www.masbakersfield.com

I experienced a few personal fears at play in the novel Lords: Part One.  It tugged at my psyche in moments that hit close to home.  In Lords, you will be taken on a journey from the streets of Hollywood to the streets of Bakersfield.  An endemic array of the troubles of youth.

Like many others, I ran away from home to get away from parents who weren't much of what they seemed.    Never providing a stable home, my parents forced me to lived here and there around Bakersfield.  I stayed with friends and with Aunts and Uncles, from the projects near Martin Luther King Park, to the South West near Grissom Park, and in the Oleander area a few houses down from the "Spiritual" book store where I filled my mind with the occult at that time.  I got my share of culture from Bakersfield, to Compton, to San Antonio in Texas.  I've traveled a long road blind to my surroundings.   Most of the time filling my head with the fantasy world my Mother taught me so well to achieve when she would laugh, a loud cackling sound just a room away with her drugs of choice and "boyfriend" of the evening .  Men who would look at me and say, "Wow, you look just like your Mom!"  To which she would reply, "She's too young for that."   Thankfully, my Grandparents took me in more than once.  

These are not happy moments to remember.  Not sparked by reading the novel.  It simply never left me.  I only hope that the corruption that has a hold on this town, on this world can be overturned someday by raising our children, other than turning the cheek against what is painfully obvious. 

Surely everyone has heard of the Lords of Bakersfield novel, Lords: Part One by N.L. Belardes by now.  If you haven't, you should grab a copy at Russo's in the Market Place, or at Noveltown.net.  You will learn more about Kern County than you already thought you knew.  Fiction?  Yes, the novel is fiction.  But, if you read it you will start to question fiction from facts.  You will question much of what you thought was not possible and must not be true, but possibly is truth.  Our daily lives are filled with little white lies that we tell to each other and even to ourselves.  Who are we to judge what is fact, or fiction?  Does anyone ever really know truth?  

Lords of Bakersfield on Myspace:  www.myspace.com/lordsofbakersfield

MAS Book Club Discussion:  www.masbakersfield.com/home/ViewPost/55868

Or, go to www.nlbelardes.com for more information. 

Look out for Lords: Part Two

Growing up in two places at once can be confusing to a child.  My Grandparent's houses were across the street from each other. 

My mother's parents were separated before I was born to my seventeen year old Mother.  Her Father left when he assumed that his three daughters were in fact not his, they were born with blonder than blond hair.  To a dark skinned Hispanic man, with dark brown hair and eyes, that is what made sense to him.  How could three little blond girls be his.  My Grandmother was Hispanic and Irish, or Scottish I can never remember which.  She was fair skinned, but had dark brown hair and hazel eyes.  My Mother and her sisters grew darker hair and skin as they aged.  Their features are uncanny to their Father's.  I ran into him and his new family at a restaurant last week.  His Granddaughter could be my sister.  I have no doubt that he is my Grandfather.  By the look on his face when he took a double look at her and myself, I knew he was thinking the same.  It took a generation and a random meeting to acknowledge this after some 40 years. 

My Father tried to be there for me.  It was hard for him to do more than work long hours and odd shifts to provide for me.  He and my Mother were too young to get on their feet together.  My Mother's priority was to her Mother, who was ill and needed her daughters to take care of her.  It would have been chaos to let a man in the house.  But, he didn't live far.  The home across the street housed the rest of my family.  My Dad, my Uncles and Aunts.  I would often retreat to my haven of constant attention.  I enjoyed this place more than any other.  Hand made curtains, chili peppers hanging in the kitchen, the green crocheted dressed doll on the TV, and other colorful nick knacks were inviting and warming to my soul.  The aroma of salsa brewing on the stove made my eyes water, but hunger took over as well.  The house has and always will feel like home to me.  

My Grandfather, Mi Papa, was important to everyone.  He had good advice to give, but more than that, he kept la familia together.  Since his passing in 2003, we have lost touch except for holidays.  Even then, only some of us show up to the house.  It was him who made the tamales at Christmas time, and the menudo on new years, and it was he who traveled to visit family in New Mexico for the chili's that made the salsa.  Without him we have lots touch with our traditions.  These days my brother tries to help with the masa to make the tamales and of course we all help to spread it on the hojas.  My Dad makes the menudo, but he is his own critic.  He will never get it right.  His Dad is the only one who would ever perfect any tradition.  The family is trying to keep together, but falling away.  Must traditions be kept to make a family whole?