight like a taco, western shirts with the top buttons open, dark sunglasses and the ever present cell phones. Just like mobsters in New York or Jersey, they carefully cultivate the appearance of never having worked a day in their lives. 

The have-nots gathered around their hard scrabble ranchos and colonias, dreaming of the day they would drive the pick-up trucks and man the Ak-47's. The Sinaloa Cartel (La Gente de Chapo) played off on this resentment, handing off tons of product to the new people or La Gente Nueva to move across the border. This forced the hand of the Juarez Cartel (La Linea) the killings started with both sides taking  the brutality up a notch. 

La Linea declared that there would be a "Limpieza" a culling of traitors and Sinaloa sympathizers. La Gente Nueva were soon being slaughtered by the hundreds, but unable to control its blood lust, La Linea had also started to destroy itself from within. It was just a matter of time before the Sinaloa Cartel would prevail, but what really turned the tide in Chapo's favor was the arrival of the Mexican Army.

The rumor of an agreement between Mexican President Calderon and Chapo Guzman has dogged the President since he took office. Regardless, once thousands of soldiers and Federales arrived in Juarez the Sinaloa Cartel got the upper hand. 

The word went out that the plaza was under new management and all outstanding debts were being called in. People all across Southern New Mexico scrambled either to make good or make tracks. The mafiosos were replaced by a new generation of  narcos, coked up  street thugs, ex-Mexican Army and gangbangers from both sides of the border, all are stone cold killers.

That the Sinaloa Cartel won is not in doubt, that has been made very clear even on this side of the border. Recently right here in town, a new restaurant opened, it's called  "El Sinaloense" this in a city and county where the vast majority of Hispanic residents have roots and family in Chihuahua. 

We get the message, it's purpose is not to serve food, but rather to serve notice. Most locals avoid it, not out of loyalty to Chihuahua, they just don't want to get caught in the crossfire if  La Linea decides to deliver a message of their own.   

The dead know only one thing: it is better to be alive.

Chance City Chronicles

I document and photograph abandoned mines, it's one of the things I do.  I have an entire blog dedicated to that very subject. Which is why the plight of Devin Westenskow hit close to home. Westenskow who was out exploring mines in Nevada with his co-workers, fell into a vertical shaft, 200 ft. deep. Rescuers were able to lower a video camera down to where he was, but unfortunately could not extract him without endangering their own lives. The camera then caught his last moment of life as he succumbed to the traumatic injuries he had sustained.  200 feet is a long way down, add crumbling walls and falling rocks (a large rock split the hard hat of one rescuer) and you have a hopeless situation.  The shaft will be sealed off, thus becoming Westenskow's eternal tomb. There was a similar situation that took place in Utah, after a cave explorer, John Edward Jones became wedged between rocks, Nutty Putty Cave as it is called became his grave and was also sealed off.  Here in New Mexico a mine explorer met with the same fate near the ghost town of Kelly when he entered an abandoned gold mine. He became trapped deep inside the mine, well beyond the reach of rescuers. Near Magdalena, a self styled claim jumper was lowering himself into a vertical shaft when he plunged 60 ft. into  brackish water and drowned. These men went out in a blaze of glory, a modern day Viking's funeral, with scores of first responders, rescue personnel and news reporters at hand. And so it goes, in America we have the right and the freedom to die in the most excruciating ways possible.  The issue of illegal immigrants obtaining drivers licenses  has become the fishbone in Susanna Martinez's throat. I don't get it and this is the only issue that I will ever side with Martinez on. If you're in this country illegally how can you walk into a DMV office and obtain a drivers license? Either the State of New Mexico doesn't care or DMV covets the revenue from these transaction too much to close any loopholes. The solution is easy, don't issue the licenses, ask for birth certificates or other documentation, train your staff to spot doctored or false documents. I smell a rat, maybe an entire nest of rats, if this bill isn't getting past the legislature it's not because New Mexico is suddenly at the forefront of  immigrant (legal or illegal) rights. It's because it provides a slush fund for our beloved lawmakers, "Daddy needs a new F-350, those things aren't cheap" The myth of New Mexico being progressive is just that, a myth. We're no different than Arizona, though we like to look down on our western neighbor. We are the longhaired pot smoking twin brother to Arizona's crew cut redneck jock, but we are cut from the same cloth. I'm going down to Walmart to pay $3.78 for a gallon of milk and $3.78 for a gallon of gasoline, sure is a funny way to balance my budget. We currently have one former Senate President Pro Tem doing prison time, let's find him a cellmate.

" Remember: these hills are not foolproof "

posted on sign at abandoned mine in Arizona

Chance City Chronicles

Anyone who's worked construction is familiar with Port-o-Lets (portable toilets). Invariably the inside walls of these would be scrawled with all sorts of racist remarks. At one work site it was so bad that a meeting  of contractors was scheduled to address the issue. The only solution that we could agree on was to paint the inside walls black. We started calling whoever was doing it "The Shithouse Supremacists"  Within those malodorous walls, these chumps felt safe and secure enough to let loose with their stream of hatred (bad puns, I know)  The first time I wrote and submitted something online was in the comments section of the local paper. I enjoyed the back and forth banter when someone would respond to one of your comments.  However, it didn't take long for those forums to fall prey to a plague of racists and hate mongers. I started commenting on Yahoo Sports and News web pages and it was even worse. Lesson learned, I needed another outlet for my writing needs. The internet is now populated by the web equivalent of "The Shithouse Supremacists" secure in the knowledge that nobody will ever know who they are, they pollute every forum with their vile garbage. I was taught that your freedom of speech ends where someone's fist begins. However, from behind a keyboard anyone can post anything with no consequences, it's freedom of speech, it's hateful, but it's mostly harmless.  Senator Jeff Bingaman is stepping down, I hate to see him go, he is as honest and efficient as New Mexico politicians get. Already, those dastardly Republicans are lining up their dogs for the upcoming fight. If it's a dogfight then Heather Wilson must be in. Wilson represents the ugly side of politics, she is self serving, looking out only for the self interest groups that bankroll her election hopes. Fool us once, shame on you, fool us twice shame on us, but never again Heather, never again. John Sanchez has thrown his hat into the ring, this shameless gladhander is smoking some powerful stuff these days if he actually thinks he's Senatorial material.  Susanna's lapdog is an arrogant smarmy bastard, an intellectual lightweight with little grasp of political reality. Mr. Deeds goes to Washington, Lt.Gov. Sanchez doesn't. 

Every man has a right to utter what he thinks truth, and every other man has a right to knock him down for it. Martyrdom is the test.

Chance City Chronicles

Today more than ever it's important to speak out and stand behind our beliefs. Special interest groups want to rubber stamp us and force their opinions down our throats.  We are bombarded with Justin Bieber, American Idol, Lebron James, tribal tattoos and tramp stamps (Grandma what is that on you lower back?) The lowest common denominators of taste, designed to pound us into one homogeneous glob of pizza dough.  We must rage against the machine, because this machine doesn't kill fascists, it creates them. It's a F-350 driven by Glen Beck with Sarah Palin and Joe Arpaio toting shotguns. If the machine was a sweet running Honda Civic with Ken Block behind the wheel it would be a different story. This is not a picture book moment in our history as a nation and I grew up during some of  the darkest days of recent memory, the Richard Nixon presidency. What's to become of New Mexico? we've been down so long it looks like up to us. The downturn in the economy and the hard times that followed are just a way of life in the Land of Enchantment. As Susanna Martinez is finding out, New Mexico is a state of give and take, poor people give and politicos take. You can tell the honest politicians by their empty pockets, who am I kidding?,  there are no honest politicians in New Mexico. What do you expect when our un-official state motto is "Thank God for Louisiana." Recently I received a package in the mail from The U.S. Census Bureau. Having chased away the census taker three different times. (He was a pathetic, sad eyed fella, who actually stuck his foot in the door as I closed it on him.) "You will have to answer these questions" he yelled at me as he limped away "Fuck you, get a real job" I yelled back. I open the envelope which is marked, "You! must respond under penalty of law!",  In order to keep from being whisked away to Guantanamo or worse, I will fill in the blanks and return the forms. I later ran into that census tool at Walmart, he wouldn't even make eye contact. He was buying apple juice and Jello pudding, that's what thirty pieces of silver will buy you, enjoy your blood money..Judas. "Sunshine and Dust Storms make for a perfect day" ah! screw it, let's go four wheeling.  

"An Asylum for the sane would be empty in America"

George Bernard Shaw

Chance City Chronicles

Hate is the new mean, sometime after we elected our first African-American President, the seeds of hate sprouted across this land. This land is your land, this land is my land, unless we hate you than get the fuck out, has become the new mantra. This is what happens to a country when you fuck with elections, George W. and his little brother Zeb screwed with the natural process and now all of us are suffering the resulting shit storm. Thank God as Americans we have the moral fiber and backbone not to become like France or The U.K.  Who are just fading old whores  still applying layers of make-up to maintain appearance while waving their fists in mock indignation.  We are made of a more durable material, America has been tipped off  keel before (JFK, RFK, MLK) and has always righted itself. Time will heal our wounds, but will time dissipate the concentration of hatred building up inside the pressure cooker we now live in?  Is Barak Obama just a darker, cooler Jimmy Carter, it sure looks that way, good intentions and bad ideas equals poor leadership. It just seems like everyone needs someone to hate, poor Barak, until now he had coasted through life being loved and admired. Is Susanna Martinez just Sarah Palin with a tan and an education? The new Evita stormed into the roundhouse determined to line up all the good 'ol boys and give them each a swift kick to the package. That's not how things are done in  New Mexico, Susanna being from El Paso is not schooled on these matters.  Wherein Sarah Palin likens herself to and resembles a pit bull with lipstick, Susanna is more akin to a Chihuahua with too much rouge. Lots of barking and ankle gnawing with little or no results. Swat her with a rolled up newspaper and she'll soon find her place at the foot of the bed, we'll survive La Dona Anna, hell we made it through eight years of Gary Johnson.

When the rich think about the poor, they have poor ideas.

Evita Peron

The Thought Process

Memorial School was named in honor of  the 200 or so men from Luna County, who were called up with the New Mexico National Guard, to serve in the Philippines at the onset of World War II. They would pay a heavy price, suffering through The Bataan Death March and then enduring the subsequent brutal imprisonment, less than half would return.

Once back home many were unable to cope with the guilt of having survived while so many others didn't. One veteran talked about the pall of sadness that engulfed the small town of Deming, of having to constantly answer questions from the families about where and how their loved ones had died. The emotional wounds were slow to heal, closure was hard to find, most of the veterans simply packed up and left.

The school was built during a period of intense paranoia centered around the Cuban Missile Crisis.  This bunker down mentality no doubt played a part in the design of Memorial School.  The cinder block big box would have a dual purpose, to educate our young and to serve as shelter, if and when Nikita finally lost his mind and dropped the big one.  For that reason, it had no windows, a single story monolith, a glaring testament to the cold war, the pride and joy of Deming Public Schools.
  
We lived on a farm west of town, almost within the shadow of Red Mountain, the most prominent landmark in that area. The setting was pastoral, it was a another time, a different way of life, one that has almost disappeared from the landscape. 

We spoke Spanish, my first exposure to the English language would be the day I first set foot at Memorial School.  This put me at quite a disadvantage, I was forced to cling to the bi-lingual kids and beg them to translate for me.  As a result the first half of that school year was like being deaf and mute, I sat in class and took visual clues from others kids as to what we were expected to do.  I wasn't alone, half of the class was in the same boat,  we stuck together and spoke Spanish, which of course didn't help with the process of learning English.

One of my most vivid memories of that first school year was a day in November. For some reason recess never ended, we just kept galloping and tussling...until, slowly we started to realize that something was not right.  One of our teachers who was wearing a black jacket and sunglasses, had tears streaming down her face.  Other teachers gathered, they were all crying, we were dumbfounded, finally one teacher explained to us, "President Kennedy is dead, he was shot" we looked at each other, "Que dijo?" another kid translated for us "They killed the President" I heard a kid ask in Spanish "Who, the President of Mexico?" the kid replied "No stupid! our President"  

After that I would sit in the classroom, with no clue as to what the teacher was saying, and my mind would start to wander. I would think of my father driving a tractor back on the farm, of my mother cooking or washing at home, and I would miss them. I didn't like school, all I could think about was the precious time with my parents that was being taken from me.  Sadness would come over me, once it was so intense that I just started bawling, right in the classroom, all the kids looked at me with their mouths open, but the teacher understood and she held me in her arms until I stopped.

I honestly didn't think about it again, until years later, when I was in high school, a kid who had been in that class brought it up. "Do you still cry in class" he taunted, I looked at him wondering why he even remembered that moment. (Seriously, it had been 10 years, what the hell was that kid's problem?)  I rushed him, landing a punch to his temple that caused him to fall backwards against the bleachers, I stood over him "I'm not crying now" I sneered. I took no pleasure in his humiliation, but now he had the memory of that beating to keep his other memories company.

Something else was starting to happen, English was starting to make sense, I now knew some important words: lunch, recess, school, fight, popcorn, principal, teacher etc. I was no longer dependent on other kids translating for me. I started playing with English speaking kids, I soon struck up a friendship with a kid named Tommy, in an age when most kids were underfed and scrawny, Tommy was big.

The playgrounds at Memorial were divided into two sections, one for the little kids and one for the big kids.  Little kids did not dare wander to the other side, it meant a quick trip to the principal's office or a punch to the nose from some bully.  The dividing line was a strip of playground between the west fence and the cafeteria wall, you could stand on one end and watch the big kids play basketball. However, nobody was ever foolhardy enough to enter this no man's land...except for Tommy. 

That day as we stood there, Tommy suddenly said "I'm going over there to play basketball" I was trying to comprehend what he had just said "Are you coming?" he added as he grabbed my arm and starting pulling me with him, but I broke away, I stood there in a near panic, I searched for words, he kept walking towards the other side.  Finally it came to me and I yelled, in English  "Tommy, come back you'll get in trouble"  

At that moment it struck me, I had spoken English!, it was like a fog had lifted, I now understood, so I ran to the nearest teacher and told her "Tommy went to the big kids side" She chased Tommy down  and dragged him back, I felt bad about it, she took him straight to the principal's office. Since that moment on the playground, my thought process has been in English. Trying to keep my friend out  of trouble was the trigger, while ratting on him just seemed to seal the deal.

Today, I still think of J.F.K, of the hallowed days of time long past, when we could feint innocence and we still had faith in our leaders. I yearn for The New Frontier, Camelot and The Great Society, for the smiles and hugs of the ones we loved so dear.    Of days of youth, forever gone, of wonderment and awe, when everything was new,  I recall my first step off that bus, when I looked around and stared into the future.

 

Eagle Eye Turner

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