The Chicano/Latino Literary Prize (16 page)

Toward afternoon neighbors and relatives came to pay their respects, among them la Mrs. Harding, principal of Pacoima Elementary where we had attended, a kind lady who had liked Rito quite well. When I saw her inside I too wanted to be among the mourners, so I pushed my way in between the legs of the mourners and into the living room. It was then I saw Rito. He was lying in a dark coffin set atop a wooden bench. Behind the coffin and on both sides hung white sheets with gardenias pinned to the material. Large candles set at the head and foot of the coffin flickered. In tall vases and cans stood fresh flowers placed on the floor, flowers brought by the neighbors who had added crespón to make a more formal arrangement. Atop the coffin lay a silver cross, next to it was a funeral wreath made of white gardenias, and across it a white ribbon with the inscription “Nuestro Hijo Querido.” Among the flowers were buttercups, taza en plato as we called the flowers that looked like cups on a saucer, which, together with the white gardenias, gave forth a sickly, sweet smell we younger children referred to as olor a muerto. The reeking, stifling smell of the flowers and sad eyes of the mourners soon forced me to leave the room but not before I sidled up to la Mrs. Harding who hugged me, called me a “sweet child,” and admonished me to “help my mother.”

That night el Padre Alfonso came to say el rosario. After he had given my parents el pésame, he knelt and began to pray el Padre Nuestro. The women who had been praying throughout the day gave the response. He ended with the Litany of the Saints as we responded, “Ruega por él,” and the blessing;
Requiescat in pace.
“Amen.” He then took his hat with the pompoms (brought from his native France), set it on his head and left.

That night I was allowed to sleep in my mother's bed as there was no room elsewhere; the relatives from Oxnard had remained overnight for the funeral. I recall my excitement at being allowed in my mother's room, so that I began to jump up and down on the bed, until my friend's mother Doña Raquel came into the room and gently told me to go to sleep. She sat with me until I did. In the morning everyone looked haggard and somber in their dark clothes. Chocolate and pan dulce were served, after which the men went into the sala where they carefully picked up the coffin to begin the short walk to our church, el Ángel de la Guardia. The women and children followed the procession to the church door where the bell began to peal, “dong, dong, dong.” Even the bell sounded sad. Father Alfonso awaited the body which he then blessed. The Mass of the Dead followed. During communion all went up to receive la comunión that was offered for the soul of the “dearly departed” and which I knew would ensure that the spirit of my dear brother Rito would go straight to heaven.

When mass was over we followed the priest and coffin outside as he sang
In Paradisum
, “May the angels of the Lord greet thee.” Then the coffin was placed in the waiting hearse, the same one that had brought Rito home for the last time. My father and relatives followed in another car.

I did not attend the funeral; they said I was too young. Instead I walked home trailing my mother who had decided not to go to the cemetery. She said she could not bear to see her first son interred. She walked with my cousin Mary and Aunt María who appeared to hold her up. When the big black hearse went by she wavered in her step, stopped for a minute. She remained motionless until the hearse had passed, then slowly looked up. I heard her murmur, “Adiós, hijo mío.” She then resumed the long, slow walk.

I stayed behind, slowly picking my way between the rocks and grass that grew along the path next to the street, my eyes glued on the big black car that finally turned left—and disappeared.

Wilfredo Q. Castaño

First Prize: Poetry

The divinity of light

the falling moonlight

the bleeding womb

the lies flowing

the eyes seeing

the opaque moonlight

hundreds of hands reaching

for the darkness under railroad cars

the panic sounds you make to yourself

as you face sudden death

the sun going down in that woman's

vagina, electricity, the mystery of

existence and sunlight

all these things I dedicate to life

to romance I dedicate my eyes

and cactus I eat with the

stingers not hurting my wings

I circle slowly the water beneath

the desert, maroon blood flowing

in that pounding heart

all these things were listed

malfunctioning machine guns short

glimpses of Jews and Nazis in L.A.,

Protestants and Catholics in Ireland

slugging it out for God

fragile art made from the flames

of burning flesh

all these things were on the list of

dedications and more or less

whichever way you look at it,

the lists full of people

guilty of truth and one lie can

condemn you to restless horses

trotting endlessly at a furious

pace across green grass

you on the back holding onto

political statements and visions or

dreams or maybe just colorful

illusions of red sunsets and ladies

and rainbows strewn freely across

the sky a harp, a chrome harp

atop a heavenly hill as you

zoom in closer you see the

flowers around it and on the

harp you see a list of names

of children almost born and

lists and more lists of poems

and unknown photographers and

paintings and flashing lights and

new names everywhere walking

on the grass

In here the feathers are talking

about pop pop

the return of nothing to say

the illicitness of your conspiracy

piracy concrete vastness

the cape, the fishing line,

can the survival be another

plot, where can we insert

the staples to reach in

to connect the issues the

reality escaping from itself

the corruption of even the simple

bird's song the dreamland in

advanced decay we are in the

dreamland of advanced eagles

rotting in the nest

the mirrors do not lie

the eyes may deceive the desire

to preach about the surrealism

in your big toe darling,

but catch innocence touching navels

in the public transportation system

with hands smoking from an illicit

heat eating the age of this arrival

… this fire, this despondent nation

eating itself with someone else's spoon

let's look the other way when the

dead fall off the bar stool and children

assassinate themselves with the prince

frog's testicle, let's turn the pages

of the newspaper as nails are driven

through the coffee, the poison

amputates the mind with the exhibition

of the eye in museums, the narrator

points to the glass case and says

here was their failure and this is

how they lived, here are the skulls of

their hydrogen babies the cold fingers

of their demented elections, here is

the evidence of depleted erection

here are their tears preserved

in gasoline, here was their future

burned with the agony of their own seed rotting

here is the evidence of empires

rising only to fall, here are their,

their lies and their whores

here are their artists,

… their leaders and the blood

      of the storm

      here is the story of cargo overturned

here is the decay rampant with lust

here is the song of blasphemous

tyranny here is the innocence

betraying itself and capitulating

to its own suicide, here ladies

and gentlemen is the exit

to the museum

With all the necessity to scribble

at all dishonest hours of a spent night

here for seconds

we once held each other

here the night crept in to devour

our own uncertainty about the

European blood

  here I left drops of old

maroon Aztec blood

  there in the solitude

of a lost inspiration we conspire

to flaunt our innocence

there in the blessed sunrise

we awoke chilled by hours of night

desert air to roll over

and wish that our combined psychic

energy could move the logs

into the fire while the warmth

of our passion eluded itself and

we dozed off into a dream sleep

with the sun beating down harder

every second until finally we

kicked aside the blankets and

stood before the growth of air

that flowered and flowed down from

vanishing stars

to stand with us as

we greeted the new sun.

Jack López

First Prize: Short Story

We had been driving for about an hour far away from the smell of the sea as the highway in Baja California headed inland. Hills and cactus and dry oven heat. Heat shimmering in waves far off down the road. Mirages of ocean waves. Then the highway began climbing up, up into the hills. After the road crested we came to an oasis by the side of the road. Perry coasted the car to a stop. This place was painted bright pink with huge green palms all around it. On the other side of the road there was a motel with a big green swimming pool. After we got close enough to the water we could see that the pool was green with algae. At the oasis there was a small veranda with a Coke machine and chairs. We opened the top of the machine and took cold drinks. The owner came out from inside the building and smiled.

“You boys want some food?” he asked in good English.

“No, thanks.”

“How about some firecrackers?”

“No, we just want some drinks.”

“You want to see a photograph?”

“A photograph? Sure.” We thought it was naked girls.

“Twenty-five cents each,” he said. He was a small, older man with grey hair, but he didn't seem that old, rather he was stately. His breath smelled of stale beer and he had not shaved for a few days so that grey whiskers reflected light when he turned a certain way. We followed him into the store. There was a fireplace in the center where a fat old lady was making tortillas by hand. The store was a curios shop and he had everything from stuffed iguanas to those cork guns that pop in your ear to playing cards with naked women on them. He even had switchblade knives in a display case. And all this was out in the middle of the desert. I guess he figured a bunch of real dumb tourists were going to come by.

Anyway, we followed him into a back room that had a brightly woven blanket for a door. It must have been his bedroom. There was a single metal framed bed in the center. Newspapers were spread over it and they were wrinkled as if someone had been lying on them. There was a small shrine in the corner with candles and a plaster of paris crucifix presiding over the room. He went to an old dresser that had a smokey cracked mirror over it, opened the top drawer, and took out an envelope. From the envelope came the photo. He showed it to us. It was a picture of a fat old man with a diaper on, lying on what looked like this same bed, in this same room.

“What the hell is going on?” Jay asked.

“Pancho Villa,” said the old man. His eyes were glowing with pride.

“Pancho shit,” Jay said and walked out. Perry followed, shaking his head.

“Pancho Villa on his death bed,” the old man said. “Look closely.” I tried to hold the photo but he wouldn't let go of it. Po Boy and I looked very close. There were all these marks all over this guy's belly, and it was a very big belly.

“Bullets,” he said, his eyes big and gleaming, thinking of past times.

We bought a bunch of cold drinks and left the oasis. We drove on looking for three rocks on top of a hill and then shortly after that, a dirt road off to the right. About thirty minutes later we spotted the rocks. And sure enough, farther up the road there was a small dirt road leading into the arid hills but toward the ocean.

The road dropped into a valley that had water, a valley that had a series of farms. There were neat little pastures full of cows. We passed acre upon acre of olive trees swaying in the afternoon breeze. We passed dirt-floored houses where rounded ladies swept the dirt in their hand-embroidered dresses using brooms of straw. We drove on and on, crossing a shallow creek once,
twice, then three times. It was getting late when finally the road emptied onto a broad floodplain that was bordered on both sides by steep hills covered with chaparral and cactus. We drove on. Then we could smell the salt, hear the sound of breaking waves. We drove over a dirt hill and we could feel the ground shaking from the power of the waves. Then the road took a turn to the right and we could see the waves. It was almost religious, like a miracle. Blue, blue sky with water a deeper blue. A small bay with a peak in the center. The entire bay was alight with diamonds sparkling from the afternoon sun. We thought at the time that the waves were at least fifteen feet, but now, after the passage of time, I know that they were no larger than ten feet. Still, that was the largest wave any of us had seen.

Jesús had been correct in his analysis of the wave that broke in this bay. It was perfect. It was a peak that broke both right and left in deep water but kept lining up all the way into a very fast shorebreak.