Juan of Words

What I’ve Learned About Money From Latinas

"Rosita Adelita" by Robert Valadez

No better place for money than close to your heart.  That makeshift, almost-fully-natural, form-flattering, extra pocket between the bosom and the bra where nobody better enter without clearly expressed consent…if they didn’t want either a cachetada or a chancletazo that is.  That’s where all women kept their money safe.  Right?

Safer than a safe, that’s where mi má always kept her change purse or loose dollar bills.  When she needed the money en un dos por tres, she’d turn away and turn back and there it was.  ¿Cuánto era otra vez? Nobody saw nothing and there went lo que quedo back in its place…for safekeeping, until she needed to use her money again.  This was especially useful when we were riding public buses through a beat up, barren downtown Houston, full of homeless people roaming the streets and others just down on their luck looking for something, not sure what.  We were always either on our way to the Clinica de los Amigos or the old Woolworth’s in downtown afterwards to pick up a couple of rolls of yarn for my mom’s latest knitting project.  Usually a sweater, a scarf or a hat.

It was as if next to her heart the money was untouchable, invisible…unnoticeable.

Nobody ever actually tried to steal her purse – the one full of receipts, bus passes and nick-knacks for us kids – probably because they could tell just by looking at us that we were literally just a few rainy days of no work away from being in their shoes.  And where was the sport in that?

So off we went, back and forth, my mother and her trail of mocosos, trying to find a way to make things easier on my dad.

At the McDonald’s or Burger King, again, en un dos por tres, ahi estaba el dinero, just enough to buy us un poquito for all of us to eat.  Individual combo meals, that was an unheard of!  Fortunately for us, eventually us kids figured out we could get more bang for our buck, and more food, at Burger King.  One dollar was enough for a whopper and everyone knew a whopper was way bigger than a Big Mac or Quarter Pounder from McDonalds.  So there we’d go, all the time, anytime we got hungry, out and about, we’d hunt down the king instead of the golden arches.  A lesson learned on investing our money wisely.

Clink, Clink, Clink!  When times were really tough, there on our dining table, piles of pennies pouring out of glass pickle jars, even some marmalade ones, our busy little hands stacking them in tens, stuffing one hundred of them in individual rolls of brown recycled paper marked $1.  Afterwards at the bank we’d trade in all our pennies for cash.  Those fancy money counters at the grocery store were convenient, but they always kept at least 10 percent of the cash we needed to pay off a bill or take care of something equally important.  No se dejen engañar, contar el dinero es más trabajo…pero rinde más.

Money was important.  It was necessary.  Valuable.   Even indispensable.  But never more important than family, taking care of each other, stretching every dollar to get the most out of it, and pulling all our funds together when we really needed to.  My mother never washed a pair of my father’s jeans without first going through every single pocket to check for loose change or bills.  And she rarely ever came up empty handed.  When it was just a quarter here, a nickel there, she’d hand it to us kids, and off we’d run, straight to Doña Pilar’s apartment to buy a handful of candy from her jumbo glass container of dulces.

Nowadays a combo meal is just the norm, not the exception.  We hardly ever count pennies anymore, unless you count the times I dig through the jars of change looking for only shiny quarters, nickels and dimes, the golden arches and the king are avoided at all costs, and mi má has her own car, but I do always get a kick out of watching my wife go through all of my own jeans’ pockets, her jars of pennies in the closet, her turning away and turning back, en un dos por tres, to pull out her money from her chest, and the way she can always order enough food for a house full of people for pretty much next to nothing…or at least less than 20 bucks.  A lo mejor es de herencia para las Latinas. No sé. But it sure is attractive.

What better proof of true love than knowing, as a Latina, you’re taking care of our money?

Access To Mental Health: Pending Issue For Latinos

Budget cuts and a lack of bilingual therapists, a double disadvantage

Houston – They are a part of our community: children, parents, students, professionals. But in times of economic crisis, their need to access mental health services can make them more vulnerable.

With the proposed budget cuts in the Texas State Legislature to alleviate an estimated $27 billion deficit, mental health services in the Lone Star could have up to $128 million removed from their current services budget.

“It’s scary,” says Sylvia Muzquiz-Drummond, medical director of the mental health division of the Mental Health and Mental Retardation Authority of Harris County (MHMRA).  “With these kinds of budget cuts … waiting lists will get longer, more people will end up in jail, and some people might have to be disengaged out of services…that are stable.  It becomes an issue of public safety.  Harris county is a growing population and what the state has contracted us for has always been the same, with less money.”

The funds provided to MHMRA by the state, she added, have always been to cover the monthly treatment costs of 8,830 adults with serious mental health illnesses and 1,700 children with any mental health illness, not necessarily a severe one.  According to Muzquiz-Drummond, up until three months ago, the agency had managed to serve more than 9,000 adults and 2,500 children per month with these same funds.  Now, she adds, they have no choice but to place those seeking help from her agency on a waiting list, with no definite time as to when they actually will be able to receive treatment.

The 10,000 patients who are currently receiving treatment through MHMRA are considered the most “high risk” of the population.

U.S. Army veteran Felix Martinez (52), a father of four, who suffers from schizophrenia and bipolar disorder, is one of those patients.

At 30, he suffered his first violent episode when all of a sudden he began hearing voices and seeing apparitions in the home he shared with his then girlfriend, Martinez recalls.  By the time police arrived, he was stabbing the kitchen door with a kitchen knife and almost had authorities open fire on him because he refused to drop the knife.

Over the next 22 years, Martinez was in and out of jails and hospitals as he struggled with the increasingly violent episodes of his mental illness.  In fact, the criminal charges he came to accrue during this time included aggravated assault against a law enforcement officer, aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, and attempted murder.  For the latter he was sentenced to seven years in prison, of which he served three between 1990 and 1993.  It was during that final year of his sentence that he first began receiving treatment from an affiliate of MHMRA in the Texas Rio Grande Valley.

“I had the so called blackouts,” says Martinez. ”Everything would get all dark, and it was like I had fallen asleep, and every hour or two hours I would wake up again.”  But in reality, he wasn’t asleep, and it was in those times when things would get really dangerous.  After several suicide attempts and even an attempt to kill his own brother, Martinez received the proper treatment.  He is now an employee of MHMRA in its consumer division.

In 2003, he remarried, he now has a seven year old daughter with his new wife, and it has been five years since he’s stepped foot in a hospital because of his illness.  The difference, he says, having finally accepted his illness and taken the proper medications correctly.

Latino problem
For the Hispanic community the situation is even more severe because there are simply not enough bilingual mental health specialists to work with this growing population.

That’s what Ira Colby, Dean of the School of Social Work at the University of Houston, realized five years ago, when both Hispanic parents and mental health agencies, including MHMRA and DePelchin Children’s Center, which specializes in working with children and adolescents, were all urgently asking his institution for more bilingual professionals.

Although most children in Hispanic homes are fully bilingual, says Colby, and can communicate without any issues with an English-speaking mental health specialist, that is not always the case for many of their parents.

The need is obvious: Bianca Walker, director of behavioral health services for DePelchin Children’s Center, points out that her agency’s only six bilingual therapists are responsible for approximately 1,200 individual cases in Harris county.

Over the past five years, the University of Houston has spent much time and effort in providing scholarships to bilingual students interested in obtaining a master’s degree in bilingual social work.  However, they recognize it is still not enough to deal with the growing problem.

“We recognize there are many people who are not fluent in English…” says Colby.  “Being able to have a fully bilingual professional…means you’re able to pick up on the small little pieces that might be significant clues to whatever issue that person or their family might be facing.”

Support for families
For Guatemalan Sergio Aguirre, dealing with his nine year old daughter’s illness has been an exhausting and bitter process.

When she was two years old, her pediatrician recommended he and his then wife take her to a specialist because she was still not speaking.  The diagnosis was autism, and almost immediately her treatment began.  Aguirre placed her in speech therapy and by the time she entered pre-K, Anna-Michelle spoke well enough to participate in special needs classes.  Something her father acknowledges he struggled deeply with to accept.

“A parent never expects to have his or her son or daughter diagnosed with a mental illness,” says Aguirre. ”My problem was not understanding her mental illness, my problem was accepting it.”

Anna-Michelle’s constant care needs, in fact, led to her mother making the decision to abandon her two children two years ago.  Aguirre recognizes she was the main caretaker of their daughter during the first five years of her diagnosis.

In the National Alliance on Mental Illness of Houston (NAMI), however, the father found the help he needed to finally accept his daughter’s mental illness.

NAMI is a local non-profit organization run primarily by relatives of people diagnosed with mental illnesses.  Its aim is to provide information on the various forms of mental illnesses and to offer support groups to members of families, especially parents.

“In reality, this is a process whereby all reserves of hope and of the possibility of believing that things will one day get better, are being mined, little by little…into nothingness,” confesses Aguirre.

This story was originally published in Spanish in the Houston Chronicle’s Spanish-language publication, La Voz de Houston.  It was translated to English by the author, Juan Alanis, and may be found in its original form HERE.

When to act if you suspect a mental issue:
Experts say the most important thing for parents to know is that they are not losing anything by seeking a professional opinion if they suspect their child could be presenting symptoms of a possible mental illness.  The following are guidelines for determining whether a child requires a professional evaluation:

-       If a parent suspects their child may be suffering from a mental illness they should seek a professional evaluation.  Experts recommend parents trust their instincts.

-       If a child says he/she wants to die or does not want to live any longer, this should always be taken seriously, and the child should receive immediate attention from a professional.

-       If a child becomes increasingly isolated, their school grades drop suddenly, if they are increasingly irritable, or sleep too much or not enough.

-       If a friend of your child expresses concern about their wellbeing.

-       If a child compulsively bites their nails or washes their hands, or develops any other compulsive behavior.

-       If a child eats too much or not enough.

-       And always, if a child has experienced any form of trauma in their life.

Sources: Sylvia Muzquiz-Drummond, medical director of the mental health division MHMRA, and Bianca Walker, director of behavioral health services DePelchin Children’s Center.

Financial aid for Bilingual Social Workers:
Each semester the School of Social Work at the University of Houston offers five full scholarships, as well as several partial scholarships, for bilingual students seeking a master’s degree in social work. The requirements are:

-       A bachelor’s degree in any discipline.

-       A grade point average of 3.0

-       The student must complete the two-year program.

-       60 credit hours are required.

-       Students must be attending school full time in order to qualify for any kind of financial assistance.

-       920 hours of field work must also be completed as part of the master’s program.

-       After receiving a master’s degree, if the student received one of the five full scholarships, they must work for a local social work agency for a minimum of two years.

-       The current full scholarships cover tuition, fees, and books, approximately $ 12,500.

Source: Ira Colby, Dean of the School of Social Work at the University of Houston.

Ginoveba Maria Guadalupe Torres, Enamorada – Part I

Ginoveba Enamorada

El cuento de ella es uno de sudor y sacrificio.  Not because she gave all of herself to become la abogada, la licenciada, la doctora, or even la maestra, her parents so desperately wanted her to be.  Hell, her mom would even tell her behind her father’s back, buscate un muchacho rico que te sepa cuidar y apreciar…si no está guapo, está bien, eso es lo de menos.

Instead, because she did precisely the opposite.  Juancho was poor, yes.  He was guapo, yes.  He had money, no.  Clase, no.  Connections?  Not unless you considered getting a pack of cigarettes fiados at the corner store until pay day any type of power.  But he was funny, charming, stupid at always just the right times…like when Ginoveba decided maybe her parents were right and she should dump him at least until he could hold down a steady job, for more than a month digo, she thought.  All it took was him pulling out two napkins full of chicken nuggets that he had stolen from his latest job to get fired from as revenge, placing them in the middle of the table and saying “hey well at least we have dinner tonight prietita” to make her give him that overly tooth-baring smile, which he knew meant everything is still okay between us.  He knew she was in love with him and that gave him the courage to seguir de vago.

At least that’s what mamá would say every time, on her weekly visits to their little one bedroom, one bath, no-furniture apartment, in the middle of nowhere, where the rent was cheap and all the utilities were included in the monthly payment.  There in between those two gas station tienditas, the liquor store, and the panaderia was where each night they’d hold each other really tight laying flat on the floor, well separated by a thin mattress only, promising each other what was yet to come el día de mañana when they could afford it and things were surely going to be better.

¡Ginoveba Maria Guadalupe Torres!  No seas tan pendeja, abre los ojos, her mother would always yell when Ginoveba would refuse to believe anything she was telling her about El Juancho.  That was also always her last line before storming out of the apartment in an uproar.

From the window, her daughter would just watch.  There she went jumping into her car, sitting in there for a minute or two, trying to think of what to say to her husband before calling him, to report why this week again Ginoveba would not be coming home.  ¡Papá would not step foot inside that apartamentillo she had left his house for!  Instead he’d send mamá to talk some sense into her daughter.

His house might have been small and bien humilde, but it was his.  He’d spent the better part of his much younger years breaking his back as an obrero, un buenoparatodo, to pay it off and raise all of his seven kids inside of it.  Now this little mocoso was all his little girl could think about and see.  La más chiquita, la bebe, la consentida, the one who just a few years back would never have dreamt of leaving his side, now she was the one breaking his heart.

In her defense, Ginoveba really didn’t mean to do it.  She was in love.  What else could she do?  In the novelas you always did whatever you had to in the name of love.  And that’s all she was trying to do.  She’d be a fiera, a salvaje, an ursurpadora, if she had to be, fight everyone and anybody to defend her amorcito corazón, Ginoveba foolishly thought.

Besides how could she have known that boyishly good looking smile Juancho first gave her when papá brought him to the house por primera vez would have turned into all this?  Papá said “Beba ayudale a tu mamá a servir la cena”, that’s what he called her back then, before he was so angry at her.  So there she came, rolling her eyes y toda la cosa, despeinada, desganada, and wearing what she always wore when she was just at home watching TV, a pair of basketball shorts and a big tee-shirt.  The usual for the quinceañera of the casa.  Only this time La Beba was completely humiliated.  Her dad’s coworkers were never this young!  Or guapos!  Even though he looked at least three years older than her, Ginoveba was mesmerized…from the beginning.

He smiled at her!  That had to mean something!  Papá’s uncomfortable grunting and groaning…only more proof that Juancho now knew who La Beba was.

Now all she needed to do was figure who she actually wanted Ginoveba Maria Guadalupe Torres to be.

Las Lecciones Of The Warriors Luchistas Of My Youth

Epitome of La Warrior Luchista

Those Aztec Warriors were before my time.  The Pancho Villas and Emiliano Zapatas también.  Pa que digo que no si sí, as a much more contemporary heroine of my time would say, La India Maria.  And that’s not to discount any of their contributions and sacrifices to and for my culture at all.  Pero tampoco me voy hacer el que se las sabe toditas en cuanto a sus historias.  I’ll be the first to admit there are plenty more things about their time and history that I could stand to learn.

That I probably should learn.

But the heroes and heroines of my time were otros.  Most of them barely spoke a word of English.  Almost all of them had studied no farther than the second grade.  Some of them couldn’t read.  A lot more of them were terrible at math like me.  Y aún así they were all living the American dream.  The one with the long hours and often illegal pay.  Not because they didn’t have papers, although a good number of them didn’t, but because they were never paid minimum wage.  They worked for less than it so why bother paying them any more than that?  They were a humble people.  Never too concerned about the latest trend or the fanciest pair of shoes they could buy their kids.  They cared more about making sure their hard work would speak for them, volumes past what little broken English they could muster.

As if a scrubbed down toilet, a meticulously built fence, or an extra well manicured lawn, would tell the world how good and honest a people they actually were.  The irony is that a lot of times it did.  It was a badge of honor for people to recognize how good of a job they were doing even if they still would not pay them el mínimo.

“Your work is your reputation.  ¿Si no te enseñas a trabajar qué vas hacer? You have to learn how to work hard, how to do as much as possible, para cuando se ofrezca…uno nunca sabe,” those we’re their constant reminders.  It didn’t matter if it was my own parents, my uncles, my grandparents, the neighbors, or even the janitors at school, they all always made the same recommendations for getting ahead.

It was a different generation.  A braver one.  Of warriors luchistas, all be it in Chick-fil-A uniforms, janitor suits, botas de construcción, hard hats, and aprons.  They believed in something.  Had risked life and limb to achieve it.  And were never above putting their pride aside for the benefit of a bigger picture.  Their stories amazed me.  Their sacrifices left me speechless.  Their determination.  Wow!  Their determination.  I wanted to be like them.  To be that confident.  To be that sure that things were always going to be okay.  To trust in God as much as they did.  No se preocupen, Dios siempre nos ayuda. And to never let anything get me down.

I’m sure they did.  In fact, I know it.  But no matter how bad things got, nothing ever broke them.

When our kids grow up will they see us the same way?  Will they think back to the toughest parts of their childhoods and admire the way we persevered against all odds?  Will they learn the same lessons we once did?  Will they value hard work and honesty much more than money and the material?  Even despite our age of everything made easy, gizmos and gadgets?  It’s something worth aspiring to.  I think.

Cosas De La Vida: En La Guerra Y El Amor Todo Se Vale

All Is Fair In Love And War

Courtesy of Cornflakegirl

And why not?  It is the single-most important human emotion we all possess.  The one worth fighting for, against all odds; the one we would seemingly travel the world over to protect; the one that makes us feel safe and happy in the arms of our beloved; and even sometimes in the arms of a not-so-much-beloved.  But how do you know the difference between what love is actually real, and the one that, as they say, nomás es pasajero?

More importantly, how do you deal with the reality that after the honeymoon phase is over, whether literally or not, the real work actually begins?

At my sister’s wedding, last October, the priest said something that really made me laugh – not in any perverse way, more because what came out of his mouth was literally what I had always thought, and hearing him say it made me feel very, very validated.  Like hmm, see I knew I was right all this time! I’ll paraphrase what he said because I don’t remember exactly the words he used to make me feel SO right.  Basically, that while the beautiful couple was very much in love at the moment, in their enviable young age and physique, that the days eventually would come when they would not be able to bare the sight of one another…be it from anger, frustration, sadness, disappointment, or just plain boredom (depressing, I know, but it’s not all bad), and that it would be in those precise moments that their love would actually face the true testing of their vows.

¡Cuando lo veas gordo, feo y apesto!  Ahí es cuando tienes que demostrarle tu amor.

It made me laugh because I think, just maybe, that is the true test of how real a love actually is.  That when the muscle turns into flab, the abs into a gut, the hiney into a mass of cellulite, the full head of hair into a rapidly receding hairline…or maybe not, but in some way the physical attributes begin to shift.  And, mucho más importantemente, that when life begins throwing its curve balls, as it most definitely will, that person is there to stand beside you – even if they don’t know exactly what to do or say – holding your hand, pulling you through, caring enough to not just walk away…and knowing that you would do the same for them.  That when you’re facing tragedy, despair, adversity, the end of the road, or even the much dreaded drama of the teenage years, you learn to work as a team and fork ahead…just bow your head down and fork ahead, where no one player is ever more important than the rest.

Definitely not to say that one’s self-respect and dignity should ever be cast aside, sacrificed for the survival of any relationship.  They shouldn’t be!  But the fact is, love and marriage are a constant battle.  First to find the honest and sincere kind – sin interés – then to hold on to it, nourish it, and nurse it back from the wounds of life.

Then again, I may be completely off.

These are just the thoughts of this gordo, feo y apestoso.