Monday, May 25, 2020

Memorial Day

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Celebrating Memorial Day (a federal holiday in the United States for remembering and honoring persons who have died while serving in the United States Armed Forces) let us reflect on the fact that the United States is and has been in a constant state of war since its beginning. War, the single most cause of wasting of the Earth and creating climate change, wasting of lives (U.S. lives and even more so, lives in the countries we invade or in which we "intervene"), wasting of resources which neither the Earth nor we can afford.

Now the United Sates is governed by its 45 President, a cruel man of an authoritarian disposition, an outright liar with utter disregard for truth, disbeliever in science, ignorant of government, and intent on war — a nuclear war he is provoking with Iran, bombing of Somalia, fomenting coups and suffering in Venezuela with CIA activity and U.S. sanctions.  

He talks of cancelling elections and destroying the U. S. Postal Service (one of our oldest institutions since the beginning of the nation,) the only thing that would ensure our right to vote in this time of pandemic, a pandemic of great suffering intensified by his incompetence and ignorance.

And what democracy we have been struggling for since the inception of the United States is at stake.




For sometime now, I have shared my thoughts during my visit to the Vietnam Memorial in 2006 as my way of honoring Memorial Day:


My first day in Washington D.C., in the heat of August, straight from the Museum of the American Indian, wearing my T-shirt picturing the Apache Jerónimo and his armed companions and reading, “Homeland Security, Fighting Terrorism since 1492”, I walk down the Mall, skirt the obelisk of the Washington Monument, down the reflecting pool, past the white marble Greek temple of the Lincoln Monument, to the Viet-Nam Wall —a pilgrimage to the memorial to “my war,” mine not because I fought in it, but because I fought against it — heart, mind, and soul.

My intent, a kind of penance, like saying the rosary, is to start at one end to the other and read each and every one of the 58,245 names, imagining a face, an age, a history, a life. I know it will be hard, but do not think it impossible (not one of the five million names of the Vietnamese dead are even alluded to.) I start with one name, John H. Anderson Jr. (PFC, 19 years of age, dead May 25, 1968, I later look up in the log), then several, increasing exponentially. It becomes more and more difficult to focus, the faces, the figures of families, lovers, tourists reflected moving against the mirroring black granite Wall is a distraction, their chatter, at times their laughter, an intrusion upon my meditations. As the Wall grows longer, rises higher and higher toward the center, the names crowd upon each other, pile up high and tight, at times difficult to distinguish, I do not know if for the numbers, the height, for the glare of the sun, or for the tears welling in my eyes. The names, the letters blur, run together.

I begin to skim, to let my attention chance upon a name, a Smith, a Cohen, a Bankowski, an O’Mally, a Chan, certainly a González here and there — every European and many another culture represented by a name. How came they to be there, what history of need, what myth or dream of theirs, or of some recent or distant ancestor, brought them to be “American” and die in a war without sense or reason?

After a time my reading becomes cursory, I occasionally stop, kneel to pick up and read a letter, a note of testimonial — of love, of remembrance — left at the foot of the Wall by some surviving wife, sweetheart, mother, father, son, daughter, nephew, niece, friend. A flag here and there, a flower (mostly artificial, a few in soda bottles, wilting in the heat.)

My mind gradually becomes numb, at times almost hallucinatory, wonders —imagines seeing the name there of a moneyed coward with powerful political connections that now inhabits a white house not far away.


* -----*----- *

They say the dead live on for as long as they are remembered. How many of these names etched here are still remembered? A few people, holding scraps of paper against the black stone make rubbings. Most hurry by, the kids impatient to reach the end, the names picked there not interesting enough to hold their attention. The names.

Last year, Xochipilli, my men’s ritual group, in collaboration with the ‘Faces of the War Project,’ created an Ofrenda to the Victims of War, for the Días de los Muertos Community Celebration at the Oakland Museum of California. The ofrenda stood against the walls lined with the photographs and names of the U. S. soldiers dead in Iraq, the names, without the photographs, of Iraqi dead. The names, still fresh, living in recent memory. Another war, as senseless, as irredeemable as that of Viet-Nam. I am tired, my face wet with sweat and tears I do not bother to wipe away. Tourists look at me, respectfully keep their distance, look away. They sense that this, that of Viet-Nam, is my war; I do not know if my T-shirt gives them a clue as to why.


* -----*----- *

I reach the other end of the Wall, Jessie Charles Alba (Sgt., aged 20, dead May 25, 1968, the middle of the war.)


* -----*----- *

Retracing my way up the reflecting pool, I must climb the steps of the Lincoln Memorial from which Marian Anderson once sang, from which Martin Luther King, Jr. spoke of his dream. I stand before the colossal figure of Lincoln enthroned and read his words chiseled into the white marble to his right: “ . . . a government of the people, for the people, by the people . . .” A pious hope devoutly to be wished.



Washington D.C.; August 15, 2006


© Rafael Jesús González 2020






 
Celebrando el Día de Conmemoración (fiesta patria en los EE.UU. para recordar y honrar personas muertas en servicio en las fuerzas armadas de los EE.UU.) reflexionemos sobre el hecho de que los Estados Unidos está y ha estado en estados de guerra constantes desde su principio. Guerra, la causa principal del derroche de la Tierra y criando cambio climático, derrochando vidas (vidas estadounidenses y aun más vidas en los países que invadimos o en que "intervenimos"), derrochando recursos que ni la Tierra ni nosotros podemos permitir. 

Ahora los Estados Unidos es gobernado por su Presidente No. 45, un hombre cruel de disposición autoritaria, un mentiroso descarado sin ningún respeto por la verdad, no creyente en la ciencia, ignorante del gobierno e intento en hacer guerra — guerra nuclear que provoca con Irán, bombardeand Somalia, formentado golpe de estado con la CIA,
y sufrimiento por medio se sanciones en Venezuela.

Habla de cancelar las electiones y destruir el Servicio de Correos (una de las instituciones más antiguas desde los principios de la nació,) la única cosa que asegurara nuestro derecho del voto en estos tiempos de pandemia, pandemia de gran sufrimiento intensificado por su incompetencia e ignorancia.

Y la democracia por la cual hemos luchado desde la incepción de los Estados Unidos está en riesgo.

Hace ya tiempo que he compartido mi pensar durante mi visita al Monumento a Vietnam en 2006 como mi modo de celebrar el Día de Conmemoración:






El primer día en Washington D.C., en el calor de agosto, justo del Museo del Indio Americano, llevo mi camiseta con la imagen del apache Jerónimo y sus compañeros armados que lee, “Homeland Security, Luchando contra el Terrorismo desde 1492.” Camino por la alameda, el Mall, rodeo el obelisco del monumento a Washington, sigo la alberca, paso el templo griego de mármol blanco del monumento a Lincoln, al Muro de Vietnam — peregrinaje al monumento a “mi guerra,” mía no porque luché en ella, sino porque luché en oposición de ella — corazón, mente y alma.

Mi intención, un tipo de penitencia, como decir el rosario, es empezar de una punta a la otra y leer cada uno y todos los 58, 245 nombres, imaginándome un rostro, una edad, una historia, una vida. Sé que será difícil, pero no lo creo imposible (ni siquiera se alude ni a uno de los cinco millones de nombres de los vietnamitas muertos.) Empiezo con un nombre, John H. Anderson Jr. (PFC, 19 años de edad, muerto el 25 de mayo 1968, más tarde busco en la lista), luego varios, aumentando exponentemente. Se me hace más y más difícil enfocarme, las caras, las figuras de familias, amantes, turistas reflejados moviéndose contra el espejo del Muro de granito negro es una distracción, su parloteo, a veces su risa, una intrusión en mis meditaciones. A grado que el Muro se hace más largo, se eleva más y más alto hacia el centro, los nombres se amontonan uno sobre el otro, se amontonan alto y apretado, a veces difíciles de distinguir, no sé si por la cantidad, la altura, el relumbre del sol o las lágrimas que me llenan los ojos. Los nombres, las letras se borran, se corren una contra la otra.

Empiezo a pasar los nombres por en cima, dejar mi atención caer sobre un nombre u otro, un Smith, un Cohen, un Bankowski, un O’Mally, un Chan, indudablemente un González aquí y allá — toda cultura Europea y muchas otras representadas por un nombre. ¿Cómo llegaron a estar allí, que historia de necesidad, que mito o sueño suyo, o de algún antepasado reciente o lejano, los trajeron a ser “americano” y morir en una guerra sin sentido o razón?

Después de algún tiempo mi lectura se hace superficial, paro de vez en cuando, me arrodillo a levantar y leer una carta, una nota de testimonio — de amor, de recuerdo — depositada al pie del Muro por algún sobreviviente, esposa, novia, madre, padre, hijo, sobrino, sobrina, amigo. Una bandera aquí y allá, una flor (la mayoría artificiales, unas cuantas en botellas de refresco, marchitándose en el bochorno.)

La mente se me entume gradualmente, a veces casi halucinante, se desvía — imagina ver allí el nombre de un cobarde adinerado con conexiones políticas poderosas que ahora habita una casa blanca no lejos de aquí.

* ------*------ *
Dicen que los muertos viven mientras sean recordados. ¿Cuántos de los nombres aquí grabados son aun recordados? Algunas personas, poniendo trozos de papel contra la piedra negra hacen borradores. La mayoría se apresuran, los muchachos impacientes a llegar al final, los nombres cincelados allí no lo suficiente interesantes para captarles la atención. Los nombres.

El año pasado, Xochipilli, mi grupo de hombres dedicado a la ceremonia, en colaboración con el ‘Proyecto Rostros de la Guerra’, montó una ofrenda a las víctimas de la guerra para la Celebración Comunitaria del Día de Muertos en el Museo de California en Oakland. La ofrenda se puso contra las paredes cubiertas de las fotografías y nombres de los soldados estadounidenses muertos en Irak, los nombres, sin fotografías, de muertos Iraki. Los nombres, aun frescos, vivientes en la memoria reciente. Otra guerra, tan insensata, tan irredimible como la de Vietnam. Estoy cansado, la cara húmeda de sudor y llanto que no me preocupo de limpiar. Me miran los turistas, respetuosamente guardan la distancia, alejan la mirada. Sienten que esta, la de Vietnam, es mi guerra; no sé si mi camiseta les sugiera por que.

* ------*------ *
Llego al otro extremo del Muro, Jessie Charles Alba (Sgt., 20 años de edad, muerto el 25 de mayo 1968, a mediados de la guerra.)

* ------*------ *

Retrazando mis pasos a lo largo de la alberca, me siento obligado a subir los escalones del monumento a Lincoln desde los cuales Marian Anderson una vez cantó, desde los cuales Martin Luther King, Jr. habló de su sueño. Paro ante la figura colosal de Lincoln entronizado y leo sus palabras cinceladas en el mármol blanco a su derecha: “. . . un gobierno del pueblo, para el pueblo, del pueblo . . .” Esperanza pía devotamente anhelada.
-
Washington D.C.; 15 de agosto 2006


------------------------------------------© Rafael Jesús González 2019



Saturday, May 23, 2020

PITTOC Volume Two of POETRY in the TIME of CORONAVIRUS


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https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0892HNGK1/ref=ppx_yo_dt_b_asin_title_o0 0_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0892HNGK1/ref=ppx_yo_dt_b_asin_title_o0 0_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1



PITTOC Volume Two of POETRY in the TIME of CORONAVIRUS Paperback May 21, 2020

by G.A. Cuddy G.A. Cuddy(Author), Liz Kobak (Editor), Stephanie Maurer (Illustrator), Conner Reddan (Illustrator)

All proceeds will benefit

#1 New Release in Poetry Anthologies 

Paperback $14.99

PITTOC Volume Two is an anthology with original submissions from 100 poets of the world. This compilation has been edited by G.A. Cuddy with assistance from Liz Kobak. The cover art was provided by Stephanie Maurer; the interior cover art was created by Conner Reddan. Like the first anthology, proceeds will once again benefit Doctors Without Borders and Partners In Health. PITTOC Volume Two features April Leavenworth, Noelle Butkevic, Colette Tennant, Fiona Pitt-Kethley, Larry Robinson, Dr. Gerard Sarnat, Joey Kent, Joelle P., Jen Hughes, Matt B. Nagin, Lisa Hudson, Chiquita Mullins Lee, Lynn Ungar, Kendra Nuttall, Julie A. Hale, Christopher Kent, Elizabeth Rogan, Katherine H. Burkman, Dr. Rachel Mullaly, Aoibhín Doherty, Mairéad Jackson, Paul Bluestein, Erica Klarreich, Paul Cowan, Ingrid Wilson, Rosaleen Crowley, Susana H. Case, Noah Swinney, Wendy Taylor Carlisle, Rebecca W. Zelanin, Moira Lambe, Rafael Mendes, Hanna Völker, Tom Driscoll, Gerry Whyte, Maia Sichitiu, Esther L. Palmer, Liam Smyth Ayres, Barbara Ittner, Kirsty Niven, Sarah Leavesley, Molly Flanagan, Christopher Woods, Dr. Leister Sam Sudheer Manickam, Gerard Reidy, David R. Mellor, Carla Sarett, Wayne L. Miller, Matthew McDonald, Jennifer Shneiderman, Nina Murray, Zoe Karathanasi, Simon Medhurst, Linda Lancione, Norm Mattox, Paige Elizabeth Wajda, Sara Cahill Marron, Carol Paris Krauss, Anna Jozefowicz, Richard Matta, Susan E. Zeni, Alan Toltzis, Magdalena Smith, Rebecca Warnock, Linda Keller, Katrina Dybzynska, George Moore, Kailey Larson, Sofia Elizarova, John Grey, Alan Harris, Catherine Seitz Nichols, Rafael Jesús González, Sharon Lee Snow, Alison Hurwitz, Aisling O'Mahony, Thomas O'Donoghue, C.M. Payne, Nathalie Sallegren, Siobhán Flynn, Colette Scariff-Lalor, Alison H. Palmer, Dermot J. Smyth, Emily Prince, Ruth Taaffe, Sophie Harrington, Kate O'Flynn, Rebecca Ruth Gould, Richard W. Halperin, John Kelly, Charlotte Papacosma, Caitlin Davis, Karen Garfield, Clogdagh Duggan, Hannah-Lee Osborn, Eamonn O'Sullivan, Aoife O’Connor, Jeanna O’Riordan, David Bennett, Sheila Nolan, Joey Baker, Carina Remi, Mairéad Jackson, Conner Reddan, and Melanie Maxey. 


https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0892HNGK1/ref=ppx_yo_dt_b_asin_title_o0 0_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1

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Thursday, May 21, 2020

Gemini


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------------Géminis

Los gemelos,
él con collar de esmeraldas,
ella con collar de perlas,
arrullan en sus brazos
------al aire inconstante
y en sus manos llevan
puños de azogue inquieto.
Miden la dualidad
y en su intelecto brillan
las luces lejanas de Mercurio.





---------© Rafael Jesús González 2020





-------------Gemini



The twins,
he with a collar of emeralds,
she with a collar of pearls,
rock in their arms
------the inconstant air
& carry in their hands
fistfuls of restless quicksilver.
They measure duality
& in their intellect shine
the faraway lights of Mercury.





-----------© Rafael Jesús González 2020


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Sunday, May 10, 2020

Mother's Day

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----------------------Las Cobijas

--------------------------------------a Carmen González Prieto de González


Son olas las cobijas que me tejió mi madre;
sus manos las ondean,
manos jóvenes, uñas color, olor, forma de almendras;
manos maduras, fuertes, decisivas;
manos ancianas como arañas ciegas y precisas.
Cuenta y cuenta puntadas el gancho de la aguja,
cuentos de nunca acabar;
parece que crecen las cobijas,
----------------------------------se alargan
y amenazan inundar la casa.

Son una mezcla de sarapes de Saltillo
y tablas huicholas suaves y flexibles
con franjas coloridas anchas y ondulantes.
En sus pliegues y dobleces
parecen desplegarse las leyendas de los soles,
los cuentos de las creaciones,
las historias de los mundos y los dioses.
Son telas, redes de mil colores
para atrapar los sueños como peces
en los mares obscuros de las noches.
Hechizos de mi madre, adivinanzas,
misteriosos criptogramas de sus pensares,
¿qué penas amenguaban, que temores?
¿Qué sueños, qué recuerdos, qué emociones
guiaban sus dedos veloces y precisos
contando puntadas, produciendo estas mareas
de estambres pavorreales?

Ya muerta, sus manos quietas bajo tierra,
en mis sueños siguen creciendo las cobijas
y en las noches de invierno
cuando la lluvia gris asota las ventanas,
aun me abriga con arcos iris
mi madre.




--------------------------© Rafael Jesús González 2020



(Siete escritores comprometidos: obra y perfil; Fausto Avendaño, director;
Explicación de Textos Literarios vol. 34 anejo 1; diciembre 2007;
Dept. of Foreign Languages; California State University Sacramento;
derechos reservados del autor.)






Carmen González Prieto de González



-------------------The Blankets

----------------------------------a Carmen González Prieto de González

The blankets my mother knit for me are waves;
her hands stir them,
young hands, nails the color, smell, shape of almonds;
mature hands, strong & decisive;
old hands like spiders blind & precise.
The hook of the needle counts & counts stitches,
stories without end;
it seems the blankets grow,
-------------------------------stretch,
& threaten to flood the house.

They are a cross between sarapes of Saltillo
& Huichol yarn paintings, pliant & soft
with wide & undulating colored bands.
In their pleats & folds
there seem to unfold the legends of the suns,
the creation stories,
the histories of the worlds & of the gods.
They are weavings, nets of a thousand colors
to trap dreams like fishes
in the dark seas of the nights.
Spells of my mother, riddles,
mysterious cryptograms of her thoughts;
what pains did they comfort, what fears?
What dreams, what memories, what feelings
guided her fingers fast & precise
counting stitches, producing these tides
of peacock yarns?

Now dead, her hands still beneath the earth,
in my dreams the blankets still grow
& in the winter nights
when the gray rain whips the windows,
my mother still covers me
with rainbows.

----------------------------© Rafael Jesús González 2020


(Rhetorics of the Americas, 3114 BCE to 1012 CE; Baca, Damián & Victor Villanueva; Palgrave McMillan, New York 2010; author's copyrights)


 Rafael Jesús González by Chris Orr


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Roque Dalton 5/14/35 - 5/10/75


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-----Después de carnaval

------------------------a Roque Dalton


Después de carnaval
llega la hora de la ceniza,
tiñe las frentes
del humilde devoto
y del arrogante y el vanidoso.
Cae del cielo gris y solemne
de donde llueven bombas
-----------bobas y listas.

Pienso en la alta hora de la noche
que como tú que lees estas líneas
todos amamos la paz
-------y abrorrecemos la guerra
(Pero también
los que aman la guerra leen
y hasta escribirán versos.)

No lo sé. 
Lo que sé es que siguen las guerras,
la matanza, la injusticia, el sufrir
y que se logra el descanso 
del guerrero ni el de la víctima
si no es que la encuentren
en la muerte donde todo es ceniza
gris y fría sin ningún matiz de carnaval.



----------------------------------© Rafael Jesús González 2020


(Isla Negra 7/283, mayo 2011; derechos reservados del autor.)





                                               

After Carnival 

----------a Roque Dalton


After carnival
comes the hour of ash;
it stains the foreheads
of the humble devotee
& the arrogant and the vain.
It falls from the gray & grim sky
raining bombs
---------stupid & smart.

I think in the high hour of the night
that like you who read these lines
we all love peace
--------& hate war
(but also those
who love war read
& may even write verse.)

I do not know.
What I know is that wars go on,
the killing, the injustice, the suffering
& that rest is not attained
for the warrior nor for the victim
unless they find it
in death where all is ash
gray & cold without shade of carnival.




--------------------------------© Rafael Jesús González 2020


 (A Roque Dalton Tribute; San Francisco (Acción Latina) 2017; author's copyrights)




https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roque_Dalton



 -

Mother's Day U.S.A.


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Mothers' Day is celebrated in the United States the second Sunday of May, and throughout the world on various dates. But in them all, this day in which reverence from the heart is rendered to the mother, is at the same time pretext for a cloying sentimentality that commerce foments to sell saccharin cards, odorless carnations, and expensive trinkets to increase profits.

We forget the origins of this relatively modern holiday. Mother's Day was started after the U.S. Civil War as a protest to the carnage of that war by women who had lost their sons to war. Such was the beginning of an annual Mothers' Day proposed by a mother. Let us render with a full heart our homage to our mothers and the mothers of everyone and let us not fall into facile sentimentality but dedicate ourselves to preventing the suffering of all mothers (and their children): poverty, hunger, abandonment, lack of shelter, lack of education, violence, war.

Rafael Jesús González



Here is the original Mother's Day Proclamation from 1870, followed by a a reminder of what the original intent of Mother's Day was from 'A history of Mother's Day' by a UC Davis historian:

Arise, then, women of this day! Arise all women who have hearts, whether our baptism be that of water or of fears! Say firmly: "We will not have great questions decided by irrelevant agencies. Our husbands shall not come to us, reeking with carnage, for caresses and applause. Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn all that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience.

We women of one country will be too tender of those of another country to allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs. From the bosom of the devastated earth a voice goes up with our own. It says "Disarm, Disarm! The sword of murder is not the balance of justice."

Blood does not wipe our dishonor nor violence indicate possession. As men have often forsaken the plow and the anvil at the summons of war, let women now leave all that may be left of home for a great and earnest day of counsel. Let them meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead.

Let them then solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means whereby the great human family can live in peace, each bearing after their own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar, but of God.

In the name of womanhood and of humanity, I earnestly ask that a general congress of women without limit of nationality may be appointed and held at some place deemed most convenient and at the earliest period consistent with its objects, to promote the alliance of the different nationalities, the amicable settlement of international questions, the great and general interests of peace.







Mother's Day for Peace - by Ruth Rosen:


Honor Mother with Rallies in the Streets.

The holiday began in activism; it needs rescuing from commercialism and platitudes.

Every year, people snipe at the shallow commercialism of Mother's Day. But to ignore your mother on this holy holiday is unthinkable. And if you are a mother, you're supposed to be devastated if your ingrates fail to honor you at least one day of the year.

Mother's Day wasn't always like this... because Mother's Day began as a holiday that commemorated women's public activism, not as a celebration of a mother's devotion to her family.

The story begins in 1858 when a community activist named Anna Reeves Jarvis organized Mothers' Works Days in West Virginia. Her immediate goal was to improve sanitation in Appalachian communities. During the Civil War, Jarvis pried women from their families to care for the wounded on both sides. Afterward she convened meetings to persuade men to lay aside their hostilities.




In 1872, Julia Ward Howe, author of the "Battle Hymn of the Republic", proposed an annual Mother's Day for Peace. Committed to abolishing war, Howe wrote: "Our husbands shall not come to us reeking with carnage.. Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn all that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience. We women of one country will be too tender of those of another country to allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs".

Julia Ward Howe
For the next 30 years, Americans celebrated Mothers' Day for Peace on June 2.

Many middle-class women in the 19th century believed that they bore a special responsibility as actual or potential mothers to care for the casualties of society and to turn America into a more civilized nation. They played a leading role in the abolitionist movement to end slavery. In the following decades, they launched successful campaigns against lynching and consumer fraud and battled for improved working conditions for women and protection for children, public health services and social welfare assistance to the poor. To the activists, the connection between motherhood and the fight for social and economic justice seemed self-evident.

In 1913, Congress declared the second Sunday in May to be Mother's Day. By then, the growing consumer culture had successfully redefined women as consumers for their families. Politicians and businessmen eagerly embraced the idea of celebrating the private sacrifices made by individual mothers. As the Florists' Review, the industry's trade journal, bluntly put it, " This was a holiday that could be exploited."... Since then, Mother's Day has ballooned into a billion-dollar industry.

Americans may revere the idea of motherhood and love their own mothers, but not all mothers. Poor, unemployed mothers may enjoy flowers, but they also need child care, job training, health care, a higher minimum wage and paid parental leave. Working mothers may enjoy breakfast in bed, but they also need the kind of governmental assistance provided by every other industrialized society.

With a little imagination, we could restore Mother's Day as a holiday that celebrates women's political engagement in society. During the 1980's, some peace groups gathered at nuclear test sites on Mother's Day to protest the arms race. Today, our greatest threat is not from missiles but from our indifference toward human welfare and the health of our planet.

Imagine, if you can, an annual Million Mother March in the nation's capital. Imagine a Mother's Day filled with voices demanding social and economic justice and a sustainable future,....public activism does not preclude private expressions of love and gratitude. (Nor does it prevent people from expressing their appreciation all year round.)


Ruth Rosen is a professor of history at UC Davis.






El Día de madres se celebra en los Estados Unidos el segundo domingo de mayo, y por el mundo entero en distintas fechas. Pero en todas, este día en el cual se le rinde veneración de corazón a la madre es a la vez pretexto para un sentimentalismo empalagoso que el comercio fomenta para vender tarjetas sacarinas, claveles sin aroma, y chucherías para aumentar las ganancias.

Olvidamos el origen de esta fiesta relativamente moderna. El Día de Madres empezó después de la guerra civil de los Estados Unidos como protesta a la mortandad en esa guerra por las mujeres que habían perdido a sus hijos a la guerra. Tal fue el principio del Día de Madres anual propuesto por una madre. Brindemos de todo corazón nuestros homenajes a todas nuestras madres y las madres de todos y no caigamos en el sentimentalismo fácil sino dediquémonos a evitar el sufrimiento de toda madre (y sus hij@s): la pobreza, el hambre, el abandono, el desamparo, falta de educación, violencia, la guerra.


Rafael Jesús González


 

Aquí la proclamación de 1870:

¡Levantémonos, entonces, mujeres de este día! ¡Levantémonos todas las mujeres que tengamos corazones, sea nuestro bautismo de agua o de temores! Digamos firmemente: “No permitiremos que las grandes cuestiones sean decididas por agencias que no vienen al caso. Nuestros esposos no vendrán hediendo a carnicería a nosotras por caricias y aplauso. No se nos quitarán a nuestros hijos para que desaprendan todo lo que les hemos podido enseñar de la caridad, la piedad y la paciencia.Nosotras las mujeres de un país seremos demasiadas tiernas de las de otro país para permitir que nuestros hijos sean entrenados a dañar a los suyos. Del pecho de la Tierra devastada una voz se alzará con la nuestra. Dice, “¡Desarmad, desarmad! La espada del homicidio no es la balanza de la justicia.”

La sangre no limpia nuestra deshonra ni la violencia indica posesión. Como los hombres han a menudo abandonado el arado y el yunque a la citación de la guerra, que las mujeres ahora dejen todo lo que se pueda dejar del hogar para un gran y fervoroso día de deliberación. Que se encuentren primero, como mujeres, para llorar y conmemorar a los muertos.

Que entonces solemnemente se aconsejen unas con la otras de modo que la gran familia humana pueda vivir en paz, cada quien llevando a su propio tiempo la empresa sagrada, no la de César, sino la de Dios.

En el nombre de la mujer y de la humanidad, fervorosamente pido que un congreso general de mujeres sin limites de nacionalidad sea designado y convocado en algún lugar determinado más conveniente y en el más cercano periodo consistente con sus objetivos, promover la alianza de las distintas nacionalidades, la resolución amigable de cuestiones internacionales, los grandes y generales intereses de la paz.






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Saturday, May 9, 2020

BorderAid Mother's Day Concert Sunday May 10


 presents

Amor Sin Fronteras

A soulful Mother's Day web-concert

Sunday, May 10, 2020

A music and poetry tribute celebrating

the strength, courage, wisdom and infinite love of mothers.

The show features poetry and a wide variety of music genres, from salsa and mariachi, to ballads and world beat.  Artists include Rafael Jesús González, Carmen Tafolla, the Texicana Mamas, Maria D’Luz, David and Maximino Manzanares, Nosotros, Fantuzzi, Consuelo Luz, Patricia Vonne, LET THEM ROAR, and many others.  

The show will be broadcast in several ways on Mother’s Day:

Television: Azteca 33 San Diego, 4 - 5pm Pacific

Radio and Livestream Video: La Red Hispana Network
(see
www.laredhispana.org for channels & times)


YouTube: Link will be posted early Sunday
on our
Website and Facebook Page

We remain committed to honoring mothers everywhere, especially those separated from their families while being held in detention centers around the U.S. or being forced to stay in Mexico, putting their lives at grave risk.

We will love you forever (no matter what…but especially) if you share this broadcast far and wide across land and sea.

Last but not at all least, be sure to subscribe to our newsletter to find out about all of our upcoming events.

In solidarity and with deep gratitude for the music, spirit, and tenacity with which we all change the world for the best,

Felicity, John & Fidel