UMH Stories

Growing up a punk teen in the '80s in LA was fresh, fast and rebellious. This was my first taste of fashion. We would head to the Salvation Army first, to go through the dollar bins to pick out any non-patterned sweater or shirt, then go through the coat racks get anything in a cotton canvas or leather if we were lucky. Also preferred were the old army jackets. Then we'd have a tagging party at one of our homes. Usually at Steve's (AKA "RED”) in his basement. It was Sharpie city down there -- the basement would be filled with the smell of ink and the screechy sound of the felt tip over our new wears which we...

We returned back to Nicaragua after the revolution. It was like going back into time: there was little fuel so people were traveling by oxen and horses. The population was 90% women and 10% men; over 60 years, a generation had been wiped out. Men from the ages of 11-50 years old had left or been sent to the battlefront. The exchange rate was absurd.  One would exchange 100 US dollars and receive a bag full of Cordobas. We returned to my hometown of Santa Teresa. I remember we had a horse-- a white one with few brown spots. I had named him “Trigger” but because of...