OMG

by Rafael Chávez Mx

The first time I saw God, él todo poderoso, I must have been about three years old.  Mi familia and I always attended church every Sunday without fail.  Siempre como todo mexicano de rodillas, standing, praying, kneeling some more, singing aleluyas and vaya con dios, y vaya que aburrimiento. Going to Sunday service was not exciting to say the least, so in order to tame our childish urge to play in church, nuestra jefita discretamente nos daba unos tiernos pillisquitos underneath the arm with such shocking beelike stinging effectiveness that we would calm down momentarily, but as soon as the pain wore off there we were again at play. 

One day she came up with a grand scheme to calm us down at church, she pulled out the “God” card.  My old fashioned jefita pointed out that God was watching us from the altar and mentioned in a discreet whisper that it was a sin to play in church as she blessed herself with the sign of the cross. She emphasized that it was a mortal sin that would more than likely land us in the fires of hell with the devil tending to us with a pitchfork in hand, loteria style. She pointed at the cross where a petrified crucified Jesús stared back at us.  Then she indicated that if were bad in church,  Jesús had the power to summon la famosa llorona with a blink of an eye, and allow her to take us to a cave where el Satanás would be waiting for us somewhere in Veracruz.

But there was a problem with my mother’s scenario, you see, death, the divine, the supernatural, and hell pretty much meant nothing to us, for places like these did not exist in our innocent child minds.  As my mother kept going on and on about the holy crosses, the fires of hell, tortured Jesus, heavenly God, and the evil evil devil my attention was perked up by the man up on the altar holding up what I thought to be a tortilla (but really the host). I thought that must be “God”, the one my mamá was speaking about, but he was wearing a dress (in reality a priestly robe). My mother’s “God” I mistakenly misconstrued for the priest because in all logic, he was the only animated thing up there in the altar. Hence, my three year old mind deduced that dude in the dress holding up his hands in prayer, was “God” himself, so my inquisitive natured self became determined to investigate up close this “God” in a dress.

During the midst of religious solemnity, while my parents prayed with their eyes closed, I lured my brother into going up to the altar to gaze upon the countenance of “God” himself.  Despasito, a pasito, we snuck away from our jefes and made it front row, center stage, a few steps away from “God”, and stared just as he was raising his big copota de vino into the sky as some bells rang.

Every now and then church goers have seen children curiously go up the altar and stand there and stare.  Then, right behind them like always, an embarrassed parent rushes up to collect their child and quietly and meekly walk back to their respective pew. Well, that was precisely what happened to us, but with an added bonus, my father got involved. 

For my father to get involved in childish mischief was of no laughing matter.  He humbly walked up to the altar grabbed his two star-struck boys, who were busy contemplating the white countenance of “God” and quietly marched them to the rear of the church, outside, into his green 75 Ford LTD.  Once in the car, he quickly and methodically with a few intertwined profane bad words I dare not state, he unfastened his belt, y nos dio una chinga de perro bailarín. We immediately got the message, no staring at “God” from up close.  After we stopped crying, he then took us back into the church, where we sat quietly, ever so quiet, with the understanding that if we ever went up to see “God” again, we would have to face my father’s holy inquisition also once again.

From there on after I came to comprehend to two things; one that God does not save as I have proven in the aforementioned.  Secondly, there is no power greater than my jefitos belt. I tell you, that pinche cinto hurts so bad that all my father had to do was discreetly tap it with his fingers and we would immediately understand the warning we just received whenever we were breaking one of his many rules..  It was some sort of an ominous Morse-coded subliminal message that my father developed to instill the fear of hell itself onto our childhood minds. Any kind of wrongdoing resulted in ass-whipping like no other, even if it were in the house God.

After that initial visit with “God”, my brothers and I never left our seats again.  As for God, he never did come down to saves us from my father the inquisitor; he just stayed up in the altar in the distance where he belonged, petrified. Furthermore, la llorona never did come for us which leads me to believe that maybe religion, el Diablo, los santos, God and his son Chuy and anything else in relation cannot be more truer than the cuentos de niño my mamá use to tell us.  The only truth of it all was the all mighty power of my jefes fajo, my respects, because not even God ever came between it and my nalgas.

Let Me Say
by Rafael Chávez Mx

 *For those who support the Arizonian mentality and the born again neo-Nazi idiocy in the Americas, it is too late to have your way because history has been made cyclically perpetual for the gente will keep coming in hordes, coming, coming and coming for we travel the original migration routes of our ancient indigenous ancestors, the same path the Spanish conquerors followed, the same path my father followed.  Go ahead take us away to where we belong for we are already here and as for those racist souls who insist to persevere in ignorance go back to Europe to your cave and let the rest share in peace the natural space of our mother Earth.   

 Let Me Tell You a Story

 He could see them far in the distance as he fell way behind and his tired pace slowed.  He paused for a second and looked at the little boy in his arms, then picked up the pace again.  It was a dark and moonless night, but still a warm gleaming afterthought lingered after a hot August day.  With each heavy step forward the desert seemed ever so desolate.

 He came to a fence, threw his suitcase over, and tucked the one year old into his sweater, zipped it up, and secured the little boy to his body with his belt.  He climbed up and over, but not before pausing at the top briefly surveying the fence line.  A bitter thought shot through his essence, “Ni de aquí, ni de allá,” as he gazed at the distant city lights right down the throat of oblivion.  He was now entering a world where he would remain a shadow para siempre, (forever) lost.  He then took a deep breath, whispered an adios to his tierra, and took a giant leap into the United States of America.

 He had now lost track of his eight month pregnant wife, who had gotten ahead of him together with the rest of the pollos (border crossers), about 20 or so others.  They were led through the brush by a short fat coyote (human smuggler), who somehow managed to keep running without regard to his top heavy physical disposition and his oddly proportioned body; short legs, ever protruding stomach, topped off by a huge Olmeca head, yet stood no more than five feet tall.  It further surprised him how his mujer, being in that far stage of pregnancy, could exert herself well beyond the limits of reason.  But what else is one to do when life offers you so little.

 His arms were burning in pain now to the point of going numb from the weight of his precious cargo.  A one year old could get quite heavy after a while of carrying one.  They had been at it for about three hours up until that point, way too much effort just to cover a few miles of desert terrain dodging la migra (INS agents).  He finally caught up with the rest of his gente as they rested underneath a shadowless Joshua tree.  Chest heaving beneath, the baby in his arms, he asked his wife if she was ok.  Then the short stump of coyote approached him:

—Oiga compa, por qué no tira ese muchacho por allí, porque así no la va hacer.—

(Hey man, why don’t you toss that kid to aside, otherwise you aren’t going to make it.)

 He just stared at el hijo de puta (the coyote) with silent dismay wondering how could someone even propose the idea of abandoning ones own child.  No tiene madre este cabrón, he thought, as he nodded a very obvious “¡no!” at the coyote as he turned and stared deep into his little boy’s big brown eyes as he clutched him evermore tighter into his heaving chest.  The little boy remained silent but alert listening to papa’s heart. 

 As the group of mojados (‘wetbacks’) moved further north, ironic though, because they had not crossed a single body of water up until that point, the night sky hazed over with the approaching gleam of the 20^th century.  Tijuana remained behind silent like a ill loved prostitute after a long night bidding them farewell, forever a vestige of a distant past where once upon a time they were Mexican and not sombras de lo que una vez fue (shadows of what they once were). Then the silence of the dark sky broke by the distant choppy sound of an approaching helicopter just about the time they were coming to a farm.  El coyote quickly and with experienced keen tucked them all into the cattle feeding troughs, throwing camouflaging hay upon there backs. (Haybacks?)

 He and his baby boy remained silent in a water trough.  As the search light from the helicopter scanned the area, he quickly looked at his child making sure the little one was not submerged underneath the water.  The little boy just stared back at his father with his big brown eyes, no crying, clutching his papa with his baby arms tight a lo macho, for the little one, even at the age of one, knew that he needed to remain silent for these were not ordinary events, they were making history.

 Soon the helicopter flew away with it’s insidious gleaming search light of an eye that came up with nothing.  Soon thereafter a young man, no more than 18, frantically screaming popped up from within the waking herd of cattle, where his hiding spot once on the move began to trample him down.  He called for help several times but the more he stirred the more the cattle went wild.  He died as his body was half crushed and half submerged head first by force drowned in the quagmire of green manure.  “Bienvenido America,” someone said, “donde solo eres mierda.”  No one could reach him in time to save him and besides they had to keep moving for the rancher and his shotgun were sure to becoming by soon enough.  The coyote did nothing to help.  Leading pollos across the border was business and not an act of compassion to say the least.  “Se murió a lo buey,” it was later commented, no pun intended.  The young man’s body never made back to his mother’s arms for a farewell blessing.  She missed him for a long time.

 Papa with baby boy went and pulled his esposa out from the interior of a pile of hay, she was okay.  The group soon made it to a dirt road, tired, dehydrated, and scared, sometime during the greening twilight.  There a long Oldsmobile pulled up, the type June Cleaver pearl necklaced grandmothers drive.  The type with a big enough trunks to fit eight mexicanos a lo lata de sardina.  However, because of the baby he carried in his arms and his wife’s pregnancy they were transported in a second vehicle, a van which took a different route to an unknown destination in Los Angeles.  Somehow they got past San Diego, past the check point in San Clemente, where the coyotes had certain crooked INS agents under their payroll, and past the lowest of the bunch, pocho migra; which if offered enough money those vendido bastards are capable of deporting their own mamás back to México. 

 They made it safely to their destination but the Oldsmobile and its passengers did not fair so well.  They were eventually pulled over by non-compliant INS agents.  Each mojadito was taken out of the trunk.  They were asked to take off their shoes, which they did.  Then each of them was struck on the face with their own footwear as some form of humiliation, racist subjugation with demeaning irony.  The ones that were wearing guaraches were but slapped across the face with Teutonic Michelin tire thread that composed the recycled soles of each sandal, but for those were shit kicking boots, llevaron una chinga de apocas.  ¡Pinches migras!

 Three weeks after papá and mamá settled to work in Northern California, baby brother was born, a healthy round headed little boy.  He would never know about crossing the border but for his older brother he forever would, for his big brown eyes captured that very moment in his soul. His father once in a while recounts the tale to those who will listen and if you stare into his eyes you can see the melancholy reminisces of old México, that one he will never return to, the one that dies each time one of our elders goes to meet the creator.  But somehow they manage to live, laugh, and love in the shadows this side of the fence line.

‘Chuche’

por Rafael Chávez Mx – pensador mexicano

(An excerpt from the forthcoming novel, “Barrio Fuerte.”)

Decía que decía que tata Dios ya lo había olvidado. Don Chuche Magallón tenía más o menos de 100 años, quitale o ponle cinco.  Hacían varias decenas de años que sus hijos habían perdido la cuenta de su edad e igual Don Chuche había perdido decenas de amigos al paso del tiempo.  Unos meses antes de su fiesta de su centenario, se le otorgó un certificado celebrando su ancianidad por parte del presidente municipal de Cotija de La Paz, donde solo los muertos la encuentran.

Para celebrarlo como el hombre más viejo del pueblo, hubo una ceremonia festiva en la plaza central con banda de aire y tambora.  Después de un pequeño discurso por un representante del gobierno local, se acerco el anciano a la mesa del ministerio público, apretó manos con los diferentes dirigentes presentes, se tomó varias fotos con ellos y por fin se le dio un certificado que según fue firmado por el mismo Vicente Fox, Presidente de la Republica, ya que su esposa es originaria de ese mismo poblado donde la ley del monte todavía rifa aunque sean los tiempos modernos de las computadoras y los rayos láser. 

Después de tanto rollo, Don Chuche Magallón, tomó el certificado lo dobló en cuatro tranquilamente, como era su constante disposición, se lo echo a la bolsa sin mucha importancia porque no sabía que decía, porque no sabía leer y siguió adelante a paso lento pero bien recto el viejo con la minuta preocupación de que quizás le podría haber vendido a todos los presentes sus deliciosas paletas de tamarindo y limón, ya que hacía un calor insoportable, pero ni modo el carrito de paletas descansaba tranquilamente esa tarde en la casa de su hijo Toño, el radiotécnico.

Chuche fue paletero y nevero toda su vida.  El día de su muerte se fue con el carrito de paletas al más allá.  Según se cuenta por allí, que Don Chuche llego a la gloria vendiendo paletas, y así fue como el señor de los cielos ordenó y saborió por primera ves una de sus paletas de tamarindo, porque ¡ay! que ricas saben después de un día largo de labor.

Cotija es un pueblo donde la pobreza murió hace tiempo.  Eso después de que medio pueblo resulto extraviado allá en las regiones del norte, en los famosos Yunaitid Estéis de América carnal.  A pocos años también empezaron a verdear bonito los cerros, y la mafia y el contrabando, irónicamente, también han sido de gran efecto positivo para la economía de esa comunidad que sobrevive de los frutos de la tierra y aunque quieran o no la población de Cotija de la Paz y por las pas, pas, pas, pas ha llegado a superar la pobreza. 

Fue un día por la tarde lluvioso cuando por primera ves se encontraron mis ojos de miel con los ojos negros color noche de mi abuelo Chuche. Entró el hombrecito delgado prieto, Purépecha de corazón, por la puerta de medidas chaparras, como cinco pies quizás, porque nadie era muy alto en la familia de lo Magallones.  Como siempre, llegó ebrio por el cuarto típico de alcohol de cañita clara que se aventaba todas las tardes como lo acostumbraba para así descansar el alma después de un día largo de labor.  Ya borracho fácilmente dominaba el cansancio, y al no sentirlo, la vida se le alargaba aun más.  Era ajeno mi viejo a la muerte y las penas, y yo en esa edad, ni con tal conocimiento daba.

Había llegado temprano esa tarde porque la tempestad que amensaba a relampagos no le permitía que vendiera paletas.  No fuera ser que se le fuesen ha resfriar los clientes o se lo fuera a tronar un rayo antes de tiempo.  Tenía yo mis cuatro añitos cuando por primera vez en mi corta vida me encontré en Cotija donde los muertos descansan en paz y Don Jesús “Chuche” Magallón, era eterno. 

Como siempre, mi viejo aparecia alegre, abrazando a todos; hijos, nietos sobrinos, en fin cuanto niño se le atravesara.  A todos les daba unas moneditas y a su esposa unos cuantos billetitos hasta quedarse sin nada. Fue padre de 14, hijos e hijas, todos logrados.  Fue bisabuelo y se me hace que hasta tatarabuelo llego hacer.  Aunque era muy pobre, el cariño del viejo nunca falto, porque como el decía, enemigos no tenia porque nunca había matado a nadie. 

 Vivian él y mi abuela, Maria de Jesús, “Chucha,” (que en paz descanse), en una casita humilde de madera reciclada, adobe y cartón.  No tenía servicio alguno; no había luz, regadera,  estufa, ni baño, solamente un cubeta para bañarse y un poso de ladrillo para las necesidades secundarias.  A clavo y a corcholata se detenían las paredes y los techos forrados de caja de Corona, Gansito, Pepsi y jabón Ariel, donde se anunciaban el consumo y la modernidad.  Fue en ese jacal, donde mi madre se crió y condujo un noviasgo típico mexicano con mi padre al pie de la puerta.

 Don Chuche, cenaba como siempre como a las 5 de la tarde y al apagarse el ojo de dios, el igual cerraba sus ojos y se dedicaba ha soñar sueños que nunca llego a contarle a nadie, y que a hoy solo son misterios que las luciérnagas del enigma nocturno aguardan. Así fue como conocí a mi abuelo y mi abuela, en la plena pobreza desde la conquista, un origen sencillo del cual no me avergüenzo ni niego.  Aprendí a esa temprana edad que la vida se vive según se semeja, según se presta, quizás sea larga o corta, con riquezas o sin nada…la familia, las amistades y los recuerdos…son en fin lo que cuentan.  Como dijo mi tata Chuche, “Vaya, vaya, lo único que sepo, es que estamos de paso en esta la bola que da vuelta y vuelta y para que agüitarnos al cabo que ya somos eternos desde antes de nacer.”

The Mex Files

Love In My Rearview
by Rafael Chávez Mx

 Again I fell in love

Again

At a red light
traffic stopped

I discovered myself
once more alive

Again

Day dreaming as I gazed through the rearview

Caught hopelessly in a sigh

Thoughts of you pulled up from the past

As the sun set over the distant ocean side

The adieu of an afterglow bid a final goodbye

While stopped at a red light

Somewhere between the intersection of Jamas Blvd. and the Avenue of Love

Time stood still as you came into mind

Again

And there you were

Forever beautiful in the rearview

Looking like before and exactly like I remembered

A distant first star at night
Twinkling in my twilight

Oh, how I’ve wished
For another moment with you

Again

Then there you are in my rearview

At the traffic light

In the intersection of Jamas and Love

Sitting silent and still randomly glancing up at my rearview mirror

Catching a flickering
 glimpse of you

Holding my breath I slowly cracked my window

Sweet breeze whispered your voice into my thoughts
your scent I sensed again like then

As I re-fell in love all over

Again

Through my rearview

Then the lights changed

Yellow and blue skies
gave way to green

Motion began as traffic moved

The gleaming sky in my mind remembered you

As you were once when I was with you

Again

I smiled at your reflection

You grinned at my recollection

Then you ran your fingers through your hair

As the wind blew

As I pulled through the intersection of Jamas and Love

You turned left without a goodbye.

I took a final deep breath

As I took in the memory in my rearview

Again

I noticed the orange sky in my mind

Give away to the melancholy blue of the night time

Like that long ago time
when I fell in love

When I first saw you in my rearview.

As you pulled up to the
intersection of Love and
Jamas while I adjusted my rearview.

Frijol Burrito, Disco Lunch, and a Petrified Torta

Mexicanization of America

By R. Chávez

The other day while rematiando I came across a thermos.  It was metal, plaid red and wide mouth especially made for tacos.  Just holding it transported me to a finer and simpler place in time.  The year was 1979, I was four years old.  My familia and I lived in a dairy farm near Pengrove, California, where I learned that cows didn’t chew gum no matter how many sticks of Wrigley’s I tried to get them to eat.

Around this time I commenced my life long odyssey dealing with the issues of identity, self determination, and the cultural negotiation between my pochoness, chicanoness, and my mexico-americanoness.  Society by default had thrown me head first into Octavio Paz’s labyrinth of solitude; that psychological enigmatic condition that tugs us towards our indigenous roots and the same time is in conflict with our conquering European blood. This internal struggle for identity took center stage inside my soul by the time I started attending preschool, thus navigating the American wave became a way of life.  Caramba, those early experiences encapsulated everything that I would spend the rest of my life getting accustomed to when it came to becoming American or more interestingly enough, más mexicano que la chingada. 

The first day of school my jefitos were told by my teacher that I needed a lunch pail. Never before had they seen such a thing because they had never gone to school, but I quickly grasped the concept since all the other kids had them.  Super Friends, Batman, the Incredible Hulk, Wonder Woman, Dukes of Hazard, CHiPs, the Bionic Women, etc.  The idea fascinated me of possibly possessing my own private receptacle for food and at the same time having the images of my favorite cartoon heroes accompanying me and my imagination wherever we might be.   Ah, Eric Estrada, again reliving your 15 minutes of fame in the rigormortis of some distant faded memory of a past that only I can conjure up in thoughts dating back to the 70s. 

Anyhow, I paid close attention to the unpacking sequence that the atypical American kid would undergo everyday at lunch.  Sandwich in a plastic baggy, juice or milk in the thermos, another baggy maybe with Doritos or chocolate chip cookies, Ho’s Ho’s, Twinkies, maybe an ironic apple, orange or a carrot to promote healthy living.  Later that day when I got home after a misunderstood day at school, because no one spoke Spanish, I immediately requested an Incredible Hulk lunch pail.  Please do excuse me señor CHiP Estrada, the green guy is much tougher than you, and you never did bash anyone on your show for that matter. 

So my mother went out to market.  I waited patiently that afternoon for a lime green metal lunch receptacle.  After what seemed an eternity for my four year old self, mamá finally walked in and the wait was over.  She placed a brown paper bag on the kitchen table and…¡Sorpresa! ¡Toma M! To my utter dismay there before me on the kitchen table appeared an orange-burgundy-brownish receptacle of complete hideousness and bewilderment.  The image on this metallic cat coffin depicted dancers doing the jive ala Travolta and a huge mirror ball center stage with the word Disco streaking across the surface of ugly.  I was now the regretful owner of the only Disco lunch pail in existence.  Not Popeye, nor the Love Boat or Gilligan’s Island, no señor, it was 1979 and the Bee Gees were kings and I owned the only Disco lunch pail in existence because no one else would dare buy one in their right mind, except my poor mamá, who thought the image looked great, “Que no vez que están bailando cumbia.”  I was doomed from the get go in my Americanization process.  So much for acculturation or assimilation, I was four, and this frijol was already disappointed with the American Way.  This relic (the Disco lunch pail) of Americana and the bygone era of the 70s was now part of my own personal history forever.

So, I went to school the next day, and yes, with my Disco lunch pail.  There I was pretending to be all chingón, fronting the cool.   All the children, as children are, attempted to decipher the image on the lunch pail but none of us new how to read. Anyhow, it didn’t make any sense and definitely it wasn’t a cartoon we were aware of for that matter.  Then lunch time came and oh boy that took me for a spin deeper into cultural oblivion and further away from my new American heritage.  I popped open my lunch pail and what to my wondering eyes should appear, a thermos filled with tacos wrapped neatly inside aluminum foil steaming, leche in a mason jar, and a papa cosida on the side.  ¡Dios mio! Where are you when I need you? Allí todo sacado de onda I was at the age of four. What would the gringos think? This wasn’t a typical American lunch.  I quickly closed the lid on this Disco inferno and proceeded to hide it and myself behind a bookcase.  Needless to say, this Mexicano did not eat his bean tacos that day.

When I got home my mother was quite concerned for my lack of interest in the campesino style lunch she had prepared for me con amor.  I conveyed to my poor mamá the notion that a good American wouldn’t be caught eating some sort taco out of a thermos.  Instead, I insisted on a delicious mayo, mustard, cheese, and ham sandwich.  Then my jefe chimed in all the way from the dining room, “¿Que pendejo se come tal porqueria seca sin sabor?”  Contrary to popular belief, I would dare to eat a tasteless thing in order to fit in, and anyhow, what did I know about cultura and cuisine at the age of four?  But as slowly as the world turns and the frijoles burn I would soon find out.

The next day, there I was at school trading my pomo de leche for Brady Bunch thermos full of grape Cool Ade, a pair of huevos cocidos for a set of Twinkies, and my roasted chile seco frijol refrito burrito con arroz, carne de rez y crema mexicana for a simple but yet traditional American Oscar Meyer bologna sandwich.  Today, I would dine like an American for the first time. I took a bite, chewed, swallowed and paused.  Then I took another bite and calmly looked for the flavor in my mouth.  After few seconds or so, panic set in.  What happened to the flavor?!  This so called American torta was more like petrified piece of bark from the Dark Ages.  So I quickly took a drink from the grape flavored concoction found in the Brady Bunch thermos to help with the swallowing process.  I gagged bit and quit eating right then and there.  I looked up teary eyed from gagging watched the blond headed little boy whom I traded my burrito with, enjoy every bite.  Coolly and discretely I hid the pair of Twinkies inside a globe of the moon, assuming I would attempt to eat them later.  I was disappointed with my first adventure into gastronomy which had ended in catastrophe.  There had been no wild burst of flavor or no real ingredients. Everything was processed just like the gringo soul.  De a mentiras.

After that day many a gabacho preschooler would line up to work a deal on a trade for a gourmet mamá Chávez burrito or a set of tacos.  From there on after, the food situation became a method of Mexicanizing all who would be interested; I knew what was going down. The Disco lunch pail became legendary; the goose that laid the golden egg, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, a cash cow, culture in a can.  I realized the hustle at the age of four, consumerism, capitalism, and supply and demand.  I had something the gringos wanted and they were willing to give away whatever for it and if it didn’t come to them a las buenas then they would take it a las malas, true to the American way.  Knowing this, I decided at the age of four to stick to the beauty of my culture and not be misguided by the “sin cultura” of the American maze of nothingness and defend it in my own little way.   Hence the Americanization of me stopped where it started.

Once getting past the glitter of the Disco ball trends, bell bottom politics, and suit wearing squares, in this country you have to work with what you got and I got cultura.  It is much deeper and flavorful than processed prepackaged artificial Americanization.  I have enjoyed my mama’s burritos y taquitos to this very day and I wouldn’t trade them for nothing in the world.  No petrified tortas for me. Nel pastel.  La cultura se siente no se vende y no dejen que se las roben. And as for America, carnalitos y carnalitas aqui estamos y no nos vamos. ¡Arriba la Raza!

                                                               Dreaming of a White Christmas

I first learned about Christmas and Santa Claus about the time I made it to kindergarten.  Chingado, now that I think about it, I picked up all my American holiday knowledge from my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. De Leon; Halloween, el pansón de Santo Clos, y el pinche egg laying Easter Bunny, el Fourth of Your Lie.  Bueno, the case was that I was so entranced by the holiday spirit that learning about gift giving and decorating Christmas trees y la chingada became the thing for me.  You see, en mi casa my parents hadn’t imparted on me the idea of gift giving, god forgive we might ask for a present, because we were a bit underfounded, in other words broke, and combine that with a little codonés on behalf of my jefito, allí estubo that we would get nothing, not even for our birthdays.

Anyhow, I was knee deep into the holiday that I was seriously concerned, in my five year old mind, with the “how in the hell was the fat Santa suppose to get into my chimneyless house?”  Furthermore, to top it off, we didn’t even have a pinche Christmas tree to put the gifts under.  So there I was little me negotiating with my father about the benefits of a Christmas tree and Santo Claus coming over, and la maestra telling me to tell my father that it was an American tradition, and all I got was a cold, “ya no estés chingado.”

So in order to increase the chances that el vato barrigón de Santa come creeping into my house one foggy Christmas Eve, I wrote the unforgiving fat bastard a letter, and a good one at that.  I requested a bike for myself, a doll for my sister, whatever he wanted to give my brothers would be fine, and of course, a new tortillera (aka tortilla press) for my mother.  And for my father, nada, para que se le quite, and teach him a lesson for refusing to celebrate la navidad gringo style.  I figured Santo Clos would understand.   I imagined him coming across the sky in his one horse open sleigh singing, “♪♪chingo bels, chingo bels, chingando all the way♫” You get the picture.

Well moving forward, in the list of preparations for Christmas night, I endeavored on the location of an available pine tree.  Sure enough I spotted one after combing an upscale neighborhood.  There it was; little, sitting there all decked out with lights and chingaderos hanging all over it, todo bonito of course planted in somebody’s front yard.  Pero ni modo, you have to do what you have to do in order to survive in the barrio.   I located my dad’s grape  pruning serrucho (aka saw) and went out there one foggy winter eve, y tan, tan…the tree magically appeared in my house decked out in Christmas lights, and shiny chingaderas hanging all over it, looking all bonito.  My mother wondered.  My father wondered.  I concocted a fairytale on how I won it in a raffle at school.  You know, raza are big into raffles.  It’s low wage gambling, like la loteria, tu sabes.

So by now, I figured the letter probably made it to the North Pole and some enano was assembling it.  The Christmas tree was the envy of the neighborhood, todo bonito in front of the window, where I figured el pansón de Santa would not miss it, and then give him access through the window and crawl in cholo style if need be.   All this for the lack of a chimney, ¡carajo!  I next full proofed my plan and made sure the red outfitted white old ñoño new where my apartment was.  I realized then that the project housing complex in which I lived in was not a very inviting place, you know with toda la paisanda, los cholos, la chusma, and the common desmandre de aquellas, somebody would probably end up stealing one of his flying red nose rudolphs or some other porqueria and then he would surely leave no gifts behind.   What I needed to do is guide him in by making him think it was safe to land, but how?  I had no Christmas lights decorating the outside of my apartamentito and no snow.  Well, somehow, someway, I keyed on some lucesitas navideñas en la segunda (aka the second hand store), cheap-0-big-o-bulbs that burnt the skin at the touch.  I gathered enough change from underneath the sofases to buy the 12 foot length of lights.  My mother was nice enough to help me put them up and hence there we were waiting for el Santa to make his appearance, with a window surrounded by pretty lights, encasing the bonito stolen Christmas tree all decked out con un chingo de colorful bright chingaderos and a star on top.   No way Sancho Clos could miss us now.

Finally, just when I thought I had all my ducks in a row; the letter to the North Pole, a Christmas tree, pretty lights, all placed in front of the window, it occurred to me that something was missing.  Snow, I needed heavenly raspado action.  Where in the hell would I get snow in the Central Valley California?  But I did, from my mama’s old refrigerator, the ones that have to be literately de-ice with an ice pick every month.  I had plenty of snow now; at least it was snow to me.  I laid it out in front of the window that Christmas Eve.  Now boy I was ready for el Santo Claus y su sleigh con los reindeers with bright red shiny noses.   And now the 24^th was here.

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through my little house my mama was cooking and I could smell it all through the house, when what to my wondering eyes should appear, mi tio, mi tia, my primos, los compadres, mis padrinos, los amigos toda la familia, y el borracho de don Nacho con un botella de tequila.  We had food, musica, and even did a posada.   At midnight we gave each other un abrazo bien dado, we wished each other a Feliz Navidad, estilo Jose Feliciano, and a Prospero Año Nuevo de pilón.   Indeed we were celebrating our way and somewhere between los buñuelos, el chocolate, la piñata, and the noise of la tambora (Mexican music) I faded to sleep forgetting all about el  gordinflón de Santo Clos.

Afterthought
Even though we received no presents, no bicycle, tortilla press for mom, no visit from el niño dios or Reyes  Magos, or Santa Claus, the Christmas spirit was alive more so in our casita.  We had menudo para la cruda , my jefes compadres stayed over with the rest of la familia, and indeed all over el campito campesino (aka migrant farmworker  project housing) the field working community came together and celebrated the beauty of unity and tradition; the fact that were alive and well with familia for another year was the best gift of all.  And as for the Christmas tree, it stuck around till Valentines Day, lit todo bonito con chingaderas hanging off it.

As for el pinche vato pansón in a red suit, he skipped my house, that cabron, and has not been seen since. I think he’s been skipping my house ever since.  Go figure.

Feliz Everything to Everyone! 

Salud y Felicidad Siempre

Click on link»THE REAL NACHO LIBRE

EL BANDIDO VIVE, LA REVOLUCION SIGUE 

Recordando al compa Oscar Gomez 

I am

I am what I am.

That, that is, is.

No more, no less.

I’m a being, who’s being…

is cool.  Cool?  ¡Chingon!

I’m not ill and wish no ill…

It’s my will, that will to please…

and ease the pain.  Not here for gain…

Please understand where I stand.

¿Me entiendes mendes?  Si es que entiendes

calo, ese vato loco.  Pocos pero locos y que carnal…

Don’t mind where I been, beware of where I’m going.

This ideological motion is being taken in like a magical potion.

Do comprehend my notion of my devotion to Zapata’s revolution.

It isn’t about fire shooting sticks and exploding bombs my brothers…

sisters, it’s about the love for the people, La Raza.  And you may ask, ¿qué pasa?

Yeah, ¿qué chingados pasa con la raza?  The sleeping giant hasn’t awoken yet, but just wait

and see when the eyes, minds, and ears begin to change gears, put in reverse and take a U turn.

back to the indigenous ways.  Entonces verán como es que nace un huracán que barre con todo y

deja puro lodo, del cual vinemos, del que comemos, en el cual dormemos y nos paresemos, mi gente color de la tierra. 

Madre, es el latir de tu corazon que me da el ritmo de la vida que tengo que vivir, seguir, luchar.  Con los tamborasos a

la batalla voy adelante sin voltear así atras.

Lo que fue, fue.  Respetos a los momentos de la vida que pasan como olas del mar.

Y ahora me acuerdo que sí he llegado amar.  To love you too much, too much.

To live for the love of living this moment in time.  My time just a wink of an

eye.  Then I will be no more but a distant memory faded by the past.

¡Aha! to live and to die what truth, that many fear more than fear.

When it’s time to go, it’s time.  But in the meantime

there are things to do, people to meet, and places to

see, the wonders the world has for me and you.

Tu mi compañero y mi compañera del alma.

No me dejes solo porque sin tí todo se hace

polvo. Ven comigo y camina así a arriba.

Hasta la cima del cerro sin titubiar

porque yo te ayudaré a marchar

con la frente en alto. How I’ve

learned to be because I am

what I am and you are who

you are and yet we are

the same. Somos dios.

Together forever

una eternidad. We

are, and I am la

re-evolución de

La Raza.

By P.R. Ancho

 Just Great

We give money a divine role in our society, like as if it appeared mystically from the heavens.  IN GOD WE TRUST, we trust he will provide more of this holy paper that is currently disappearing. We hear the news constantly pandering about the shortage of cash money and the national deficit, the state of meltdown, and the fact that budgets can’t be balanced, that we are the worst recession since the Great Depression etc.  Yet, many do not realize that the problem can be solved by simply printing more money.

 The Great Depression

I am no economist or financial advisor of any sort, as for my credentials, I will let logic take that role.  The Great Depression of the 1930s resulted conveniently after the large economic boom of the Roaring 20s.  Americans were investing heavily in the stock market and the money was flowing.  Then something interesting happened, the markets went bust, banks closed down, peoples savings disappeared and the government supposedly and conveniently could do nothing to help.  During this period of time scores of people lost jobs and ended up trying to figure out how to survive while scratching the bottom of the barrel.  It was not until WWII was developed that the war machine finally employed everyone to bring the country our the depths of poverty.  Convenient I say.

 The Great Recession

The Great Repression of today in many respects mirrors the Great Depression, but with a few added twists to intensify the bewildering effect of an economic downturn.  Today we have bad credit scores, bad loans, and a mired financial market to bring us down to new lows.  Furthermore, adding to all this, the housing crisis that has entrenched the citizenry in the economic pit of despair.  In conjunction with the Sallie Mae Bank of America, and Country Wide, the powers that be have allowed the swindling of American hard earned money through misinformed deals.  Researchers have called this that greatest theft of wealth since the conquest.   The poor and the middle class have been stripped to the bare minimum, all cash reserves and life savings have very much been disappeared.  Now here we are stuck with the mess and somebody out there has all the money.  Hmmm, and it makes me wonder why the war machine failed us now even though the U.S. is stuck in the middle of two wars.

 Great Logic

When we were born, we were born naked; all we cared for was who was going to feed us.  Somehow the system figured that each one of us was needed to be tagged like a dog, in order to keep us from going astray and maintain our active participation in the workforce.  Free thinking and free will are not parts of the planning or the status quo, freedom to be a consumer is (why else would you have a workforce, but if not to consume), and in order to establish this precedent we needed to be connected to the system via a Social Security number in order to be able to have an identity and be a functional citizen.  Here in lies the crux of the problem. 

 From the onset we are thought to pursue the all might green dollar, and establish all accomplishments based on this monetary value.  In essence Social Security does not mean security for society during our old age, but rather security for the system to retain us in line and blind to the reality of the economic chess game that is being played.  We are mere servants to the filthy rich and all we can do is pretend to be like them.  The rich produce and we buy, buy, and buy, and the debt grows forevermore. 

 The  Great Mighty Dollar

Money does not grow on trees or much less fall from the hand of God, even though IN GOD WE TRUST.  Money is made by a printing press and the secret powers that be decide how much of this paper to print and how to distribute it.  Power lies with he who owns this printing press.  Opponents will argue that the “system” functions through regulation or via checks and balances, and everyone is equally free to attain some of this currency.  Interestingly enough, some are really good at hoarding and amassing “wealth” while the majority is left to scrambling after the leftovers.  I dare to say that the 1% in control are regulating how much we attain and loose.

 The Great Truth

Money is not holy or by no means disappearing, it’s just printed paper, but we value it more than life, as if it were given to us from the hand of GOD.  The system is playing with our feelings when it comes to money.  They maketh it, they can maketh some more, they can taketh away whenever.  The purpose of recession or depressions is to drain the pocketbook, instill fear in us for the lack of, and force weakness which allows a certain psychological control in the great mass that we are.  The greater the lack the greater fear and extreme is the reaction, so we dedicate life to conservatism and consumerism versus the truth and free will.  We typically allow faith to intercede on behalf of logic and blindly believe in some sort of divine providence that will hopefully replenish the coffers.  That is what we are led to believe because IN GOD WE TRUST.  We believe that the system will take care of us and yet it keeps failing over and over. Dare I wonder if Atlantis is sinking into the ocean?  Or is Rome beginning to burn? Or did the “aliens” (no not the Mexicans or maybe we are) take our money?  Your holy dollars are out there somewhere, but not in your pocket.  But maybe if we pray, have faith, and TRUST, the federales will have a change of heart and print up some more money honey to keep you and I entertained.