development in Pomona (DF, NYC)

Since moving to NY this is problably the longest i've been at my parents house (Chino Hills) and kicked it in Pomona: my hometown...
As I drive to my friend hector's pad for some futbol or to pick my sis up at the amtrack, I naturally feel nostalgic for my hometown. "Sunday" leaque soccer with men that should have hung up their cleats years ago, the house parties with the same 10 banda songs, coaching at pomona high, the pool hall on second street, etc...Yet, like many parts of Brooklyn and the historic center of Mexico City, "development" is coming to Pomona. Second street and its surrondings continues to see the opening of restaruants, galleries, and bars that cater to denizens from surrondings neighberhoods (read white and middle class). While on hold there is a current project to build condiminums for US (young educated professionals). As part of a cohort of educated, young, and liberal individuals I both enjoy and frequent second street, the historic center, and Brooklyn...Yet I am troubled that consumption is what passes and guides "development" in all of these areas. With consumption come higher rents and the slow displacement of the working class, . Sadly, I dont see a competing vision of "development" or even a hint of ambivalance/resentment/anger in those that partake in these activies. Intellectual bankruptcy?

Welcome to LA: Party with Chicano Dynasty…

On my first day back in Los Angeles, as can be expected, hit up a party on the Westside. Sis used to work at the Latino Theater Company (http://thelatc.org/about-2/latino-theater-company/), so we went to Jose Luis Valenzuela’s house for the annual Christmas party…Upon entering had the mandatory shot of patron, followed by frijoles, arroz, and tamales…and of course more drink: corona and pacifico all night…Walls covered with work of iconic chicano/a artist…Drank some more headed come, talked to some old school chicano/as... Good first night. 

Los Angeles for turkey break

The sun gently entered my brother’s room, reminding me of my promise to run in the morning…Fuck, they are staring at me, taunting me, their too pristine to be running shoes. I get up, slip them on and head to the park. As soon as I make it up the last step, the beautiful soccer field opens up, this is my sun rise. I stare for a few and then walk home. I need to buy some shades I tell myself. Fresh squeezed oj, eggs, and sis’s potatoes.

soccer on the pavement with los primos

, with mom, pops, and siblings in the park

with brother, hector, his brothers  on the turf

tio raymundos backyard, rancheras, relajo, and beers (maliciala)

house party in long beach, cumbias, tecate, and holding little (yet heavy) maximo.

 moc job talk for friend’s upcoming interview at UofA, tacos koreanos, al pastor, horchata

 pool hall from my high school days with hector, as in 1999, the doors, pink floyd, Santana, and los tigres blaring from the juxe box.

Palabra, chicano literary art journal

·      Burbank, seat 28b,

·      The 1 train-cross the Columbia campus, wind slapping my face,

·      hugs con caridad (home).  

It only gets harder.....

Year two of graduate school....

year one was a series of short races..

year two is a damn marathon: 

Classes, Taing, Mexican film series, conference organizing, starting/organizing a workshop on race and ethnicity....too much work. Not enough soccer, beer, or sandri.

Routing for Anyone but the Yankees (with negra modelo in hand)

The pundits point to numerous reasons for the dodger's inability to beat the Phillies. Anyone from LA who is on the east coast knows that it was not the lack of pitching or leaving the basses loaded (with 0 outs mind you). It was too damn cold, plain and simple. It wasn't snowing, but it was too damn cold to be outside. Covered in blankets, with the heater on, and the windows closed, I slowly drank my beer. After I finished my first, it was not thirst, but habit that drove me to get that second one. I contemplated changing course, maybe getting a shot of tequila, but everyone knows, you can't watch a dodger game without a nice cold on in hand. As the phillies started scoring, I realized we had no chance. When the game was finally over, I got another beer and mourned both the loss and the reality that winter is here. Those of you back home, no doubt were at least able to enjoy the loss, outside (the front or backyard), maybe a carne asada, and most likely with a few beers in a bucket of ice (not snow)...Kinda like going to the casino, you might lose your money, but at least they have the decency of giving you some drinks...

I can't change the weather, but I can kinda rout for the Angels. Deep down, they know its all about the dodgers, hence the name change: Los Angles Angels. We all know that to mimic is to flatter. As game time approaches, I'll be hoping that it magically gets warmer, not so the Angels can win, but so that I can watch the Angels' defeat with a nice cold one in hand. (its 50 and raining, with chance of more rain. Maybe the Yankees will slip?)

H20: a popular vision of water conservation

 

            After meeting with my professor, I headed to the centro of Cuernavaca to see the catedral. Built in the early 1500s, my professor mentioned that inside was a restored mural of Franciscans that headed to Japan with hopes of converting a few. They were converted into martyrs. Wow, I thought, no way I’m missing this….

Hailed a taxi and asked, “cuanto el cenrto?” Adalberto, the driver, said “25 pesos” and I was headed to see some old ass murals. As the wheels rolled, I frantically wrote, “conceptual work + historical question = justification of project. MUST DO SOON” on my hand. Breaking my important and professional historical to do list was Adaberto’s words: “ojala que llueva. Para la economía.” Not quite sure what he meant with “la economía,” I responded with, “Si verdad. Hace mucho calor, con el agua se pone fresco. Hay mas trabajo para ti cuando llueve?” “No, deja de de eso” he responded. After a short silence he narrated the following story, which I will attempt to portray as accurately as possible:

            No, lo que pasa es que este año esta muy mal. De todos los años que he vivido, este es el peor. Mis amigos sembradores estan sufriendo. Lo que pasa es que el rollo de el “global warming”. Un cilcón que siempre pasa no ha pasado. En estos tiempos que estamos mis hijas toman 20 minutos en el baño. Como nunca nos han cortado nuestra agua no saben lo que es no tenerlo. Tenemos suerte porque a nuestros vecinos si se las cortan. Yo un tiempo estuve en alcolicos anonimos y aprendí mucho. Solamente podiamos bañarnos una vez a la semana y solamente nos daban una botella de agua…de comer, solamente frijoles y arroz. Para dormir, el suelo…Uno de los alcolicos se enojó porque estaba enfadado de comer lo mismo todos los días, y se quejó. Y sabes que le dijerion? Que en su casa siempre tenía de comer, y claro agua para bañarese, y una cama para dormir...Pero por andar tomando nunca llegaba a cenar, a dormir, por andar pedo…En ese tiempo aprendí apreciar las cosas. Por eso les digo a mis hijas que en los tiempos que estamos en cinco minutes y ya..Pero no entienden. Como vez…

            We need to put average Americans in rehab: SUVS, buffet breakfast, lunch, and dinner, grass filling every possible inch of campuses, front lawns, and sprinklers that wet more than the grass needs to grow is ridiculous.

Desde Cuernavaca, Saludos            

La Linea Azul

 

10pm on a Sunday and the metro is still running, people are still riding, and too many are still trying to make a few pesos from friendly and giving passengers into many. No barefoot indigenous kids today, but plenty of others. A chavo enters with a guitar, the diverse stickers don’t display his taste in music or “style” but cover the many cracks and scratches. His guitar matches his faded and ripped jeans. His converse have no stickers to hide their wear. In a black short sleeve and with long black hair, his style is part choice part fortune: he is not one of the fortunate that dress down to look cool. After his first song comes to close he announces:  soy chico del barrio, te puedo robar tu celular, tu bolsa, tu cartera, pero prefiero tocar unas canciones. Tal ves no sea muy buenas, pero no te estoy robando. The second song, cada rosa tiene una espina. Before I slide my hand in jeans I know I only have 4 metro passes (totaling a mere 8 pesos) a two hundred peso bill which is suppose to last me another 3 days and two 50 cent pesos. So I start looking through by backpack, I must have a moneda de 10 o 5, algo mas que 2 pinche monedas de 50 centavos…I don’t. I hand him the 2 coins and I’m surprised when he utters a sincere chido carnal. We both exit at chabacano , I imagine he is on the blue line somewhere. He is about 10 yards in front of me and I see another person trying to accumulate some pesos: a blind lady, wooden stick in her right hand, transparent, plastic cup in her right. El Chavo del barrio, without hesitation pulls out his entire right jean pocket and places the several coins that he has earned through song in the transparent almost empty cup. We both walk downstairs, but he is able to enter the metro before the orange doors close. On the other side of the doors with my 200 pesos floating in pocket I think que me cuesta dar 200 pesos.

 

I finally get to the nativitas stop, walk for about 20 minutes, enter the large yard, say hi to Susan, the three year old dog, and enter my room. I turn on my laptop and I am immediately connected to another world. As my first day in Mexico becomes my 28^th I feel more and more uncomfortable in “nice” restaurants, bars, cafés. I don’t know if its the divide between los niños bien y el chavo de banda that bothers me or what I perceive to be the total indifference of los de la alta clase…..