Juan of Words

Borron Y Cuenta Nueva

Wiping The Slate Clean

An infant in one arm; a toddler in the other; nothing but rubber underneath, shaped in the form of a tube; separating danger from hope.  In a tiny bag all her belongings, clothing and a few dollar bills.  All the coyote had told her before loading them on that makeshift raft was “don’t move a muscle or you and the children are dead.” As she sat praying for dear life, doubting her own decision, the rejection of that divided river could be felt against her entire soul.  Telling her she was not wanted, enticing her to give up.  She did nothing but squeeze harder on the legs of her children and stare fixedly without so much as a wink at the tube behind her carrying her two eldest daughters.  A moment later they were all on the other side.

That side her mother had implored her so much to forget.  The one her brother called her crazy for wanting to immigrate into.  Her two youngest boys were citizens of the United States, but know they were also mojados.

She had almost chosen to stay behind when the coyota who was supposed to pick her up from her rancho in Mexico never showed up on the date they had agreed.  All daylong she had waited, bags packed and ready to go.  She had tearfully bid her mother farewell, asked of her father’s blessing and locked all her earthly possessions in a tiny home of concrete and cement her husband had built just a few years earlier.  As night arrived she accepted her brother’s words and felt stupid for having confided in a stranger she did not know.

If she did show up eventually, there was no way she would leave with her now.

Days went by and quietly she resigned herself to the idea of not crossing back to el norte, at least for a while.  She phoned her husband and told him to continue sending whatever money he could.   Every dollar she received was turned into pesos for nixtamal, eggs, chorizo, sardines and crackers to keep their children fed.  What little garments he could send were used to clothe as many people in the rancho as possible.  Here every style and color of attire was fashionable in any season.

One day as she went about her daily life in her humble home, a brisk walk away from her mother’s property, she heard these words from afar: “there is a lady here looking for you.  Says she is from el norte and that she is here to take you with her.  You’re not going to leave with her right mija? You are going to stay here now.  You are, aren’t you?”  No words were exchanged between mother and daughter as they raced over to greet the Chicana waiting inside of a small truck. Anger flowed through her veins as she remembered the countless hours she’d spent waiting just a few days before, but mobilizing within her were also renewed feelings of hope.  For several minutes they argued about the missed encounter, debating who had misunderstood who.  As she turned back to face her mother the look in her eyes revealed a decision already made.

She would be leaving, this time probably for good.

My mother has never been one to fear many things.  Besides the misfortune of her children, there are few matters that evoke in her panic and worry.  In that moment, she thought of nothing more than the hunger and despair we all felt.  She hugged her mother goodbye, soothing her as much as she could through her own tears, and then packed us all into our coyota’s truck – with one last glance at her life in the rancho she was gone, never to return for longer than a few months at a time.

Now in el norte with my brother, two sisters and me, she hurriedly dressed herself and us by the Rio Grande River and walked us across the last stretch of U.S. –Mexico border.  We were now all invisible in our immigrant status.  The next eight years we’d spend in the Texas Valley redefining every single aspect of who we once were.  Here my siblings and I learned a new language and culture, my mother and father finished growing up hard and fast, we learned of Washington and Jefferson instead of Zapata and Pancho Villa, and became a new breed of Mexicans from our rancho. From then on, every time we’ve returned to Mexico we are referred to as los del norte, Americanos or Chicanos.

El Sol No Se Tapa Con Un Dedo

You Can’t Cover The Sun With One Finger

Out of all the dichos I’ve ever heard, el sol no se tapa con un dedo, has always been the easiest for me to understand.  Not that I haven’t tried my damndest to cover up that metaphorical sun on so, so many different occasions.  But somewhere deep down inside of me, like the unyielding passage of time, that tiny voice in my head has always taunted me in the faintest of tones: el sol no se tapa con un dedo…you can’t cover the sun with one finger. 

I’ve wanted to tell it to shut up countless times, and a few of them I’ve done so successfully, but eventually it starts up again.  El sol no se tapa con un dedo.  El sol no se tapa con un dedo.  El sol no se tapa con un dedo.  Then I have to face reality, evaluate my situation seriously, and endure the harshest of human conditions: being truly honest with oneself.  It is at this stage that raw emotion peeks its ugly head, be it in the form of anger, sadness, depression or just plain frustration.  I know the process well for I’ve undergone it many a times.  Still idling as a bystander on someone else’s grief is much more a difficult feat for me personally to withstand. 

With my reality I can manipulate and coerce my state of mind.  With another I can only offer guidance and support hoping that it will lead to the right action.  When it does the sensation of a lifted burden is alleviating.  When it doesn’t the looming pain of hopelessness sets in, bringing with it an infuriated storm of agonizing worries.  All the while that taunting voice continues: el sol no se tapa con un dedo, el sol no se tapa con un dedo, el sol no se tapa con un dedo.

And in fact you can’t.  Yes, placed at a correct angle the single finger can cover up the sun, anyone of them from the pinky to the thumb, but one nervous breathe or shiver and the burning presence of that ball of fire will once again be seen.  Our reality is the same.  No matter how hard we work to convince ourselves that something is right when we know it’s wrong we can never fully swallow our own lies.

As for others, I’m beginning to assimilate into the philosophy that so many out there have medicated for my males de amores over the years: In every relationship and interaction we engage in we are either planting, watering, fertilizing or harvesting.  We rarely get to enjoy the fruits of our labors, but that is not the point.  Our main objective is to understand and appreciate the process.

¡Que Chuntaro!

Is being a Chuntaro (Choon-tah-ro) bad? 

I hear the expression all the time   sometimes in a good way, others in a bad one.  ¡Hay no, que chuntaro!  ¡Ese chuntaro esta bien guey. ¡¡Orale, que chuntaro!!  Surprisingly, a lot of young people of Mexican descent like being characterized as chuntaros, or knowing the activities they are taking part in could be described with this adjective. 

Perhaps in the same way non-Mexicans enjoy the term ghetto.  (i.e. That’s so ghetto, ghettofabulous, etc.)

Frequenting Spanish-only clubs that play straight musica norteña and rancheras, as well as dressing up in boots, cowboy hats, and large belt buckles are among the activities that could deem these young people chuntaros, at least those are the defining attributes they factor into the equation.   

The online Urban Dictionary actually defines chuntaro as a Mexican slang word, or synonym, for naco: a.k.a. 1) an Indian or Indian-looking Mestizo or 2) an uncultured or lower class person.  Yet, for the most part, when we use the term chuntaro we don’t mean it in such a disparaging way.  More often than not it’s used as a satirical expression of something or someone we find amusing. 

Even when used as an insult the translation is not so literal. 

For example, if a Mexican tells you you’re dressed all chuntaro they usually mean you’re appearance is less than appropriate for the place/event you are at.  Perhaps you’re wearing a prom-looking gown to Sunday mass, you could be wearing unintentional holes in your jeans or shoes, or just maybe the shimmer on your shirt or blouse is so strong it reflects the sunlight onto a nearby wall. 

By the same token, if you are at a specific location with a Mexican and they describe it as chuntaro they simply mean it is not up to their particular standards.  It might be a kid’s birthday party where there are more adults drinking than there are children playing, perhaps a quinceañera where the second-floor dance floor is so small and crowded it feels like the whole party might come crashing down onto the first floor at any given moment, or it could just mean the Mexican you are with is a little snobby.

Herein lays the problem of using the word chuntaro.  Since beauty is in the eye of the beholder, what I consider appropriate and up to my standards could be hideous and very chuntaro in your opinion.  So I am sad to say the fights / debates about what is or isn’t chuntaro will continue. 

On the flip side there are a lot of “chuntaro, and proud of it” folks out there, myself included.      

What do you consider Chuntaro?

Aquel Que Tiene Fe No Está Nunca Solo

He Who Has Faith Is Never Alone

The existence of faith and God are two things I’ve often doubted.

Not so much for lack of understanding – my parents did an excellent job instilling the fear of God in all of their children – but because of simple disbelief.  To say that as of today my Confirmation in Catholicism has not taken place.  My parents did enroll me in the appropriate catechism classes as a teenager, but after months of skipping the Sunday gatherings at Assumption Catholic Church the priest pulled me and my brother aside one day  to ask us one simple question: name me one of the seven holy sacraments, he implored.

We stared at him blindly, at each other with mischievous grins, trying our best not to burst into laughter.  Finally he gave us a choice: either we got up and left voluntarily then and there or he would parade us in front of the rest of our class as an example of what could happen when you didn’t do what you were supposed to.  We weren’t about to be humiliated so we got up and walked away.  As we drove ourselves home, our greatest fear was breaking the news to my mother.  In those days she was a devout Catholic and took tremendous pride in the fact two of her boys were completing their Confirmations.

Even our godparents had already been selected for us – mine was to be the same padrino who had baptized me, and my brother’s was to be my mother’s youngest brother. I don’t remember anymore how we eventually broke the news to her, but to this day she still scolds me about the choice you and your brother made to not get confirmed…I signed you all up for the catechism classes, but you weren’t kids anymore and it’s not like I could have forced the two of you to attend the classes. As a parent we do what we can and that’s all we can do you know.  If a child doesn’t want to listen anymore and they feel they are grown what can one do? To which I just smile and say nothing.

I say nothing because at this point in my life doubt has no place in my faith.  One too many times when I’ve sat at the brink of despair a higher power has pulled me through, comforted me on the other side and allowed me to do the same for others.  It’s a sensation unlike any I have ever experienced.  One in which peace reigns over the exhaustion of my body and soul, where the trails of sadness running down my face are wiped away, under which for no explainable reason I know things will be okay.  Sometimes they aren’t, and even then a spiritual presence tells me the road I’m on, no matter how rocky, is the right one. That somehow there will be some logic to the hardships in front of me.

More than any words could ever promise me.

I don’t attend Sunday mass every week.  I don’t live my life according to the bible, although maybe I should.  I haven’t confessed in four years.  I’ve entertained more than one religion.  I have committed many, many sins.  Not that I am proud of any of these truths, but despite them all I feel close to my God.  He was there for me when no one else could be, when all I had inside me was rage, when my spirit was broken.  When my prayers went unanswered, when my sadness was blinding, when my hunger for revenge was insatiable, when nothing at all mattered to me anymore, and he showed me forgiveness and repentance.

On this, the celebration of his resurrection, I can do no less than remind myself how fleeting words can be and rejoice in the wisdom of his presence in my heart.