Brian's Imprint

I've always thought about Brian, mainly because I wanted to write something about him. Ever since high school I knew I wanted to write something about him, an image came to mind, but the words didn't come so easily, plus I never sat down and actually wrote. I think deep down I always wanted to be a writer, and Brian's story is one I wanted to tell for a long time, it was a constant that would come to my mind, mainly through an image, and that image has stayed with me up until this day. For some reason Brian came to mind earlier in the week, and I thought to myself that I'd been wanting to write Brian's story for a long time, why not do it now with the blog? I guess in my mind I saw myself writing a fiction based story, or I don't know; it wasn't until starting this blog that I decided to throw caution to the wind about what I write, and how I write. I guess I wanted to wait until becoming a "professional" or "real" writer before writing about him, but I'm shaking off that need to be labeled one of those tags or titles in order to write about whatever the hell I want to in this blog. Anyhow, I just hope that I'm doing justice to Brian and his story.

The image that never leaves my mind of Brian, is of him, in a wheel chair, outside the classrooms, behind some rails, and he'd be watching the rest of us play during recess. That image would be modified a few months later, when the middle school started doing some remodeling and building, so they put up some fencing across the outdoor corridor, so during recess whenever I looked over, I would see Brian sitting there with his chin in his hand, watching us from behind the fence, deep in thought. The fence was gone by our 8th grade year, but Brian would still be there, during the short 15 minute recess and the lunch break recess.

From what I can recall, Brian was a single child, who had Muscular Dystrophy, so by the time I met him, or saw him around campus in the 7th grade, he was already wheelchair-bound. I just knew him by his first name, Brian, he and I never interacted. In the 7th grade there was usually an 8th grader assigned to wheel him out of class and take him to the spot he asked to be left at. When we became 8th graders, it was one of us that rolled up him out to his spot, it was never me, I'm not sure how people were assigned to wheel him out, but it was usually one of the more preppier, or lively kids. Come to think about it, I never had Brian for any classes either.

I remember talking with some friends during class one day, and for some reason Brian became the subject. The conversation, was gray in tone, in that my friends were talking about Brian with a tone of pity. A couple of them relayed a story about him, before he ended up in the wheelchair, he still had use of his legs, because I guess the disease hadn't degenerated his muscular tissue too badly yet. They were saying that they were in the boys bathroom, and that Brian was washing his hands, when all of a sudden he ended up on the floor. Now, my friends were a rowdy bunch, quicker to laugh at one another or others, and talk shit to each other with a mastery of Spanish swear words that would make some adults blush, but back then my friends already knew that he was "malo" so they didn't point and laugh at him, instead they reached down and helped him back up to his feet. They said Brian thanked them, and he was able to walk out on his own.

Brian's condition I believe was known to all of us. It seemed to be understood that Brian's condition was bad, but it also seemed to be known to all of us not just the teachers, the parents, and Brian, that he was going to pass away eventually. It was fucked up, but that was what you could sense when Brian came into conversations, no one addressed it specifically, but there was already that air of sorrow, or mourning. I keep thinking about Brian, because even back then, I think, I would think too much. Sometimes as I would take a break to catch my breath from running around with my friends, and I'd spot Brian, I'd look at him, and wonder what he was thinking as he watched us use our legs, run, and laugh. I felt guilty that all of us were enjoying our recess in front him. My heart went out to him.

I never spoke to Brian. I was socially awkward and introverted even back then. I usually only spoke to people that I had befriended, but I could never go out of my way to talk to new people. So I never had the opportunity to become friends with him. Even then, I remember that other than having a short conversation with the person that usually wheeled out, or some students that walked by him and said "Hi Brian," or engaging him for a few minutes in conversation, by asking him how he was doing, Brian spent his recess alone, in his wheel chair, in deep thought, watching us. Now that I've grown older, and think about mortality and just life in general, it's hard not to imagine what could have been going through his mind. But I try not to do that, because I don't want to place thoughts there, that might not have been his. But that image of him, in a wheelchair, watching the those of us his age, the world literally moving around him, while he remained stationary, until the bell rang so he could be wheeled into either 3rd or 5th period, that image, stays with me.

Some time in the Spring semester Brian didn't come back to school. The news was that he was really sick, and therefore bedridden. Eventually it was reported that Brian passed away. The atmosphere was somber during that time. Recess was still chaotic, and during the bedlam I would turn to look at Brian's spot on the outdoor corridor, and I would just think to myself, that we'll never see him there again. He was such a fixture, that not seeing him there once he passed, made it hard to believe he wouldn't return. Even when he was bedridden I think we all imagined we'd see him back at his spot eventually, in deep thought, because it wasn't the first time he had to miss some class time because of his disease. But no, Brian wasn't coming back, and his spot remained empty what was left of the school year.

By the time June rolled around, we were caught up in graduation ceremonies, because we were about to move on to high school. But at the graduation ceremony, the middle school awarded Brian's parents, his diploma, and I believe some type of plaque. We, the student body were silent, I'm sure the majority of us recalling Brian at his spot.

I truly do hope I did Brian some justice in this post, because I didn't want to write about him, by talking about myself or other people, but it was difficult not to, because I never interacted with him. But I know I can't be the only one, that has that image of Brian filter into his mind. This isn't about "woe is me" for not getting to know Brian better, this is more about about him, and the imprint he left on my and my classmates minds. Anyhow this another post difficult to just end, because regardless of how I end it, it feels like I'm ending it abruptly, because Brian's life wasn't simply about that image that has stayed with me.

XX
c/s

Xicano/a Studies and "The Truths" or Transparency

One of the better things about Dead College Town during the summer is that coffee shops that would normally be packed by the time I get there, are now emptier than the parking lot at a Woolworth's. Do those even exist anymore? Well sorry for my failed attempt at trying to be funny.

When I woke up this morning, I actually almost forgot today was my blog post day. Probably cause those pitchers of beer from friday followed by the few beers at a Quinceñera had my body hating me as it tried to reject the alcohol from my system. It had been a while since I had drank that heavily, and Saturday even though I limited myself, my body was still saying "fuck you for doing this to me, Mexican."

I'm trying to think about a topic to write about. Simplest would be a compare and contrast about the Quinceñera I attended and reminiscing about the Quinceñeras I attended back in the day. Not much that I can think to write about there. Pretty typical stuff if anybody has ever attended their fair share of Quinceñeras. Nothing really outrageous or scandalous happened there, other than the usual, at least one fight would break because of Quinceñera crashers. Nor are there any sexcapades there to discuss, nothing worthy of a Xicano American Pie. Jesus fucken Christ, now that I think about it, my teen years were quite boring, even when attending the Quinceñeras or bodas; I probably needed alcohol, drugs, and sex on the daily so they could have been more interesting. Meh. Besides comparing and contrasting would bring about a dullness into my world that the weather is already offering me.

Heeeeeerrre we go, I've written myself into a topic. I've had this topic for a bit on my mind, but I've been avoiding it because I want to write about it in a more thorough manner. You see, I struggle with "the truth," not as in I have a hard time saying the truth, but as in I want to expose the truth, or maybe a better way to put it, is that I'm pro transparency in Chicano/a Studies. I'm going to try avoiding going too much in depth, because like I said, I want to write about this topic at a lengthier extent in the future, so I'm going to try to focus on one specific example of this and just give my point of view, so that I can leave something to say about it in the future when I'm ready to write about it the way I want to write about it.

I met with a professor on my committee. We got into a discussion about my dissertation and something he said about it being my duty to bring certain injustices to light, and expose the truth to those who choose to ignore it or don't know it. Somehow this led into a conversation about a book my professor wrote on labor and some things he writes about Cesar Chavez. You see the thing of it is, is that he explained that he uncovered some things about Chavez, but he chose not to write about it until recently, because he didn't want to tarnish Chavez. His rationale was that there were other people trying to do that at the time, mainly of the white and anti-union persuasion who were trying to diminish the character of Chavez for their own political agenda or ideology. Even with this explanation I bluntly asked, "How could you live with yourself though?" Not that that what he was going to write about Chavez was world shattering and altering, but for me, the question came about, because as an educator, I had to ask how could you keep the truth or transparency from the classes you teach? He continued to say that, he was going to let all the other people write whatever vitriol they wanted to say about Chavez, and he personally would bide his time. All these years later, and my professor has finally written, and I get that his intent is not to tarnish nor take away from Chavez. But my response would have been, wouldn't it have been better to write about Chavez all those years ago? Because my professor would have been a Xicano voice speaking onto the truths or being transparent, in other words being honest with US the Xicano/a community. In doing so one can say look, I see the mistakes or pitfalls of this person, and I'm writing about them, but I'm writing about them because it is about learning from both the good and bad of our figureheads or leaders, and he could have been a voice in direct opposition to those other voices whose main goal was to take down the credibility of a leader who didn't fit the mold of the typical Anglo American Leader.

I had a similar conversation with a colleague, herself a historian. She explained the way historians look at "the truth." And the way I understood it, is that the truth for us, or one person, does not necessarily make it the "the truth," for the other parties involved, because the "the truth" is open to interpretation. Aside from this, her approach to teaching is similar to my professor above, she feels that the accomplishments of a someone like Chavez should be taught, and that maybe the controversy around him should be omitted or at least kept to a minimum, mainly because according to her, trying to teach students in the midwest about Xicano/a Studies is already difficult as it is, without us having to add more to their arsenal of anti-Xicano/a weapons. I can't help but agree with both her and my professor. But there is that part of me that is conflicted. I know that teaching the controversy around Chavez or any topic in Chicano studies can lead to some confusion, even in myself. I struggle with this.

I get frustrated about this even more, when it comes to the struggle that my friends in my program were involved in. I know that the party that was opposed is out there giving it's interpretation of the truth. And that party is painting itself as the victim, erasing it's own hand in the events that led to the struggle for our program or conveniently readjusting them. And there are people taking that party's side, because of the sob story that is being sold. The cliche "There are two sides to every story" -line applies here. And some people have listened to both sides, and they have chosen our side or they have sided with the opposing party. This doesn't only apply to our struggle, but you can even read The Making of Chicana/o Studies by Rodolfo Acuña to see how it applies to a situation he was in (and to a certain extent is currently still in [it's funny what you hear said at NACCS by opposing parties]). As I said I struggle with this, maybe because I saw what my friends went through and I know that there are 2 stories being told, but personally I feel that I know the truth, and that truth is not being made transparent by the other party.

Again, I agree with both my professor and my friend about the approach to teaching Xicano/a Studies. But a big part of my conflict comes by way of the fact that Chicano/a Studies was created to tell our story, the story that U.S. History courses were keeping from us. I see Chicano/a Studies as a way to expose truths or to give transparency to an aspect of history that U.S. history courses and professors wouldn't conveniently ignore, try to forget or keep from us. Now if we begin to mimic those teaching patterns, where we deny our own truths, to ourselves, doesn't that make us just as bad as the U.S. History courses and professors Chicano/a Studies sought to respond to and oppose? Again, I agree that Chicano/a studies should be about the accomplishments of Chicanos/as and tell the story of our struggle that U.S. history has tried to sweep under the rug. That should undoubtedly be the focus, since that was the central focus to begin with, giving us a voice and space in U.S. History.

I also want to make it clear, when I think about the truths of some of our figureheads or history, I'm not thinking about the chismes. I don't care about who had an affair with who, or who made whatever snide remark about someone else's fashions sense. I'm thinking about the truths about decisions that are made or things that help shape and mold what is currently Chicano/a Studies. I know people will debate, about that one Chicano/a professor that had an affair, and questions his or her moral integrity, and how even that impacted Chicano/a Studies or even history to a certain degree. And there is validity in that, but if we focus on that too much, we're no better than the run of the mill politicians and policy makers.

If anyone wants to offer their thoughts or insight, please do so. Maybe I just need to stop reading Lies My Teacher Told Me.

I'm not sure how to end this post, because there is so much more I can say or more thoughts I have about this topic, but as I mentioned I want to do an extended post in the future. Hell, writing this post, I probably already bring about the ire of some of the fellow Xicano/a studies community, because how dare I think such things, especially out loud. But this is what I look like right now in response to that:
¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\(°_o)/¯

XX

c/s

The Things We Do To Ourselves

Mrs. X had asked me if I had any tattoos or if I had thought about getting any. I told her that I had wanted to get my hometown-Watsonville, tattooed in Olde English font across the back of the width of my shoulders. She asked if I wasn't concerned about my safety if I did this due to possible harassment from gang members or cops. It was a good question to ask, but I explained to her that me and friends already got harassed mainly by gangmembers, even without us having tattoos. We basically got harassed for being brown or Xicano, by other Xicanos in gangs.

Being a Xicano at a university in California you'd think that my main problem was figuring out what type of beer I wanted to consume for the weekend-Pale Ale please! Or the mid terms and finals. Or douchebagging professors who make the occasional joke at the expense of the underprivileged. Or the ignorant white students who celebrate Cesar Chavez Day or Cinco de mayo by wearing their Mexican regalia and getting shitfaced for the day. Yeah we had to deal with that. But being Xicanos in a university we had to deal with our own raza as well. I'm not talking about vendidos, or Highspanics or Tio Tacos.

I'm talking about the local raza that would be in gangs and would single us out, because you know, we were raza as well. See the thing is, that even in my college town back in Cali, there were gangs as I mentioned in a past post. The thing of it is, you'd think those of us that were Xicano/a students and went out to the bars would not have to worry about other Xicanos hitting us up and wanting to start shit with us. In my college town it seemed that the gangs didn't really have rivals nearby they could throwdown with like they did back in my hometown and local area. So in the college town they seemed to spot a group of other Xicanos at a bar who were not in a gang, and they would go out of their way to maddog and hit us up about what barrios we were from. This wasn't an every weekend occurrence but some of the incidents just stay with me, because I can't believe we do this shit to ourselves.

I'm out a few friends, one of them coming out with us for the first time. A couple of fellow Xicanos, of the cholo persuasion spot our new friend and inch up next to us. They're looking down at him, it's clear they're going to hit him up. The escalation this will lead to is unknown until the exchange occurs. The guy standing closest to him, asks "Where you from?" Our new friend proudly pronounces "I. V.!" (Imperial Valley). The two cholos seem impressed with his haughtiness and respect this, and instead of increasing the tension they simply have a casual conversation.

Different incident. A friend relays to me the following encounter. He and another friend from Southern California, specifically Calexico, are at a local popular burger joint/watering hole. As they're eating their food, they're approached by a couple of homies, that ask if they can join them. My friends have no problem with it, being that that they are raza. My friend tells me that it was just strange; they're talking and everything seems okay, but the guys ask them whereabouts they're from. My friends reply that they are from So Cal, Calexico. The homies nod their head, and say that's cool. But one of my friends is getting a strange vibe. It just doesn't feel right, he tells me. He says that eventually he looks at his friend and says "We should get going." The friend is caught a bit off guard, but follows suit, and they say their goodbyes to the homies. My friend says that he tells his friend that it just wasn't right that they were asking them where they were from and it felt to him they were trying to dig a little deeper into their geography, but their possible affiliation to the rival gang. His friend has an "oh shit" moment. Not that they had anything to worry about since they weren't affiliated, but it really wouldn't have mattered. If the homies wanted to start shit, they were going to start shit without the necessity of a spoken official confirmation of an affiliation to any gang. All they needed to hear was that these guys were from So Cal and therefore technically enemies. Then again, my friend could just have been paranoid, and those homies were just really looking to chat with fellow raza in a college burger joint mainly patronized by white folk. But why ignore the vibe?

I was out with some friends at that same burger joint/watering hole. We're just sitting, chatting and joking. A couple of guys walk by us a few times and make sure to throw their gang signs up at us. We ignore them. I'm wearing a white long sleeved Southpole shirt, and I'm sure that adds to their justification for tossing their hand gang signs at us. The "South" in Southpole, became ample reason for them to hate us. Nothing happens. Same place different night, different cholos, similar incident. Except one homie, pelon, hones in on me. I guess my goatee painted me as some type of gang member as opposed to a college student, that just wanted to get drunker than all fuck, then go home and keep drinking after closing time. I can feel the maddogging. He's drunk, I doubt he appreciates that I ignore his attempts at trying to lock me into a staring contest. I go up to the bar to order drinks, he ends up next to me, bumps me a couple of times, I grin, and wait for my drinks. A large friend of his comes up and puts an around him, and engages him in a conversation, helping him forget about whatever bullshit he was trying to start with me.

Same burger joint/watering hole. An incident from a few years back. A few friends are there, and its the same song. My friends are just enjoying drinking and they are being maddogged across the way by a group of Xicano fellows with a bone to pick. Those fellows approach and its the most expected question that Xicanos expect to hear from fellow Xicanos, "Where you from?" From what my friends tell me, they reply where they're from and somehow defuse the situation. Amongst my friends is a former gang member who has left that life behind but is bothered by this, however even he contains himself and the fellows end up fucking off.

I have a friend who looks very much like a cholo. He liked wearing the Nike Cortez sneakers, and he was pelon, with a decent sized broche (mustache). Since he had that appearance he was a prime target for local cholos. I just remember getting a phone call one night and one of my friends tells me that they need help, because my cholo looking friend got jumped by some actual cholos. I don't know why I was the go-to person when ever some problem arose with my friends, its not like I could don a cape and cowl, set off a smoke bomb and then toss a bunch of batarangs (or is it X-arangs?) around, then use a zip line to rescue my friends. I get to that party with a few friends. Our friend is being kept in a seperate after being jumped. The other guys who had jumped him, as far I know are milling around somewhere. My former gang member friend ever the boyscout, is in the kitchen looking for weapons, he finds a carving knife. Its funny, yet disturbing, and you can't help but feel like he's one of the most loyal friends you have, if he's willing to go to that extreme to help protect his friends. Eventually it's agreed that we're all going to walk out together with our friend that got jumped. The party had been thrown by some girls who were probably more worried about their carpet than our personal safety. We all walk out together, we make it out of the complex without any further incidents. End of the story. End of the night.

Maybe one other incident, involves a friend who still affiliated himself with a gang and never backed down from a fight when challenged. He's challenged by a couple of rival gang members, they fight, and our friends get involved. The brother of a friend gets blindsided, and in turn he picks up a huge ass rock that he chucks at the car of the assailants who started the brawl, cracking the rear window. The guys speed off and that's the end of that encounter.

I'm sitting here recounting all of these incidents, because it just blows me away that we do this to each other. There's the group of us that are college students, some of us coming from areas where gangs were part of the scenery, but we didn't feel much of a threat from them unless we were caught up in the affiliations. In our college town this changed though, they fucked with us. I would say it was because they were bored and therefore didn't have their rivals nearby to start shit with them. So the easiest target was the other brown students that maybe had facial hair. Regardless it didn't matter whether we were dressed preppy or more street chic, we were targeted by our raza for being raza. They must have been really bored, or I don't know what the fuck. It's not even about safety for me. If anything the incidents above have me asking, over and over again . . . why? Why do we do this to each other? The only difference between us as far as I can tell is that some of us are attending the local campus, and they live in the town, and we congregate at the same bars, but for some reason they want to go out of their way to start shit with us. Some of us are taking Chicano/a Studies courses and trying to learn about unity amongst the raza, and yet as raza we want to brawl with each other.

In my last post I wrote about the trouble with ignorant white folks, and that's only the tip of the iceberg for myself and my friends. I'm sure there's many Xicanos/as out there who have their own horror stories of encounters with an ignorant student body that make mine look lively and funny. But yet, I reflect and here not only are ignorant white folks in a college town our enemy, but also our own raza. We single each other out because we look Mexican or Xicano and we don't care if those guys are affiliated or not, a goatee or brown skin is enough to want to start shit with them, even when it's made apparent that there is no gang affiliation or history amongst the group that is being approached. This is frustrating upon reflection. But I'm focusing on the problem and can't figure out a solution. So I'm stuck here at a coffee shop, scratching my head, shaking my head, twisting my mouth, trying to make sense of it all.

Eh, maybe we just need a Xicano Fight Club. First Rule of Xicano Fight Club, don't try to start a fight just cause the other person looks Xicano and you want to make this about gang affiliations, oh yeah and don't talk about Xicano Fight Club. In Xicano Fight Club we all fight cause we are bonded by the fact that we are Xicanos, and just wanna brawl with each other to relieve some everyday stress from being within the structure, yet outside of it. Then you know, we initiate some protocol based on anarchism. Xicano Fight Club, start  your own chapter today, secretly of course.

XX
c/s 

Tales from the White Side

Waking up sober on Sunday mornings, yet groggy as all fuck is different for me. It used to be that Sundays I'd wake up hungover as all fuck from drinking from Thursday evening to about 2 am or 3 am (closing time) on Sunday. Not because I was an alcoholic, but because I was an irresponsible college student. I prefer the grogginess as opposed to the beer-runs; plus I actually look forward to writing the posts. 

When I was still in grad school back in California, I remember one of my brothers had gotten picked up and locked up for the first time. It was pretty much a weekend stay in a jail, and he was released within a few days. I remember at the time though, it hit me hard, because it was the first time anyone in my immediate family had gone to jail. I was having a group meeting with some of the other grad students from a class about some project we had to do for a professor they couldn't stand. I couldn't focus on the project itself. After class I was walking along with one of the students, a guy by the name Pat. Tall, lanky white guy, good writer, had him in a class as an undergrad once. Nice enough person. Some how we went from talking about the project to our current stresses, him being a young father. I remember I told him about my younger brother who had gotten locked up; I was angry, I was stressed, I was frustrated. Pat heard me out then he tried to relate to me by mentioning a selfish sister who had married rich, and ignored his family and some other horseshit that came nowhere near my problems. This was the look on my face --> : /. I did appreciate Pat's attempt at trying to relate, in order to try to get me to feel like I wasn't alone. Funny thing is, he told me I should go home and be with my family, but the group had just ripped a guy who had essentially taken a personal day after he had left. I imagined if I took a personal day I would reaffirm their preconceived notions of the lazy Mexican. So I stuck around and it wouldn't be the first time my brother would get locked up, and released a few days later.

Same grad school in Cali, I'm a teaching assistant for a professor. Great guy, very laid back approach to teaching and encouraged my pursuit of Xican@ literature, as a matter of fact he was teaching the Chicano/Latino lit class offered through the English department at the time. But he was still white, like Pat, and therefore could not relate, even though he tried. I can't remember how this conversation came about, but I remember he mentioned "Well I mean that's a given, right? Most if not all Mexican families have at least one son in the military." I remember thinking to myself, man, this guy has watched Mi Familia one too many times. He truly believed that statement. He truly believed that all Mexican families in the U.S. were made up of at least one gang banger kid, and one that was in the military. At least he used the military kid example as opposed to the gang banger kid example, so he tried to give us the benefit of the doubt by mentioning the military kid versus the black sheep gang banger kid. This same professor said he had a student by the last name Moreno, who very much wasn't the hue of her last name, because she looked white, his response "I thought it was kind of funny, because she wasn't you know darker or moreno." I think he was trying to impress me with the fact that he knew that moreno in spanish meant a darker color or shade of brown. He himself had a last name that described him as one of us, but he was white, but he didn't seem to find the irony or hilarity in that. 

I also TAed for him in an American lit class, where there was a Mexican kid who kept falling asleep through the class. The professor approached me about approaching the kid maybe even take him under my wing, because you know, all us brownies could relate. He had done the same with me, trying to get me to work with a Latina student so that I could have a mentor. She actually turned out to be a close friend in the program, she was lesbian as well, and she introduced me to a perspective of Chicana/Latina literature that I had not before placed too much thought into, until I TAed for her. Anyhow she e-mailed me in the fall, and we caught up a bit. She brought up that professor, and said it was nice of him to have us work together since he was so flaky. I haven't replied to her, because I know that in my reply I would probably take a sarcastic tone and let her know that, it wasn't because he was flaky (which he really is) and therefore thought it best to have her to guide me through the process, but it was more so that he wanted us working together since we were both "Latino." I know I probably shouldn't complain about this, because at the end of the day, I'm glad that I could have someone I could relate to in the program, imagine me trying to relate with Pat during that time with his rich sister and white privilege problems. No thanks. I would have happily taken that undergrad kid "under my wing" as well, regardless of my professor's intent, but the guy didn't need it, nor want it and that was fine by me.

 

By the time I arrived to my college campus on the Midwest, I went to a barber shop on campus. I'm attended to by an Anglo woman, with some type of drawl when she speaks, southern possibly, I don't know my drawls too well. Nice enough person. She mentions she has a Puerto Rican kid that comes in to get his hair cut, and my hair reminds me of his, you know because I'm "Latino" and/or possibly Puerto Rican. The most amusing part of it though, was when asked me what I was majoring in. I didn't want to go through the process of explaining Chicano/a Studies to her, nor what it meant to be a Chicano/a, so I told her I majored in English. Having mentioned that I majored in English which was technically true, since that was my major back in Cali, she said, "Oh! That's why you talk so good in English!" Yes, because you know, all us United States born Mexicans have a hard time learning to speak English and all (the errors in how she spoke aside). Damn you bilingual education for making us take longer in learning to speak English, but thank you English major for allowing me to speak it well enough to impress someone who I believe lived in a trailer park. 

I think my encounters with racial and/or ethnic ignorance have been more subtle than those experienced by a friend of mine, back in Cali. His encounters have been more, well, here's a few examples . . . 

He's walking down a street, possibly even in support of a marcha taking place at the time. A man sees the group of Mexicans, he pulls up next to my friend, and says, "Hey, I have a job if you're interested." My friend actually in a need of a job, responds asking what type of job it is. The man lets him know its for landscaping. My friend is slightly offended by this, realizing that the man saw a Mexican and therefore believed that, that was all Mexicans were good for. My friend replies "Thanks, but actually I go to college, sir." The man replies "Oh, so you're one of the educated ones," and drives off. My friend told me this through laughter, and ended up saying, "I was like, motherfucker!" Motherfucker indeed. 

Same friend. He's driving down one of the main streets in our college town. It's one of the days when people are already out and about getting drunk, because it's a college town, so it can possibly be any day of the week, but more likely a Thursday or Friday. My friend is driving a primered Oldsmobile, and he has dark shades on. He is parking his car, on a street where drunken students are ambling around. A couple of drunken guys are walking down the street near my friend, one of them spots my friend, and says "Why you wearing shades?! It's not even bright, fucken beaner!" Apparently that day it was cloudy, and this was how Whitey McObvious Pants wanted to point this out to my friend. My friend is quick to react once having his car parked. He runs up to the guy with the mouth, punches him, then takes off, leaving his car behind. My friend says the following to me, "I was fucken pissed bro! I left my car there and everything!" I laugh, and say "Gooooood shit bro!" He struck a blow for all Xicanos who were called out for wearing dark shades on a cloudy day.

Same friend. Its a summer a few years back, in Cali. My friends and I are getting together at a our college town for a reunion of sorts, just a bunch of Mexican-American male/Chicano/Xicano testosterone, alcohol, and Mexican rolas that would eventually have us doing the grito; we just didn't have any peleas de gallos (sigh). A bunch of us are in and out of the house where some of our friends still live. Across the street there's a white guy, I remember him vividly wearing jean shorts, a white tank top, and he had blondeish mustache with a mess of hair the same color, he's smoking a cigarette. I remember this because I'm outside on my cellphone with my mom letting her know I made it up safely (the rest of the weekend, my safety was up in the air), and my friend somehow ends up interacting with this neighbor. My friend later tells me about the interaction. Apparently the neighbor sees my friend, and calls him over to ask him the following question: "So are all you guys Sureños or Norteños?" It was Pat and my professor all over again. Apparently Whitey McUnrelatable was trying to relate to us, by showing us that he knew his Chicano gangs and therefore was hip and down with the raw-zah. What blew my friend and me away, was that we were dressed in what you could say was preppy attire. I think most of us were wearing dress shirts, or clothes that was very ungangsterish, or so we thought. My friend says he's taken aback by the question and asks him "You really think we're gangsters? Look at the way we're dressed. Not only that, but most of those guys have their degrees from the university. That guy over there owns his own business. This guy over here (points at me) is doing a phd in the midwest. We're all college educated trying to make something of ourselves, and you assume we're gangsters because you see a large group of Mexicans?" Whitey McUnrelatable lowers his head in shame and says, "You're right. Sorry." Having schooled the ignorant one, my friend continues to speak with him for a bit longer, not sure if it continued to be about the stereotyping or just a general talk, but we then went out to affirm the stereotype that we were hard partying Mexicans that loved our tequila and rolas, something else that the white neighbor couldn't possibly relate to. 

I'm not sure how to conclude this post, not because there's more incidents to relay. But more so because I know those won't be the only incidents where white folk try to relate to me or us, but end up having disastrous results. Do I appreciate the attempt(s)? Yes and no. As seen above when white people tried to relate to me it was about their white problems like Pat. I appreciate him trying to talk to me, but it just resulted in a shaking my head moment. My professor tried to relate based on stereotypes or like I said having watched the film Mi Familia too many times. In my friend's case, especially at the end, it was horrendous how this person tried to relate to us. He was possibly trying to be neighborly or as I said, street hip, but he came out sounding racist and bigoted like most white people who attempt to relate without thinking about how they approach the conversation, or what they say to Chicanos/as. 

Mrs. X put it best when she told me the following, "THINK, before you speak." Holy shit, now I'm sitting here having an epiphany because I just spent my time criticizing the folks above for essentially not thinking before they speak and trying to relate to me/us in a offensive manner. And now I'm echoing Mrs. X's words to me, because I tend to have diahrrea of the mouth. Anyhow, hers would have been some good advice for the people above to live by, thinking before they spoke to, and tried to relate to Chicanos and our experience(s).

XX

c/s

Deconstructing Comedy in Chicano Literature, Killing My Soul

When I sit down to write these posts I don't usually have anything set in my mind. The earliest I might come up with an idea or topic to write about is a week before, but that has happened a few times, mainly during the early inception of this blog. I had to voice record my ideas or type notes on my cell phone so as to go back to them and remind myself of possible topics. The latest I might come up with an idea is maybe the moment I sit down, and begin writing, like the post on similarities between Chinese and Mexican cuisine. Not sure why I felt the need to mention how I approach my weekly writing exercise, but it just came to mind, while I decided what exactly I wanted to write about.

Anyhoo, I presented a paper this weekend at the Depressing Place. In my paper I talked about Chicano/a literature and the use of comedy. While preparing my paper, I questioned if I believed what I had written and was going to present. You see, I had a Chicana professor who was very much about humor and comedy, and during our class sessions she would at times tell a joke or a funny story. She very much believed in the use of literature that used comedy in order to get students to better engage in the subject matter of Chicano/a literature. Eventually that led to me writing a paper for her on Chicano literature and Comedy. I had difficulty writing the paper, and during her office hours, I explained, that what I was expected to do was write about comedy from the point of view of a scholar/academic. I told her I knew what funny was, and theoreticians like Mikhail Bahktin, Mary Douglas, Northrop Frye or Sigmund Freund, were not people who I felt could tell me what was funny, and why it was funny. her whole thing was mainly about the deconstruction of the comedic form in order to understand how it served a greater good, especially in relation to Chicano literature. I said, "So when you say comedy in literature, you're talking about a certain approach or form, versus humor, which is "ha-ha" funny." She smiled, nodded and said "Yes, right," to that very un-graduate student explanation, I felt like she wanted to pat me on the head for arriving at what she was saying in my own layman terms. I continued to have difficulty telling her, I know what funny is, and it's stand up comedians like George Lopez. And again she brought up comedy and form.

I sighed deeply that defeated and know-it-all grad student sigh, which annoys even me, and I went along for the ride. I still haven't changed my mind about comedy in Chicano literature. It's to say that yes, theoreticians bring some interesting point of views to the form, use, and purpose of comedy. Many things which apply especially to Chicano literature, such as chaos versus order, which from what I understand are flipped. In other words too much order is chaos, and let's say the conclusion of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream or Twelfth Night Or What You Will where there's seeming chaos at the end,  is in actuality bringing about order through the chaos according to one of the theoreticians above (I think it was Bahktin or Freud). Some of this applies just as well in Luis Valdez's acto "Las Dos Caras Del Patroncito," wherein there seems to be order because the Patroncito has control of his farmworker, who then takes over as Patroncito and then brings about real order through the ensuing chaos of the role reversal or exchange of masks. I like that concept, but at the same time, I have a hard time buying into any scholarship that tries to deconstruct comedy and explain it, that includes anything written by me. I've had moments where I'm writing my dissertation, or for example presenting this paper, and I get annoyed with myself, for feeling like that this isn't me. I want to kick over the podium where I have laid my paper down, thinking that I've sold myself out to a academic corporation.

(^start watching above clip at about 3:45 minutes^)

I keep going back to what I know, or at least think is funny, such as jokes about sex or relationships. Along with sexist or misogynistic jokes and toilet humor (er, see my post on the proper disposal of toilet paper). The phrase, "kicking a box of puppies" makes me grin (I know Mrs. X is going to be glaring at me through her screen for that one).  Or when I was growing up as a kid I remember plenty of jokes about Pepito and his adventures, like the one where he used a pool stick to have sex with a teacher, or another joke where he paints some marbles as frijoles and sells them to some guy who then starts farting them out like a machine gun and killing stray cats that walked by. I guess that would make the Pepito category more cuentos chistosos since there wasn't an actual punchline other than to revel in the hilarity of shooting marbles from the ass like a rapid fire machine gun, or the use of a pool stick to satisfy a nymphomaniac teacher; the funny thing being, that me and my friends would laugh at the joke about the pool stick, but we didn't really know why the fuck Pepito was trying to satisfy his teacher. We laughed though, because it was supposed to be a joke/cuento chistoso, and if any of us didn't laugh, it meant we didn't get it and therefore, we felt stupid for not getting it . . . "When in the elementary school playground . . . ", even though none of us knew what the fuck sex consisted of at the time. I now actually wonder, how the kid that would tell the joke even heard it; possibly from an older sibling, primo, or from the adult males in his family who sat around drinking and exchanging these cuentos with a better understanding of the use of pool stick to please Pepito's teacher. We were telling these jokes in elementary school as early as 4th grade if I remember correctly. So in this sense I knew and know what is funny, at least to me, now that I understand the use of the pool stick. And anything fart-related is funny whatever age you are.

Even now I remember as a kid, sitting in a circle with my primitos and primitas, and telling them I knew a joke or cuento chistoso. And what did it consist of? Me using as many swear words in Spanish that I could think of. The cuento chistoso had characters but their dialogue consisted of them referring to each other as pinche pendejos, pinche cabrones, and pinche estupidos. My primitos and primitas were wide-eyed and uncomfortable, as was I, telling it, but at the same time I remember thinking I was funny as fuck because some of them laughed or chuckled a little bit. The joke never reached a conclusion nor a punchline for that matter, partially because they lost interest and also because I ran out of what little plot I had tried to insert into my made up cuento chistoso.

Even now I continue to think about my professor and how she was great at delivering the punchline of a joke or how she would expose the comedic trappings or structure in a piece of Chicano/a literature. But I would still be irritated because I felt that it didn't make me go, "ha-ha." In my mind I knew what was funny, and it was about taking shits, and genitalia jokes. Or stories about drunk escapades that led to catchphrases amongst myself and friends. Stories that to this day don't get old, when we reunite and catch up on old times. Like a friend who told us about a guy he knew that cheated on his wife by trying to fuck a pig, because apparently the pig fucker "se puso loco," when he did mota. Me and the friend he recounted this story to, looked a at each other for a moment, and then cackled for about 5 minutes. Our friend was trying to tell us that the guy's wife was forgiving because the weed made him lose it like that, which added another 5 minutes to our laughter. Eventually we tried to rationalize with him, and told him look, his weed musta been laced with some fucked up shit, if he had the need to have intercourse with a pig or the more believable explanation, was that he had to get high because he was into beastiality and therefore, wanted to have something to blame it on, so his wife wouldn't leave him after finding out about his mud-bathing mistress. Our friend still thinks that the guy was really on some bad weed and therefore had a proper excuse. "His friend was porking it with a pig!"- keeps coming to mind while I'm in the coffee shop and I'm trying not to chuckle at the phrase. Anyhow, as immature as it sounds this is what I find "ha-ha" funny, but what my professor would view as a head shaking moment.

I've learned to appreciate stand up comedy more, such as that of old school guys like Eddie Murphy, Richard Pryor, Don Rickles and George Lopez and Artie Lange (not so old school). And in recent years I've enjoyed the work of Patrice O'neal, Greg Giraldo, and Mike Destefano (three of my favorites that were taken too soon). Recently I've enjoyed Mike Epps, Kevin Hart, Dave Chappelle, Cristela Alonzo, Anjelah Johnson, Bill Burr, Lisa Lampanelli, Triumph the Insult Comic Dog, Lavell Crawford, and Louis C.K. I guess that shows that my tastes lie more with the insult comics, the comedians too extreme for a prime time television show on a basic cable network, they need HBO or Showtime to showcase their talents on a tv show (with the exception of Louis C.K. who is having success on FX). Anyhow, I'm getting off track.

So here I am, in academia deconstructing comedy in Chicano literature and presenting my work, while loathing myself for not fully wanting to let go of "ha-ha" funny. But I think I understand my professor better, because the more I think about it, some of that scholarship applies, and just because it applies it doesn't mean I have to absolutely avoid discussing what makes something "ha-ha" funny. As I've mentioned in a past post, I TAed in a class that focused on literature and humor, and it was all about explaining the "ha-ha" funny, while delving somewhat into the intent of comedy. My Chicana professor and the theoreticians she's had me read have helped me understand comedy as a tool for muck-raking and placing a mirror in front our society and even in front of Chicanos/as. The deconstruction of comedy helps shed light on order and chaos in the structure of the oppressor/oppressed relationship between Chicanos/as and the rest of American society.

I know I should have some funny antidote to conclude to with. But nothing comes to mind. Then again, I'm the guy that likes inserting the word "fuck" creatively into my writing or any other swear words for that matter. I'm the the one writing about pink poodles dropping steamers in my mochas. Jesus fucken Christ, maybe I'm having some type of mutated identity crisis where I've accepted my Chicanoness, but now I'm struggling between the scholar/academic that's deconstructing the intent of comedy and the guy that likes to laugh and say things that some of my friends back home are too uncomfortable saying, with no intent other than to get a laugh.

Sooooo, meh (shrugging shoulders), here's a really cliche line I can sign off with, "Tragedy is easy. Comedy is hard." Not sure if that means the scholar/academic has won (more shoulder shrugging).

XX
c/s

"I carry a gun in case somebody hurts my feelings." - Mike Destefano

Mexicans Are Us: How We Perpetuate What Everyone Else Thinks They Know About Us

Pic fo the Mexican Barbie from the Blog cited below

Mrs. X was expressing her discontent over the phone about a Mexican-themed Barbie she'd come across online (see above image). She was annoyed at the depiction of the Mexican culture via the colorful dress, and the Chihuhua underneath her arm. She rightly questioned the use of a Chihuahua to represent the cultural significance of Mexicans. The best point that Mrs. X made though, was in reference to the fact that unfortunately, there would probably be many Mexicans/raza that would purchase the Barbie for their children, due to the fact that it is a Mexican-themed Barbie, which would in turn make it seem okay, or as if it were not a big deal. 

That was a great point that led me down memory lane. I thought back to my time back in California, when a group of friends had a Cholo-themed party. I wasn't interested in participating, even though it was being held at the house I lived at with my other roommates. I had gotten out of night class and the Cholo party was already in full swing. My friends were dressed in varying degrees of Cholo attire. An oversized basketball jersey here, a pendelton buttoned only at the top there, mock tattoos, or someone wearing dark shades, typically locz. This was a mixer, so it included women as well. And the craziet thing that might surprise the readers, is that the participants were all Mexican-American students. I got out of class late, and went upstairs to hang out with one of my friends who was busy working away on a paper or project; this was my way of protesting the festivities taking place downstairs. Eventually as the party wound down, I headed downstairs because I needed a beer, so I became guilty by association. Later a friend asked me why I hadn't participated? I gave him my reasons, and he simply shrugged his shoulders guiltily. There was one other party that consisted of a Cholo theme, that involved other people, but I'd just heard about it. One other such party consisted of friends dressing up as "Paisas." Paisas being a deragatory way to refer to someone that looks extra-Mexican, or who had just crossed the border, or really a Mexican that hasn't assimilated. At the Paisa party some of those guys sported mullets, wore extra tight jeans, or oversized belt buckles, from what I can cull from my memory. 

I guess I wasn't too surprised when this group of friends organized the party, because although they thought they embraced their Mexicaness, in reality it always seemed that they thought they were better than the rest of us Paisas, and they came off as self-hating folk, now that I think back on it some more. 

I bring this up, because my friends buying into and perpetuating stereotypes of ourselves, is similar to what Mrs. X said about the Mexicans/raza that would probably buy the Mexican-Themed Barbie, and that is that they would perpetuate the "it's okay because Mexicans do it or buy into it"-perspective. My friends by perpetuating the stereotype were making it easy for all the other racists who had portrayed us in a negative light, for the sake of humor or a good time (See my post on Normal St. Bar and Cesar Chavez Day). I think there seems to be a sense amongst us, that because we're Mexican, it's okay for us to poke fun at ourselves in this way. But the more I've thought about this, it comes off as self-hate or inner group oppression. We as Mexicans on campuses are already given looks or sideways glances by the white student body. When there was an assault on a college student by a group of Hispanic Male Suspects, I'd walk into class feeling as if some of the students were wondering if I was possibly involved in it. But maybe I was just being paranoid, because I don't think I'm that special. Anyhow when my friends held these two parties, it's hard not to stop and think, that maybe they picked a group to ridicule, a minority group, within our minority group, in order to mock and ridicule them through the representations. My friends dressed up as what they were already viewed as, by the white student body, a bunch of gangbangers and beanerspics. Its as if we accepted the oppressive misrepresentation, and we chose to participate in dragging ourselves through the shit infused mud. 

Along the same lines I had a Xicana professor who mentioned that her son had once dressed up as a Cholo for a Halloween party. At the pachanga another party-goer had made a derragtory comment about us Mexican beanerspics, and her son became angered and wanted to get into a fist fight to defend our honor. I had a "What the Fuck?!"-look on my face. My "what the fuck"-look was mainly directed toward her, because I was thinking waitaminute, your son dresses up as a cholo to mock us, or at least a group within our group, he is then insulted by someone for being from that group, and then wants to fight to defend our honor? He never should have worn the costume to begin with. He should have gone to the party as himself, which in turn would have allowed him to be insulted for being the Mexican that he is, as oppossed to represeting a type of Mexican. 

This is my WHAT THE FUCK?!-look.

There is something to be said, for the things that we tend not to think twice about such as my friends and the misrepresenative portrayals that are perpetrated by us. Raza gets up in arms and raises hell when a white student ogranization has a Mexican-themed party, which have been common in California universities. The worst of it is hearing about some of the women that dress up as Mexicanas. How do they choose to represent Mexicanas? They exaggerate their make-up, apply a large amount of it, and in one situation I heard they even smear it intentionally, because as we all know, all Mexicanas wear a ton of make-up and smear their lipstick outside their lips. Just as bad though, is that some of these women respresenting Mexicanas, show up with a pillow underneath a t-shirt, portraying a pregnant Mexicana, because as we all know, Mexicanas are forever pregnant. I'd like to say that most of my friends upon hearing or reading about such situations, become offended, even though they don't shake their head like me, and utter the word "motherfuckers," or my spanish translation "hijos de su puta madre," like I do. So then what happens, when all of sudden you have a group of Mexican-American students that are similarly portraying a certain portion of Mexicans in a negative manner? Isn't the intent just as racist, ignorant, and bigotted as that done by the white men and women who portray Mexicanas/os negatively? 

I hear white students say, "Well I have my friend Jose, and he's okay with it," because apparently Jose speaks for all of us. Or I've heard students say they dressed up as Mexican for Halloween, and they say "well, some "real Mexicans" that were working saw me they laughed when they saw my costume." It is possible that those Mexicans laughed at him, or maybe they found the humor in his portrayal of themselves and didn't mind it, but ultimately does that make it okay? Is the line really that blurred between George Lopez telling jokes about growing up Mexican, and a group of college students (be it white or Mexican-American) dressing up as Cholos/as and/or Paisas? Or does it make it okay, because we Mexicans laughed. Mexicans go watch a film like Nacho Libre, and find the humor in this, but they do laugh, so is that okay? Mexicans watch a portrayal of ourselves in a comedic skit, and they laugh, is that okay? Does our laughter, and even the purchase of a ticket for a film, reinforce to the rest of society, that it's okay, because other Mexicans laughed and bought into it. 

As Mrs. X argued, everyone is probably going to think that this Mexican-themed Barbie is okay, there isn't a problem with it, because Mexicans are going to buy it, therefore reinforcing to the rest of the public, that yes that is our culture, Chihuahua and all. People won't stop to analyze what they're really purchasing, and that is an ideology of self-hate and self-ridicule; becoming happy, willing participants in the cycle of ignorance. But what do I know, I'm just a self-righteous Mexican; I wonder what that would look like as a costume? Maybe it'd consist of Hipster glasses, a guayabera, or t-shirt with some kinda righteous message, like "By Raza, For Raza" or something that says I'm rebellious n'stuff, yet could care less like, "Me Vale Madre."

Anyhow, thanks to my constant muse, Mrs. X for inspiring this post while she expressed her annoyance with the Mexican Barbie.  

XX

c/s

Mexican Barbie is Documented

South of the Border Party at Santa Clara University

Cinco de Mayo by Delaware Frat

USC Frat Planned Racist Rager

How long before we see a link here for: "Racist Mexican-Themed Party Planned By Mexicans . . . Wait What?! . . . No Seriously, What The Fuck?!"  

Mexican Roulette

My Cinnamon & Honey latte doesn't taste like honey. It's heavy on the cinnamon though. Its nice to get lost in the leaves that are designed with the froth atop. I'm sitting here wondering how they do that. Anyhow, I had to write that in order to transition into my chosen topic, since it's of a more personal matter, which is difficult for me to write, since it deals with familia. Over the years I had the phrase Mexican Roulette in my mind, and I knew I wanted to do something with it, either a fictional story or well, what will now be a blog post. It always revolved around my frustration toward my family. See, my family, we're seven. It's my mother, father, my four siblings, and myself.

Anyhow, I left for college, to try to make something of myself. The whole time there, my family was sending me porra, or cheering me on, and to a certain extent I expected my siblings all to come to college as well, or at least do something productive with their lives. Eventually as the years went by, I found my siblings choosing their own paths. One sister chose to work and eventually got married. Another became a teenage mother, and is now married. Then I have two younger brothers, who have been in trouble with the law, in and out of jail and prison. Throughout my time, as the years progressed they grew up and chose their own paths, not one of them looking to attend a university as a viable option. I am in no way looking down on my siblings for not attending college. My mother was very adamant that they all try to get a higher education. But I never saw it the way she did. I always told her, that school/the university, wasn't for everybody, as long as they chose to be productive and stay out of trouble, that should be enough, especially since it's so easy to get into the normality of trouble in my neighborhood. In fact one of my sisters tried to attend a university, and she just decided it wasn't for her, and I was fine with that. Ultimately when one of my brother's first got locked up, and then released, I was frustrated, and what tends to be a norm for me, pissed. At first I was angry at my brother, I was angry at both my brothers for a long time. Then I realized that I was more so angry and frustrated with myself, because I felt I failed them.

I couldn't understand or make sense of why they didn't look up to me as an older brother, and choose to attend classes or at least pursue something dealing with their creativity or interests. One of them is a history buff, and especially enjoys learning about the military, spends the majority of his time watching the History channel, or the Military channel. Intelligent, and a good artist. One day I accidentally heard my other brother, the youngest, rapping. All I could do was stand there wide-eyed at the discovery, because he sounded like a legitimate rapper, I didn't hear him stumbling on his words, he flowed smoothly.

But their non-interest to pursue those talents, left me shaking my head. I couldn't make sense of it. I would stop and think-we grew up in the same neighborhood, so why is it that I'm on this path, and they on theirs? It can't be pinpointed to one specific factor. There's of course the peer pressure, the family issues, and the socioeconomics. But I refused to point at any one or all of those issues, because I held my family to a higher standard, and expected them to meet it, mainly because I wanted to see them succeed and be happy. And yes success, and happiness is different for everyone, which is why I say school is not for everyone, but I feel my siblings should want something more out of life, besides being in the barrio, never leaving our street or driveway, because that's all they know, and that's all they want to know. They never leave our town. A trip to another city? Maybe, the farthest I understand they've traveled is San Jose, a 45 minute trip north of us. Other than that, anything that will take more than one hour they haven't done, because that's too far, and the barrio is home. Yet I somehow managed to leave. But leaving, has morphed into a sense of abandonment, because I felt I left them behind to fend for themselves. Yes, I'd return for vacations, the holidays, spring break, and the summer. But having me around during those times wasn't enough to look up to me as a big brother, and possibly follow my footsteps, because they chose to look up to the guys running the streets in our neighborhood, and eventually become like them. I try not to do a compare and contrast with my brothers, because I know that the dynamics in my family changed after I left, so they grew up differently than I did to certain extent, because of that change. I speak with my mother, and she specifically asks what she and my father did with me and my sisters as opposed to my younger brothers, and I tell her, that her and my father as parents are accountable, but that my younger brothers are just as accountable because as individuals they made certain choices. But I let her know, that even me and my sisters are accountable, because maybe we didn't provide the guidance we should have since we were caught up with our own lives, and when we eventually stopped to check in on them, it was maybe too late.

I brood over this quite a bit. My youngest brother, the rapping protege, is trying to make a positive change, be more productive with his time by attending tech school. Personally I wish he'd pursue those rapping, and writing interests a lot more. He was a great athlete as well, had the height, the athleticism, and passion for football and even baseball, but he chose the barrio. Or did the barrio choose him? I have no idea; I'm just trying to sound philosophical now. #Fail. I think about the fights that my mother told me my brothers had been in, at times being jumped by a pair of brothers. And it irks me to no end, that I couldn't be there as an older/big brother, to have their backs. I couldn't do anything for them, because I wasn't there, I was away in school, studying and partying, or was it partying and studying? Nonetheless I ask myself why they made those decisions? Do I feel like a success? No, I don't. I won't feel like a success until I'm done with my time in the university, and even then, I won't feel successful until I have been gainfully employed. But I know for a fact, that even then I won't feel successful, unless I've extended my hand to my brothers to try to help them pursue their own endeavors and their interests, and also to try to help my family heal.

In Russian Roulette, you place the end of a barrel to your temple, you keep pulling the trigger until the lucky bullet shoots through the barrel of the gun, and your brain matter splatters on a wall. I'm not sure why I chose the phrase Mexican Roulette, all those years ago, but I'm sure it has to do with my demented and fucked up sense of humor, which tends to often get me in trouble. I do know that it had to do with my family, specifically my siblings. Growing up, my parents were quite insistent on telling all of us to pursue a higher education. Since I can remember, out of the 5, I'm the only one who chose to grow that seed they had planted. So, in Mexican Roulette I'm the one that splatters the brain matter, I'm the "lucky bullet." And I don't mean "lucky," as in "Yay, I'm doing better than everyone else!," I'm saying that out of the 5 of us, I'm the one that even now still wrestles with the sense that I have abandoned my family. In Mexican Roulette, I splattered the brain matter of my family, because of this abandonment.

XX
c/s