Charmed Life / Una vida con suerte

author: Gladys E. Barbieri

illustrator: Lisa Fields 

translator: Carolina E. Alonso 

Piñata Books / Arte Público Press, 2016 

preschool-grade 3 

Latin American  

In A Charmed Life / Una vida con suerte, a young immigrant Latina accompanies her mother to work. As they get off the bus and walk the rest of the way to Mamá’s housecleaning job in a gated mansion, Felicia is told in no uncertain terms to behave herself and the child, having heard this many times before, nods her head. From the beginning, the portrayal of the relationship between parent and child is strained, culturally inappropriate and problematic: Mamá appears harsh and dismissive; Felicia appears exasperated and rebellious.

In the illustration of the two approaching Mamá’s workplace, parent and child in the foreground are dwarfed in relation to the huge mansion and forbidding black gate, which spans the width of the page. 

While Mamá sets to work, Felicia, annoyed and bored, sits at a large table “to keep out of [her] mom’s way,” and starts coloring. Her mother’s appearance also embarrasses her: “I don’t really like her headscarf,” Felicia says, “nor do I like being here.”

The young reader is not told—and there are no visual hints, either—about other family members. Is there a father? Are there grandparents, aunts and uncles, siblings, cousins? Where are the family’s past and present communities? Why are they here? Why does Mamá take her daughter to work with her? Why isn’t Felicia at school? And, being stuck here with her mom, why isn’t the child helping out? A Latina child about Felicia’s age would probably know the routine: she would be more likely to come in, pick up a broom or dust rag, and get to work by her mother’s side.

Rather, Felicia gets up from her coloring and takes a furtive tour of the mansion. Walking into a lavishly designed child’s room with enormous stuffed toy animals and a canopied crib, she “can’t believe [her] eyes” at all the gorgeous stuff she sees. “Forgetting [her] mom’s list of dos and don’ts,” Felicia races out to the patio, gets on a swing and swings “so high that [she feels she] could touch the sun.” She’s way impressed at all the things she doesn’t have.

An important short digression: Felicia’s little adventure makes no sense, cultural or otherwise. For a Latina child, especially an immigrant Latina child, to sneak off by herself, roam around a mansion and walk through the rooms, go outside and use the swings on an open patio where she could be seen and caught, might—at the very least—endanger her mother’s job. The child and her mother could be accused of stealing, they could be arrested, and, depending on their immigration status, there could even be deportation proceedings. For a Latina child to be blissfully unaware of this kind of danger is unreal, even if this is “just” a picture book.

But young readers will see no danger here, just a curious Latina child and a kindly white employer. She’s Mrs. Fitzpatrick, a red-haired white woman who, rather than castigating the child, brings her a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cookies, sits on the swing next to her, and tells Felicia that her own Irish great-grandparents had immigrated to America with dreams of a better life for their family.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick, of course, is wealthy. She is also pregnant. She knows her child will never want for anything: that her child will have a charmed life. So, with that realization, she gives Felicia a charm bracelet. For the benefit of young readers who may not immediately “get” the improbability of this scene or the concepts of paternalism and noblesse oblige, Mamá peers through the window while Mrs. Fitzpatrick tells Felicia: 

Believe that you will have a better life and don’t let anyone make you feel that you don’t deserve it, because you do. We all deserve to have a charmed life.

Here, the bringer of wisdom is not a hardworking Latina parent, but her employer, a privileged white woman. The implication is that all immigrant, migrant and refugee families are on an escalator ride from poverty and neediness to wealth and independence. Indeed, “a charmed life” is a metaphor for obtaining the American (material) Dream. If you follow the script—work hard and strive for material goods—your children will have a “charmed life.”

On the bus home, Felicia exuberantly tells her mom that she is “going to have a super charmed life,” to which her mom doesn’t respond. And when Felicia insists that they “both are” going to have this charmed life, Mamá responds, “Yes, Felicia, you will have a very charmed life.” The End.

Alonso’s Spanish translation closely follows the text, sometimes to a fault. Felicia’s description of a house that’s “so grand,” for instance, is translated as “tan grande”—so big. And Fields’ digitally produced illustrations, in bright glowing colors, parallels the text as well. Here, Felicia forefronts just about every scene: Where she is with her mother in the beginning pictures, the child is bored and unhappy. When she sees the material wealth that surrounds her and when she’s with her white benefactor, the child is joyous, as she is in the last scene, where she is trying to convince her mom that she—no, the two of them—will eventually have a charmed life.

In knowing that this “charmed life” will somehow happen to them, Felicia—unlike the majority of desperate, fearful immigrants, migrants and refugees who come here from Mexico and Central and South America—is not looking for a peaceful life, a safe life, or a life without hunger—she’s looking for a life with lots of stuff. And she knows that, because of her new charm bracelet, or maybe because her mom works hard, they will somehow have this life. The subtext and unstated assumptions here are that, if immigrant, migrant or refugee parents work hard enough, like her mother does, their children will “make it.” If their children don’t “make it,” it’s because the parent or parents didn’t work hard enough.

That Felicia is so enamored by Mrs. Fitzpatrick and her great material wealth suggests to young readers that Mamá and child live in an economically marginalized neighborhood with little of value, material or otherwise. There is no evidence of societal or class circumstances. Rather, readers see only the perspective of a Latina child who’s an outsider with no family except for her mother, no community, and no culture of any worth. There is no hint that people who are economically impoverished can still hold on to all that makes them familia, all that makes them cultura, and all that makes them human.  

While the author and illustrator have created what many children will consider an engaging and compelling picture book, the story’s message is dishonest. Coming to the US and working hard does not guarantee that anyone will achieve the American Dream—or that descendants of hard-working immigrant, migrant and refugee families will live charmed lives. Far from it. This system is rigged to benefit the 1%, and children of Felicia’s age—who may not be immigrants, migrants or refugees but who probably already know about unfairness in things large and small—need to learn about the long, hard struggles for justice as well.

There are many picture books that can move children to understand the necessity of people’s struggles for justice, and even encourage them to become participants. These include (but are not limited to):

• Ann Berlak’s Joelito’s Big Decision / La Gran Decisión de Joelito

• Carmen T. Bernier-Grand’s César: ¡Sí, Se puede! Yes, We Can! (available in English and Spanish editions)

• Diana Cohen’s ¡Sí, Se Puede! Yes, We Can! Janitor Strike in L.A.

• Carmen Tafolla’s That’s Not Fair! Emma Tenayuca’s struggle for justice / ¡No Es Justo! La lucha de Emma Tenayuca por la justicia

It’s possible that, in the opening pages, Mamá’s expression when she reminds Felicia to behave might be more out of fear than coldness. It’s possible that, in the illustration where an unsmiling Mamá looks out the window at Mrs. Fitzpatrick and Felicia enjoying each other’s company, that her expression might be more of concern than distance. It’s possible that when Mamá stares out the bus window rather than admiring Felicia’s charm bracelet, she’s contemplating the reality of their lives. But young children will not see any of this. What they will see—as evidenced by the story and by Mamá’s smile on the last page—is that life is what you make it and turns out well if you really want it to.

Recently, a colleague suggested that young students could be encouraged to rewrite and/or reimagine A Charmed Life / Una vida con suerte in ways that relate to their own lives. I can see the value of such an exercise, but it’s not enough to recommend this book. Our children deserve better. Our children deserve to see the truths of their lives, and to see what part they can play in helping to shape their own futures—and the futures of other children as well. They do not need yet another Cinderella story that makes no sense to them.

—Beverly Slapin

(published 4/23/16)

Legend of El Dorado: A Latin American Tale

author: Beatriz Vidal

author: Nancy Van Laan

illustrator: by Beatriz Vidal

Alfred A. Knopf, 1991

preschool-grade 4

Latin American, Chibcha

In an introductory note, Vidal writes that, as a child in Argentina, she first heard the stories about El Dorado from her father; and much later, she came across the “original source,” which inspired her to paint this “rich and fascinating treasure.” Vidal showed her version to her colleague, Van Laan, who “had the right poetic voice,” and the two decided to collaborate on something that would appeal to young readers “without losing the romantic, tragic flavor of the tale.”

There are many, many variations of the El Dorado story. Some contain a cacique, who covered his body with gold dust each day before jumping into the lake to bathe. Some involve the lake itself, into which gold would be thrown in political or spiritual ceremonies. Some contain a description of the city as a vast kingdom where gold was so plentiful that it was used to construct whole houses. Some involve women and children being thrown into the lake, either as sacrifices or as punishment. Some involve a cacique’s wife who throws herself into the lake to escape a horrible punishment for her sins, and survives there as a deity. And other variations are so violent and gory as to compete with a Mexican telenovela gone rogue.

In Vidal and Van Laan’s version, the wife and daughter of a wealthy Chibcha “king,” lured by the dazzling sight of a ruby-eyed emerald serpent, disappear into the waters of Lake Guatavita. The high priest speaks to the serpent, who assures him that the “queen” and “princess” are safe and happy and will be reunited with the king, but only if he rules wisely. So each year, he covers himself with gold dust (thereby becoming known as “El Dorado”) and throws his treasures and himself into the lake to remind the serpent of its promise. One year he doesn’t reappear—the serpent has kept its promise: the king is reunited with his lost family.

Vidal’s mixed-media art—lush tropical scenes in bejeweled tones of mostly blues, greens, and reds—are reminiscent of Paul Gauguin’s post-impressionist work. The Indian subjects are mystical and primitive, and perfectly complement the text, which focuses, not on the people as fully developed humans, but as mystical and primitive. There’s lots of gold throughout. The title on the cover shines. The endpapers depict tropical birds flitting around golden beads. There’s gold dust on the king’s body, on the earthen ground, and in and at the bottom of the lake.

Before the conquistadores got to them, there were some 500,000 Chibcha people[1], who lived in the high valleys around what are now Bogotá and Tunja, Colombia. They were centralized politically and their economy was based mostly on intensive agriculture and considerable trade, which provided the gold used for ornaments and offerings. In the 16^th Century, the Spanish invasions crushed the Chibcha political structure, and in the next 200 years, the language was all but obliterated as well.[2]

What have been mislabeled as Indigenous “myths” or “legends” are cultural histories and teachings, passed down from generation to generation. Since the Chibcha political and economic systems were never based on gold, the “legend of El Dorado” is not, and never was, a Chibcha legend.

A brief digression about the history of the “legend of El Dorado”:

In the early part of the 16^th Century, fantastic stories circulated throughout Europe about a city of immense wealth somewhere in the Americas, a place of untold riches, a place that contained so much gold that it later became known as “El Dorado.” In this city, it was said, the people adorned themselves, head to toe, with gold; they even painted themselves and the trees and the rocks with gold! Heavily financed and heavily armed by the royals and other wealthy families, the explorers and conquistadores raced to the Western Hemisphere to find, conquer, and occupy El Dorado and the people who lived there.

But wherever they went, the locals pointed this way and that way—anywhere but where they were. And everywhere the conquistadores landed, the story became more and more embellished. Now there was a tribe—somewhere else—high up in the Andes Mountains—that way—where the cacique painted himself with gold dust each day before jumping into the lake to bathe! Or down there in the impenetrable jungles, where the people threw gold and precious jewels into the water to appease the spirits! Or over there, in the barren deserts, where could be found gold nuggets as large as suckling pigs! Indeed, the Spaniards, who wanted so much to believe that they were soon to encounter El Dorado, began to call the cacique of this unknown tribe El Dorado.

After Cortés sacked the great Mexica Empire in 1519 and Pizarro, the Inca Empire in 1532-33, the conquistadores found some gold—but not very much—among the Indigenous peoples living along the coast of South America. In the years that followed, the conquistadores rampaged up and down the coast, plundering Indigenous towns and villages and slaughtering hundreds of  thousands, if not millions, of people. But, of course, no one ever did find El Dorado—because it existed only in the searchers’ fevered, gold-crazed imaginations.

One of the things that survived these atrocities was a story published in the journal of Sebastián de Benalcázar, a chief lieutenant of Pizarro’s and a ruthless conquistador who claimed that an “Indian” had told him about El Dorado. (This is the account that Vidal names as the “original source” of her story.) But two other scenarios are totally possible and more likely: one, that the anonymous Indian was one of many who made up these stories to deflect the Spanish (and let’s not forget the British and German) forces away from their own communities; or, two, that de Benalcázar invented the story in order to bankroll new projects, justify new incursions, and recruit new soldiers.

So Van Laan’s version is her adaptation of Vidal’s father’s adaptation combined with the adaptation of a mass murderer who undoubtedly embellished the story (if he didn’t actually write it himself). And from all this we get: A picture book for children.

The major reviewers loved The Legend of El Dorado: Booklist praised it as “a splendid addition to folklore shelves and useful for showing the richness of Indian culture prior to the arrival of European explorers.” Kirkus suggested that it was “just right for giving added dimension to a unit on explorers.” And Publishers Weekly called it a “splendid pairing of Van Laan’s suave retelling and Vidal’s richly colored illustrations—meticulously executed and imbued with primitive charm—capture all the beauty and mysticism of a culture from long ago and far away.”

What’s wrong with crafting a picture book out of a legend—that never existed—about a fabulously wealthy tribe in South America—that never existed? And leaving out the fact that versions of this legend were spread around Europe as a rationale for greed and genocide? Indeed, Vidal and Van Laan’s The Legend of El Dorado, as a picture book, is dishonest: It promotes a worldview that justifies rapacious colonialism, Manifest Destiny, economic determinism and neo-liberalism.

When The Legend of El Dorado was being created, written, illustrated, and finally published, Vidal and Van Laan (and/or the editors and publisher) either didn’t know about the awful repercussions of this fake “legend,” didn’t want to know about them, or didn’t think they were important. Or did know and didn’t care.

In fact, the whole concept of teaching children about “myths” like these is that, absent any cultural and/or historical contexts in which they were created, they portray Indigenous peoples as ignorant, superstitious, materialistic, and therefore deserving of conquest. Or being wiped out entirely. It’s a setup. Now, more than ever, we have to be responsible enough to be truthful, to talk about history, not gloss over appalling things like genocide.

There is no excuse for this; not even when it’s couched in ridiculous, incomprehensible, New Age romanticism that neither children nor teachers will understand:

“As bits and pieces of the treasure are recovered,” Vidal writes, “the real El Dorado begins to unfold, the one that has lain dormant, waiting to be discovered, not by conquerors but by true seekers. For El Dorado is much more than the physical and glittering gold: it is that Inner City of the spirit, which one needs the utmost purity of heart to enter.”

All of our children deserve way better than this. Our Indian children do not need further humiliation and our non-Indian children do not need more affirmation of their alleged superiority.  The Legend of El Dorado is not recommended.

—Beverly Slapin
(published 6/17/13)

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[1] There’s lots of available research on the historical Chibcha economy; this information is from the Encyclopedia Britannica.

[2] Many reputable organizations are working to recover Indigenous languages in the Americas. Among them are: Advocates for Indigenous California Language Survival, Endangered Language Fund, and Indigenous Language Institute.

How Many Days to America? A Thanksgiving Story

author: Eve Bunting

illustrator: Beth Peck

Clarion, 1988

kindergarten-grade 3

“Latin American”

How Many Days to America? A Thanksgiving Story tells the wrenching tale of a family forced to leave an unnamed Latin American country, where they are fleeing from political oppression. They board a fishing boat to travel to the US. Their journey is arduous—the motor breaks, the soldiers in their country shoot at them from the shore, their food and water run out, people become ill, and thieves take what little they have left. When they finally arrive at the US mainland, soldiers give them food and water but do not let them land. “They will not take us,” the father comments sadly, but he doesn’t say why.

Yet inexplicably, the next day, the boat lands at the US shore again. This time there are no soldiers, but instead a large crowd of people who welcome the family and usher them into a shed in which there are tables covered with delicious food. They explain that it is “Thanksgiving” and tell the new arrivals about the significance of that day in the US. How Many Days ends with a description of how “[f]ather gave thanks that we were free, and safe—and here.” The little sister asks if they can stay. “Yes, small one,” the father replies. “We can stay.”

Peck’s pastel drawings, on a subdued, depressing palette of mostly browns, blues and some yellows, portray the characters as real human beings. They have real expressions; they are real people with whom children can relate. The tone of the illustrations is as somber as the story, and then—voila!—the people are all sitting together at a table laden with delicious food, and the whole scene is brighter, lighter, and more hopeful. Teachers may be drawn to the illustrations as well, and those who find stories about “The First Thanksgiving” problematic might unwittingly see this book as a great Thanksgiving read-aloud that encompasses both multicultural and social justice themes. They would be wrong.

One of the most frustrating things about How Many Days is that Bunting doesn’t specify where the characters are from, why they have to leave their homes, or why they are being shot at. Rather, she serves up a generic version of a politically oppressive tropical nation, feeding into US stereotypes of Latin America as a backwards place full of palm trees and dictators. Many factors indicate that the unnamed country is probably Cuba—for example, the fact that the refugees can travel by boat to the US and that they are presumably safe from immigration authorities once they land. However, by refusing to name the place—by portraying the characters absent any cultural, linguistic or historical specificity—Bunting avoids real conversation about politics or the realities facing Cuba and her people.

How Many Days sets up a false expectation: No matter the struggle that it takes to get to the US, once here, you are safe and you are allowed to stay. Yet this is clearly not the case for many migrants and immigrants who have no documents. Indeed, many children recognize that, despite their families’ arduous journeys to this country, they still face the dangers of deportation, exploitation, and discrimination. Just as Bunting stays silent on the reasons why the soldiers initially refuse to allow the family to land, she all too swiftly conjures up a happy ending. In How Many Day to America? A Thanksgiving Story, Bunting simplifies and objectifies immigrants’ struggles and ignores the possibility that citizenship might not be easily attainable for all who set foot on US shores. NOT Recommended.

—Grace Cornell Gonzales
(published 6/14/13)

Arrorró, Mi Niño: Latino Lullabies and Gentle Games

selector: Lulu Delacre

illustrator: Lulu Delacre

musical arrangers: Cecilia Esquivel and Diana Sáez

Lee & Low, 2004

preschool-grade 2

Latin American

As a toddler, my son never walked. Every morning, he would practically wake up running! In his exuberance, he would run and fall down, run and fall down, run and fall down. Sometimes, he’d scrape his knee—and cry. And I would comfort him by placing my hand over his knee and whispering:

Sana, sana,
colita de rana.
Si no sanas hoy,
sanarás mañana.

Loosely translated into English, the words are:

Heal, heal,
little frog’s tail.
If you don’t heal today,
you’ll heal tomorrow.

So I was particularly happy to see this rhyme in Lulu Delacre’s little book of 15 lullabies and gentle games from Latin America. In Spanish and English—with the lovely, rhythmic Spanish predominant—this captivating little book shows the many faces of La Raza. Here, parents and grandparents, neighbors, teachers and friends—in school, at the market, in the park, at the library, in a museum, on a farm and in the strawberry fields—demonstrate their love for the community’s children. Delacre’s full-bleed watercolor spreads, with mostly warm earth-toned backgrounds, are calming and perfectly suited to the short rhymes. Several of these offer a few lines of simple instructions for how to play games that accompany the rhymes; and the end of the book provides sheet music so youngsters can sing along. A quiet treasure, Arrorró, Mi Niño is highly recommended.

—Beverly Slapin
(published 6/6/13)

Hispanic American Experience

 

author: Sandy Donovan

Lerner / Twenty-First Century Books, USA Today, 2011

grades 6-up 

Latin American

Whenever she hears someone talk about “Hispanics,” My dear friend, Elizabeth (“Betita”) Martinez says, “I am not ‘high-spanic’ or ‘low-spanic.’ I am Latina.” Spanish, French, English and Portuguese are the colonial languages on this hemisphere. They were forced on the Indigenous peoples who managed to survive the onslaught of the colonists.

The term “Hispanic American” refers to the basis of one of these dominant languages—Spanish—and implies a Spanish-based culture, when, in fact, most of our cultures are Indigenous with a Spanish-language influence. This influence is based on the Spanish invasion and conquest of the Americas, which killed over 90 million people in a little more than 500 years—including many of my relatives. Generally, we prefer the term “Latin American” or “Latina/o,” both of which accommodate the diversity of languages and cultures, with Spanish being the main language of law. The US Census also currently uses “Latin American.” It’s an ongoing political issue.

As with most cookie-cutter productions such as this, from the “USA Today Cultural Mosaic” series, the text is uneven, veering from surprisingly progressive to totally inaccurate.

Overall, the text gives a good overview of Latin American history and our people’s roles in mainstream America. There is a good selection of writers, artists, musicians, scholars and architects. Also discussed is religion’s role in immigrant communities, and here and there are informative USA Today articles with data on the Latin American presence. These include articles on “A Country or a Continent?” “Most Foreign Born from Latin America,” “English Rates First in Latino Families,” “Selena Returned Me to My Mexican Roots,” and “More Hispanic Catholics Losing Their Religion.” These add a current flavor to the book.

But, for example, in this discussion of Latin America’s history:

They came to Central America, South America, and to the part of North America that became Mexico. Some Spanish settlers married Native Americans. The native [sic] peoples spoke many different languages. When they traveled or relocated to new areas, they often could not communicate with other native [sic] peoples. But many learned Spanish. Soon the Spanish language became a common thread.

For one thing, the Spanish were not settlers; they were military guards, protection for the priests and explorers from the “heathens.” They set up guarded missions to create accommodations for other “explorers.” My own family traces our history to a Sergeant Tiburcio Diaz, a guard at Mission San Diego. I’m pretty sure he didn’t “marry” my great-great-great, etc., grandmother, but his name is on a birth record the priests kept. And I am sure she had to learn Spanish to survive—just about all my Indigenous ancestors did, or they died.

Then there’s this:

In the late 1800s, many Spanish-speaking immigrants began arriving in the United States….When they arrived, they seldom spoke English. Often they built Spanish-speaking communities. But usually they learned English at their new jobs. Their children learned English at school. Most of the descendants of these early Spanish-speaking immigrants no longer speak Spanish. But their grandparents and great-grandparents left their mark on everyday language in the United States. Most Americans know that amigo means “friend” and siesta means “nap.”

Do you have to be Latina/o to understand how condescending and offensive this is?

And this:

Luis Valdez wrote several plays about the Mexican American experience. For example, his play Zoot Suit (1972) tells the story of race riots in Los Angeles in the 1940s. During the riots, some Mexican Americans wore zoot suits—baggy suits with padded shoulders. The term soon became a derogatory reference to Mexican Americans.

And from a caption on the next page, “Some participants in the riots dressed in zoot suits, like the one in this photo from 1943.” Young readers (or any readers who do not know about what is commonly called the “Zoot Suit Riots,” will infer that the Mexican Americans who wore zoot suits were the antagonists of the race riots. In truth, they were the victims of both the white race riots, instigated by US sailors on leave in Los Angeles, and the police and “criminal justice” system. Furthermore, zoot suits were a national phenomenon. The great Cab Calloway probably started the fad with his performance of “Minnie the Moocher,” and even Malcolm X talks of wearing a zoot suit to fit in with the cool guys.

And this (brackets theirs):

[In reality, de la Hoya] grew up in a small apartment where roaches were so plentiful that he regarded them as pets.

Now, “in reality,” it’s possible that this is a story that Oscar de la Hoya told or wrote somewhere about his life. This is very different than something being written about him in the third person. It’s offensive!

There are more glaring oversights and errors.

• While there are ten pages, including full-color photos, having to do with cooking (“foods of many flavors”), there are only two short paragraphs about labor struggles, or any struggles at all. And the word “racism” is used only once.

• An “immigrant” is a person who leaves one country to settle permanently in another. Since Puerto Ricans are Americans, full citizens of the US, they may migrate from, say, San Juan to New York City, but they do not immigrate to the US. So the sentence, “Sotomayor was born in New York City to Puerto Rican immigrants” is wrong, because her parents were natural born citizens; and the term, “Puerto Rican Americans” is redundant.

• Carlos Santana, who popularized his amazing fusion of salsa, blues, jazz, and Afro-Cuban beats, is presented here as a singer. Please, anyone knows he is one of the greatest guitarists who has ever lived.

• A correction for the sanity of every person from East Los Angeles: Olvera Street is not in the barrio of East Los Angeles! It is located in downtown Los Angeles, next to Phillippe’s French Dip Sandwich joint and across the street from Union Station. East LA is across the Los Angeles River and is a large neighborhood composed of many smaller barrios, including Boyle Heights, Maravilla Gardens, Echo Park and many others.

• And especially annoying is the color photo of a young Latina child hugging an American flag, an in-your-face reference to Latin (the little girl) and American (the flag). If she’s in Los Angeles, she would be holding a Mexican flag. Sorry, cultural nationalism is alive and well, all across the country. Even in Miami, a child would more likely hold a Cuban flag, even if her family were anti-Castro, as most right-wing Cubanos are.

The Hispanic American Experience is marginally recommended.

—Judy Zalazar Drummond
(published 4/7/13)