Earlier today, I was on the elliptical listening to the Madeleine Brand show via podcast (one of my daily musts) and heard more details about a story I had briefly learned about earlier in the day.

Gabino Zavala an auxiliary bishop in the Archdiocese of Los Angeles had recently resigned:

For more than a decade, Zavala had harbored a dark secret. He is the father, church officials said, of two children, and had resigned his post. [LA Times story].

I knew the name. Zavala was the same priest who confirmed me in 1996 at St John Vianney. Now Zavala is gone. So is the church where I was confirmed.

And my faith? Still there, albeit shaken [hard] and stirred.

There’s a lot of things that bug me in the blog and internet world. This is one of them:

PINATA

PINA COLADA

ANO NUEVO

CUMPLEANOS

ANGELENO

See something wrong?

Yes, the tilde is missing over the n. I love the ñ and have always been a little jealous that some of my family members get to add it to their surname (Ureño).

Angeleño may look okay without the ñ, but it was originally written like that back in the day. The third phrase on the list makes me giggle. It’s the perfect example of how leaving the tilde off the n changes the meaning of the word. It’s no longer “new year,” it’s “new anus.” Yeah, people will probably know what you mean, but it’s still awkward.

For the most part, the people who read my blog are not guilty of leaving off tildes, so you can skip this and leave it to the people who search for the following phrase:

How to add a tilde over an n

On a PC: control-shift-tilde + n
Using the key pad: alt+164 (I’ve also seen 0209)

On a Mac: opt+n, a tilde will appear, press n again

iPhone/iPad: hold down on the n, three options should appear, choose ñ

In high school, I used the Word Perfect insert character option or just added the tilde after I’d printed my assignment. As a Spanish minor in college, learned the PC shortcuts lest my grade suffer. Switching from a PC to a Mac for my personal computer meant learning more shortcuts. Adding accents was one of the first things I looked up when I got the iPhone. If you rarely write in Spanish or other languages with accents, umlauts, tildes and other characters, it might be tough to remember these shortcuts. An easier shortcut might just be searching for the properly spelled word you need on Google and then copying and pasting it into your document. Example: if you google “pinata”, piñata comes up immediately.

¿Quieren más?

This Penn State tutorial on typing accents and special characters probably has everything you need.

Feliz Ano Nuevo with Michael Peña (via Mun2)

Spanish alphabet photo by Nathan Gibbs, used under Creative Commons license.

Tamales are not my favorite Mexican food. They’re not even in the top five.

I used to pride myself on how few of them I could eat each Christmas season. Usually the count was somewhere around 2. I’d have one of the spicy red chile and pork tamales and one of the sweet cinnamon, pineapple and raisin ones for breakfast. The sweet ones are always best as breakfast on Christmas morning when my mom places them on a comal or a pan to toast them lightly. A savory/spicy tamal works just as well for breakfast.

This year, I’ve been craving tamales. Prior to Christmas, I’d only eaten on tamal and that bugged me. That changed last night and this morning when we had the traditional tamales and a bunch of other delicious food. Funny thing, Sean asked me if it was okay to have tamales for breakfast. I almost laughed at him. It’s not only okay, it’s condoned and might be the only thing available aside from some beans and eggs. He’s a newbie at Mexican Christmas.

The tamal tally is currently 4. Let’s see how many more I can eat.

It used to really bug me when I heard people refer to the singular tamal as tamale. It sounds wrong to my bilingual ear, but I know the English translation is tamale. In fact, my spell checker has tamal as incorrect and tamale as correct. I mentioned this to a friend once and he mentioned that tamale is closer to the Nahuatl word, “tamalli.” He reasoned that tamal was the bastardized Nahuatl term for the food we’ve come to love.

Anyway, who talks about tamales in the singular anyway? If you eat just one, you’re doing it wrong. Or you’re saving room for all the other delicious food. I can’t blame you too much.

Las posadas begin today and continue all the way until Christmas Eve. Reading Maura’s post on what las posadas mean to her reminded me that I need to buy the piñata for the first of two family Christmas parties on Saturday. Actually, I’m on piñata duty for both parties.

Anyway, the piñata comes after my favorite part. Singing “Las Posadas Villancicos”, or the actual song sung by two groups, one indoors and one outdoors.

En nombre del cielo
os pido posada,
pues no puede andar
mi esposa amada.

Aquí no es mesón
sigan adelante,
yo no puedo abrir
no sea algún tunante.

It goes on for several more stanzas.

For our family parties, we don’t actually go to our neighbors’ homes. Some of them would have no clue what we’re doing. And it’s been 20+ years since we did anything as elaborate as making costumes and setting up a nativity scene complete with an actual baby and a stuffed donkey.

We go much more low key. Our posadas are just a part of the family party. We split up the group in two. One goes outside and sings the part of Joseph asking for lodging. The second group sings the part of the innkeepers denying Mary and Joseph a place to stay.

My favorite part is always the joyful end when the kind innkeepers let in the Mary and Joseph and the tone of the song becomes much more joyful, “entre santos peregrinos.”

I can’t fault Maura for focusing on the food. I love ponche, canela (above), chocolate, champurrado and other sweet drinks to warm one up on a cold night. Paired with a buñuelo or some pan dulce, it’s even better.

But when it comes to las posadas and the family party, I’m too busy singing to grab a bite or a drink.

Early on in yesterday’s half marathon, just after entering Bonelli Park, I thought of La Virgen de Guadalupe. December 12th is her feast day, and it’s a big deal for Mexicans. I’ve been celebrating the day La Virgen Morena appeared to Juan Diego in the hills of Tepeyac in 1531 since I was a kid. I was born in to a family of Guadalupanos; we always participate in a big party at our home parish.

As I ran and admired the scenery, I imagined that my parents and grandparents were in Mass. Afterward, they would continue the celebration at the O’Callaghan Center. While I neared the finish line, they’d probably be eating tamales and drinking champurrado while enjoying the mariachi and the danzantes Aztecas. I attended the celebration Mass and party afterward for the first time in years last year.

Since I wasn’t there with them, I thought of the half marathon as my “Mañanitas”, my dedication in honor of La Virgencita. “Las Mañanitas Tapatías” is always sung for her on the feast day. Whether it was good or bad, my run would be for la Virgencita.

It turned out good. Better than I could have imagined.

After the race, Sean and I drove to my parents’ house so I could shower and change. Dad was at work getting the house ready for Christmas. My grandparents were supervising, er, relaxing and enjoying the late morning. Mom wasn’t around.

Something was off.

“Was there no celebration for La Virgen de Guadalupe today?” I asked dad.

“No,” he shook his head sadly.

It finally dawned on me. There could be no party. The party was always held in the O’Callaghan Center. Since the fire destroyed St John Vianey in April, all Masses have been held in the large multi-purpose room.

This year, the celebration for La Virgen de Guadalupe had been downsized. SJVs Guadalupanos still came together at dawn for the traditional rosary and “Las Mañanitas”. However, instead of a big party to bring the community together, there would be a low key gathering with pan dulce and chocolate.

I’m sure the low key celebration for La Virgencita was still nice, but it saddens me to think about all that the SJV community lost in the fire.

Note: The mosaic above is from Virgen de Guadalupe shrine outside SJV. It survived the fire (see lower left in this photo)

If you’ve ever picked up a calendar from a bakery, butcher shop or other small business, you’ll recognize the stylized images of beautiful women in typical Mexican garb. I wrote about this years ago on the old blog:

Part of this idea came last night. I went to have $1 tacos and sangría (yum!) with Ome at Don Antonio’s. I noticed the cheesy carnicería/panadería style calendars on the wall. One had a drawing of a higly sexualized Adelita. I loved it. So, we flirted with the cute waiters and they gave us calendars to take home with us.

The first representation of a Mexicana is a painting of la Adelita, but she needs to put on a little more clothes or a bra. If you’ve seen Mexican chromo art calendars, you’ll know that the men and women in the images are idealized depictions. The men are bronzed, muscular, and virile. The women as voluptuous and gorgeous. Angel Martín’s painting is no different.

I cut off the ad for the restaurant and affixed calendar (the pull-away two month per page kind) and left the calendar hanging in my bedroom. Mexican calendar girls kept following me around a few years later when friends gave me a journal with an image of a vintage Mexican calendar girl on the cover. I carried it around until it started falling apart and the pages were filled. The image comes from a book called Mexican Calendar Girls.

All of these lovely [light-skinned] Mexicanas inspired me to dress up as a Mexican calendar girl for Halloween. I ditched the idea because I had to buy a new huipil blouse. I gave away my favorite after I lost weight.

If you don’t mind conceptual costumes, want to get out your pretty embroidered blouses and rebozos, then a Mexican calendar girl might be a good costume.

Mexican Calendar Girl

1. Huipil (embroidered blouse) – I used the white ruffly blouses worn by Mexican restaurant waitresses everywhere because that’s all I had available

2. Full-length skirt and boots or sandals

3. Rebozo (shawl)

4. Dramatic makeup and hair in braids

5. Big earrings, bangles and a rose to carry or pin in your hair

6. Calendar pinned below your blouse with an advertisement for a bakery or other small business (print 2 months side by side on white paper, make sure to include lots of saint’s days)

Obviously, I didn’t make the calendar. I didn’t buy anything for this costume except the rose hair pin.

For more inspiration, make sure to check out the Mexican Calendar Girl website.

René Cuahuizo and Juan Jesús López
René and Juan are the only guys on this list who are not professionals or runners at the elite level. It doesn’t matter. They’re still fast and I still find their stories inspirational. Last year, René and Juan, were tapped to accompany Edison Peña, the Chilean miner known for running up to 6 miles a day while trapped in a mine, during the NY Marathon. Oh yeah, that was on a couple days’ notice. After the race, they still had to go to work at their respective restaurants. Who says Mexican immigrants don’t work hard?

Desiree Davila
Usually when I think of Chula Vista athletic standouts, I think of Little League teams that go on to the Little League World Series. Now I think of it as the place where Desi Davila was born and raised before going off to hone her skills as a runner at Arizona State. Desi Davila now lives in Michigan and trains with the Hanson-Brooks running team. In April, she was the female runner up at the Boston Marathon. Her 2:22:38 was the fastest ever by an American woman in Boston. Her time makes her the third fastest American woman in the marathon (behind Deena Kastor and Joan Benoit Samuelson).

Ana Guevara
I wrote the following in an old post about my memories of being in Mexico during the 2004 Olympics: In 2004, the hype was all about Ana Guevara, a sprinter favored to win the 400 meter dash. While out dancing one Friday night, everyone in the club stopped to watch one of the preliminary heats. Everyone cheered loudly and ordered celebratory shots when Ana won that heat. On the day of the final in 400 meter, my cousin woke me up cheers of “¡Vamos, Ana!” Almost all Olympics commercials featured Ana. It was pretty exciting. But Ana didn’t win gold, she won the silver.

Leonel Manzano
Things I have in common with Leonel Manzano: roots in Guanajuato, we’re bilingual, he’s on Twitter and he wants to inspire youth to do their best. Differences: a bunch more. Leo made a name for himself winning a bunch of Texas state championships, then going on to University of Texas, Austin and being a standout there. In 2008, he represented the US in Beijing. He’s fast thanks to a lot of hard work and genetics. Leo is a small guy, but he has a large heart that can “pump more blood and oxygen to his muscles than most men his size” (NY Times). Leo’s personal best in the mile is 3:50:64.

Sylvia Mosqueda
We have the same surname and are both from the San Gabriel Valley. The similarities end there. Sylvia Mosqueda is a pro, I’m slow. She’s had a long career winning a 10,000 meters NCAA championsip (1988), qualifying for the Olympic trials several times, and winning or being the runner up for the USA half marathon title. Her personal bests are 10,000 meters is 31:54:03 (1996), 1:10:46 (2002) for the half marathon, and 2:44:47 (2002) in the marathon. Sylvia has also coached at the collegiate level. Once at a running store, the cashier asked Lori and me if we were related to Sylvia. We shook our heads no. If we were, we’d be a whole lot faster.

Arnulfo Quimare
Arnulfo’s Quimare’s talent for distance running is documented in Christopher McDougall’s bestseller Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen. In McDougall’s first description of Quimare, he writes: “While searching for a guide, I’d learned that Arnulfo Quimare was the greatest living Tarahumara runner, and he came from a clan of cousins, brothers, in-laws, and nephews who were nearly as good.” He’s amazing and fast, holding his own agaist Scott Jurek, a top American ultramarathon runner, during the inaugural Copper Canyon Marathon organized by the book’s protagonist, Caballo Blanco. Read Born to Run, you’ll be inspired by Arnulfo’s humility and speed as well as by the Raramurí (aka Tarahumara), the Running People, who live in Chihuahua’s Copper Canyons. [Photo by Luis Escobar]

The USATF has a list of other Hispanic runners and coaches in honor of Hispanic Heritage Month.

It’s hot out there, folks. Stay hydrated.

I got through the work day with some help from my Puro Pedo Magazine colleagues. We started making up titles for fake research papers on Latino movies. I offered up a few including “We have to be more Mexican than the Mexicans and more American than the Americans: Poch@ identity formation in Selena.

That’d be a neat dissertation topic, no? I’m already interested in racial/ethnic identity formation… it could happen. Or not.

I should probably just focus on Latino college students majoring in the sciences. I find those kids interesting. Just don’t ask me to remember their names.

Yesterday afternoon, one of the sophomores in the Program (aka Job1) spotted me at St. Augustine, a church in Culver City. I’ve passed by dozens of time while driving and running, but had never attended a service there. We got to St. Augustine with 15 minutes to spare before Mass and walked around the grounds. As we walked toward the school and parking lot, two young women passed by. The woman in a yellow sundress doubled back.

“Cindy!”

I was surprised she knew my name. She picked up on this.

“Hi! I’m in [program]! I’m a sophomore.”

“Oh, hi! Um… you’ll have to tell me your name, I forget students’ names all the time.”

I felt so embarrassed that I didn’t recognize her at all. The name thing happens more often. After their fall quarter freshman seminar, I only see the 80+ students a few times a quarter and interact with them mainly through email. I’d have to make flash cards to remember everyone’s names. I see current/former [Program] students all the time on campus, but have never seen one off campus unless it was a UCLA-related event.

She told me her name and I introduced her to Sean. I told her it was our fist time visiting St. Augustine, her home parish. She invited us to grab some food and cake at the anniversary celebration for the sisters associated with the parish, but we were full.

I’ve been pretty spotty on Mass attendance since going away to college. I’m working on getting back in the habit thanks to Fr. Ricky at St. John Vianney. When Sean and I met with him about having our wedding at SJV, he reminded me that I need to practice my faith as part of my preparation for the sacrament of marriage. Attending only on holidays, Lent and the occasional wedding wasn’t going to cut it.

Sean — who grew up Lutheran — has been accompanying me to Mass. When we’re in Hacienda Heights on a Sunday, we go to SJV. When we’re in LA (most Sundays), we’ve been going to St. Timothy in Rancho Park. Yesterday we skipped their noon service in favor of the 5 pm youth service at St. Augustine in Culver City. I generally like youth services, they’re much livelier. I like St. Timothy, but I haven’t been able to make it through a service without breaking in to giggle fits thanks to a man his 60s/70s always sits front and center. First, he has an interesting look. He has a big belly, a beard and long gray/white hair he twists so it sits atop his head (kinda like a Snork). His hair makes him easy to spot. Second, he draws out the final word of hymns long after everyone else has finished singing. It’s rather odd to hear his deep voice hang over with “eviiiiiiiil” or “peeeeeeace” in an otherwise silent church. The first time he did it, we were surprised. The next few times we tried unsuccessfully to suppress giggles.

I need to pick a new parish. SJV is great, but I won’t go to Mass weekly if I have to drive 30-45 minutes just to make it there. St. Augustine offers more Masses, including a Spanish service at noon and the youth service at fives. St. Timothy’s latest service is at noon and it’ll help me work on keeping a straight face.

Any tips on choosing a church or parish?

Yesterday during my regular pedicure at my local nail salon, I picked up a copy of the September issue of Latina Magazine. I used to subscribe years ago and then let my subscription lapse. Aside from the constant code-switching which always felt forced and inauthentic. I don’t dislike code-switching or Spanglish. I speak and write like that, but I also recognize that it’s tough to write and make it feel natural. I did appreciate that their models were often real women and they were not 5’10 and 115 pounds.

I haven’t paid much attention to them lately, at least not positive attention. A few weeks ago, I heard about their inane list on 10 Latinas who have played “the help” in movies or television shows. It was a tie-in to the movie of the same name. For obvious reasons, there was a bit of social media outcry. It wasn’t about the perceived status of maids, nannies or domésticas; their work is valued and important. Instead, the criticism arose from the tone deafness of the article. There was no criticism about the lack of meaningful roles for Latinas and Latinos. The blurb about Lupe Ontiveros mentioned her estimate that she has played a maid 150 times, but was in no way critical of the fact that she didn’t have many other opportunities.

Anyway, as I flipped through the magazine, I checked out the details of Zoë Saldana’s photo shoot. On the same page, they included thumbnails of her previous covers for the magazine in May 2006 (far left above) and June/July 2009 (middle). I was surprised to see the change in skin tone between her first cover and subsequent covers. I know all magazines do a lot of touching up, but it’s interesting to see how much they’ve lightened her up over the years. Way to celebrate Afro-Latinas, Latina Magazine.

During the fiestas de San Rafael, the patron saint of El Cargadero, the ghost town comes to life with migrants who have returned for the festivities. I’ve never been there for the feasts in October, but 4 years ago my parents went with Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni. During the day, they went through the bureaucracy of signing over the grandparents’ house to my mom. In the evening they joined the festivities in the Plaza del Migrante or watched the borlote (commotion) from the balcony. My grandparents’ – well, now mom’s – house overlooks the main plaza. This was great for people watching, but not great for making international calls.

My dad called me one evening during the trip. Even though he was inside the house with the windows closed, I could still barely hear him. It wasn’t the connection; the background noise of drums and horns from down below was drowning him out.

The sound was familiar. I’d heard it several times before at anniversary parties, weddings, birthday parties and any other special occasion. Pretty much every big party on the Zacatecano/maternal side of the family featured a tamborazo zacatecano.

I must confess, I’ve always been ambivalent to tamborazo, which sounds a bit like a marching band^[1] sometimes. It might just be the Guanjuato/paternal musical influence, but I never warmed to the music. For backyard parties, the tamborazo was always too loud. Sometimes, the horns and woodwinds sounded out of tune and the musicians weren’t that good. There was no singing; and after a while songs started to sound the same. Like the rest of my cousins, I was usually glad when the band took a break and the DJ played pocho-friendly music. Despite my ambivalence, I danced, especially if my 91-year old tamborazo-loving grandpa pulls me out to the dance floor. I love dancing with Papá Chepe and will take every opportunity I get while he can still dance.

I feel a little bad for feeling this way. I’m supposed to be proud of my culture and champion it, right? Even if it hurts my ears?

A few weeks ago my fellow Cargaderense, OC Weekly editor/food writer, and sometimes profe Gustavo Arellano posted on Facebook:

Wonder when Mexican intelligentia will champion tamborazo like they do son jarocho. That’s right: NEVER—chuntis^[2] ain’t cool enough to save our traditions.

I commented that I’d be championing my homeland’s music at my uncle’s birthday party later this month. But then I got to thinking and I’m not sure it’s about tamborazo being chunti or less worthy of saving. However, it’s easy to see tamborazo doesn’t enjoy the same cultural capital of son jarocho and other Mexican musical genres despite despite a large number of Mexicans in Southern California originating from the state Zacatecas. When was the last time you met a Veracruzano in LA? Zacatecanos? They’re all over the place. Zacatecas is one of the Mexican states that sends the most immigrants to the US.

I don’t know why tamborazo doesn’t enjoy the same popularity amongst the intellegentia – young, college educated, hip Chican@s – but I can make some educated guesses.

First, um, maybe some of my peers just don’t like the music. That’s easy to understand. As someone who grow up listening to tamborazo (through hands over my ears), I should champion the music. Still, I can’t see myself hiring a band for my birthday party or wedding. Tamborazo is my grandparents’ music, not mine.

Second, son jarocho has been championed in pop music well before this current intellegentia trend. There’s Ritchie Valens’ classic rock cover of “La Bamba.” Unfortunately, he never recorded a rock version of a tamborazo classic like “La Marcha de Zacatecas”. His hit was rooted in son jarocho. Later, the padrinos of Chicano rock, Los Lobos, recorded an album featuring son jarocho tunes. There was no “El Sauce y la Palma”. Los Lobos even played a modified version of “Canelo” on Sesame Street. It’s neat. There are many more examples of the budding popularity of son jarocho in pop music and culture (see: Café Tacuba’s cover of “Ojalá Que Llueva Café”), and Chicano groups popping up these days are putting their own twist on the genre. I could go on, but I think we got the pop music angle covered. Son jarocho wins there.

Third, other cultural centers and practices include son jarocho. I’ve heard of cultural centers offering jarana classes. In ballet folkórico, I danced to music of several Mexican states including Veracruz. I didn’t know the music was called son jarocho, but I danced to it. Our routines never included any dances choreographed to tamborazo songs. I guess here it is about culture.

Fourth, forming a tamborazo zacatecano means you need musicians who know how to play instruments like trumpet, tuba, saxophone, clarinet and drums. You’ll also need decent practice space. You can strum a jarana in your tiny apartment and probably not piss off your neighbors. Blast away on your tuba and play tab on your snare drum? Um, you’ll probably piss off your neighbor. I’d also venture to say that there are a lot of the intellegentia who never had a decent music education in school where a lot of people learn to play woodwind instruments. I was lucky to have great music teachers and a decent marching/concert band program, but my school was in the suburbs and my band traveled internationally. If you already have experience playing a string instrument, playing jarana might not be such a big leap. There are some barriers to entry in to tamborazo that might not exist for son jarocho.

Fifth, it’s male dominated. I’ve never seen a tamborazo group which includes a woman. I don’t know if this turns anyone away, but it might be a reason some might not be attracted.

Sixth, there’s no singing. I love singing and telling a good story through compelling lyrics. You can’t do that with tamborazo as there’s no singer in the bands. Even if they play a song with lyrics, you just have to think of them in your head. This could draw some away.

Gustavo may be right. Maybe tamborazo gets no shine because it’s associated with the new, poor, non-English speaking, likely undocumented immigrants. Or it could be that the intellegentia just like singing, playing and dancing at fandangos.

Notes:
^[1]Ironic considering my band geek days.
^[2]Chunti is a derogatory term for new, unassimilated Mexican immigrants. It’s short for chuntáro, which I first heard from Juan, a Mexican day laborer my family befriended. Even at 11 years old, I knew I didn’t want to be called a chunti.