Because of my brain surgery, I haven't been able to drive.  A few weeks ago, two teenage black men got on the 550 bus during rush hour.  In Texas, if you don't have a car, that is a liability, because we really don't have good mass trans. The taller kid was in a mood, and they sat at the front, which is generally reserved for mothers with babies, elders, and wheelchair riders.  The young man, let's call him Trey, sat besides an older, dishevled, white guy who was taking all the leg room, rocking to his IPod music. Trey told the white guy to make room, but the white guy, let's call him Mr. Z, didn't move an inch.  He was not about to be instructed by someone like him .  I could smell his fear.  Their voices got louder and louder, amidst the clamor of voices, the smoky, sweaty, murmuring of working-class accents, and the roaring bus. Young man, what has your mother taught you? The teenager looked at the older black woman behind him, and stopped fidget...

Susana didn't come to my mother, her mother's, funeral in 2000. Says she's not coming to my father's funeral, who is in hospice care in a nursing home. And hasn't visited our disabled brother in twelve years. I know she thinks she's too good for Texas.  Well, so is Wendy Davis. She is a licensed therapist, and a dharma leader in the Bay Area. D H A R M A.  She yelled this to me as I was recovering from brain surgery in February. Tell me, how did she enter the helping and healing professions?

La Bloga: Poetry: Laurie Ann Guerrero, Pablo Miguel Martínez, AWP, "Haciendo Caminos," the First Biennial U.S. Latina/Latino Literary Theory and Criticism Conference, Immigration Art y Mas--