Wendy Carrillo, Candidate for U.S. Congress , was raised in Boyle Heights an d City Terrace. by Ulisses Sánchez The disconnect between government and the people it serves is often so profound, it seems as if they are worlds apart. It matters little if we are discussing local neighborhoods in relationship to either city hall or Congress.  Former Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa, in his 2005 inauguration speech, observed that “It may be a short way from City Terrace to City Hall, but fellow Angelenos, we all know what a vast distance it truly is.” It is a sentiment shared by many, especially on the Eastside where there is a widespread and perhaps legitimate perception that the needs and concerns of its working-class and marginally middle-class residents have been historically subordinate to the interests of outsiders. It is was that disconnect that led Wendy Carrillo to pack up her bags, rent a car and make her way from Los Angeles to the Standing Rock Sioux reservation in

Special thanks to Raúl González, of Mictlan Murals for the image above, Dos Pericos , acrylic on canvas. By Luís Reyes Lamas A flock of parrots gathered on a tree to interrupt the tranquility of the cemetery, to chatter and build community. They sounded like a big group of comadres gathered around the dinner table drinking wine. The beautiful birds were there to fill-in our ancestors on the on-goings of the neighborhood. One told of how the streets were still calm if compared to the decades of drugs and the crazy life. Another marveled, at a high volume and pitch, at all of the new buildings and the different looking people moving in. A third comadre commenting on how she had not seen people so light since the owners of the shops on Brooklyn a long time ago… Several commiserated over the sad state of the schools so many years later. They chatted of the wonderful jogging track and of how it attracted so many brown faces in their quest for better health. They squawked about the be

L.-r.: Jim Fisher, Armando Valdes, Aura Vasquez, Abel Salas and Armando Telles at Fisher's Culver City home to load supplies. PART ONE OF A SERIES by Abel M. Salas I had no idea how I would get there, but I knew I needed to be in North Dakota. Unforeseen, a visceral tug had alerted me loudly, telling me to make a move and do it soon enough to see the sky over Standing Rock by Thanksgiving Day. It was imperative, a manda I could not escape. Before Día de los Muertos, I’d begun mulling over the irony of celebrating a holiday inspired by the Mayflower pilgrims while the Lakota Sioux water protectors and their allies engaged in peaceful prayer were being shot with rubber bullets, attacked with dogs, tear-gassed and sprayed with cold water in sub-freezing temperatures. But I suddenly felt compelled, guided by unseen hands, toward the Oceti Sakowin camp. Yes, it is true that I was, by early November, already considering how to capture the ironic nature of the harvest celebr