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June 10, 2008

The tortilla incident

In my mom’s view, Summer was the perfect babysitter. She was in her teens, about 16 or 17. She was a longtime neighbor and trusted friend. I’d known her since I was in diapers and our mothers were close friends, BFFs even. Even though she stressed out her mom, Mary, she got along well with my mom who was a little younger and more like a friend. We (my siblings) liked Summer too. She wasn’t too cool for us, or bossy or mean. She was like a big sister. She lived three houses away; and even when her family moved to another part of Hacienda Heights, she was still close by.

She had curly dirty blonde hair and a round face. She looked white despite the fact that her mom was Filipina. She introduced me to the concept of a junior college and had the Cure and the Smiths posters on her wall. I liked her.

***

My parents were out on a date night or busy at church. Either way, they were both out of the house and Summer had been called over to watch me and my siblings, four kids ages 5 to 11. Any other babysitter would’ve turned down the job, but Summer was cool with us. She knew we wouldn’t act up with her.

Before leaving, my mom had cooked ground beef with potatoes and peas for yummy soft tacos. All Summer had to do was warm up the meat, tortillas and set out the fixings. She began warming up the meat. Next, she brought out the package of Guerrero tortillas, took a small stack, placed them on a plate* and warmed them up in the microwave.

“Can you do that?” I asked incredulously.

“Yeah, I do it all the time,” she replied nonchalantly.

I was still suspicious. Even though I was still too young to really help in the kitchen, I knew microwaving a tortilla was not right. I liked my tortillas slightly toasted on the comal or even the open flame.

Nevertheless, I wasn’t allowed to use the stove.

When the microwave beeped, Summer got out the soggy tortillas and filled them with meat. She gave us our plates and we added cheese, lettuce, and tomato.

I gobbled up my tacos. They were yummy, but different.

A few hours later, we went to bed and Summer waited up for my parents. When my dad gave her a ride home later that night, she turned down the money he offered as payment for baby-sitting. When he insisted, she still said no. Her mom wouldn’t approve.

***

Looking back on the tortilla incident 20 years later, I’m not sure why it still resonates. Then, it was the first time I realized my family and I were different from white people, but it wasn’t about color or language. I’d noticed the physical differences much earlier as children often do.

Heating a tortilla in the microwave? Mundane, quotidian and easy to miss, but still weird.

I guess it really is about the little things.

Filed under: Cultura, Cuentos | POSTED BY cindylu AT 11:51 am | 12 Comments

June 7, 2008

Problematic piñatas, revisited

I just got back from the park where I didn’t buy a raspado (thanks to those who gave me reasons not to in the comments to the previous post). I did toss around a basketball with a few friends from school. I’m not very good at basketball. In fact, I’m pretty sure I suck. Still, I played HORSE with three others. The only shot I made was a lay-up. Ouch. I was the first one out.

When we got back to the picnic benches, I noticed our neighbors standing under a tree. They’d tied a red fire engine on a rope and hooked it around a branch. They dangled it in front of a two-year old boy holding a stick. He tenderly pushed and poked at the fire engine piñata while a dozen adults stood around and snapped pictures. With the exception of two other boys too young to be out of their mother’s arms, he was the only child present. It was a little strange. I’ve never seen such a lonely piñata. I’m much more accustomed to seeing at least a dozen kids lined up ready to smack the candy out of a piñata. Those who have already had their chance at hitting the piñata stand on the perimeter — held back by worried adults — ready to run in at the first sign of flying Tomy candies.

The little blonde boy never hit the piñata hard enough to break it and draw out candy. He did try to kick it, but who ever was holding the other end of the rope moved it out of the way. The adults pulled him away and a man (his dad?) started tearing the fire engine apart. The boy didn’t like that.

“Wow, he looks kinda traumatized,” noted one friend. “He’s not happy.”

“He’s probably confused. He’s thinking, dad, I thought you told me not to destroy my toys,” said another.

“I think piñatas are a bit problematic,” I stated and summarized the reasons I mentioned in a post from the old blog circa April 2005:

I have a problem with piñatas at birthday parties.

I realized this as I was looking through the pictures (click to view as a slideshow) I took at my nephew’s first birthday party on Saturday. My cousin, Tony, and his wife, Ingrid, had Elmo decorations up all over the house. I assume that Anthony, the baby, has an affinity for Elmo.

So, what do they do? They buy two Elmo piñatas. And then what happens? They fill the piñata with candy, line kids up, give one a stick and blindfold her, and then let her loose against the image of Elmo.

Anthony barely noticed that the guests at his party were beating the crap out of his beloved Elmo. I’m sure if he would have been paying attention instead of having his diaper changed he would have been horrified.

Mexicans are weird.

So, first kids beat up a piñata in the image of a character they like, and then they feast on candy and play with piñata innards.

Moral of the story? If you hit something with a stick enough times, you’ll be rewarded with candy. Twisted!

Filed under: Cultura | POSTED BY cindylu AT 3:25 pm | 7 Comments

May 4, 2008

Intertribal dance at the UCLA Pow Wow

I’ve been fooling around with iMovie. Who knows, maybe I’ll even do a video blog in the future. That is, of course, if I don’t look so dumb when on camera.

Filed under: Cultura | POSTED BY cindylu AT 3:37 pm | No Comments

April 29, 2008

Backyard remedies

On Sunday morning during breakfast, I started complaining about an earache.

“Which ear?” my mom asked.

“The right one. I don’t know why it just started hurting,” I told her.

She got up from the table and went to the backyard. A minute or two later she was back with a little green object between her fingers.

“The right one?” she asked to make sure.

I nodded, and she took the small rolled up green stuff (shown above) and stuck it in my ear.

“Es ruda,” she explained. “It’ll make you feel better. Just leave it in there like that for a little while.”

“You know, this reminds me of a conversation I had with Nancy last week,” I explained to my mom. “We were talking about the backyard home remedies our parents use, like sávila (aloe). My tío Pancho would slather it all over her sunburnt arms and back when she returned from a day-long concert. You know, like you would do when we returned from the beach.”

“Oh yeah, the best is when you cool it down in the refrigerator before rubbing it on. Then it’s nice and cool.”

“I thought it was weird when I was kid. It felt all sticky,” I admitted.

“Yeah, but it helps,” my mom replied.

“I know.”

Over the years, our backyard had provided all sorts of plants for home remedies. We have sávila (aloe) ready to provide some relief from a sunburn. If I have cramps or a sore throat, my mom or grandma will pick off orange (and lemon, I think) blossoms from the trees in the backyard to make té de siete azahares. We also have ruda which my mom has used for earaches for my siblings.

By the time I was done with my breakfast of huevos rancheros, frijoles y chorizo con papa (yum!) my earache was gone.

I love my mom’s (and grandma’s) home remedies.

Filed under: Cultura, Familia | POSTED BY cindylu AT 1:53 pm | 15 Comments

April 22, 2008

A Chicana Outlook on Ruben Salazar

I discussed Ruben Salazar a few years ago while contributing to blogging.la. I was inspired by César/EMC’s post in which he summarized Salazar’s life.

The post and César’s blog no longer exist, but if I remember correctly César — an awesome writer himself — felt cheated as he watched a documentary on Salazar. César felt cheated, as I’m sure many of have, when we learn of people and events like Salazar and the Chicano Moratorium in 1970. We wonder, why are we just learning about this now, more than 12 years in to our education?

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Filed under: Cultura, Los Angeles | POSTED BY cindylu AT 3:38 pm | 7 Comments

April 18, 2008

Nopalitos

nopales

For a long time, I thought all Mexicans in the LA-area had nopales (cactus) in their backyard. Of course, my sample size was small. All my relatives had nopales growing in their backyard. We did too.

The nopales, spread out in a corner of the backyard against a brick wall, were a nuisance to us kids who had to be extra careful while playing. On the plus side, I’m sure they deterred a thief or two from climbing the wall and we were never burglarized.

For Mamá Toní, a native of Zacatecas where nopales grew on every cerro (hillside), nopales are meant to be eaten. They’re for ensaladas and guisos. They go excellent with tortas de camarón during Lent and are an excellent side dish with carne asada. (I won’t even get in to the tasty tunas, or cactus pears.)

Nopales are not only on our frentes, they’re in our tummies too.
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Filed under: Cultura, Familia, Comida | POSTED BY cindylu AT 7:36 am | 22 Comments

March 7, 2008

Lalo Guerrero (1916-2005)

“No Chicanos on TV” by Lalo Guerrero (1916-2005)

I know I saw Lalo Guerrero perform live, but I’m not quite sure when and where. I think it was eight years ago. Yeah, it had to be then because that’s when Ome and I first became roommates. Our sophomore year, we got stuck together in Hedrick Hall, room 676. The sixth floor was supposedly the “multicultural floor,” but there were only a handful of brown people.

At the performance (I think, it’s all kinda fuzzy 8 years later), Ome bought a CD of some of Guerrero’s hits. We got a kick out of hearing the respected musician — the father of Chicano music — sing a song like “Marihuana Boogie.”

Perhaps I never actually saw Lalo Guerrero perform live. I’m not old enough to start having fading memories of my late teens/early 20s. Maybe it was all just a dream. You ever have that feeling? Sandra Cisneros captures it perfectly in Caramelo, “Did I dream it or did someone tell me the story? I can’t remember where the truth ends and the talk begins” (p. 20).

If it was all just a dream, at least I got to make up for missing Lalo when he was alive by catching a performance of ¡Gaytino! by his eldest son, Dan Guerrero (review to come, I’m still trying to wrap my head around the show).

Filed under: Música, Cultura | POSTED BY cindylu AT 12:59 am | 2 Comments

March 2, 2008

La Pocha

In August 2004, I took advantage of my break between work and returning to grad school by taking a trip to visit family in Mexico. It was the first time since I was 10 years old that I visited Guanajuato. I had a great time and grew closer to my father’s extended family, most of which still live in Salamanca, Guanajuato. Every day I met new relatives and reconnected with relatives I hadn’t seen in years. It was a bit overwhelming.

I found myself struggling to express myself, especially when I was hanging out with my cousins. I’d understand everything they said, but I would trip up when I tried to explain what I was going back to school for, how my family was doing or whether or not I had a boyfriend (everyone asked that question). I felt more ashamed of my pocha-ness around my peers than my elders, although nobody judged me. In fact, they complimented the skills I did have and asked if my siblings — who didn’t go on the trip with me — spoke Spanish as well as I did (they don’t).

The only time anyone judged my language skills was when I spoke in English.

While exploring the colonial city of Guanajuato, my cousin’s boyfriend, Chucho, asked me if I had a car. When I responded affirmatively, he asked what kind.

“Un Dodge Stratus,” I replied.

“¿Qué?” Chucho asked. He was lost.

“Es como un Neon, pero más grande. He visto muchos en Guanajuato.”

Chucho’s face lit up and he smiled. “¡Oooo, un Estratús!” he exclaimed as he finally figured it out. “No te entendí. ¿Cómo lo dices?”

I pronounced it again in English. Chucho got a kick out of it again and told Paola, my cousin, that my pronunciation was really weird.

Huh? But I was saying it right. I’d been struggling to find the right words to express myself since I arrived in Guanajuato. My family was patient as I tried to explain something like UPS, but they never teased me. Instead, I was teased about my pronunciation in English.

While Chucho and Paola continued laughing, I silently comforted myself. My Spanish was better than their English. Most of my cousins study English in high school and college, just like I studied Spanish. Of course, I did have the advantage of growing up in a bilingual household.

Four years later, I still struggle on annual trips to Guanajuato or when I sit down and have a conversation with my Spanish-dominant tías in East LA. When I read novels or listen to music from México and South America, I have to look up words like aturdido and acatar.

But it’s okay, I understand and am understood. That’s all that matters. I’m comfortable with my pocha-ness.

Filed under: Cultura, Mexico | POSTED BY cindylu AT 10:59 am | 3 Comments

December 27, 2007

Pocho Night of Power

Chicano satirists don’t need fancy signs

On Friday, I met up with the Puro Pedo Magazine staff for dinner in Alhambra. We had Hawaiian food and a brown buffalo (i.e., white elephant) gift exchange. Later, we drove south to Montebello for the Pocho Night of Power hosted by the same guys who do the Pocho Hour of Power show every Friday afternoon on KPFK.

It was a fitting event for the Puro Pedo staff considering the work of some of the Pocho Hour of Power guys, like Lalo Alcaraz and Esteban Zul, inspired our take a satire. We passed around copies of new and old versions of the magazine while checking out the bands and vendors.

More photos after the jump.
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Filed under: Cultura, Los Angeles | POSTED BY cindylu AT 8:11 pm | 8 Comments

December 23, 2007

Nativity scenes

It’s not Christmas in a Mexican household without a nacimiento (nativity scene). Even in my un-festive apartment, we have a tiny nacimiento. The wood-carved nacimiento above is the only indicator — save for a few Christmas cards lying around — that it’s Christmas season.

I find it somewhat ironic that my place is so un-festive considering I’m the daughter of people who go all out for Christmas. The tree and lights go up right after Thanksgiving and our nacimiento (combined with a Santa’s Village, how’s that for acculturation?) have always been a source of pride for my family. We even have decorations in the bathrooms!

Still, I think my favorite Christmas decoration is the nacimiento. I love how every family does it a little differently. Check out some more nacimientos from Zacatecas, Guanajuato, Hacienda Heights and Chicago.