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Id Really Rather Cite My Friend Chuy From Junior High

I've been working on this dissertation prospectus for some time. Sometimes i'm accompanied by a nice cold beer, a cafe, a tequilita, a corrido on repeat or los primos, hermanos, and friends on facebook. As I finish a thought or a section I drink, say hi to folks and occasional get distracted by a good conversation. 

Today I was fb chatting with Israel and trying to make sense of Mexican identity in the United States. Particularly the relationship between discrimination and the formation of a Mexican identity among the children of migrants. As I finished the sentence I remembered that Smith's Mexican New York made the exact same argument. As as "good" graduate student I cited him, yet  what I really wanted to say was: "For more on the relationship between racialization and identity formation talk to high school youth or children of migrants. While so and so author have made this point, my insight comes from growing up Mexican in Goleta and Pomona, California." I related my thought to Israel and he raised some interesting questions. Should he cite the numerous conversations he has had with his grandfather about being a Bracero? What about the stories he heard as a child? 

And while anthropologist use field work to allow these types of voices to inform their narrative and argument and historians Oral History I'm not sure that is our point. I think its about the marginal space that these voices and actors (our families and friends) and WE occupy in academia. For those of us who want to be objective, but feel our emotions and experiences to be valid, we struggle with what to do with the relationship between our history and our scholarship. While we all agree that our past informs our work, why can't we cite el tio, el abuelo, and the fools from the block instead of books and articles? Why is our language and evidence based outside of ourselves, our communities? 

[it would be lame to not mention the various related conversations and late night with hector, daniel, froy, diego and others in DF]

South el Monte to La Roma (DF)....

I have a tio who I love, almost all the time! He knows more about Chicano/a history and Los Angeles than I do. To make matter worse el tio can dance  TODO! Yes,  TO-DO.

When I was an undergrad at UCLA and told him I was taking Chicano/a studies classes he quizzed me on Luis Valdez... After answering correctly he told me he was part of el teatro campesino...

Lesson learned: el tio lived what I was studying...

Years later when I told el tio that I was earning/writing my masters on La crisis de los 1980s, he recited an immense amount of jokes from the era... luckly, I knew most of them...

When I told el tio I was going to New York to study Mexico he smiled and said, "Sobrino, y por que no te vas a Mexico?" (damn... good question...)

The summer between year 1 and 2 at a carne asada con el otro tio in Pico Rivers el Tio asked "a ver Sobrino, que estudias, QU-E estudias?" 

I humbly replied, "bueno tio, la 'migration'." I was surprised when he said "ese es mi sorbrino. por eso te quiero cabron." With a measure of self-assurance and confidence I began to tell him about my project. It was going well until he asked me if had read La Vida inutil de Pito Perez... Shit! Damn it! I not only had not read the damn book, but had never EVEN HEARD of it... El Tio walked away, got in his car and drove away... 30 minutes later he came back with La Vida inutil de Pito Perez, a copy from the 1950s. The book was originally published in the late 1930s by a Mexican author. Its a great story about a poet who pays a migrant in DRINK to tell him stories about his experiences...

I'm in Mexico City... Just returned from having drinks with Froylan Enciso, Diego Flores Magon, and Daniel Hernandez articulating a transnational project: A Mexico-Chicano/a intellectual/artistic project (more to come on that). After a long night, I return to my residence (Froylan/Guillermo's spot) to find that the novel was written NEXT DOOR!. 

If thats not the circle of life (think lion king). If that not South El Monte-Mexico City. If thats not Chicano-Mexicano connection... Bueno you get it. Shit works itself out. There is a master plan, well at least a transnational one.

Mexican schools are weird.

Sure, I wanted to wake up early. Last night after reading some memorable passages from the short novel, La Piel Muerta, I told myself, “I will wake up early and write.” But what I really meant was, I will wake up at some reasonable hour (10am), shower, eat breakfast and write for 3 hours and then read for 4. A good 7 hours before starting my new French class (7:30pm-10:30).

 

What I didn’t know when I went to bed was that across the street there would be a graduation at 8am. That little boys and girls in blue uniforms would walk to receive a diploma (at least it looked like a diploma) while Radiohead’s Creep played for the entire neighborhood to hear. Yes. Radiohead. 8am for a graduation. As I heard the words, “I wish I was special, your so fucken special, but I’m a creep” I thought of calling my friend Daniel and telling him I had found an elementary that produces the emo’s of tomorrow. WHY else could they possibly be playing CREEP during a transitional moment of Mexico’s future teachers, engineers, politicians? Creep was followed by BitterSweet Symphony and a little girl talking about “our” responsibility. As I prepared breakfast I muttered, almost unconsciously, “KISS ASS.” Maybe I was upset that her words had undone the previous work of the Verve and Radiohead: why couldn’t I remain in the past for a few more minutes! OR at least in bed, sleeping, waiting for a reasonable hour before I got back to being a responsible student. 

Dear Fans of the US National Soccer Team: A few helpful tips on the coveted and heartbreaking thing we call BEING a CONTENDER

In 1994 the US hosted the World Cup, a first for the nation and for many Americans an introduction to what the world calls Futbol. Back then the national team was composed of mediocre players and some decent nationalized foreign players. Getting out of the group stages was desired, but by no means expected and keeping the opposing team to a few goals was a victory.

Them times have changed. The MLS has talent from all over world, albeit old and on their way to retirement, and more importantly has joined the world in creating youth teams affiliated with professional teams. These youth players get free passes to MLS games and have more practice sessions than games. In Europe and Latin America, the ratio is about 4 practices per every game. Repetition and quality not quantity of play is emphasized. Americans play in Europe and underprivileged players can now play in competitive leagues without paying.

At the national level this means that the US is now a contender! Not a powerhouse by any means, but a legit contender with high expectations. Dear Fans: expect the US to beat and attacked most teams and get a draw or barely lose to the best of nations. Before you get all excited, a few notes from a life long fan of a contender. Your team will play great. They will dominate the game only to be beaten by one or two lucky counterattacks or a bad call from an official. They will tie and lose to teams they are “suppose to beat.” Yet, they will also no doubt play great against Brasil, Argentina, Germany, etc, etc only to get beat by some talented fool with a wicked shot (I’m thinking of you Carlos Teves). And here comes the heartbreak: your team will have a shot at taking the cup, but will always, yes, always fail. History tells us so.

There are numerous options in copping with defeat. You can sit with friends and family enumerating the numerous errors made by the coach, players, and/or ref. After all YOU played on the Varsity, have expensive shoes, and watch soccer all the time. Surely you know just as much as the national coach. AVOID this at all cost. Instead of reflecting on WHY your team lost, accept it, get a nice cold one and fondly remember all the great moments: the goals, saves, the sweat, sweat moments of victory. After you have spend some quality time romanticizing the past its time to think of the future. Project all your hopes and dreams on to the next world cup. Remember how good the younger generation looked. They play in Europe, are faster, and more talented than generations past. They will surely get your team the CUP. If pessimism starts to creep in get another cold one and either think of the past or the future. Again AVOID the present.

*Note: While romanticizing the past, projecting your dreams on to the future and avoiding the present (read reflection) are great ways to deal with the heartbreak that is being a CONTENDER this might not work out so well in dealing with life.

*Note 2: If beer and movement through time will not console your broken heart and you are the kind of person who listens to Jose Jose's "el triste" and/or Mariah Carey's "I can't live is living is without you," after a particularly soul renching break up, then carefully follow instructions below. Put on your favorite jersey of all time (you must have at least 3 to be the kinda fan im talking about: i'd go 1998 world cup) walk to the nearest large boulavard and walk it until your eyes meet those of a fellow heartbroken fan (gender doesn't matter). You'll find the type of sadness and comfort equivalent to seeing your "first love," a recent x, or the "one that got away."

The Soccer Gods Hit Restart: Vamos Mexico

Mexico LOST. Wait, no, we tied. But it sure felt like a loss. Not as early as those of you in Los Angeles or Mexico but we in New York eagerly got out of beds, snatched up a cafe and headed to Queens via the 1 and 7 trains. We were welcomed by a nice amalgam of symbols of Mexican nationalism: there was the Mexicanos walking on the side walk, the dude playing his horn and singing, a barbershop called “Barbero Chicano,” clothing/sports stores with names like “Brown Pride,” “Mexican Nacion,” and countless restaurants.

 

We entered the restaurant “El Rincon” and were followed by a tall and large Mexicano in his mid twenties slapping his hands together and belting a “Si Se puede.” The leader of the porra had arrived-we followed his lead. The game started well, Mexico attacking, having several chances on goal. It quickly became half-time: still optimistic, but worried about Mexico’s inability to score and Oscar Pérez, el portero. After each badly handled corner kick, I received texts from los primos in Santa Barbara, “this fool sucks,” “I think Amanda (my sister) is taller than him (shes about 5 foot),” “wow, nutty,” and “someone get him a ladder.”

 

Shortly after the start of the second-half a through ball between to Mexican defenders placed South Africa’s forward in front of the goalie with no defenders to beat. The South African confirmed our fears. Texts from los primos ruptured the silence in the room: “shit formation. 4-3-3 is to easy to attack,” “Rafa should be in the back line,” “Bring in Hernandez. Franco ain’t doing shit,” “Since when does the national team not play good d.” Then, with a corona in hand, the large man stood and the chants started. As the minutes passed the anxiety became more palpable. It was not until a cross from the top of the 18^th placed Rafa (one of Mexico’s most consistent players and by far their best defender) in the six yard box, that the room became composed. As I clapped I desired another, but was content with the 1-1 tie. Not a win, but not a loss. More importantly a 0-0 tie between France and Uruguay places all teams in group A in a FOUR WAY tie for FIRST and LAST place with 1 point each. The soccer gods have hit the restart button, vamos Mexico. Now if only we could get Ochoa, the other goalie, to start, Rafa in the backline, a formation that is balanced, o and yes some damn balls in the back of the net. (and yes, I still think Mexico will make it to the semi finals)

 

Mexican Nationalism in Mexico and the US: Consider this an Invitation!

(As promised, more nationalist image, 115th and 3rd, New York City)

We’ve have been waiting! Bad semester, bad year, don’t mean shit…It’s time for the World Cup: all the possible human emotions mix, imagine a nice cocktail or shit a dam pozole after a cruda. Either way, shit is intense! And what better way to open the tournament with Mexico vs South Africa (the host). Dam, can you feel it????Can you??? Yo si!

 

Yes, yes, I am far from both Mexican Los Angeles and Mexico, but just as prepared as usual. Been doing the usual pre-game shit, talking to all the homies, getting exciting about the possibilities, watching Mexico play badly. But I dream, I dream.

 

I dream and the more I dream the more I become aware of the large divide between me (a pocho/chicano) and my Mexican friends (Mexico City cats). The “Mexicanos” are scared and display a profound distrust in Mexico: “Pinche Mexico,” “Aver como nos va,” “No, no, ya se que Mexico va a perder,” or  “Anda muy mal Mexico.” Dumbfounded I can only mutter a simple “si se puede.” Yes, its stark, buts it’s the truth: cats from the “heart of Mexico” are pessimistic and I, yes I, am optimistic….

 

Here it is. Mexicans from Mexico City have no faith in the Mexican national team and this is tied to their closeness to the Mexican nation-state. For them the national team is an expression (a symptom) of the state of the Mexican political or economic system. Politicians can’t be trusted, neither can the government. Their lack of faith in the national team is really a lack of faith in the Mexican nation-state, but I hope not in the people!

 

Y bueno, yo que? Far from the daily experience of the inadequacy of the Mexican nation state, Mexican identity is more tied to experiences of all brown folks in the United States that to a politician with a pristine guayavera. The undocumented migrant, the offspring of migrants who makes it into a university, the affirmative claim that Being Mexicano is something to be proud of all mix to produce an optimism. A "si se puede" to all Mexicanos north of the US-Mexican border. Maybe a blind optimism, but an optimism nonetheless. Mexico will win, because it has too! We all need it, Arizona, California, New York, todos.

 

Yet, whether far or close to the nation-state, like good nationalism we pochos and Mexico City cats will be hoping Mexico can beat South Africa in their home. We will all feel the pain of a loss. Consider this an invitation to join us-Mexican nationalist-as we ride the 1 train from 116^th all the way to Queens. Queens, where all the Mexicanos are! Like the UNAM students we will pack the train, be loud, very loud and enjoy the ride. Please RSVP via a comment: a vamos mexico will do…And I will then send info to all.  

 

 

poem and petition: Tam Tran

The Honorable Sheldon Whitehouse

United States Senate

170 Westminster Street 
Suite 1100 
Providence, RI 02903 

May 24, 2010 

Dear Senator Whitehouse: 

We are writing to request your help and support in introducing a private bill to award posthumous citizenship to immigration activist and Brown University graduate student Tam Tran, 27, who passed away in a car accident last week.  Furthermore, we appeal for your help in adjusting the immigration status of her family as an honor to Tam’s life and work on behalf of undocumented immigrant students.   

Tam was a daughter and a sister.  She was born in Germany to Vietnamese refugee parents who fought Communism in their country.  When Tam was six years old, the family moved to the United States.  They requested asylum here, but their application remains in limbo.  Tam and her family are stateless: Germany will not accept them back because they are not of German origin and return to Vietnam is impossible given the family’s anti-communist history.     

A budding scholar, Tam was pursuing her Ph.D. in the Department of American Civilization at Brown University at the time of her death.  Her dissertation planned to merge historical inquiry with participant observation, documenting the trajectory and power of student politics over the last half-century.  

Tam Tran was a dedicated and fearless leader for immigrant rights.  She advocated on behalf of undocumented immigrant youth in search of education.  As an undergraduate at the University of California, Los Angeles, she worked with fellow undocumented and documented students to extend public funding to undocumented students.  On May 18, 2007, Tam took the courageous step of testifying in Congress in support of the Development, Relief and Education for Alien Minors Act (The "DREAM Act"), a bill that would provide pathways to citizenship by granting a six year conditional permanent legal residency to undocumented students who met certain criteria.  Although the bill failed, Tam continued to work for its passage and was a tireless activist until the day of her untimely death. 

Most of all, Tam embodied true citizenship.  She overcame significant obstacles, embraced an American identity, and fought for justice and equality for all just as the Founding Fathers did.  As she said before Congress, “the truth is, I am culturally an American…I consider myself a Southern Californian. I grew up watching Speed Racer and Mighty Mouse every Saturday morning.” But ultimately, although not deportable, she was denied formal legal citizenship, which would bring her full rights and security.  
 

Following her testimony before Congress, her family was detained by ICE.  They were released only after Representative Zoe Lofgren (CA) who worked with Tam and had encouraged her to testify before Congress, intervened on their behalf.  There is real fear that without Tam’s presence and protection, the family is now in danger of detention and possibly deportation.   Tam’s prominence and public activism acted as a shield for the entire family.  Her death leaves them vulnerable to ICE intimidation and arrest.  We ask you to introduce a private bill that will adjust the immigration status of the Tran family and protect them from detention and deportation. 

Furthermore, in honor to Tam, her fearless activism and her dreams of immigrant civil rights, we ask that you help award her American citizenship posthumously.  Tam embodied everything that this country expects of its citizens: virtue, love of country, civic engagement, community activism and support for each other.  There is no doubt that had she lived, her courage and tireless work in support of the DREAM Act would have allowed her to receive American citizenship one day.  Now in death, it is up to you to make her dream come true and celebrate “the best German export since Mercedes-Benz.” 

We look forward to hearing from you and we are ready to support this effort in any way required.  Should there be any additional information that you need, please do contact Matt Garcia at (401) 261-8753 or at Matthew_Garcia@brown.edu. 

Thanking you for your consideration, 

Yours sincerely,

  

Matt Garcia, Ph.D.  Alexandra Filindra, Ph.D.  Kara Cebulko, Ph.D.

Associate Professor  Fellow     Assistant Professor

American Civilization  Public Policy    Sociology

Brown University  Brown University   Providence College 

 

Poem written by Tam’s Brother L. Tran for his sister Tam in memoriam 

We cannot control when life ends

But we are here today, family and friends

To celebrate the girl behind the lens

To celebrate the best German export since Mercedes-Benz

We’re celebrating Tam Tran, I’m sure you have seen her

It is physically possible to not love this active DREAMer?

The one with her hair pushed back behind her ears

The one filled with such bright ideas

She did it without financial aid, and without an edge

When she graduated from Santa Ana College

Since higher education was what she was pursuing

It all made sense when she became a UCLA Bruin

And that’s how she earned her cap and gown

But then she had to go “Underground at Brown”

Cause she was told by immigration agents that her time here was rented

But that’s how it is when you are undocumented

So she went nationwide for the world to see

Causing all kinds of trouble in Washington, DC

With all her soul, she fought so hard

And all she ever wanted was a green card

Her mission is complete, she should take a bow

Because she doesn’t need one where she is right now

She battled so intensely, like a true samurai

The difference is she’s only “Armed with a Camera”

Pass the DREAM Act! How sweet the sound

Because right now, it is in the “Lost and Found”

What a tremendous life, I know we’ll all miss her

I will dedicate my life to my only sister

El Abuelo's passing (eulogy, wrote over cervesa, then read at velorio)

  

 

The space between a story and a memory is small. This one particular story has been told so many times, by some many tias y tios, and over so many years that I am uncertain if it constitutes one of my memories or merely a story that I have made into a memory. I often thought, this story could not be true, el abuelo would, must have not liked or allowed my irreverent gesture. Growing up I viewed him from below, his stature, strength were augmented by his often serious and reserved manner and stories of his time working on the railroad in the 1950s. I imagined him lifting and swinging a 30 pound hammer over and over, from sunset to sunrise, miles away from friends, family, from home.

One night in the early 1980s los dos abuelos were drinking, a normal occurrence I imagine. As one beer became many, one of the abuelos turned to the other and as he slowly swung his beer bottle from right to left, told Don Ramon, “no te aguites vale yo te hago el paro.” The following day, with a coke in hand, I, only 4 at the time, repeated the phrase as often and to as many people as would listen.

While I’ve heard this story many times, it is only when el Abuelo was sick that I came to reflect on “no te aguites vale, yo te hago el paro.” Driving to visit gramps in the hospital with Don Ramon, my sister and I asked Don Ramon to tell us about his days in the United States. Both los abuelos crossed the border together, faced countless discrimination and racism, and worked long hard and poorly paid hours across the United States. “Yo te hago el paro,” was not a promise, but a fact, a recollection, a confirmation that like in the past, I will continue to “hacerte un paro.” In my telling of this story and the future retelling of this story I hope we remember that los abuelos came to the united states in their late teens to work, to labor, for their families. It was this initial move that eventually created opportunities for the sons and daughter to migrate and eventually the grandsons to be born in the US. In the words of tio raymundo, “they were the pioneers.” While it is difficult for those of us from the younger generations to understand, I think this song beautifully captures what the abuelos might have felt. Paso del Norte, Antonio Aguilar.

I would like to close with two brief encounters with el abuelo, one in 1998, when I was 18, the other 2 days before his passing.

It was the summer of the US World Cup and I was in Guadalajara, staying in la Colonia de Santa Margarita with family friends. I was walking on la calle santa marta to meet a friend who lived in front of the house where la familia Guzman Arellano lived. As I got closer to the house, to my surprise I saw el abuelo, shirt tucked in, black leather jacket, and hair gelled up as usual. He gave me a quick hug, pulled out a 100 dollar bill from his wallet and said “paseate con unas muchachas” and continued walking…I happily obliged.

The Friday before his death we spoke over the phone. Our conversation lasted two minutes. Como estas, donde estas, y echate una cerveza por mi. I had more than one. There was no profound statement, no advice, no declaration of love.

Jose Maria Guzmán lived a difficult live. Hard, unappreciated labor, and often far from his children and wife. In the US or Mexico life continued to be hard, a man often not at peace. He found solace in drink: the occasional cerveza or tequila. I don’t propose that we learn from his life: how we should or not should life. What we should or should not do. I propose we do something much more honorable: to acknowledge that it was his migration and labor, his ability to endure being far from home, that shaped all of our lives in profound ways.  Our present state-how we look, act, speak, and our comfortable living standard cannot be understood without his initial labor. A labor that is a form of love: silent, invisible, always present, often unappreciated. I’ll be having a beer today. I think he would like it that way.

 

 

 

Home...

A good day, 

an odd day, 

a long day.

home came in and out. 

Homie julie missing Los Angeles for years while in Austin, Tx. Back in LA now, but not home.

drinks under the sun with amiga from cali: love new york, miss home. go home, miss ny.

we is uprooted, not home en casa de padres, not home away from it...

rum/coke, kick push, lua, 

dante

March 21st approaching: defining community

I recently received an email from the Illinois Coalition for Immigrant and Refugee Rights, in which Josh Hoyt shared the story of David, an undocumented student, and then proceeded to ask for funds to support the upcoming March in DC for comprehensive migrant reform. As one of the many song of migrants with papers I understand the privilege that this entails: a drivers license, financial aid, a sense of permanence, and the ability to travel south at will. Yet, I was troubled by David’s message, detailed below:

 

My name is David, and I am undocumented; I came to the United States at the age of three. I only remember a few things from where we came. I remember our red brick house. I remember being in my parents’ bedroom lying down in bed with the sunlight coming through the doorway. But these memories do not feel like they are mine. They don’t feel like mine because they are from a place that is completely strange to me.

 

“A place completely strange to me” struck me as extremely odd. Politically, it makes much sense to me. David was raised here, he belongs here, his place is here, he should not be send “back.” Yet, the idea of Mexico or Central America as being strange to David-or us, song/daughters of migrants, is this right? Raised in working class neighborhood by migrants, are we not some how connected to our parents country of origin? Futbol and tortas at Simons Jr High, the same ten banda songs playing at las quince de una amiga, speaking Spanish on a regular basis (or at least hearing it). A narrative that makes the land of our parents “strange” to us seems to bolster the idea of us and them: to fortify the border (cultural/physical). At least that’s my reading. Que piensan? And more importantly, how do we advocate a politics that both provides our neighbors/families with access and not reify citizenship-the nation-states definition of community. 

Mexican New York

There are about 3 or 4 places I go to buy cafe, cookies, pizza, and mexican food-not because these spots are particularly great or even cheap, but because the Mexicans that work there are always friendly. We converse about the weather, talk about their place of origin, my families place of origin, and exchange smiles. Occasionally I'll get a free slice, an extra cookie, tecate, or asked what song I would like to listen to. On those particularly long and isolating (alienating) days of school these encounters are uplifting and provide much needed energy.  I wonder if I get more out of these encounters than they do. Maybe so. 

After about 18 months of living in NYC, I finally headed to Queens-the place where "all the Mexicans are." Not knowing what to expect I was struck by what I encountered on roosevelt avenue. An entire street filled with Mexican joints: restaurants, bars, dance and pool halls. It was the similarity of each of these places that hit me: in all of the spaces entered I encountered young males, cervesa in hand and listening and contemplating the words of some of the most beautiful written songs ever: tragos amargos, reloj, que casualidad, amor eterno, cien anos, ella, and many more. Was this street an aberration; reflection of an overwhelmingly male migration to New York along with the absence of Mexican migration in the past? While bars filled with males is not uncommon, the amount of these spaces seemed significantly different from what I have seeing in Los Angeles, Guadalajara, or Mexico City. Is this space the production of larger structural factors? Gender norms (discrimination)? Not sure. Yet, roosevelt street, I think, is linked to Mexican male migrants all over the country and throughout the years:  expressing and feeling loneliness, melancholy, and friendship via music and with a cervesa in hand. I leave you all with Antonio Aguilar's Paso del Norte:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PWgpH8klkMM

(you tube: paso del norte). 

And Jose Jose's El Triste

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=skCZCaThiuM

Pueblo en Vilo: History as longing for Home

[In Image: Grandma, Great Grandfather, Tio, and Pops]

 

Don Luis Gonzalez Gonzalez is often labeled one of Mexico’s greatest historians. At the young age of 12 he left his small town of San Jose de Gracia for the then sprawling city of Guadalajara. For migrants and son/daughters of migrants his experiences as a rural migrant to GDL resonate: he describes being made fun of for his attire and speech. He would go onto study with Fernand Braudel of the French Annal school and produce in the 1960s a history of a village that did not take part or benefit from the Mexican revolution:  a slap in the face to the PRI and a much needed corrective to state narratives of the Revolution.

 

As an arrogant and naïve undergraduate at UCLA I often frowned upon the entrance of romanticism and nostalgia in academic works. Little did I realized that my entire academic pursuit is guided by both…

Below are two quotes from Gonzalez:

 

From the traditional microhistory spoken or sung by the old ones has evolved the microhistory written by numerous village enthusiasts. Mexico abounds in local histories by persons who do not see themselves as intellectuals. These are microhistorians unacquainted with universities but well acquired with community life. They are found in the cafes and bars rather than in classrooms. But beyond this, they are difficult to define; microhistory attracts people from widely disparate walks of life. Nevertheless, one general characteristic is notable among them—their romanticism.

 

            To quote, “Sentiment, not reason, stimulates the study of microhistory. Microhistories most common flow from a love for one’s origins,” as from the love for a mother. “Unimpeded, the small world which nourishes and sustains us is transfigured into the image of mother….Thus, the so-called patria chica would be better called the matria, and the narrative which reconstructs its temporal dimension ca be known alternately as microhistory or as historia matria. The spontaneous microhistorian works “toward the clearly unhealthy goal of returning to a lost time, to his roots, to the illusory Eden, to the womb.”

 How does one write a history of  Zacatecas, Guadalajara, Mexicalli, El Monte, Pico Rivera, Goleta, and Pomona--a history of what Americo Paredes called "Greater Mexico." One that is outside of both nation-states...thats the journey.

 

 

A dream come true: Pink Floyd A le mexicana (cabrones!!!)

Its 5am, drinking pacifico at my apartment with the one and only froylan..

IN New York listening to the mother fucken pink floyd....its like a damn pocho dream or nightmare, you decide....

BUT here it is. from pocho heaven, saludos a todos!!!!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c1zbjVHk_oM&feature=player_embedded

there is no border.....from greater mexico,

rg

Haiti: What is to be done?

By now we have all read countless stories of the haiti earthquake and seen numerous images of its aftermath. Sadness and a profound sense of hopeless engulf us. We immediately think about how we can help: we google organizations, scroll newspapers for cool international organizations, and ask our more knowledgeable friends. In doing so, some of us (my friend JT in particular) are troubled and infuriated by the frame from which funds are being framed and funneled. Along with aid come ideas of the backwardness of Haiti and solutions to its political and economic problems. In short, a form of US Empire (Read Empire by Negri and Hardt). Where to donate and how to respond to a "soft" form of US Empire????

I leave you all with a not so brief, but important excerpt:

Today, the United States began surveying the damage inflicted by a devastating earthquake in Haiti this week. In addition to providing immediate humanitarian assistance, the U.S. response to the tragic earthquake should address long-held concerns over the fragile political environment that exists in the region.

The U.S. government response should be bold and decisive. It must mobilize U.S. civilian and military capabilities for short-term rescue and relief and long-term recovery and reform. President Obama should tap high-level, bipartisan leadership. Clearly former President Clinton, who was already named as the U.N. envoy on Haiti, is a logical choice. President Obama should also reach out to a senior Republican figure, perhaps former President George W. Bush, to lead the bipartisan effort for the Republicans.

While on the ground in Haiti, the U.S. military can also interrupt the nightly flights of cocaine to Haiti and the Dominican Republic from the Venezuelan coast and counter the ongoing efforts of Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez to destabilize the island of Hispaniola. This U.S. military presence, which should also include a large contingent of U.S. Coast Guard assets, can also prevent any large-scale movement by Haitians to take to the sea in dangerous and rickety watercraft to try to enter the U.S. illegally.

Meanwhile, the U.S. must be prepared to insist that the Haiti government work closely with the U.S. to insure that corruption does not infect the humanitarian assistance flowing to Haiti. Long-term reforms for Haitian democracy and its economy are also badly overdue. Congress should immediately begin work on a package of assistance, trade, and reconstruction efforts needed to put Haiti on its feet and open the way for deep and lasting democratic reforms.

The U.S. should implement a strong and vigorous public diplomacy effort to counter the negative propaganda certain to emanate from the Castro-Chavez camp. Such an effort will also demonstrate that the U.S.’s involvement in the Caribbean remains a powerful force for good in the Americas and around the globe.

To assist Red Cross Relief Efforts, go to www.redcross.org (from the Heritage Foundation)

Any ideas of where to donate would be much appreciated.

paz a todos.

A Midnight Stroll in the Suburbs

It was a little past midnight. I couldn’t sleep, my stomach hurt and my mind was far from at ease. No movie, television show, or novel would do, I needed something else. Having worked on a bike the past few days I decided to take a midnight stroll through the hills of chino. I convinced my cousin and off we went. He rode my younger brother’s fixie and I an old, beat up mountain bike that we found in my tio’s backyard. We headed towards the golf course, the physical divide between new and old chino hills. After about 20 minutes I realized I had no clue where we were. We slowed our pace to look for familiar signs and conserve energy. Lost, cold, and tired I felt a strange calm. The dim street lights allowed the moon and stars to shine brightly. The wind hitting our sweaty skin took me pack to adolescents in hotels: jumping into a cold pool after some minutes in the jacuzzi. The absolute silence reminded me of kicking the ball into the home made soccer goal in the old Pomona house. We finally found a sign for the 71 and followed it, going under the freeway, into Chino, towards the state prison, and back up towards chino hills. While my chain feel and the mechanism that adjust the length of it got stuck in the spokes, making me carry the stupid bike up hill for about 200 yards it was a nice ride. 

Solve the tequila crisis and you'll solve the bike crisis

Christmas was fast approaching and my sister grew anxious, as the jacket she bought her boyfriend had not arrived. When it did arrive, on the 24^th her anxiety only grew: poorly constructed and flimsy the jacket was not what she hoped for. After browsing the internet I convinced her to buy a single speed road bike from some cat in Fontana. In person of course the bike was not as clean as it appeared on the internet. To make matters worse after buying the bike, it slipped off the bike rack, hitting the asphalt at 45 miles per hour and making the back tire and rim completely useless.  In the middle of a crisis, we immediately dialed our older brother, an engineer and the so-called “genius” of the family. He offered simple, yet dumfounding advice: “solve the tequila crisis and you’ll solve the bike crisis. I have to go. Good luck.” Useless as usual I thought. What the hell does tequila have to do with a bike. After a brief scroll through my phone, I dialed our tio Raymundo. Not only does he make the best asada ever, he can build anything. He gave us a list of things to buy at home depot and told us to arrive early to Pico Rivera the next day. When we arrived to his house, he had a 12 pack of dos equis, and a set of tools out waiting for us. We took the bike apart, sanded and then painted the frame. And bought and fixed several parts. When the bike was finally complete (many days later) we toasted to the most interesting man in Pico Rivera with a 12 pack of dos equis.