UPPER DIR, Paquistão, 23 de novembro de 2009 (BosNewsLife) – um comerciante que vendia CDs na província noroeste da fronteira do Paquistão com o Afeganistão continuam em internado em estado crítico, depois que supostos militantes muçulmanos explodiram sua loja por que ela tinha à venda um filme sobre Jesus e outros filmes cristãos.

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“Treze lojas vizinhas foram também parcialmente destruídas” durante a explosão de bomba no Centro Comercial Saleem, situado no bairro de Upper Dir District da cidade de Kas, disse o comerciante Muhammad Taos Khan que concedeu uma entrevista no hospital.

O Sr. Khan, 41 anos, disse que uma criança lhe deu uma carta ameaçadora cerca de 30 minutos antes da explosão no dia 11 de novembro de 2009. Ele disse que inicialmente “sacudiu sua cabeça e riu da carta”, mas logo ficou “extremamente impressionado” ao notar que a criança – um menino – estava olhando para ele com ódio nos olhos. “Quando eu tentei conversar com ele, ele correu e desapareceu entre as pessoas que estavam na rua”, disse Khan.

“É evidente pelo teor ameaçador da carta que eu fui atacado por vender o filme Jesus (sobre a vida, morte e ressurreição de Jesus Cristo) dublado nos idiomas Pashto e Urdu, bem como filmes muçulmanos e cristãos sobre (os personagens bíblicos) Abraão, Isaque e Adão e Eva. Nós temos muitos desses filmes em CDs”, disse ele.

A polícia paquistanesa e Khan ligaram a bomba ao grupo “Ideological Supremacy to Uphold Islam in the World” (Supremacismo Ideológico para Patrocinar o Islã no Mundo), um dos vários grupos que lutam para estabelecer um governo radical muçulmano e aplicar a lei Sharia muçulmana naquela província do Paquistão.

Não houve confirmação se o grupo muçulmano assumiu a responsabilidade do atentado a bomba e nenhuma prisão foi informada.

“Alá é grande e viva o Islã”, dizia a carta mostrada para a agência de notícias BosNewsLife. A carta também incluía slogans tais como “Morte aos EUA, aos Cristãos e todos os Judeus do Mundo”.

O comerciante Khan disse que a carta também acusava os comerciantes de vender CDs que “propagavam a vulgaridade na sociedade paquistanesa”. Você “não apenas vê os filmes sobre os profetas, mas também os aluga para o povo…”.

Khan disse que a carta também exigia que ele e outros comerciantes “em vez de atacar os valores muçulmanos deviam ensinar o Alcorão” considerado um livro sagrado pelos muçulmanos “para as crianças”.

Ele e outros comerciantes também foram “amaldiçoados” na carta. “Eles vão ir todos para o inferno e merecem o castigo divino…pelas ordens de Alá Todo Poderoso”, adicionava a carta mostrada à agência de notícias BosNewsLife.

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Thanksgiving would not be Thanksgiving at our house without my dear friend Leaf’s Whole Wheat Turnovers. I don’t know where she got the recipe, but one or both of us has made them for over 30 years now.

When I mentioned them on Twitter (taosmesa on Twitter), so many Tweeple asked for the recipe, I decided to post it here. If I don’t make a double batch, I’m sure to make a second batch later. They freeze well and travel well (if there are any left ;D)

Whole Wheat Turnovers

1½ cups whole wheat flour

1 Tbls. brown sugar

½ cup cold butter, cut into ¼ to ½ in. bits

½ cup sour cream ½ cup apricot preserves (I usually use Polaner or some other “all fruit”)

½ cup flaked coconut

½ cup golden raisins

¼ cup chopped pecans or walnuts

In food processor, combine flour, brown sugar and salt. Add butter and process until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Add sour cream and process until mixture forms a ball. (If you double the recipe you may have to help this along with your hands.)

Divide into 10 portions. On lightly floured surface roll each portion into 4½ in. circle. (I think it’s best to roll it all out and then divide the filling among the circles.)

Combine preserves, coconut, raisins, and nuts. Place 2 Tbls filling atop each circle. Fold one side of dough over filling. Seal edges by pressing with tines of a fork.

Place on ungreased baking sheet. Bake at 375° for 25 minutes or until lightly browned. Cool slightly browned.

Somebody thought it was a great idea to allow family members of both a criminal and his 13 year-old rape victim in the same courtroom.

http://www.taosnews.com/articles/2009/11/20/news/doc4b05e2ab0e68b555295515.txt

Michelle and Justin were married on October 2nd at the El Monte Sagrado Hotel in Taos, NM.  I’m doing all this a little bit backwards because I still need to blog Michelle and Justin’s Engagement Session which we shot at the Salman Raspberry Ranch in Las Vegas, NM and was also super cool!  Here’s a little story for you:  When Michelle originally called me to talk about her wedding I was sitting in my back yard editing some photos and watching the hummingbirds.  We spoke for a bit and I kept thinking that her name sounded familiar but I couldn’t quite figure it out.  As it turns out we went to high school together and even graduated the same year.  I will not divulge the year in order to protect the ages of the innocent.   Anyway, this wedding was fantastic and I was so pleased to be part of it!

To Michelle and Justin, thank you so much for making me a part of your special day!

-DeAnna Dimmitt

Dry Heat Photography

Music provided by Los Primos

To contact Dry Heat Photography call 505.730.8576 or email info@dryheatphotography.com

Every winter, for the past 10 or 12 years, a sharp-shinned hawk (Accipiter striatus) has hunted at our bird feeder. The first few years I saw him rarely, mostly just as daylight broke, lurking in the piñon at the southeast corner of the house — waiting patiently for the finches, siskins, juncos, and other LBBs that feast on sunflower and thistle seed.

Over the years more and more birds winter on our part of the mesa, partially due to climate change and partially to the increase in trees planted around the new houses and to the availablity of water in animal bowls and outdoor fountains. (Not touching my view on that, however.)

Now our sharp-shinned friend is a constant from late November until the earth warms in spring and he departs for his summer hunting grounds. He arrived this morning – looking a bit scruffy — but fleet. His timing was good and he breakfasted well.

Welcome back, friend.

Stacie Florer is a nomadic jewelry designer. She has been traveling with her husband for the past five years, selling her jewelry and writing about their travels on their blog, Nomadic Fanatics.

Stacie Florer, selling jewelry and traveling the world

“We like to stay in a location for 2 months, which gives us loads of time to really get to know an area that catches our interest,” she says. “We’ve arranged our lives so that we can travel full-time while working, staying in furnished rentals with our travel pup Sadie.”

Right now, the duo is living in Taos, New Mexico and loving it. Aside from Stacie’s irritated nose (ew gross!) and a few bad apples on a train ride, they are loving it!

Follow their journey at their blog, NomadicFanatics.typepad.com or have a look at Stacie’s creations at StacieFlorer.com.

Recent Red Wines by the glass  6.50
Montes Alpha Merlot  2006  | Chile
Pascual Toso Malbec 2007  | Argentina
Martin Codax Ergo Tempranillo  |  Rioja, Spain

Recent White Wines by the glass  6.50
Cuma Torrontes 2007 | Organic | Argentina
Famega Vinho Verde | Portugal
Maximo Viura 2006 | Spain

Recent Seasonal Bottle Beers  4.50
Full Sail | Wassail
Steamworks | Steam Engine Lager
Deschutes | Obsidian Stout

To all of you who think you’d love to live here: I have a deep love/hate relationship with Taos. Have lived here almost 18 years and have been trying to leave for almost that long.

We have a saying here that if the mountain doesn’t want you, you won’t stay. Not sure what the saying is about the mountain not letting you leave.

The Mountain Always Wins

Our last day in Taos — which was only our second day in Taos, as this was a very “jumpy” trip — had us leaving Gordon, Maggie, their pets, and their lovely B&B and starting off to see the Rio Grande River Gorge. It’s deep, and scenic:

From there, we visited the Taos Pueblo, which is just on the edge of the community of Taos. In fact, according to Gordon, the Taos Pueblo sold some of their land to the community, with the stipulation that should any member of the Taos Pueblo tribe be accused of a crime in Taos, that person will be turned over to the tribe for discipline instead of being subject to local laws. The day of our visit, the pueblo was only open to visitors for a few hours due to the fact that there had been a death in the tribe. While guided tours were an option, Dave and I chose to wander around ourselves in the limited area that was open to visitors.

From what I understand, the Taos Pueblo people keep their religion and language secret. Only a few members of the tribe live in the old pueblo buildings, which lack modern plumbing and electricity. I believe those tribal members feel they have a calling to live there, whereas most Taos Pueblo live in more standard homes. Here are some pictures; the dog appeared to be the “rez dog” that dominated all the other dogs in the area.

We then hit the road, heading south to Santa Fe along the High Road to Taos (which is what it’s called even when you’re taking it from Taos). The High Road is scenic:

But the fun part of the High Road was discovering the Sugar Nymphs bistro in the small town of Penasco. What a delightful place for lunch! And it is housed in the same building as the Wise Fool theater, which appears to be a kind of arts theater, educational center, and community gathering place.

Once in Santa Fe, we landed at our inn of choice, the Pueblo Bonito, where we were warmly greeted by Strelsa and Phyllis, two of the innkeeping staff. Dinner that night was unspectacular, and the next morning we decided to take it easy. We began by perusing the jewelry for sale by various Indians on the plaza. I had already decided I didn’t need anything, but if I saw something I felt I couldn’t live without, I’d at least inquire as to price.

You know what? I can indeed live without that necklace I wanted, being that it cost $3500. In my world, that’s not a necklace, it’s a big chunk of a car downpayment. Beauty has its limits. On the other hand, I was massively disappointed by the redecorating at La Fonda, where we had lunch. The beautiful turquoise trim around the windows has been replaced with white, which looks fine from a distance but weak close up. As I said to a staff member who also intensely disliked the change, yes, it’s only a building, but it’s also a matter of beauty, and beauty has value. I think the recent redecorating diminished the value of the place, and I look forward to a restoration of the much lovelier turquoise. When we later went out to dinner at The Shed with our friends Bonnie and Pat, they agreed, as did some people we spoke to at Pueblo Bonito. Fortunately, The Shed has not changed. It’s perfect as it is, and its owners know not to mess with it.

One of the highlights of the visit to Santa Fe was the New Mexico History Museum, which opened just a few months ago. This is where I started to feel like I might someday understand New Mexico, to the extent that it’s possible. As I said to Dave, you can make a visit to New Mexico almost like a visit to another country, what with the Indian and Hispanic influences. An important thing to keep in mind is that the Hispanic culture in New Mexico is home-grown, coming from Spanish settlers (or invaders) centuries ago rather than being imported from a Latin American country. The museum’s Telling New Mexico exhibit brought that all together for me. I left feeling like I was just beginning to get a sense of what I didn’t know, and where I needed to go in order to learn more.

The next day, that process moved forward with the subject of my next post, the Acoma Pueblo.

Wood is stacked. Tea is steeping. Sitting by the woodstove knitting. Let it snow. Let it snow. Let it snow.

Our vacation pattern is to go to a very specific area of the country and get to know it thoroughly, which is what we’re doing with our multiple trips to New Mexico. To this end, we left Albuquerque by way of Route 550, looping to the north to Route 4, which took us through the town of Jemez Springs. There we stopped for lunch at the Laughing Lizard Cafe and toured the Jemez State Monument. This was the first trip in which we began immersing ourselves in the pueblo cultures, and the Monument was a good place to visit in that regard.

And yes, there was snow on the ground. Next, we saw the Valles Caldera National Preserve, where we saw elk:

Shortly after that, we arrived at Bandelier National Monument, which was basically a hit-and-run visit.  We will be returning when we can spend all day.

From there, we headed to Taos, where we stayed at the Little Tree B&B, with our hosts Gordon and Maggie, their 4 dogs, and their 2 cats. We were in the Spruce Room, which has its own hot tub. That was great! And Gordon and Maggie sent us to a wonderful restaurant that first night, El Meze. This is a new favorite — we absolutely loved it. We shared hummus, the buffalo tamale, chicharrones, and the cardamon doughnuts. It was all glorious.

The next day, we headed out to the Wild Rivers Recreation Area, where we walked around a bit and took photos of the scenery. We followed that by a drive through the Enchanted Circle, deemed one of the most beautiful routes in the country:

Finally, we had dinner at Joseph’s Table in Taos. It was an amazing place, in one of the most comfortable and beautiful spaces I’ve ever been in, with absolutely great food. Saying we liked El Meze better is like grading Joseph’s 98 percent and El Meze 98.1 percent. Both restaurants were extraordinary, and we were fortunate to have the opportunity to visit them.

In the next vacation post: Taos Pueblo, the Sugar Nymphs, a new museum, and Santa Fe.

The covey of scaled quail (Callipepla squamata) that pass through our yard on their mesa rounds is smaller this year. It seems there are only a dozen or so, but they are quite plump. They move north to south from the sage across the meadow, stop to graze under the sunflower seed feeder, move through the little shed (have they ever found anything to eat in there?) and out again, in a little row. They search around the wood pile and cross the barren summer garden, before heading down the road towards the mesa edge. Last week I found the feathers and scant remains of one on the north side of the house where our woodstove ash pit lies.

They’re short-tailed, chunky birds with a cotton top crest, and the lookout quail sits atop a sagebrush or low fence post and barks out warnings to the others. Generally they run when something nears, zigzagging through the underbrush. Although the covey can explosively flush when startled.

I cannot help, when watching them under the feeder, but imagine how their plump little breasts would make a fine gumbo.

Some twenty-five years ago we were introduced to the Ipswich Swizzle. It was a gentle Thanksgiving Day when we lived in Baton Rouge – where we lived  for twenty five years – and we shared, as young families often do, Thanksgiving Dinner with the mother who cared for our children and her young family. And with that, this story about the Ipswich Swizzle becomes more than just about Thanksgiving, it lives also as the important traditions that families build. 

We were rather at the high end of the age when our generation bore children – or at the beginning of the time when women, for various reasons, put off having children for a bit. But, we were also of the generations when couples began having children sooner, part of the renewing of the Generation of Love. (I will be using this term ironically – interchangeable with Generation of Peace, Generation of Hope, Generation of Moi, et cetera  - if you please throughout this blog. I will always tell the truth. But don’t believe anything I say.)

 Anyways, we were a public television director and a CETA coordinator for a consortium of Louisiana Indian tribes. We had fun, friends, music, art, diversions, and the like. After awhile we got married, we bought a house in the inner city, we had a baby. When we had a baby, I knew I couldn’t leave this baby, this firstborn son, and so I stopped traveling to the Chitimacha, the Coushatta, the Jena Band of Choctaw and two Houma tribes and went to grad school.

 I found the wife of another grad student – a man whose specialization was lemmings – to care for son one a couple of afternoons a week while I attended classes.  When a few years later she got a full time job at a wonderful pre-school on campus, she recommended another young mother who lived down the street. By then son two had arrived, and that autumn something really special happened.  Leaf, as her family knows her, began caring for our now two sons while I went to school. And, as son one’s birthday falls in October, I invited her and her (then) one daughter to his birthday.

 This party was at the old Fun Fair Park, and over the din of the party room while serving my Bonnie Butter Cake with Chocolate Cream Frosting to way too many 4 year olds, I heard my new babysitter call too me. “This is REALLY good cake!” I grinned and nodded, and she said, even louder, “No. I’m a cake snob, and this is REALLY good cake!” And that began a friendship that has lasted almost thirty years now.

 It began, too, Thanksgiving traditions that exist in our families even today. Take the Ipswich Swizzle.  A Thanksgiving cocktail, from an old Gourmet, that graced our very first Thanksgiving together. Two parts cranberry juice, one part dark rum (Meyer’s in our case always), and a squeeze of lime. Drink until you can no longer say “Ipswich Swizzle”. Not PC today,

 For the years they lived in Baton Rouge we shared a specific Thanksgiving Dinner. Ipswich Swizzles. Olives. Dried Apple Chutney Cheese on Apple Slices. Turkey. Cornbread Dressing. Sweet Potatoes with Marshmallows.  Mashed Potatoes. Gravy. Broccoli or Green Beans. Waldorf Salad. Rolls. Butter. Pumpkin Pie. (And sometimes Pecan Pie also.) Whipped cream. Coffee. Each child (and adult) had a favorite that Could Not Be Omitted.

 And after they moved to Georgia, we continued the tradition once at their new home (although There Were No Rolls) but most often at a Florida beach house. And even after we long ago moved to northern New Mexico, we had that same meal, and toasted the changing season with Ipswich Swizzles. And when son one graduated college and headed off to his new life, he gave thanks in Georgia on that most traditional of holidays with Leaf et al and enjoyed almost the exact meal as here on the mesa.

 And though Leaf and I no longer share a four o’clock cup of coffee over the phone each long afternoon like we did when our sons and daughters were young, we always talk at Thanksgiving, go over our menus, remember Thanksgivings past, and toast each other with an Ipswich Swizzle.

 Toasting all. Giving thanks. Imbibing in an Ipswich Swizzle. Can Thanksgiving be far behind?

New image in the panoramas photography contest

In the Winter. …
Taos Mountain photography picture

I’ve always had mixed feelings about my name, Hiram.

It rarely went unnoticed when I lived in Mexico. It wasn’t like those conversations that began with something like “Hi, my name is Raul” followed by a natural change of topic.

With Hiram, there was always something.

Every time I needed a government document, bureaucrats would write my name without the H. Other times people will remind me that my name sounded like that of a famous female singer I never knew or cared about.

Now that I live here in the States, people often ask me if I am Arab, Jew or Turkish. Sometime people think my name is Iran, a country known for its wars and Muslim extremists.

Maybe that’s why I thought it wasn’t such a bad idea when I heard that a hotel owner in Taos, New Mexico, ordered some of his Latino employees to use the English equivalents of their names. He also forbid them to speak Spanish at work because he was afraid that they will talk behind his back, as if changing people’s names wouldn’t be something to talk about.

Larry Whitten, the owner of Whitten Inn, said it was common for hotel employees who work directly with the public to change their first names if these were difficult to pronounce.

Personally, I don’t remember meeting a Mary instead of Maria or a Joseph instead of José at the many hotels I’ve stayed in Rosarito, where the vast majority of guests come from the United States.

Witthen, who had turned around about 20 troubled hotels in Texas, said his managerial style has nothing to do with racism.

But neither his employees nor many in the Latino community believed him, and some protested in front of his business.

It’s ironic that it’s come to this because the hotel operates in a county where more than 50 percent of the population is Latino, and where more than 50 percent of residents speak Spanish, according to U.S. Census data.

But he doesn’t need to check governments statistics to understand his surroundings.

His hotel is located on a street called Paseo Del Pueblo; the name of the state includes the word Mexico, and Gov. Bill Richardson, a former presidential candidate, live part of his childhood in Mexico City.

If anything, the hotel should change its name from Whitten Inn to Brownie Inn.

Personally, it’s hard for me to understand the difference between Martín and Martin, or Marcos and Mark, the names of the employees who were rebaptized by their boss. I would understand if he had an employee named Petronilastacio Nacletaldo Furibundo answering the phones.

But nobody has that name.

If I was his employee, I would ask him to let me choose my own name because I’m not particularly fond of the English version of Hiram, HIY-ram.

But then I stop and think about the time I went to get a tire change and a Persian employee gave me a discount because he thought I was Arab. Or the time when a beautiful girl told me that my name was so different that it was unforgettable. Maybe she was trying to tell me I had a pretty name.

Hiram, through its derivatives, have become sort of like a chameleon.

I am Iran among Arabs, Iram with Latinos and HIY-ram with Anglos. In at least one birthday someone made a point of singling out my name by giving me a bottle of the not-so-famous whiskey Hiram Walker.

I tried to find a way to go around this complicated process, at least when I buy coffee. To save employees the hassle of asking me “What did you say your name was?,” I used to say my name was simply Soto.

But then one day a lady asked me: “Are you Japanese?”

Now that I think about it, it would be too boring if my name was Raúl. I think I’ll keep my rather imperfect but entertaining name.

Besides, that’s what my parents wanted people to call me.

… or would, if those cussed local natives were not all plotting against True Progress. Don’t those people want to make us newcomers as rich as possible? Rat Now? Wealth is the only True Health. Let us bray: “Gawd, Please damn these Blessed morons all to He double hockey sticks. Amen”

Well, start a blog, kinda forget about it, and time passes.

All Hallow’s Eve here under a much too bright desert moon. Much too cold. With too short days.

Never did get back to that rant I started, because if you understood what I wrote before, amplifying it will only make us both feel bad. And, if you didn’t get it, nothing I write will help you understand.

Guess I’m also more than a little bothered by negativity everywhere. (Not that I don’t carry my share of it.) But you don’t need to know everything that makes me scream and shout…and curse, for that matter.

So I’ll wish you all a Good Hallow’s Eve, and very spiritual All Saints and All Souls Days.

The view from my cabin.  The Sangre de Cristo mountains (Blood of Christ) were named for their deep red appearance…breathtaking.

I think after years of driving myself relentlessly to make, make make, I am actually succeeding in chilling out.

I am reading Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, a book I bought after Kathy Mattea recommended it during an interview I must have done in 2006. I can’t believe it was that long ago but it was.

I wanted to start doing the morning pages but had to take Frank to school and catch up on errands. The car has been out of commission since Friday.

Morning pages is a free writing exercise that Cameron says will free the artist of the crap in the mind so that we can open up to the material flowing from the source. It’s meant to be a slow murder of our internal editor. She calls it the censor. Cool, I say.

The thing is, I already write my dreams out first thing in the morning and I blog as much as possible. That’s a lot of scribbling. Still I’d like the freedom to just write anything.

When I first read about the morning pages I was kind of attitudinal.

Julia Cameron writes:

“Living in a small adobe house that looked north to Taos Mountain, I began a practice of writing morning pages. Nobody told me to do them. I had never heard of anybody doing them. I just got the insistent, inner sense that I should do them and so I did. I sat at a wooden table looking north to Taos Mountain and I wrote.”

My response, scribbled back in the spring of 2006:

“She never heard of journals?”

I have been writing in a journal since I saw a fear Gemini friend attending to her books each day. We were in our late teen years.

The morning pages are supposed to be more of a free write with no thought to story, design or sense-making. I get it.

Back then I think I was just jealous that Cameron got to live in a small house in Taos and I was stuck in a crappy apartment on Del Sol Place in Redding.

My journals, many of which I still have, are close to being complete drivel. They are 87% boring crap. The point is to get that stuff out of the way so the faucets are opened for the good flow.

Just slowing down and letting myself get off the what-next train has allowed me to consider a few directions I’d forgotten I could go in.

My journalist’s post traumatic stress disorder had me shrinking from the idea of writing anything more challenging than blog posts. Over the last few weeks though I’ve been getting the urge to make stories. That’s a good thing.

The trick is not to dive back into the relentless mode too quickly (if ever). I need to establish a deep feeling of love and peace with my own imagination. I need to believe what bubbles up will sustain the full realization of the creation I see shimmering off in the distance.

I am going to a Halloween party tomorrow night where I expect there will be more than a few creative types. It will be good to talk to others. I’m going as a dream pirate.

Wonder what will make the best fake face tattoo?

I think I dream of this place.

I fell upon this little ditty about a hotel owner who can’t handle the realities of America today.

Larry Whitten wanted to turn around an ailing hotel. He apparently thought that the best way to do that is to strip away the dignity and culture of his Hispanic workers.

The tough-talking former Marine immediately laid down some new rules. Among them, he forbade the Hispanic workers at the run-down, Southwestern adobe-style hotel from speaking Spanish in his presence (he thought they’d be talking about him), and ordered some to Anglicize their names.

No more Martin (Mahr-TEEN). It was plain-old Martin. No more Marcos. Now it would be Mark.

Wow…narcissistic much!? Of course people only speak a foreign language around you to talk about you. Its the entire reason foreign languages were created. Its a secret plot to organize and work together to destroy hotels owned by white, bigoted men, by creating a fake language and culture and talk about the secret evil plans while they stand right there….unaware!

I wonder if the names had not been Hispanic. It is common in the African-American culture to take names and respell them or add an African twist to the name to separate if from the “White” version. Would he have required African-Americans to change their spelling or pronunciation in their names as well?

All this is not what surprised me. I have grown quiet accustomed to the idiocracy that is “White America”. Its Anglo-centered ideals and its xenophobia. What surprised me is this:

Whitten’s management style had worked for him as he’s turned around other distressed hotels he bought in recent years across the country.

What had worked for him before! He has done this not just once…but multiple times…and no one has had a problem with his blatant racism until now!

His rules and his firing of several Hispanic employees angered his employees and many in this liberal enclave of 5,000 residents at the base of the Sangre de Cristo mountains, where the most alternative of lifestyles can find a home and where Spanish language, culture and traditions have a long and revered history.

“I came into this landmine of Anglos versus Spanish versus Mexicans versus Indians versus everybody up here. I’m just doing what I’ve always done,” he says.

Former workers, their relatives and some town residents picketed across the street from the hotel.

WHAT?! Really?! You’re surprised and SHOCKED that forcing people to change the pronunciation of their name might offend them?!?! I could almost…ALMOST…see the requirement to speak English at the workplace…ALMOST…but changing the way you say your name…Just because it makes you uncomfortable?

After he arrived, Whitten met with the employees. He says he immediately noticed that they were hostile to his management style and worried they might start talking about him in Spanish.

“Because of that, I asked the people in my presence to speak only English because I do not understand Spanish,” Whitten says. “I’ve been working 24 years in Texas and we have a lot of Spanish people there. I’ve never had to ask anyone to speak only English in front of me because I’ve never had a reason to.”

Why is it that the people who claim to not be racist or bigots or even unfair to a specific ethnic or racial group always believe that said group is secretly plotting against them? What makes him think that any of these individuals would bother wasting time on speaking negatively about him. Its the same thing with closet homophobes, they always believe that a gay, lesbian, bisexual, or even transsexual person is going to hit on them. Because all gay people want to sleep with them, just like all Hispanic people want to talk shit about him behind his back.

24 years in Texas, and not once did he bother to learn a little bit of Spanish? Or bother to understand the customs of not only the employees of his hotel, but the patrons as well?

Some employees were fired, Whitten says, because they were hostile and insubordinate. He says they called him “a white (N-word).”

Fired hotel manager Kathy Archuleta says the workers initially tried to adjust to his style. “We had already gone through four or five owners before him, so we knew what to expect,” Archuleta says. “I told (the workers) we needed to give him a chance.”

Then Whitten told some employees he was changing their Spanish first names. Whitten says it’s a routine practice at his hotels to change first names of employees who work the front desk phones or deal directly with guests if their names are difficult to understand or pronounce.

“It has nothing to do with racism. I’m not doing it for any reason other than for the satisfaction of my guests, because people calling from all over America don’t know the Spanish accents or the Spanish culture or Spanish anything,” Whitten says.

Martin Gutierrez, another fired employee, says he felt disrespected when he was told to use the unaccented Martin as his name. He says he told Whitten that Spanish was spoken in New Mexico before English. “He told me he didn’t care what I thought because this was his business,” Gutierrez says.

“I don’t have to change my name and language or heritage,” he says. “I’m professional the way I am.”

This is what I find particularly offensive. As if Spanish was never spoken on this land before Anglo’s arrived. Not just that, but its as if no other state, or nation has Hispanic individuals who speak Spanish. How ignorant does he believe American people are, that they cannot comprehend the Spanish equivalent of Martin? As if pronouncing the ‘i’ as an ‘e’ is going to stress a patron out soooooooooo much that they will immediately hang up the phone or trounce out of the hotel upon having to see the individuals name. Whitten proves just how ignorant and out of touch he really is by verbalizing a belief that Spanish is a language and culture that no one but him and those involved in it would understand. The fact is, they were here first. They owned the land first, they lived and cultivated it first, and they have just as much ownership and citizenship as he does. In fact, one could argue that Mexican-American’s are more American than he is because they did not need to have their ancestors travel over here from foreign countries.

The messages and comments he made in interviews with local media, including referring to townsfolk as “mountain people” and “potheads who escaped society,” further enflamed tensions.

Yeah…because that’s not offensive at all. Why are ‘these’ people so sensitive all the time?!

“What kind of fool or idiot or poor businessman would I be to orchestrate this whole crazy thing that’s costed me a lot of time, money and aggravation?” Whitten said.

Uhhhhhhh…..you?

Yours Truly,

Kate

I found this story interesting.  It highlights a new hotel owner in Taos, NM.  He bought a distressed hotel and decided to run it his way (since it was his money.)

I applaud Larry Whitten.  I like the fact that he is not backing down.  He explained in the interview that he fires everyone and they have to reapply for their jobs. Also, having someone use an easy to recognize name is common practice in customer service arenas – try and contact a call center and log what name they use. I’ll bet it is something simple.

Evidently CNN’s Rick Sanchez has changed his name to be more accepted by the American audience as illustrated by this clip. Sanchez also agreed with the hotel owner and his policy for those people answering the phone and dealing directly with customers.

The bottom line is that this is Mr. Whitten’s hotel – he paid for it and is responsible for making it profitable. He understands business. If he is successful, more local people will have jobs and that is real job security.

Of course, this is just my opinion.

Rob’s Rant