Episodes

Behind the Scenes with Melissa K Nunez, author of ‘Je Vois la Vie en Rose’

Are panderias the gateway to heaven? Can you agree to write monthly columns for multiple literary magazines and still have a personal life? Find out the answers to these hard-hitting questions and more in this week’s episode.

Melissa Nunez is a Latin@ writer and homeschooling mother of three from the Rio Grande Valley. Her essays and poetry have appeared in Sledgehammer Lit, Yellow Arrow Journal, Susurrus, and others. She is also a staff writer for Alebrijes Review and The Daily Drunk. Her writing is inspired by observation of the natural world, the dynamics of relationships, and the question of belonging. You can follow her on Twitter @MelissaKNunez or visit her website www.melissknunez.com.

Creative Nonfiction: Je Vois la Vie en Rose by Melissa Nunez

In this week’s story, Melissa Nunez takes the familiar song ‘Vie en Rose’ and turns it on its head. You may never listen to that song the same way again.

Behind the Scenes with Mayte C. Castro author of ‘Tortillas on a Sunday Afternoon’

omeone once claimed that the answer to life, the universe, and everything was 42. But really, the answer is tortillas. Especially the ones freshly made by the family of your heart. Listen as Mayte Castro walks us through the magic of tortillas.

Mayte C. Castro’s poetry focuses on immigration, culture and travel, and self-expression as a road to sharing the realities of living in the United States as a daughter of immigrants. Mayte’s cultural background is Mexican. Additional published poetry can be found in braveexpressions.com, https://wapoetlaureate.org/poetry-to-lean-on/, Ice Colony, The Under Review, Arte Latino Now, and Azahares. You can follow her on Instagram at Mexi_Ginger.

Poetry: Tortillas on a Sunday Afternoon

Tortillas On a Sunday Afternoon

by Mayte C.Castro

Soft, crunchy, malleable, torn
Tortillas take on many forms and shapes.
In the eagerness of listening
The melodies of language
Reclining on Mother’s chest…

Language of novelas, Sábado Gigante,
Walter Mercado’s extravagant outfits.
Where music invited rhythms
making the heart warm.

Patterns along the tile floor
Beautiful long brown hair flowing as the rivers.
Our hands caressing the masa.
Tortillas puff up
Over the comal’s surface.

Hips swaying as the hammock on a summer’s day.
Chanclas rooted in spice, lemon, salt, and tequila.

Pliable yet remaining intact across borders’.
The legacy of making tortillas passed on
my palms all muscle memory.

In them the power of creation.
Reconstruction,
As the potter hunched over the turning wheel.
Picking here and there, flipping it,
Just in time.
Tortillas are best enjoyed warm and
in good company.

Mayte C. Castro’s poetry focuses on immigration, culture and travel, and self-expression as a road to sharing the realities of living in the United States as a daughter of immigrants. Mayte’s cultural background is Mexican. Additional published poetry can be found in braveexpressions.com, https://wapoetlaureate.org/poetry-to-lean-on/, Ice Colony, The Under Review, Arte Latino Now, and Azahares. You can follow her on Instagram at Mexi_Ginger.

Behind the Scenes with Reyna Grande, author of ‘A Ballad of Love and Glory.’

Reyna Grande takes us behind the scenes and under the hood of her latest novel ‘A Ballad of Love and Glory.’ Tune in to find out what Irish immigrants and Latino immigrants to the US had in common. And if you didn’t know that the US-Mexico border started just below Oregon as late as 1821, this is the episode for you.

Reyne Grande is an award-winning author who released her latest novel, A Ballad of Love and Glory, in March. She’s also written the memoirs The Distance Between Usand A Dream Called Home, the novels Across a Hundred Mountains (Atria, 2006) and Dancing with Butterflies (Washington Square Press, 2009). Reyna has received an American Book Award, the El Premio Aztlán Literary Award, and the International Latino Book Award. In 2012, she was a finalist for the prestigious National Book Critics Circle Awards. In 2015 she was honored with a Luis Leal Award for Distinction in Chicano/Latino Literature and a Latino Spirit Award in 2021. The young reader’s version of The Distance Between Us received a 2017 Honor Book Award for the Américas Award for Children’s and Young Adult Literature and a 2016 Eureka! Honor Awards from the California Reading Association and an International Literacy Association Children’s Book Award 2017.

Novel Excerpt: ‘A Ballad of Love and Glory’ by Reyna Grande

A Ballad of Love and Glory is historical fiction inspired by true events and real-life figures and also illuminates a little-known chapter of the Mexican-American War: An Irish soldier in the Saint Patrick’s Battalion, a regiment of foreign-born soldiers that deserted the U.S. Army to fight for Mexico, falls in love with a widowed nurse in the Mexican Army, and together they must fight for their love and survival. ( Available in Spanish in October and available in paperback in January 2023.)

Reyne Grande is an award-winning author who released her latest novel, A Ballad of Love and Glory, in March. She’s also written the memoirs The Distance Between Us and A Dream Called Home, the novels Across a Hundred Mountains (Atria, 2006) and Dancing with Butterflies (Washington Square Press, 2009). Reyna has received an American Book Award, the El Premio Aztlán Literary Award, and the International Latino Book Award. In 2012, she was a finalist for the prestigious National Book Critics Circle Awards. In 2015 she was honored with a Luis Leal Award for Distinction in Chicano/Latino Literature and a Latino Spirit Award in 2021. The young reader’s version of The Distance Between Us received a 2017 Honor Book Award for the Américas Award for Children’s and Young Adult Literature and a 2016 Eureka! Honor Awards from the California Reading Association and an International Literacy Association Children’s Book Award 2017.

Behind the Scenes with Margo Candela, author of ‘The Neapolitan Sisters.’

If you’ve ever had an idea (or a story) that only you believed in, then this is the episode for you. Stop what you’re doing and have a listen.

Margo Candela was born and raised in Los Angeles and began her writing career when she joined Glendale Community College’s student newspaper. She transferred to San Francisco State University as a journalism major, and upon graduation began writing for websites and magazines before writing her first two novels, Underneath It All and Life Over Easy. She returned to Los Angeles to raise her son and wrote More Than This and Good-bye to All That. The Neapolitan Sisters is her fifth novel and her first after a decade-long hiatus from writing. She now lives in San Francisco.

Novel Excerpt: The Neapolitan Sisters by Margo Candela

Margo Candela’s novel ‘The Neapolitan Sisters’ covers some serious topics, but at its core, it’s about the strong bonds of sisterhood. Told in alternating points of view, Candela’s funny and entertaining novel is about the weeks leading up to the wedding of the youngest of three very different sisters who reunite at their East L.A. childhood home, and are faced with secrets from their past.

An excerpt from The Neapolitan Sisters by Margo Candela:
When we were little, our dad would sit one of us on his lap as he drove to The Boys supermarket in Highland Park. He’d leave us in the car with the motor running while he ran in to pick up a six-pack or two and pork rinds for himself, and a bag of Ruffles chips, and a bottle of Mexican Coke for me and my sisters to share on the drive back to Boyle Heights.

As soon as we were tall enough to reach the peddles, around eleven for me and Claudia, and closer to thirteen for Maritza, he taught us to drive stick shift. He’d borrow Mrs. Gonzalez’s battered VW Beetle which, by then, was mostly primer and duct tape. It was also the car he’d learned how to drive in the decades before.
We could parallel park in three smooth steps in just about any spot without having to use our mirrors—a party trick that only backfired once during a Fourth of July barbecue when one of our jerk cousins set off a cherry bomb just as Maritza began her initial reverse. Our dad may have not gotten his boys, but he never treated us like we couldn’t handle a car due to a lack of a penis. This is why, when we got our permits and then licenses, one right after another and each of us passing our tests on the first try, it wasn’t a rite of passage like it was for our cousins and friends. It just was.
By the time Maritza got her learner’s permit, our dad had given us the Malibu to share. For himself, he bought a used two-door Ford Crown Victoria that had been custom painted a luminous pearl-gray shade I’ve never seen since, but still dream about.
Our mom thought the Malibu gave us too much freedom—a dangerous thing for girls to have, much less enjoy. She and our dad fought about it. For once, he didn’t give in and we got to keep the car. What she got to do was insist we always keep white and yellow striped towels over the seats. I thought it was to protect the pleather upholstery, but after I walked in on her inspecting those towels with a magnifying glass, I realized she was looking for other kinds of dirt.
The older we got and the more ourselves we each became, the less she seemed to want us around. But she also didn’t want us to go anywhere. My sisters and I each dealt with this constant push and pull in our own ways. Maritza became our mom’s shadow, Claudia excelled at being very smart, and I caused the kind of trouble no one wanted around the house.
When things got especially tense, our dad went with what he knew—cars and driving. He’d put our mom to bed with a cold cloth over her eyes and then order the three us into the Malibu—if one of us was in trouble, we all were. He left it up to whoever was the cause of our mom’s migraine to pick a destination, after calculating how far we could go on what was in the gas tank.
We’d always stop for ice cream and, as we ate, he’d tell us it was hard for our mom to, basically, be our mom, as if this explained anything. When we asked why, he’d tell us that’s all we had to know. Our dad rarely yelled, never threatened to kick us out or lock us in our rooms and he never, not once, raised a hand to us. He expected his daughters to behave, and when we didn’t, he called me, Claudia and Maritza on it in his own way, and as best as he could manage without making our mom anymore upset than she always seemed to be. As far as he was concerned, we were supposed to be tough, but obedient, two traits directly in conflict with each other even if he never saw it that way.
Our mom thought he should punish us, not buy us ice cream, which is why we never told her about it. What she wanted was for him to use his belt on us, then once we were too old for that, to take away the car keys, nail the windows shut, and install a deadbolt on the outside of the bedroom door.

In her mind, we were bad, and even when we weren’t, it was just a matter of time until we were. This was especially true for me.

Margo Candela was born and raised in Los Angeles and began her writing career when she joined Glendale Community College’s student newspaper. She transferred to San Francisco State University as a journalism major, and upon graduation began writing for websites and magazines before writing her first two novels, Underneath It All and Life Over Easy. She returned to Los Angeles to raise her son and wrote More Than This and Good-bye to All That. The Neapolitan Sisters is her fifth novel and her first after a decade-long hiatus from writing. She now lives in San Francisco.

Behind the Scenes with Martha Batiz, author of Kamp Westerbork

There is the age-old question of whether an artist’s personal life should impact your perception of their work. In this episode Martha walks us through how she came to focus on Pablo Neruda.

Featured in Latinos Magazine among the Top Ten Most Successful Mexicans in Canada, and named also one of the Top Ten Most Influential Hispanic-Canadians, Martha Bátiz was born and raised in Mexico City, but has been living in Toronto since 2003. Her articles, chronicles, reviews and short stories have appeared in diverse newspapers and magazines not only in her homeland, but also in Spain, Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Costa Rica, Peru, Ireland, England, the United States and Canada.

Martha has penned two short-story collections in Spanish: A todos los voy a matar (I’m Going To Kill Them All, Castillo Press, Mexico, 2000), and De tránsito (In Transit, Terranova Editores, Puerto Rico, 2014). Her award-winning novella Boca de lobo was originally published in Spanish both in the Dominican Republic and in Mexico (in 2007 and 2008, respectively), and released in its first English translation as The Wolf’s Mouth (Exile Editions, 2009). In 2018 it appeared in its French version as La Gueule du Loup (Lugar Común Editorial), and in a new English edition under the title Damiana’s Reprieve (Exile Editions). Boca de lobo is also available through Audible as an Audiobook in Spanish since 2021.

Editor of the anthology Desde el norte: Narrativa canadiense contemporánea (UAM, 2015), Martha is also part of the editorial committee of the successful books Historias de Toronto and Historias de Montreal (Lugar Común, 2016 and 2019, respectively). She holds a PhD in Latin American Literature and is an ATA-certified literary translator. Besides being the founder and instructor of the Creative Writing in Spanish course currently offered by the School of Continuing Studies at the University of Toronto, she is a part-time professor at three universities in the GTA where she teaches Spanish language and literature as well as translation.

Martha is also the author of two short-story collections in English, the first one titled Plaza Requiem: Stories at the Edge of Ordinary Lives (Exile Editions, 2017), winner of the 2018 International Latino Book Award in the category of “Best Popular Fiction: English.” The second and most recent is No Stars in the Sky, published by House of Anansi Press in May 2022.

Fiction: Kamp Westerbork by Marth Batiz

What kind of person refers to their disabled infant daughter as a semi-colon? Listen to this episode and find out.

This story is part of the story collection ‘No Stars in the Sky,‘ which came out in May, and is published by House of Anansi Press.

Kamp Westerbork

 by Martha Batiz

I was about to ask Mother to stop packing so we could take a walk before sunset — I knew how much she enjoyed Ottawa’s crisp air in the spring — when she turned silent and her face darkened. She had hummed most of the afternoon away as we went through Grandfather’s belongings, deciding which items we would keep and which we would donated or throw away. Humming was what she did when she was upset and trying to fight back tears, something her father had taught her when she was a little girl. “Don’t give anyone power over you by showing weakness,” he had said. “Always show strength, even at the worst of times.” These words had gotten him through the war. And so she hummed, which made me think of her as two people in one: a grown-up who, from time to time, did what was necessary to calm down the fussy, scared, sad, or angry baby that lived inside her. A baby that was never allowed to cry.

“Are you okay?” Her sudden silence made it seem like the room was shrouded by a veil. There were boxes, clothes, shoes, books, and magazineseverywhere. We had started a donation pile by the window, a keeping pile on the couch, and a garbage pile next to the front door of the apartment. Grandfather’s medals were resting next to Mother’s purse. We had already removed the pictures from the walls without dusting the tops of the frames, and assigned them to appropriate piles. The discolouration of the empty spaces where they had hung made me think of Grandfather — like his framed photographs and paintings, he was no longer there, but he had left such a clear mark that even in his absence he was present. It didn’t feel right to be there, going through his belongings, opening drawers that he would have never allowed me to open. I would have much preferred to go back to Toronto after the funeral instead of staying behind to help settle his affairs, but Mother needed my company and support, and I felt obliged to be there. Her relationship with her father had not always been the best, and doing this alone would have been terribly painful for her. So there I was, watching her lose herself in an open book she held in her hands. From its pages she extracted a yellowed card, which she examined before handing it to me to read.

 

Lager Westerbork. Ausweiskarte

Name: Reyes Hagenaar

Vorname: Maryka Antonia

Geboren: 5.3.1900

 

“I don’t understand.” I stretched out my arm to give her back the card. “What is this?”

“An identity card.”

That much I had been able to infer, but Grandfather’s name was not on it..

“Who does it belong to?”

“A woman he met at Westerbork.”

Of course I had heard the story of Grandfather’s regiment liberating the transit camp where the Nazis held Dutch Jews until they were ready to be deported to the East. He wasn’t fond of talking about what he had seen during his days as a soldier, but he was proud of his part in helping over eight hundred prisoners who were still at Kamp Westerbork on April 12, 1945, when the Canadian forces arrived. Anne Frank herself had been at Westerbork until the previous September, and when Grandfather presented me with her diary the day I turned thirteen, he wrote inside that he wished they had arrived at the camp earlier and been able to save her. Until his death, Grandfather marked each April 12th by going to church and lighting a candle. Before passing away, he made Mother promise she would continue the tradition for him.

“There were over eight hundred prisoners at Westerbork. What was special about this one that he kept her identity card?” I asked. Mother was now holding a pressed flower in her hand. “And why did he never talk about her?”

“He did.” She placed the flower back between the pages of the book and passed it to me. Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda. I had never seen the book in Grandfather’s house before. I always assumed he wasn’t the kind of man who liked poetry.

“He did?” I was genuinely intrigued. “Who was she?”

“Take a look at the flower.”

I obliged. It was discoloured, but I could tell it had once been purple.

“What kind of flower is it?” I don’t know why I brought it close to my nose; if it had ever had any scent, it had evidently lost it long ago.

“It’s a mallow.”

I shrugged, still not grasping what she was trying to say.

“A Malva.”

“That’s our name!” I was trying to put two and two together, but nothing made sense. “Can you please explain?”

Mother nodded and asked me to sit by her side. She explained that Maryka was one of the first prisoners Grandfather met after entering the camp, one of the first to come walking out of the barracks, slowly, in fear. The Nazis had fled, but the prisoners left behind were afraid they would return, so they hid when they heard tanks approaching. The Canadian soldiers arrived at what appeared, at first glance, to be an empty, silent place. But little by little, as the minutes went by, people started coming out of their hiding spots in the barracks and approaching their liberators.

After the initial commotion, help was offered to those who needed immediate assistance. Maryka had been working at the camp’s infirmary and was able to explain what life at Westerbork had been like. Originally built as a refugee centre for Jews fleeing persecution in Germany, Westerbork had remained under Dutch management until 1942, when it became an SS-controlled transit camp. Jews who turned themselves in or were captured in the Netherlands were sent to Westerbork, where every Tuesday, cattle-wagon trains filled with prisoners were sent to extermination camps like Auschwitz, Sobibor, and Bergen-Belsen. Because Auschwitz had been liberated earlier that year, and word had travelled fast about the atrocities uncovered by the Russians, Grandfather was surprised when Maryka informed him that Westerbork had had a cabaret, an orchestra that gave weekly concerts, and even a school. Prisoners were allowed to wear civilian clothes as long as their yellow star of David was visible.

At Westerbrok, in spite of heavy surveillance and regular deportations, inmates experienced better conditions than those at most other camps. Maryka wore a coat that looked big on her, but her hair was combed and, even under the circumstances, it was evident she was an attractive woman. She was not Jewish, but a Dutch citizen born in Java.

I asked Mother to pause for a moment.

“Java? Why would anyone leave Java in the middle of World War II and move to the Netherlands?”

“She told Father that her husband was Chilean. She arrived in the Netherlands with him.”

A Chilean in the company of a Javanese in Nazi-occupied territory. The story was getting more interesting by the minute. I couldn’t believe no one had told me any of this before.

“Maryka accepted the bar of chocolate Father offered her, and by the end of the night . . .” I could sense that Mother was uncomfortable. Grandfather was not married to Grandmother at the time, but they were engaged. “They got cozy enough with each other for Maryka to share her entire story with him.”

“And he told it to you?”

“No. I overheard it during his fights with Mother. It came up again and again. Mother was very jealous of Maryka because when Father was drunk, he always said that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever met.”

“But she must have been twenty years older than him!”

“I know. Such an age difference was unusual at the time.”

“Grandmother was so good-looking. It’s hard to imagine her being jealous of a woman twice her age. Especially of someone Grandfather met as a soldier.”

Had this Maryka been the reason my grandparents slept in separate rooms? The reason Mother had no siblings? I didn’t have the courage to ask. Grandfather had mellowed by the time I was born, but I knew enough about the resentment, the yelling, the violence that Mother had dealt with growing up.

A bank employee in Java at the time she met her husband, Maryka had left the comforts of home and everything she knew to follow him to South America. Living in Santiago and Buenos Aires, she learned Spanish while he spent the evenings drinking. Maryka thought that a child might make him change his ways. She was pregnant when they moved to Madrid, where her husband worked for the Chilean government and pursued some writing projects. Maryka gave birth to a daughter, who was soon diagnosed with hydrocephalus.

“In his writing, her husband called the child ‘a perfectly ridiculous being, a kind of semicolon, a three-kilo vampire.’” Mother gave a bitter smile and paused. “He actually wrote that down.”

I shook my head in disbelief. I was aware that in years past little consideration had been given to children born with abnormalities, but comparing a little girl’s large head and scrawny body to a semicolon seemed unusually cruel, especially for a father.

“And then he abandoned them both, right at the start of the war.”

Now the relationship made more sense to me. Grandfather had also been abandoned as a child. His mother had raised him alone. No wonder he felt such empathy for Maryka and her daughter.

Leaving your family at any point in time seemed devastating and unacceptable to me, but doing so at the start of a war was unforgivable. Mother went on to explain that Maryka’s husband had promised to send money but never did. Maryka was forced to leave her daughter in the care of a generous couple she met through church; it was impossible to work and tend to the child’s needs at the same time. She was able to visit her only once a month because the train fare from The Hague to Gouda was a great expense.

“And she wasn’t there when the girl died.” Mother’s eyes were aimed at the floor. I didn’t know what to say. It was certainly a very sad story. “Maryka sent her husband a telegram informing him of their child’s death. She received no answer. She asked him to help her leave Europe and join him wherever he happened to be living. Still no answer. She was on a train to Gouda to tend her daughter’s grave when she was arrested and brought to the camp.”

“Perhaps Maryka’s husband didn’t answer because he was dead.”

“That’s what your grandfather thought. But she insisted on sending him another message. And guess who was chosen as the messenger.”

“Grandfather?”

“He told me that she addressed her husband as ‘My dear Pig.’”

“Lovely.”

“You get the idea. So your grandfather mailed her letter, putting his own name and address on the envelope because Maryka thought her husband wouldn’t open it if her name was on it.”

“Did he receive an answer? Did he stay in touch with Maryka?”

“No and no. His regiment had to continue fighting. Besides, he was engaged and she was married. When the war ended he came home, married your grandmother, and put everything that had happened in Europe behind him. Or at least he tried to.”

I knew what she meant. Mother had told me about the nightmares that used to make Grandfather wake up in the middle of the night, screaming, especially when she was a little girl.

“Well, thanks for sharing this piece of family history with me, I guess.” I was about to stand up and continue packing, but Mother held me back.

“I’m not done.”

I tilted my head. Not done? I had already heard enough. It was getting late and we had work to finish.

“When I was born, your grandfather wanted to name me Maryka, but your grandmother refused.”

“Understandable.” I was beginning to lose my patience.

“So he named me Malva instead. Like Maryka’s daughter. Except your grandmother didn’t know that until after the fact. She never forgave him for it.”

My eyes opened wide. Years before, Mother had told me an entirely different story when I had asked about our name.

“Malva was the name of Pablo Neruda’s daughter.” She handed me the copy of Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. “You should keep this.”

It took me a moment to absorb what I’d just heard.

“Maryka was Pablo Neruda’s wife?”

Mother rolled her eyes.

“The first of three, yes.”

I leafed through the book in wonder. Perhaps Grandfather had placed Maryka’s identity card and a mallow flower between the pages of the first English edition of Neruda’s book as his own little way of helping her. His own little way of putting a broken family back together.

I placed the book at the top of the keeping pile and looked out the window. “It’s almost nighttime, Mother. I need some fresh air.” I stretched out my arm, hoping she would take my hand. “Are you still up for a walk? I’d like to see the tulips.”

Featured in Latinos Magazine among the Top Ten Most Successful Mexicans in Canada, and named also one of the Top Ten Most Influential Hispanic-Canadians, Martha Bátiz was born and raised in Mexico City, but has been living in Toronto since 2003. Her articles, chronicles, reviews and short stories have appeared in diverse newspapers and magazines not only in her homeland, but also in Spain, Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Costa Rica, Peru, Ireland, England, the United States and Canada.

Martha has penned two short-story collections in Spanish: A todos los voy a matar (I’m Going To Kill Them All, Castillo Press, Mexico, 2000), and De tránsito (In Transit, Terranova Editores, Puerto Rico, 2014). Her award-winning novella Boca de lobo was originally published in Spanish both in the Dominican Republic and in Mexico (in 2007 and 2008, respectively), and released in its first English translation as The Wolf’s Mouth (Exile Editions, 2009). In 2018 it appeared in its French version as La Gueule du Loup (Lugar Común Editorial), and in a new English edition under the title Damiana’s Reprieve (Exile Editions). Boca de lobo is also available through Audible as an Audiobook in Spanish since 2021.

Editor of the anthology Desde el norte: Narrativa canadiense contemporánea (UAM, 2015), Martha is also part of the editorial committee of the successful books Historias de Toronto and Historias de Montreal (Lugar Común, 2016 and 2019, respectively). She holds a PhD in Latin American Literature and is an ATA-certified literary translator. Besides being the founder and instructor of the Creative Writing in Spanish course currently offered by the School of Continuing Studies at the University of Toronto, she is a part-time professor at three universities in the GTA where she teaches Spanish language and literature as well as translation.

Martha is also the author of two short-story collections in English, the first one titled Plaza Requiem: Stories at the Edge of Ordinary Lives (Exile Editions, 2017), winner of the 2018 International Latino Book Award in the category of “Best Popular Fiction: English.” The second and most recent is No Stars in the Sky, published by House of Anansi Press in May 2022.