Touching, timely, poignant-

Christmas on the Border, 1929 Alberto Ríos, 1952 –

^{Based on local newspaper reports
and recollections from the time.}

1929, the early days of the Great Depression.
The desert air was biting, but the spirit of the season was alive.

Despite hard times, the town of Nogales, Arizona, determined
They would host a grand Christmas party

For the children in the area—a celebration that would defy
The gloom of the year, the headlines in the paper, and winter itself.

In the heart of town, a towering Christmas tree stood,
A pine in the desert.

Its branches, they promised, would be adorned
With over 3,000 gifts. 3,000.

The thought at first was to illuminate the tree like at home,
With candles, but it was already a little dry.

Needles were beginning to contemplate jumping.
A finger along a branch made them all fall off.

People brought candles anyway. The church sent over
Some used ones, too. The grocery store sent

Some paper bags, which settled things.
Everyone knew what to do.

They filled the bags with sand from the fire station,
Put the candles in them, making a big pool of lighted luminarias.

From a distance the tree was floating in a lake of light—
Fire so normally a terror in the desert, but here so close to miracle.

For the tree itself, people brought garlands from home, garlands
Made of everything, walnuts and small gourds and flowers,

Chilies, too—the chilies themselves looking
A little like flames.

The townspeople strung them all over the beast—
It kept getting bigger, after all, with each new addition,

This curious donkey whose burden was joy.
At the end, the final touch was tinsel, tinsel everywhere, more tinsel.

Children from nearby communities were invited, and so were those
From across the border, in Nogales, Sonora, a stone’s throw away.

But there was a problem. The border.
As the festive day approached, it became painfully clear—

The children in Nogales, Sonora, would not be able to cross over.
They were, quite literally, on the wrong side of Christmas.

Determined to find a solution, the people of Nogales, Arizona,
Collaborated with Mexican authorities on the other side.

In a gesture as generous as it was bold, as happy as it was cold:
On Christmas Eve, 1929,

For a few transcendent hours,
The border moved.

Officials shifted it north, past city hall, in this way bringing
The Christmas tree within reach of children from both towns.

On Christmas Day, thousands of children—
American and Mexican, Indigenous and orphaned—

Gathered around the tree, hands outstretched,
Eyes wide, with shouting and singing both.

Gifts were passed out, candy canes were licked,
And for one day, there was no border.

When the last present had been handed out,
When the last child returned home,

The border resumed its usual place,
Separating the two towns once again.

For those few hours, however, the line in the sand disappeared.
The only thing that mattered was Christmas.

Newspapers reported no incidents that day, nothing beyond
The running of children, their pockets stuffed with candy and toys,

Milling people on both sides,
The music of so many peppermint candies being unwrapped.

On that chilly December day, the people of Nogales
Gathered and did what seemed impossible:

However quietly regarding the outside world,
They simply redrew the border.

In doing so, they brought a little more warmth to the desert winter.
On the border, on this day, they had a problem and they solved it.

Saturday Poetry

You know the drill; click the title to get more.

herederos de cero Sheila Maldonado

I’ve returned from the question the motherland
a continually illegitimate relationship
I’m a pretend immigrant afraid of coats and the cold
stunned by space and the sun up in the face
landlocked behind the barbed wire of mama’s house

what did I do there scratch twitch stare
wandered with a prima and her daughters
was asked about the prima      who should have been there
she left the world      after her mama mi tía se fue
nadie era nadie           en esa casa only the men

it made my mama sick to see me leave
into the hot night of her origins
I return for the right to walk in the dark
like the black cat family
that roamed our alley in the valley of Sula

if I woke up at a decent hour I caught the colibrí
little brown red god came around 9 10am
humming into a tree of little red stems
never know names
a place of teeny overlooked gods

I drank tea      at the white iron table
another tía gave mama      they got on so well
about their nests           in the capital of slurs
will I be the only bird to be about the tree
last one flitting           do we want me to be

How To Make Your Yuletide Extremely Gay, For Jesus by Evan Hurst

It’s the reason for the season! Read on Substack

Snippet (this is so very good, and a bit long, with videos, etc. embedded as well. I know it has blue language; also, it skews Christian, but there’s a point-not proselytization, but Representation-it’s encouragement for all to be who we are):

Flamy Grant, Spencer LaJoye and Crys Matthews, three of the artists on the Make The Yuletide Gay tour. (Courtesy Flamy Grant’s Insta)

Is the world still burning down? Is President Elon Musk shutting down the government, and are his pets Donald Trump, J.D. Vance and Speaker Mike Johnson completely powerless to stop it?

Is this happening?

Oh dear God.

Who wants to take a well-deserved break from talking about all that shit because Christmas is in five days and fuck it?

Let’s shift gears.

In the wee few months since the inception of this right here Moral High Ground newsletter, we’ve talked about lots of things that fall within the site’s description, about white conservative right-wing Christian fascist men, the Phyllis Schlafly clones who support them, and the extremely weird fears, feelings, emotions and autoerotic Braveheart fantasies that make them The Way That They Are.

Obviously we’ve talked a lot in these weekly Friday newsletters about the election and its horrifying aftermath.

But there’s another element here that I said I wanted to be present in this newsletter from the very first post, no matter if it’s just a little Substack or if it somehow grows into a great big media network.

I said this place is called “The Moral High Ground” because the bigoted, misogynistic assholes standing in the way of everything that’s good and holy are 100 percent certain they are the sole possessors of that high ground. I said that’s a toxic tumor of an idea that is unfortunately still given a shameful amount of weight in our society. You see this any time a corporate media source feels the need to host a hate-mongering bigot from a right-wing Christian group, to give “both sides” of whether LGBTQ+ kids should be allowed to live with dignity, or whether people should be forced to submit their bodies to the state for regular uterus inspections.

And I said that toxic tumor of an idea unfortunately still survives within far too many of us who have personally been abused by the conservative Christian church, or who are still currently enduring its abuse. It can be subconscious, like a vicious disease you think is gone, but then it rears its ugly head when something triggers it, telling LGBTQ people they’re not good enough, that maybe they really are going to hell, telling closeted LGBTQ kids in homeschooling households in East Cowfucker, Kansas, that they will never be able to get out, that Jesus really couldn’t ever love them.

And I said fuck that shit.

I said this isn’t a support group, and it isn’t a Christian website, but it’s a safe place for literally whoever you are, and I want the negation of the toxic messages I was just talking about to be loud and clear, front and center at The Moral High Ground at all fucking times.

And I want to showcase and bring together other people who are doing that work in their own brilliant ways.

So let’s talk about Christmas, Christian music, Christian drag queens, lesbians, non-binary people, and just generally ridiculously brilliant Christian and Christian-adjacent artists who, number one, EXIST — that’s right, LGBTQ kids living in right-wing Christian hell, they EXIST! — and who are out there this holiday season making the yuletide extremely totally fuckin’ gay.

I’m talking about Flamy Grant, Crys Matthews, Jennifer Knapp, Spencer LaJoye and Heather Mae, who have been out on tour this month that’s literally called Make The Yuletide Gay. I got to see them — well, three of them — last Friday night in Memphis, and it was so good, y’all.

If you read Wonkette AKA my day job where I am the managing editor, you may have heard of Flamy Grant. I posted the video above in 2022 in a piece about how a gay wedding was happening at Amy Grant’s house, and how it was pissing off pigfucks like Franklin Graham, AKA the ickiest byproduct of Billy Graham’s participation in the human reproductive process.

I mentioned in my post that my own personal first concert was in Little Rock, Arkansas, 1991, Amy Grant, on the Heart In Motion tour, front row, Baby Baby! (My church youth group really had the hookup on that one, I guess.)

Then in 2023, Flamy Grant started taking over the Gospel and Christian charts, for the best, funniest reason. You see, this dildo-witted MAGA preacher named Sean Feucht was birthing entire full-grown cows because Grant — a Christian drag queen for whom listening to Amy Grant was also quite formative — had collaborated with Derek Webb, who had huge success in the Christian music world back in the day with a band called Caedmon’s Call. (Webb, you might deduce, is also in a bit of a different place these days.)

This was obviously a sign of The Last Days to excitable types like Sean Feucht. Also that loud flamboyant Greg Locke creep. He’s real exercised about Flamy Grant.

So God, being the way God is, thought it’d be funny to use that moment to make sure Grant’s song with Webb and the album it came from went straight to the top of the charts. The Gospel and Christian charts.

AND WHY SHOULDN’T THEY HAVE?

(snip-go read it!)

Finally Friday!

Have a poem. As always, the title is a link to learn more.

Blues Franchise David Henderson

^{Line from a letter, “Blues Franchise.” I believe it is a motif language rather than thought—intimately}

Blues as art as theme as exhibition

Up on a midtown metropolis edifice

Billboard façade 50 feet tall thirty feet wide: BLUE SMOKE

Of a black femme-like face framed by her fingers tapered upward in the V of her palms

Looking off, her eyes below her painted on eyebrows

And Caucasoid wig solid black

touching off of a violet plunging deeper into the decorated pigment

A frame furls hints of blue in a spectral geometry

Framing tightly the face, reposed

A white strap over one deep ochre shoulder as background

Could be trans-shim or a delightful Caledonia,

red skein of a lipstick kiss imprinted invisibly in a nano dimension

Replications across the marquees of legions of subway cars

Her face on the mini billboard above the seat next to

The moving doors

Always looking somewhere else as the

Masses travel to all destinations

Blues smoke surrounding whatever stage as forum

For the franchise

Forever after for as far as the past goes.

Entering the negative space of a corporate behemoth

A lobby of the skyscraper museum or loft like enclosures

interlocking directorates of high art residencies.

Consumer beware of what you purchase with your eyes,

The presence of your body

Out of the blue

You

Out of the blue

And into the blues

You

Out of the blue

You

Out of the blue

Vanish into the blue

you

Thursday Poetry

Click on the title to learn more about the poem and the poet.

my yoga teacher kassandra Andrei Codrescu 1946 –

has only good news for my body
and for my mind, she warms them
and she becalms them unlike her
greek namesake who left her
listeners terrified and tense
ah the onomastic turnaround
took twenty centuries to turn
the older story on its head
which explains ex-lingua why
my modern body feels comfort
in the new diachronic goddess

I wish I could Like this 1,000 Times

I have Bart Art on a thumb drive, but I share the regret that I don’t have the graphic Ten Bears writes of because it’s spot on.

Bart Art …

More Poetry

Re-post: … and … : a #poem

We Have a Poem

Just click on the title.

Sign by Sahar Romani

What aren’t you willing to believe. A heart
graffitied fuchsia on the street, a missive from another life.
Remember the stem of lavender you found
in a used copy of Bishop’s poems, a verse underlined:
The world is a mist. And then the world is
minute and vast and clear. Suddenly, across the aisle
a woman with your mother’s bracelets, her left wrist
all shimmer and gold, you almost winced.
Coincidence is the great mystery of the human mind
but so is the trans-oceanic reach of Shah Rukh Khan’s
slow blink. Each of us wants a hint, a song
that dares us to look inside. True, it takes whimsy
and ego to believe the universe will tap your shoulder
in the middle of a random afternoon. That t-shirt
on a stranger’s chest, a bumper sticker on the highway upstate.
Truth isn’t going anywhere. It’s your eyes passing by.

I Got To Sunday Toons Very Late

but here’s this Sunday toon on Monday morning! 😄

WuMo by Wulff & Morgenthaler for December 15, 2024

None on Friday, Two on Saturday

As always, the titles are links to learn more about the poets and their poems.

Rican Issues Carmen Bardeguez-Brown

Say What?
Could you please, Pleeeeeeeeeeease repeat
Did you say: Molleta?
Prieta?
Morena?
Ohh African!
Hmmm Soy Puertorriquena
Yes, Puertorican

That I don’t look What ?
Oh, I guess I don’t look cafe con leche
mancha de plátano
Mulata,
high yellow
grifa
By the way
I did not know that there was a puertorican look.
And what exactly is that?
That I just look more what?
Well,    Y   Tu   abuela    dónde      Está?
I should say abuela, tío, Tía, y to el barrio
Let me tell you something
FOR YOUR INFORMATION
Most ricans are a mix of Africans, Spaniards, and Native Americans called
Taínos
By the way, no one has seen a Taíno in the last 500 years.
Sooooo   exactly … You know what that means
My     English is covered with spices
spices from the Caribbean
Spices that you might find Strange
Because you were born in this cold fast food of a mall of a country
Where Spanish is a foreign word
That you are ashamed to learn

And when you try
Is not there
Only mumbles of a murmur
Susurando el olvido
A reganadientes
Pretendiendo
Escondiendo la vergüenza
You remember Puerto Rico on the 2nd Sunday of every June
When everybody is suddenly proud to be Puerto Rican
No the word is Boricua
Boricuas Here, Boricuas THERE, Boricuas everywhere
And everyone waves the flags
The flags that they don’t even understand
And no one knows why they are here
Yes HERE Now
Do you Know?
why your parents or grandparents vinieron aqui?
De que Pueblo?
Cuando te bañaste en las aguas calientes del Caribe?
Better yet
Do you really know that …?
We all came from the Motherland
Africa
Even the Spanish people that came with Colon, Columbus
However you want to say it
Lived 700 hundred years under the Moors
You heard that right
The moors as in Arabs as in black Arabs
SO … in other words
Not only I
But we
Have over 500 years of African mestizaje
The so called “white people” that everyone is so proud of
As in “my grandparents are from Spain
Well if they are …
They
Too have negrITOs in them
Remember the Gitanos
But that is another story …
Getting back to the Boricua’s issue

What history do you know?
Ever heard of
Agüeybaná
Albizu Campos
Luis Palés Matos
Rafael Betances
Arturo Schomburg
Francisco Oller
Julia De Burgos
Rafael Hernández
Segundo Ruiz Belvís
Enrique Laguerre
Mariana Bracetti
Pedro Pietri

Still havING problems figuring me out?
Or is it that you just don’t know
Who you are?

=====

Domino Nights Puma Perl

On Water Street,
scaffolds envelop the buildings,
wire screens surround the benches,
iron fences line the street.
You must walk a hot summer block
in either direction to cross.

To the east, construction continues.
To the west, trucks sit, waiting.

Approaching or leaving,
it feels like a detention center
without passports or means of escape.

Late nights on Water Street,
beneath the scaffolding,
behind the steaming sidewalks,
and the screens and the fences,
the men set up their dominoes table
and their friends watch them play,
awaiting their turns.

We wave on our way to walk our dogs
and when returning home in the humid air.

There are no passersby on Water Street,
no loitering without intent or purpose
but I will reply to the questions
they might have asked had they existed.

Why, they might wonder, do the men sit
at a bridge table in the stifling heat
beneath scaffolds, behind screens and fences?
Surely, there are air-conditioned apartments
where they might socialize and yell Capicu!

Because, I would answer, it is our street,
this is our Lower East Side that we breathe,
this is our space where neighbors smile
as they pass by and call out, Otra vez
you’re still at it, as time slowly propels
us closer to wherever we are headed,
but until we get there, the table is set
for another night of apocalyptic dominos.