Juan of Words

Houston March for Dignity organizers vow to protest Arizona’s SB 1070 on May 1st

All defendants of human rights and civil liberties are urged to join a nonviolent demonstration against the new law, for comprehensive immigration reform

courtesy of PhotosByJoseMunoz.com

And so the battle continues.  With the signing of SB 1070 into law yesterday, Arizona Governor Jan Brewer (R) raised the stakes on the fight for comprehensive immigration reform in the United States.  Her state intends to require local police to enforce federal immigration laws by making it a state crime to be in the country illegally.  This despite broad opposition from Hispanic and human rights organizations far beyond Arizona’s borders, and including President Barrack Obama’s harsh words against the bill just hours earlier.

“Our failure to act responsibly at the federal level will only open the door to irresponsibility by others.  That includes, for example, the recent efforts in Arizona, which threaten to undermine basic notions of fairness which we cherish as Americans, as well as the trust between police and their communities that is so crucial to keeping us safe,” President Obama stated at a televised press conference.  “In fact, I’ve instructed members of my administration to closely monitor the situation and examine the civil rights and other implications of this legislation, but if we continue to fail to act on a federal level we will continue to see misguided efforts opening up around the country.”

With their new authority, police in Arizona would be allowed to ask anyone whom they suspect are in the country illegally to prove their legal residency status in the United States by producing a valid “alien registration document,” including a green card, an Arizona divers license, or a passport.  If they are not able to produce these documents they would be subject to arrest, could be jailed up to six months and fined $2,500.  Harsher restrictions are also placed on anyone knowingly “concealing, harboring, or shielding an illegal immigrant.”  This law becomes the toughest anti-immigration law in the nation and marks a new level of assumed state government authority.

At a press conference in downtown Phoenix on Thursday where she was discussing border security, Brewer defended her state’s actions toward illegal immigration.

“I will not stop.  I will not be deterred.  I will not give ground when it comes to keeping us safe.  Securing the border might not be Arizona’s principal job, but we have no choice.  We must show resolve and courage where those who have failed to protect us have shown only weakness and delay.”

After signing SB 1070 into law she dismissed protesters’ concerns over racial profiling as “overreacting” and categorized opponents as “alarmists” and “cynics.”  Meanwhile, the American Civil Liberties Union as well as the Mexican-American Defense Fund have already vowed to contest SB 1070’s constitutionality in the courts, before its anticipated late July-early August implementation.

Fighting SB 1070

Opponents of SB 1070 have called for various measures to protest the passage of this new law in Arizona.  Some have promised to boycott the state by avoiding travel or business into its borders until SB 1070 is declared unconstitutional, a candlelight vigil is planned for this evening in Washington, D.C. at Dupont Circle, a social media based petition urging President Obama to take action against the new law is circulating Twitter, and a nationwide March for Dignity and Respect for All, which was scheduled for Saturday, May 1, 2010, has taken on a new purpose and strength.

So far nonviolent demonstrations have been the focus of protesters, but some speculate this could change as tensions rise in Arizona over the next few days.  In Houston, organizers are calling all individuals who support human rights and civil liberties to participate in a May 1st March for Dignity and Respect for All, scheduled to begin at the intersection of Bellaire Blvd. and Renwick Dr. at 4 p.m.

“We are faced with an unprecedented choice,” says Cesar Espinosa, president of Immigrant Families and Students in the Struggle (FIEL).  “We can stay silent and let our community continue to be trampled on or we can say enough!  The time for people to stand up is now.  The time to stop to Arizona and other copy cat states is now!”

FIEL is one of the leading groups organizing Houston’s May 1^st March for Dignity and Respect for All.  Local blogger and activist, Stace Medellin believes inaction is an invitation for further violations of human rights and civil liberties in Houston and across the nation.

“Yesterday’s action by the state of Arizona proved that Congress and President Obama must make comprehensive immigration reform the top priority.  The May 1st Marches around the United States have been given a boost by the fact there are groups who are more than willing to violate individual civil rights and liberties of specific groups of people” he said.  “There’s no doubt that these types of actions can lead to other groups being targeted as history has shown us, so it is important that we show a united, diverse front in calling for federal reform that is fair and humane.”

For more information about Houston’s May 1^st March for Dignity and Respect for All, text the word “MARCH” to (832) 497-5035 to receive updates, or visit the website www.houstonmarches.info

©Juan of Words

Memories

I wouldn’t call myself a poet since this style of writing has never been my forte, but this poem was inside of me and was nudging to come out.  Hope you enjoy, and you real poets out there…pardon the impersonation.  

I wish I had just one more day,
To share with you the things I’ve learned.

They’re not too many.
They’re not too few.

I do not know that they will help.
I do not know that they will heal.
I do not know that they will change,
The path you’ve walked,
And set to tread.

But in my life,
I’ve learned,
Of broad shoulders,
Upon which to lay,
Of strength in words,
And comfort in unyielding love.

I wish I had just one more day,
To share with you the things I’ve held.

There’ve been times,
The words were there,
When almost,
My thoughts were clear.
And yet,
Past these lips they’ve never fled.

One day,
You will be gone.

I will be here.

And all we’ll have,
Are things we’ve shared.

I wish I had just one more day.

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.

¡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?

Life In Prison: My Two Hours In Jail

A mixture of relief and excitement took hold of me as one door slammed behind us and another one jerked open in front of us.  This was my first time inside an actual jail, and it was much more than I had anticipated.  All at once I felt sad for the young faces locked up behind those concrete walls, angry about the illegal aliens – “mostly Mexicans” detained for illegal reentry – who made up the largest part of the prison population, proud of our tour guide for making it clear even inmates deserve to be treated like human beings, and tormented by the fact that some of the people I care about have had to endure the hardship of spending even one night in a place like this. 

At one point of our tour at this Federal Detention Center we walked among the general prison population in their living quarters.  Some guys were playing cards on long school-cafeteria-style tables; others were playing basketball and exercising behind a glass wall; a few did nothing but stand still; several guys nodded at me (I nodded back); and all of them stared at us in disbelief and confusion.  The tour guide told us federal prisons are no longer allowed to offer weight equipment that would enable inmates to build up their arms and upper body.  Instead they must do it the old fashion way: sit-ups and push-ups.  The bad thing is they are no longer exhausted and ready to sleep at lights out, creating a whole new set of challenges for prison staff.

I’d seen all the prison movies, heard all the stories from people who had been on the inside, but nothing could have prepared me for walking into that cell and experiencing it for myself.  As the solid metal door shut behind me I looked around at my surroundings and felt immediately hopeless.  The room was just a few inches larger than a standard freight elevator.  It had one tall slender window in the corner.  The glass was hazy either from old age or dirt.  The width of it was smaller than my leg.  A single bunk bed sat less than a foot away from the toilet.  And on the immediate other side was a desk the two inmates who share this room have to share with each other.  I can’t begin to fathom what it must be like to spend one day, month, or year after the other within four walls such as those. 

Those young faces, years more juvenile than my own, are what are causing me to pause.  I can’t help wondering why they are sitting there.  Not the crime they were convicted for, but what course of action in their lives (what moment) led to them spiraling into a life behind bars.  It made me want to be a better parent.  It made me want to be a better person.  It made me want to do something to stop these young people from rotting away in jail. It made me want to yell.   

It made me want to cry.

Rage In Music: The Spanish Break-Up Song

Unlike its English counterpart, the Spanish-language break-up song is significantly more aggressive.  It directly attacks, insults and even ridicules the departed party, giving the scorned lover full liberty to unleash their rage.  

Few words are off limits!

While Gloria Gaynor’s greatest hit, I Will Survive takes us through the healthy process of overcoming our fears, discovering our inner strength and resolving to learn from our mistakes: I’m not that chained up little person / still in love with you / now I’m saving all my loving / for someone who’s loving me; Gloria Trevi’s Cinco Minutos (Five Minutes) openly boasts about her ex’s misfortune: I’ll give you five minutes; vent / Don’t think I don’t have anything better to do / And if I said hello it was only a courtesy / Now you are at the bottom and I am at the top.    

On the other side of the spectrum, Beyonce’s chart topper, Irreplaceable steps up the rage:  You could pack all your things, we’re finished / Cause you made your bed, now lay in it / I can have another you by tomorrow / Don’t you ever for a second get to thinking you’re irreplaceable; but still is not as forceful as say Pesado’s Ojala (Hopefully), which leaves very little to the imagination: Hopefully / Life will charge you with interest the damage you’ve done to me / That you may not find love, And if one day you do / That it fails / Hopefully someone will make you suffer and from all the pain / You will no longer desire to live / That you will want to die.

Now that’s frustration!

La India’s Que Me Importa (What do I care?), callously expresses: What do I care to see you like that, without dignity / I don’t care about anything and that is your truth / What do I care… / If it takes you a lifetime to understand / That you have lost me / If our memories hurt you / And cause you to cry like a child / What do I care?  Not to be forgotten.  Few can deliver a great break-up song as well as the Mexican singer Paquita la del Barrio (Paquita from the hood).  Her most popular anthem Rata de dos patas (Two-legged rat) spares no offense in its fury: Disgusting rat / Despicable animal / Slum of the earth / Ridiculous mistake / Damn reptile / How much damage you have caused me / Trash of this life / I hate you and despise you. 

Next time you’re unfortunate enough to be suffering from a love affair gone wrong, you might give Spanish break-up songs a chance.  They may not have a lasting impact, but in the moment, they are a hell of a quick fix. 

If you have a favorite break-up song of your own, share it here.

Song Links:

Gloria Gaynor – I will survive

Gloria Trevi – Cinco Minutos

Beyonce – Irreplaceable

Pesado – Ojala

La India – Que me importa

Paquita la del Barrio – Rata de dos patas

Where Were Houston’s Hispanics!?

So tens of thousands of people turned out for the immigration reform march that took place this past Sunday in Washington, D.C.  They were there demanding a reform to the nation’s current immigration laws from President Barrack Obama and members of Congress.  Meanwhile, here in Houston, organizers also put together a similar march down Canal Street in the East End, with one salient difference – significantly fewer protesters. 

Chanting the same message as their counterparts in D.C. (si se puede, yes we can), considerably fewer marchers convened at the intersection of Cesar Chavez Drive and Canal Street just before 2 p.m.  To say that approximately 1,000 individuals showed up for this march is a very generous overstatement because had it not been for the buses that drove people in from other areas of town, not even half of that number would have been achieved.  There were almost more police cars and officers than protesters. 

In a city as large as Houston, with so many Hispanics, what does that tell us about our community?

Are we to assume that not enough Latinos in our city care about immigration reform to march in support of its implementation; that word of mouth did not get around as it should have; that most of our protesters were actually in D.C. participating on a national scale; or that more people did not come out because they were afraid of being deported as The New York Times reported today?  Whatever the reason, it was discouraging not to see more familiar faces.

What do you think? 

De Tal Palo, Tal Astilla

The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far From The Tree

Higueras, duraznos, naranjas, hierbabuena, Piquin, and romero are just a few of the plants that come to mind when I think of my mother’s gardens throughout the years.  Everywhere she’s ever lived she’s left a tropical paradise behind.  None more so than at the last house   we shared before I went my own way.

Picture purple leaves, sprawling through the ground, greens of every tone dancing in the wind, running parallel to the curving sidewalk on either side, trees taller than grown men whispering in your ears, roses by the dozen lining the entrance of our home, the scent of orange and peach, rosemary and mint, greeting you the moment you walked in past our iron gate.  That was the home we shared while I was finishing school and getting ready for the rest of my life.  It was also the place where I finally understood why my mother is so meticulous about her gardening.

You see, for her, gardening is more than growing plants; it’s about planting seeds and leaving something behind.  Something that represents who you are, that let’s people know you were here in this world, and that you cared enough to leave your plot in the world a little better off than you found it.  That is the explanation she gave me.

Knowing life in the rancho would not be for her, uncertain about which part of the States she’d end up in, and nostalgic about leaving her parent’s behind, my mother packed up what little clothes she had, prepared to meet up with the coyota that was crossing her over, and walked up to my grandfather to ask for his blessing.  He obliged and gave her a piece of advice she never forgot: plant mija, wherever you are remember to plant; that is our legacy; that is what we will leave behind.

Poverty was the perpetrator behind her departure, and my mother had spent enough of her life away from her parent’s to know that the tall tales of abundance in the United States were exactly that – fables.  At the age of five she had been given away to her mother’s sister who lived in another town.  Try as she had, moving back home was never possible until she turned 15.  By then it was too late – she was a stranger in her own home.  In leaving, her goal was not to obtain great wealth, but to earn enough money to raise a family and send money back home to Mexico.

She did both, even when what she could send was little more than a letter letting her parents know she was still alive.  Building an empire was never an option.

Over the years her gardens became more elaborate.  Each one incorporated more techniques and precision to the process.  Five gallon paint cans, old pots, plastic containers of all shapes and sizes were recruited to serve as incubators for new plant life.  As the foliage began to pour over their containers they were either replanted on solid ground or given away as gifts.  At one point, my mother became so popular for selling peach plants at her garage sales that neighbors would just randomly show up to ask if she had any more.

When my parent’s moved out of that home, just a few years ago, it took an entire 24-foot U-Haul truck to transport less than half of her plants.

Almost four decades later, my mother is once again beginning the process of leaving her mark in the home she was finally able to have constructed from scratch.  Her garden is once again beginning to take shape, and despite the added years my mother is still as meticulous about her planting as ever.

I’m excited to see her efforts come to fruition, even though in my heart I now know her most far-reaching undertaking has been to plant in us the inspiration to leave behind a legacy of our own.

No Hay Rosa Sin Espinas

There Is No Rose Without Thorns

Everything that goes up must come down.  If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.  Never say never.  Love all, trust few.  All wise words easily interchangeable with this dicho.  Their commonality, each warns us about making mistakes in judgment and in life.  Yet regardless of how many times we hear these words, or others, we’re still bound to make mistakes.

Nobody can live life for us and rarely do we really learn from the mistakes of others.

It can’t happen to me, that’s their own fault, I’m not going to make that mistake, this is not the same thing – all excuses we use to rationalize our actions when that pesky little voice in the back of our head is warning us something is not right.  A lot of times it’s just easier to ignore that queasy feeling.  We occupy our time so we don’t have to think about it, and go on with our lives.  The unfortunate fact of the matter is that sooner or later our mistakes will catch up to us. 

Like an unwelcome and unexpected guest, our blunders will waltz into our lives, make themselves comfortable and refuse to leave until we properly deal with all of their ramifications.  Of course the argument could be made that whatever doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger.  And it does, but wouldn’t it be nice if we could have a radar of sorts that would tell us when we were about to make a mistake.  That we could just push a button and avoid the error completely.  Then we would be able to consciously decide whether we want to deal with the associated drama or not. 

Even better, as parents we’d have decision-making authority on our children’s mistakes, at least until they turned 25 or something.  Wouldn’t that make life so much more peaceful!?

Parent:  I know you are 21 and you want to go out for a drink and have sex, but I just don’t think you’re ready for all that.

Kid:  But all my friends are doing it, and they even get to stay out past midnight. 

Parent:  Well you’re not your friends.  I’m sorry…my answer is still no.  I am hitting the anti-blunder button now and that’s that!

Kid:  This is not fair…       

Mr. Steve Wozniak and Mr. Bill Gates you’ve just been assigned a new project!

Until that happens we’ll have to settle for trying to be better listeners with ourselves – to not dismiss those butterflies in the stomach, or the whispers in our mind.  That when we find that rose that captivates us like no other, we do not blind ourselves to the thorns that will undoubtedly line its stem. 

And yes, using naivety and ignorance as an excuse eventually does get old. 

¡Ando Bien Contenis!

Contenis, as in happy, excited, overjoyed, in good spirits, and a host of other positive-feeling adjectives.     If you’ve ever heard a Mexican say this word and wondered what he or she was talking about, you should know this variation on the Spanish utterance for happy is just that.  Another way to express a feeling of joy!

Not anything relating to tennis shoes, unless we are excited about a new pair of sneakers and use it to express how contenis we are.  For Example:

Q:  ­¿Que onda guey?   What’s up dude?

A:  Aqui nomas.   Just here.  

Q:  ¿Como andas?   How are you?

A:  ¡Contenis!   Happy!

My favorite morning radio deejay uses this word all the time, in so many different ways, that it has just become one of my favorite Mexican Spanish slang words.  It’s very flexible, can be uttered in various intonations, can be applied to virtually any friendly exchange, and is just more fun to say than contento, feliz, agradable, satisfecho,etc.  Yet if you look it up in the dictionary of the Real Academia Española (the worldwide leading authority on the Spanish language) there is no definition for contenis.

Still contenis makes me happy!  How do you use this expression?