Contributors

For over a century, El Palacio has been a forum for voices exploring New Mexico’s art, archaeology, history, and landscape. Explore the writers, photographers, historians, and scientists whose perspectives have defined the magazine’s pages—past and present.

Petra Salazar

Petra Salazar (opens in a new tab) is a coyote (regional term for an Indohispano/Anglo racial identity) from Española, New Mexico, aka “Spaña.” She teaches children at a Montessori school and adults at philopoetics.com. Petra’s work has been published or is forthcoming in Colorado Review, Indiana Review, Sonora Review, The Southampton Review, Latin American Literature Today, and elsewhere.

Aztlán

The City of Española, New Mexico, officially turns one hundred years old this year. But the land and people of the valley tell a deeper story—one that slips past the barbed-wire borders of time, place, and stereotype, refusing to be hemmed in by the bias of public imagination. The centennial fiestas in September offer more than municipal commemoration—they are an opportunity to honor nuestra querencia: our belonging to the land and lifeways that have sustained valley communities for millennia.

¡Oye Primos!

By Petra Salazar How do we survive the uncertainty of our globalized, techno-digital age? Listen for answers in the sounds and stories of the Borderlands. The border is not just a geographic location, but something embodied in people who dwell on the border of conflicting identities. In the U.S. Southwest, the region referred to in Chicano philosophy as Aztlán, the border is a place where we find a confluence of diverse Indohispano perspectives, blending Indigenous and Spanish ways of knowing.

Summer Poetry

Ana Castillo What Is Your Writing Process? With mop in one hand,cocktail in the other,at 9:00 a.m. or night,flies swatted,roach corpses swept.Lola Beltrán belts “Mi ranchito”through the house speakersfrom room to room.I hum off key.Mares fed, dogs let out,sun beating on the flat roof,moon rising behind a cloud—verses take form. If I Pray One morning I heard on the radio a boy named Trayvon was shot dead.Bent over, slipping on shoes, vertigo took hold.