El Reflejo

Volume 5, Issue 5

2010-03-06T14:15:00.000-08:00

Fruitless

2009-05-04T17:02:00.000-07:00

Omar Moreno

The words of Lincoln in a letter
to a mother in Boston, heartbroken
over her lost sons is what I think of
When the projects have their latest casualty.
I say this as if this were Iraq or Afghanistan,
a lonely field in Gettysburg,
in defense of democracy, but no.

I have lived here, a place like this,
for my whole life. To me,
a shooting should be a shooting,
nothing akin to the Revolutionary War,
(no fanciful calligraphy telling King George,
thanks but no thanks) but a massacre.

You see, I jump into books a great deal,
A literary ostrich and the helicopters
are from a world that is not my own.

The boy is shot running from the
Police. His wounds exit from his visage.
I know his little sister, whose heart
Was empty before her brother left,
Who knew that mine was empty as well.
She asked me to dance at a Valentine's Party.

The people from the projects,
the neighborhood, march to say
this occupation is enough.
Their way of saying Thanks but No thanks
to the bed of nails, the different King Georges
across the country. I like their lack of Metaphor,
how a shower of Rose petals is not
the real way a person dies.

My perch on a stack of books
is how I see the world.
Trying to describe a death
and assuage the eventual grief of
People I know. Words Lincoln deemed fruitless.
A leaf against a wave
of water is who I am.
Leaves against a wave of stones
is how his family feels.

An Appalling Charm

2009-05-04T00:07:00.000-07:00

Fernando Romero

The killing streets took another victim one July night almost eight years ago. We lived on a small, second-fl oor apartment on Seventh Street and Lime Avenue. This is a part of Long Beach ridden with all the idiosyncrasies of society; violence, drug activity, prostitution, racial hatred, crime, alcoholism and poverty. There also exists a morbid sense of magical realism that can sometimes be attributed to this place; a dichotomy that fuses the ugliness of life with that of the human spirit. Almost like a sign of hope and a testament to the will of instinct. There is something about this place that speaks of an appalling charm. It is a place where the angels starve. Where children will play soccer out in the street with the carcass of a dead rat like my brothers and I once did. Where you could tie a string to the legs of a June bug and fl y it like a kite. Perhaps, it is the way a loved one’s shoes will hang from power lines like a eulogy. Or maybe it is simply the way gun shots sound like the clap of a hand echoed off in the distance. And how you sometimes feel envious when you see people fall asleep under the bright light of day.

Published on July 10, 2001, Press-Telegram (Long Beach, CA)

MOTHER OF SEVEN SHOT TO DEATH

A single mother with seven children was shot to death outside her home and her neighbor was wounded when a gunman opened fi re on them Sunday night. “I don’t know why this happened,’“ said the neighbor, who was sitting outside in the 700 block of East Seventh Street with Graciela Zavala and two teen-age boys at about 11:15 p.m. when someone walked out of a nearby alley and opened fi re. “We were just sitting out here, just talking and laughing.” Ms. Zavala was reportedly sitting on the front porch of her apartment with neighbors when an unknown assailant walked up and fi red multiple shots into the group.

I saw the front page of the Press-Telegram the following Tuesday. I read the story of the slain woman. Her name was Graciela; she was 39, a single mother of seven and of working-class background. Maybe it was a sense of guilt and fear that I felt that grabbed and tore at me, but I waited for the twilight of the setting sun before I walked over to the street corner where she had fallen two days earlier. On the steps of the porch, there was a candlelight vigil in honor of this woman whose life had come to a deafening end. I passed by. I saw candles alight bearing the vibrant image of the Jesus Sacred Heart crowded by fl owers, cards and pictures of the departed. I saw a photograph of her that stood pressed against a candle. She had a round face, high cheek bones and small brown eyes coupled with long, fl owing black hair. She was wearing a black a dress and in her left hand she was holding a rosary. She had a picaresque smile, probably reminiscent of her younger days.

The vigil had a gathering of about a dozen people. I assumed most were relatives and close friends, and like me, people just came and went. I wasn’t there more than ten minutes. I didn’t know any of the people that were gathered so I stood there almost with a sense of indifference. Albeit, it was my neighborhood, the resistance for a sense of community and the need for isolation had dictated everyone’s life until a tragedy struck, the same way we made new neighbors late one nigth in January 1994 when the Northridge earthquake shook the world and reminded us, all of us, of our existance and what binds us.

I saw the people there; I saw their eyes and they were sad like a defeated race. I could sense death. I crossed myself and left in the selfi sh hope that such a tragedy should never hit close to home. It was one of those Summer nights I felt the most cold, but also felt a little more closer to this strange thing; this humanity.

Across the porch where the candlelight vigil stood, was a Catholic gift shop and down the street on Olive Avenue, St. Anthony’s Church, where we attended Mass on Sunday mornings. Down Seventh Street toward Los Alamitos Avenue, was St. Francis, where we would go with my mother, when we my brothers and I were all young, family struggling for money and still new to this place. There, we received donations of canned fruit, canned food, and other food stuffs and as restless as we were, my brothers and I would help my mother carry these home. No car, no transportation, nothing, just the six of us walking with fortitude without any lament, like mother goose leading her ducklings to a pond somewhere over a green pasture buried amidst this inner-city jungle.

About two weeks later, I sat inside the front offices at Millikan High School. For the summer session, I had a graphic arts class for first period and was a student aide to the front office of the school for second period. I was talking to my friend Helen when a girl, also a student aide, came to me.

“Hey, is your name Fernando?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Yeah, I think there’s a phone call for you,” she said.

I was perplexed, but followed her.

She handed me the phone.

“Hello,” I said into the phone.

“Hey, it’s me. It’s Paula,” I recognized my sister-in-law’s voice immediately and by the tone of it, I knew that something was wrong.

“Your mom’s in the hospital. She fell down the stairs this morning. She’s hurt pretty bad.”

I cringed. I felt kicked in the stomach.

“Is she gonna be okay?” I asked calmly sensing the room and this girl who still had her eyes locked on me.

“Well, kind of… She’s at St. Mary’s. Everyone’s is already here or on their way,” Paula said.

“Okay…I’m on my way.”

I hung up. I rushed back to where Helen sat to grab my stuff.

“Is everything alright?” Helen asked with her eyes widened.

“No, I have to go,” I responded. “My mom’s in the hospital.”

Helen gasped as I ran out the office and out of the school in a frantic dash to catch the first bus headed Downtown. While on the bus, my thoughts were on my mother’s welfare. I fashioned my own prayer asking for my mother to never die. I thought about my father and my brothers and wondered what they were thinking at that exact moment. I thought about the woman who had ceased to exist two weeks prior; and of the similarities of one mother to the other. I thought about life and death and concluded that time was never on our side.

I arrived at St. Mary’s within an hour. I was the last one there. My brothers and my father were gathered in the lobby. It was a sight to see; seven males huddled together with an expression of fear not unlike the dangers of warfare. As the last one, it was my turn to see my mother. I didn’t want to see her at all; not like this at least.

We waited about anxiously until I was ushered in to see my mother at around noon. Her room was in one of the upper floors of the medical center. Inside the hospital room, my mother was in a cast up to her neck. I could see her face and eyes only. Her eyes looked weary and the hazel in her iris gave off a grey reflection. It took me a while to recognize her. She seemed to have aged decades in only one day. It was obvious she was numbed with a lot pain medication. The medical staff had said she wouldn’t be able to talk much and that each visit would be better if it were short.

I stood against the side of the hospital bed. She looked up at me and gave me a concerned look. In her eyes, she saw me as if though I were still a child. In a way, we were all still kids. My youngest brother was seven and the oldest was 22. I felt helpless. I didn’t know what to do; I didn’t know what to say. She was in a full body cast and the questions such as; how are you doing, or are you okay? They all seemed redundant. But I still felt like the worst son in the world. Because there, underneath the body cast and the bandages was the woman who had birthed and raised six boys, the woman who’d given me life and I couldn’t utter a word of encouragement.

“Hi mom,” I finally said.

She forced a smile and with a raspy voice she said in Spanish, “I’m so glad you could make it. I didn’t see you when everyone else came in. Did you talk to your dad and your brothers?”

“Yeah.”

“Everything is going to be okay, she reassured me. “The doctors said I will be here for about a week. Then, they’ll probably send me home in a cast.”

“That’s good,” I said.

Then, I just stood there. Her left hand was free from cast. I held her hand until my time ran out. I kissed her on the forehead and left.

Visiting hours were over. There was nothing else to do, but to go home. So we did. “Can we go back tomorrow?” my seven year old brother Eduardo asked indiscriminately to the platoon of men that marched out of St. Mary’s.

“Yeah,” my father said. “We’ll come back tomorrow.”

I was seventeen at the time, aged in between Gonzalo and Valentin who were two years younger and older than me respectively. Ezequiel was the oldest and David had just turned 21.

It was quiet. No one said anything on the way home. We got home, ate and idled about the afternoon until my father went off to work.

That night, my brothers, my father and I were swallowed by an immense solitude. In the midst of the binge and purge of the expression of loneliness, there was a sense of guilt among us, as if though we could have prevented this.

“So what happened?” I asked. “Why’d she fall?”

“I think she was just tired and slipped and fell,” Valentin said.

“She was probably sleepy too,” Gonzalo said.

At the hospital, my mother had told Ezequiel, the oldest, what had happened.

“She said she was getting out of bed to move the car,” Ezequiel said.

It was street sweeping day and my mother was called out of bed by my father to move one of my brothers’ car.

“Why didn’t my dad wake you up instead of her?” David said. “You should have moved the car.

We all know she barely gets any sleep.”

Everyone’s face became dim.

In those days, both my parents worked late-night shifts. My mother worked in the oil refi neries in Wilmington and my father worked in a factory in West Long Beach. They would leave at around four in the afternoon, the same time we came from school. Sometimes the week would pass by without even seeing my parents. I only saw them early in the morning while getting ready for school.

My mother would come from work around two in the morning. Then, she would get up at seven in the morning, make breakfast for all of us, drive my little brother to school, come home, sleep for a couple of more hours, wake up and go to work again.

She did that for a while. I’m sure her body gave her signs, but she has always been stronger than anybody I know.

During vacation time from school or even on Friday nights, I would sometimes stay up watching Late Night With Conan O’Brien. My mother would come home from work and she would tell me about her day. Some nights she would let it all out and tell me all about her day. If I asked her to fi x me a hot plate; she would. Sometimes, I would lie awake in my bed, pretending to be asleep in the hopes she would nudge at me. She would stand at the door and while I played dead. I wanted to her to nudge me, but she didn’t. I don’t know why acted like that.

She does not remember the day she fell from a fl ight of stairs of the apartment building we lived in. Her mind was lost. She said she simply remembers waking up, walking out the door, grabbing hold of the banister and then being wheeled on a stretcher surrounded by paramedics. She lost her footing on the top of the stairs and fell heavy without rolling like a body bag made of cement. She was unconscious before she reached the bottom steps. No scream, no cries; nothing.

There is a picture buried deep inside one of our photo albums. In it, we are all kids, infants even. I’m wearing a Ghostbusters t-shirt, sporting a really bad haircut, surrounded by four of my brothers as we stand, towered over by my mother. It was 1985, my father wasn’t with us when we went to this family portrait photo shoot. He had gone to other side, el norte style, to help out the family. Back then, my mother, would generate income by selling bed sheets and pillow cases she sewed herself inside the house. She would embroider bed sheets and pillow cases with the Virgin Mary of Guadalupe emblazoned on them. I don’t remember those days, but I’ve heard the will of instinct and perseverance when my parents retell the stories of those moments of hardship.

My mother was released in due time from the hospital and she recovered eventually. But it was those moments in that hospital bed, with the pervasive futility of life which triggered feelings of isolation. She had always been there and one assumed she always would be. She had always been as ever-present as the sun and as free as the eagle; almost unbendable. But nowadays when I see her, I try to be as expressive of how much she has meant to me; to all of us. To not do so would be a sacrilege; an unforgivable sin. ¶

Celina, esto es para ti. Muchas gracias...

Not "My" President: A Letter to Barack Hussein Obama

2009-03-23T23:56:00.000-07:00

Dear Obama,

You are not "my" president. I am not recognizing you as "my" president nor am I considering any other person "my" president. For me, recognizing you as "my" president means that I agree with the system that you are perpetuating – and I don’t. Also, recognizing you as "my" president is not giving me "hope" for "change". And furthermore, recognizing you as "my" president would mean I am acknowledge you as my leader, but the only thing that I am following is my heart. Obama I am recognizing you as part of this universal family of life guided by love, and although I am not recognizing you as "my" president, I know you and I are "one".

I am not recognizing you as "my" president when the army you are "commanding" is killing people all over the world. I don’t agree with that system. I am not in agreement with sending more troops to Afghanistan, Iraq, or any other country on a path to peace. Choosing a "path to peace" that includes "shock and awe" strategies consisting of tons of bombs, bullets, and dead bodies is not liberating anybody nor bringing peace to anyone. I am agreeing with Mahatma Gandhi’s spirit saying that "there is no path to peace. Peace is the path." Planting a seed of violence can only produce violence; planting an orange tree will not produce apples. I am agreeing with Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh who says that "only deep listening, mindfulness and gentle communication can remove the wrong perceptions that are the foundation of violence."

I don’t recognize you as "my" president because I do not agree with the American myths being taught to the citzens of this "country" in the mandatory public education system, and dramatized by the media corporations, which hides the true nature of these systems. Christopher Columbus did not "discover" America and help initiate the spread of freedom and democracy, but rather intiated the invasion and occupation of the Anahuac continent. These lies are hiding the truth and setting the precedent for other nations like Israel, which is receiving military aid to keep exterminating the Arab people who’ve lived in Palestine for thousands of years. According to the Israeli myth, Palestine was "a land without a people for a people without a land."

Obama, I know that this government allowed the creation of a private bank in 1913 (the Federal Reserve Act, 1913) owned and operated by private bankers. I know that this bank prints money and loans it to the government at "interest" which helps keep the government in debt to these bankers who in turn have the power to manipulate the economy by raising and lowering interest and is allowing them to stage depressions and what not. This system is allowing these bankers to buy up other banks, corporations, and foreclosed homes when the economy collapses. I know these bankers practically own Wall Street and contributed the most money to your campaign and are receiving bailouts consisting of billions of dollars from taxes. I don’t agree with that system.

I am not recognizing your presidency as "hope" for "change." I know that in this universe the only thing that is constant "is" change. Change is happening every moment. I don’t need to have hope in anybody to bring change to this world, country, community, or myself because it is happening naturally, right now. I have faith in the great spirit of the universe. Most people call this unifying energy God and the Great Spirit, among other things, but I like to call it Love. Love is life. Life is love. It is one. I am not recognizing you as "my" president while you are running a system rooted in slavery. I am living to love and loving to live every moment which naturally brings "true change"; a change I can experience inside of me and all around. This change is guided by love inside of me and inside of everything else in this universe. No external force is giving me "hope" for a change to all the suffering in this American system. Change is happening naturally, we are not making it.

Obama, I believe that when we are born there is an energy called love which is leading our lives. The energy and the actions are "one." Love is the language of the heart which allows us to continue living. The heart is what is leading our lives, showing us how to breathe, digest, grow, etc. It is the only thing that is guiding all the actions I am taking and all the thoughts I am expressing…all the love I am living. I am listening to the heart because it has all the answers that I need. I know that everyone’s heart is holding all the answers they need to live free and there is no need for us to have an external leader. No external force is leading me or anyone else to freedom. Not democracy, nor technology, nor hope. Only faith. Faith in love. Faith in life. Believing that everything is "one" and constantly changing, living, loving. No amount of wealth or power is changing our life or leading it to "freedom and justice for all," it is simply perpetuating this system of lies. The truth is inside of us all and we are all one. Acknowledging our oneness can allow us to stop looking at external forces like terrorists, or "others" as being the cause of our troubles and allow us to find peace inside of ourselves.

Obama I am living the truth. I am living free. I don’t need you as "my" president. This is not a declaration of independence, this is a declaration of "interdependence." You are not "my" president but everything in life has a purpose and I am glad that I am here in this universe and you are here and we are "one."

Respectfully,
Jaime Agredano

Our Form of Expression

2009-03-23T23:44:00.000-07:00

Geronimo Souza Valdivieso

There are many forms of expression; I just chose one to relieve
Some tension, my poems are an extension of a mind out of body
Experience. Give perfect execution like hanging someone
Without breaking their neck and letting ‘em suffocate, and if you

Think that’s sick… you better check how we do nothing, but love
To watch other people suffering… And I can be equal to my
Surroundings, but once I flip on the television, I get a high interest
In negligence and feel a need to resort to violence, to run on my

High emotions, in a world packed with self-glorification instead
Of self-determination, and you really ain’t nothing, being the
Survivor on Big Brother, doesn’t constitute you as the American Idol,
You chanting we are the champions and winning a championship,
Is fictitious and irrelevant and prevalent to ignorance. The way you
Define yourself, puts you in a bit of a predicament…

You call yourself African, after the Roman General Scipio Africanus,
And you call yourself Latino or Hispanic after the Roman Language,
This not an influence, it’s been forced on to us, down our throats,
Living from Pax Romana down on to Pax Americana, still getting
Your brain washed by the Nazi Propaganda… You’re becoming one

Hell of a pasta, a stereotypical Scarface, Godfather, Mafia,
It’s like the T.V. defines the living room, like a gun defines our youth…
This country is based on bondage, I guess we like getting beat
And punished, and let it be video taped and shown to an audience,
That seems to have a fetish for a history of violence… and so…

You don’t have to be on death row in order to be a dead man walking,
Little by little you’re dying, as you take in the stench of failure,
It’s intolerable; you can’t cover up a drug war scandal, making
Money off the barrios, going from Iran Contra to martial law,
How is it a person goes from looking for work to being a criminal???

The light is starting to beacon, like deception under a lie detector,
So I can’t hold it in, so it’s not my balls that are turning blue,
It’s my tonsils, ‘cause I had enough of people not having a clue,
How they’re getting used, and how society looks down on you, with
A sick perverted mind, lookin’ you up and down, undressing you, and
While you speak, hearing you moan and groan like if it was sex phone…

I guess in this society you got to constantly wear a condom, ‘cause if
You don’t constantly protect yourself, it’s like playing an extreme sport,
With no protection, ending up with broken bones and barely left with
Life, on life support, dealing with the political storms that you can’t even
Control, your cognitive dissonance makes you think you can relate to
The world behind close doors in a studio…

Hate and tolerance shouldn’t have a place here, ‘cause they can break
At any given point, ‘cause how long can you tolerate being slapped
In the face, being harassed by the police, innocent but still losing
The case, and all you achieved lost in a blaze, marching peacefully
And still getting pepper sprayed and maced, watching others succeed
From the other side of the gate???

My brothers and sisters, you got nothing to debate, you been giving
Chase, but you can’t play catch up in a maze; you need to put down
The blunt and get out of the blaze, let the fresh air touch your face,
Look and gaze at yourself and reflect, in a constant mental conflict,
Gather strength, and put your thoughts into context, and you’re
Bound to make mistakes and errors, that’s why pencils have erasers…

But take it one step at a time, like reading a book together, we got to
Be on the same page, ‘cause one wrong step and we’ll be looking
Like Juan Gabriel, falling off stage, but the world is not a stage,
Because actors are the best liars, and those who read from a script,
Can’t really think for themselves, so when the going gets tough,
They’re the first ones yelling: Everyone for themselves!!!

And no matter how hard they try to squeeze their grasp, the sand will
Still slip from their hand, while we get it together our hand will form
A fist, the legist is a test in a mess, where people think less of
Themselves, so they’re like agents and scouts, making wealth off the
Disenfranchised, to capitalize, to create a franchise, built on lies,
Like drug ties… So a word to the wise… Like my sister Michiboo, put it:

You can’t put the words wise and dumb together to make the word wisdom!!!

That’s one hell of an oxymoron, like giving to charity and asking for a tax
Deduction refund… And so we need to quit falling for the images, the way
Society depicts women as frigid, off pseudo-doctors opinions, ‘cause it’s the
Man whose impotent… that’s why the man needs a medicine to give him a lift…
But this ain’t no free ride, like winning a fake ass election by a landslide…

In life you got to cut thru the grime, like 409… There’s always a beginning
And an end, and life is the in between, but life ain’t about getting cream,
And dying ‘cause of all the beef on the street, get off that level of being
The dirt lying beneath the pebbles, and get out of the rubble, or else you’ll
Be as self-conscious as freshmen conversations in college…

Never able to understand… our form of expression…

Who Am I?

2009-03-23T23:42:00.000-07:00

Jesus Cortez

Who am I?
Well my name would not
answer that question.
To think such a thing could
define someone as me
would mean that a prisoner
is no more than a number,
so you might wonder
and ponder on why my name;
I did not choose it, first or last.
You might cross yourself
as I walk by in mockery,
or ask if I spell it with an "s"
or a "z" – what difference does
it make, if I ache from the pain
of not knowing my true name?
In another time, I might have
been Mexica, now I am "indio",
"mestizo" with a brand on my body,
not my hand or my back.
I’m no savior, I’m no "conquistador",
my name is as meaningless as
words made up by colonizers
to excuse their crimes.
I am more than my name may say--
as "nice" as it may be.
So I inherited the name of my "father’s"
father and probably someone else’s
father, and someone’s slave and someone’s
master. Oh what disaster to think
I am who I am, when I’m not who
they say. I like my other names much
more; as a boy even an insult sounded
much better than my name.
Torturous sounds of a teacher’s
pronunciation, and my indignation –
it’s not Gee-zus, it’s JESUS,
it’s not Cor-tayz, it’s Cortez; and me
foolishly telling them it was in Spanish,
when how "Spanish" am I really.
I am more than my name, a name
that confines me to be a half-breed.
I am the son of the colonized and the bastard
of the colonizer, branded with fire
upon my brain, to think I am who
I have been told I am –
Jesus Cortez

Poema de amor

2009-03-23T23:38:00.000-07:00

Roque Dalton

Los que ampliaron el Canal de Panamá  
(y fueron clasificados como "silver roll" y no como "gold roll"),
los que repararon la flota del Pacifico
en las bases de California,  
los que se pudrieron en las cárceles de Guatemala,  
México, Honduras, Nicaragua,  
por ladrones, por contrabandistas, por estafadores,  
por hambrientos,  
los siempre sospechosos de todo  
("me permito remitirle al interfecto  
por esquinero sospechoso  
y con el agravante de ser salvadoreño"),  
las que llenaron los bares y burdeles  
de todos los puertos y capitales de la zona  
("La gruta azul", "El Calzoncito", "Happyland"),  
los sembradores de maíz en plena selva extranjera,  
los reyes de la pagina roja,  
los que nunca sabe nadie de donde son,  
los mejores artesanos del mundo,  
los que fueron cosidos a balazos al cruzar la frontera,  
los que murieron de paludismo  
o de las picadas del escorpión a la barba amarilla  
en el infierno de las bananeras,  
los que lloraron borrachos por el himno nacional  
bajo el ciclón del Pacifico o la nieve del norte,  
los arrimados, los mendigos, los marihuaneros,  
los guanacos hijos de la gran puta,  
los que apenitas pudieron regresar,  
los que tuvieron un poco mas de suerte,  
los eternos indocumentados,  
los hacelotodo, los vendelotodo, los comelotodo,  
los primeros en sacar el cuchillo,  
los tristes mas tristes del mundo,  
mis compatriotas,  
mis hermanos.

Roque Dalton was a Salvadoran revolutionary poet.

At The Bottom: Desperate Measures

2009-03-23T23:25:00.000-07:00

Jesus Cortez

He stood on the corner, with the same workers he had advocated for at one point— now he was one of them.

"Damn, it’s already noon, and nothing…" remarked Bruno.

"Is okei my fren, tomorro," responded an older man in broken English.

Bruno wondered why his education had not paid off yet, but this made him understand the stories he had heard once at the same corner: he had met ex-rebels from El Salvador, teachers from Mexico, doctors from Guatemala— all waiting for someone, anyone to pick them up and give them work for the day.

"I should head on home, there’s no way I’m getting work for today" he thought to himself as he placed his hands in the empty pockets of his khaki pants. The afternoon had turned cold, and he felt it through his worn-out white shoes and his thin grey sweatshirt.

As he arrived at his apartment complex, he read the graffiti on the walls; some names he still recognized, others were new to him. He thought about the days when he would roam the streets with his friends and his then-girlfriend— at that time his pockets were full and he felt invincible. He walked past the young men with baggy pants, white t-shirts and tattoos. As he approached his apartment door, he could hear Etta James’ song "Fool That I Am", and his daughter’s laughter—he could also smell the scent of beans. Before he could open the door completely, his daughter ran to his arms.

"Daddy!" she said, as his mother turned with a smile. She always smiled.

"Any luck today, son?" she asked with a grin.

"No Momma, not a damn thing" he said frustrated, as he rubbed his bald head. His brown eyes began to water, but before he could cry, his mother gave him a stern look.

"Don’t you dare cry, Bruno Gonzalez," she finally said.

"Okay, okay. Not in front of my baby" he said, and he picked up his three-year-old daughter.

"So, what did you do today little Xochitl?" he asked her. She responded and kept talking for hours; that was his favorite part of the day and the only thing that brought Bruno peace of mind.

Later that night, after tucking his daughter in, he had a conversation with his mother.

"How much money do we have, Mom?" he asked with a worried look on his face.

"Not much. Maybe for another week, but after that we still gotta pay the rent," she responded, as she ran her finger down a list.

"Damn, if that stupid woman had not taken all our savings, we would be alright!" A tear fell from his eye and rolled down his cheek and onto his mustache—he wiped it off. Bruno missed her more than he hated her for leaving him for his cousin. His mother turned on the radio and they listened to a few more songs by Etta James—"At Last" and "I’d Rather Go Blind"—then they were both silent.

"It’s gonna be alright mi’jo, don’t worry" she said soothingly, as she stroked his wet cheek.

The next morning, he got up early, got dressed in the same clothes, and drank his coffee—he was ready to keep searching for work. He trusted his mother, and if she said things would be okay, he had no reason to doubt her words.

As he stepped out of his apartment, he heard a voice call out "Psycho!" At first he thought it was the chilling wind blowing, or maybe he was just hearing things, but soon after, another young man appeared near the gate to the apartment complex.

"What, you can’t recognize an old friend or what, punk?" said the young man as he approached Bruno. Bruno had not recognized his old friend Andy. As soon as they were close enough, they shook hands and embraced.

"Take a ride with me," Andy said as he wrapped his arm around Bruno’s neck.

"Nah man, I have to look for work. I’m almost out of money, my kid needs food and the rent has to get paid," responded Bruno.

Andy insisted; he had just purchased a 1965 black Chevy Impala in mint condition and he wanted to take Bruno out for a ride. Andy knew that Bruno had been going through a rough situation lately, and he wanted to help. In the car, Bruno saw Daniel, his other close friend, and smiled.

"What’s up foo’, aren’t you gonna say wassup, or what?" Bruno said as Daniel stepped out of the car. Daniel was a giant in height compared to Bruno who was only 5’2 tall. When he got out of the car Bruno had to step back to make room. He greeted Bruno as he did in the old days—by play fighting.

Finally the three got in the car; Bruno sat in the backseat. They drove around the city for a couple of hours, listening to funk, Hip Hop and oldies, while Bruno looked out the window, thinking about his daughter and the things he should be doing. Bruno told Andy to turn up the volume when they played Tupac and Scarface’s song, "Smile". Bruno especially liked the introduction,

There’s gonna be some stuff you gonna see that’s gonna make it hard to smile in the future, but through whatever you see, through all the rain and the pain, you gotta keep your sense of humor, you gotta be able to smile through all this bullshit.

They made a stop at their favorite taco shop. Bruno had not tasted tacos in weeks, not since his daughter’s mother had left him. After a few hours of eating and talking, they got in the car again and drove around some more. In the evening, they took Bruno to their favorite bar.

There, they met up with another old friend who had just been released from prison after two years.

"Damn, when did you get out, foo’?" asked Bruno in disbelief.

"Last week," responded his friend. He had been drinking for a few hours, so he was already a bit drunk. "I hear you have some financial problems, ese."

"I’ll be alright Stranger, don’t even trip. It’s good to see you foo’. It’s been a while," responded Bruno.

"So, how’s college, you still going or what, eh?" asked Stranger.

"Nah, I had to quit for this semester… gotta take care of my little girl and my momma you know," responded Bruno as he took a sip of a beer his friends had bought him. He was only 19, but he had been going into bars since 17—his thick mustache made him look older than he was.

"I might be able to help you out, ese," said Stranger, as he sat on a stool stroking his thick mustache and beard, "but let’s go play pool and we’ll talk about it".

Bruno worried; the last time Stranger had tried to help, he ended up leaving the state for a few months, Daniel had gotten shot, Andy had left to Mexico and Stranger had ended up in prison serving two years in Susanville State Penitentiary. But they went ahead and played pool, as Andy and Daniel watched and cracked jokes. They talked about old times, when all it took was the four of them to control the neighborhood.

"Hey foo’, remember when we messed up that foo’ Robert?" asked Andy, as they laughed noisily.

After a few minutes of jokes and laughter, Stranger said "I might have a way for all of us to get paid".

They all knew this might be a bad idea, especially Bruno, but he was desperate for money. He had done some terrible things in his life, and did not want to go back to that lifestyle.

"I’ve seen you on the corner with the day laborers, foo’. You shouldn’t have to struggle that much, man. I’m telling you, just listen to my idea," said a drunken Stranger. "Okay, let’s hear it," said a not-so-convinced Bruno.

Stranger’s idea was to break into the neighborhood’s drug connection and rob it. Bruno thought Stranger was crazy. He knew who was in control of the drug connection, and though he was not afraid, he thought it a bad idea. They argued for a few minutes, but Bruno’s desperation was incredible. He finally agreed—he imagined himself driving around in a nicer car, not his mother’s beat up Monte Carlo, and imagined buying some nice clothes for his daughter, and paying the rent for a few months.

"Alright, I’m down" he finally said. "When and who else is rollin’?" he added. "Just us four, like the old days. We got everything ready, and a sawed-off shotgun, especially for you—like the old days," said Stranger. Everything was prepared for the robbery, because the job had to be done that same night. It was the end of the month, and they knew that the connection had taken advantage of pay day in the neighborhood.

"Go home, change, and meet us in front of your apartments, in 20 minutes" Stranger commanded.

Bruno went home, but said nothing to his mother. He ran into his room and changed into his black pants, black hooded sweater, black Nike Cortez; he put a black bandana in his pocket. He kissed his daughter, with a tear in his eye, but hoping his actions would lead to a better life. His mother questioned him. She asked him what his hurry was.

All he said was, "Nothing Momma, it’s gonna be alright," and left.

When he arrived at the front of his apartment, his friends were already there in Andy’s car.
They sped off and soon were on the same street where the drug connection was. "It’s that house." Stranger pointed across the street from where they were parked. As they sat in the car, they downed 40oz of beer, Stranger snorted cocaine, and Andy and Daniel smoked marijuana—Bruno just drank, and held the shotgun close to his chest. Many thoughts went through his mind, especially how long it had been since he had last used it. He thought about his mother, how disappointed she would be and about his daughter, but he decided to think about his ex and his cousin to get mad and more willing to go through with the robbery.

"Are you foos’ ready, or what?" questioned Stranger.

"Simón," was the automatic response from everyone.

They stepped out of the car quietly. They could hear Spanish music coming from the house, but no one was outside. They thought this would make the job easier. They walked quietly across the street: Bruno with the shotgun, Andy with a nine millimeter automatic revolver, Stranger with an AK-47, and Manuel with a Smith and Wesson .380.

They knocked on the door, and when it opened, a drunken man appeared. Stranger pointed the rifle to his chest and told him not to make a sound. They all walked in with their bandanas covering their faces and pointing their guns in different directions.

"Nobody make a damn move!" they all said.

As they walked in, they looked around and saw bags of money, and drugs. They didn’t care for the drugs, but they were overwhelmed by the amount of money. Three women came from the kitchen and were told to stay quiet. Two men came from the bathroom and were hit with Bruno’s shotgun on their heads.

"Get the money foo’, hurry up!" said Stranger as Bruno grabbed the bags of money.

"Where’s the rest?" asked Daniel as he pistol-whipped a man who had white dust on his nose. He finally told him where the rest of the money was. Soon, they had three bags full of money all together.

"Tie them up," Andy said to Stranger.

They had the money and all the dealers were tied up.

"You go first and turn the car around," said Stranger calmly.

Andy walked out the door, started the car and brought it around. Bruno, Stranger and Daniel ran out of the house with the money and jumped into the car. They sped off and got lost in the foggy night and city lights.

As they sped off, a young man had been peaking through his window, a friend of the drug dealers—he had seen all of their faces. ¶

Houston, We Have a Problema

2009-03-23T22:56:00.000-07:00

Tina Vazquez

It’s never a good sign when you have to begin a book review with, "I really wanted to like …" Gwendolyn Zepeda’s completely uninspired first novel Houston, we have a Problema is disturbingly typical — which is perhaps the worst thing you can be as a writer.

I really wanted to like her Latina protagonist Jessica Luna. I was hoping she’d be fiercely smart, funny, and unexpected. Sadly, she stopped being promising about six pages in. Zepeda allows her character to fall victim to the usual clichés featured in both movies and literature pertaining to the Latino culture. Watch as Jessica Luna worries about the size of her ample ass. Watch as she pines and obsesses over the attractive Latino painter who treats her like shit, but superbly provides the drama she "loves." Listen as she makes earth shattering observations, such as "He was the kind of guy who obviously loved his mother, and therefore he always treated women like gold." Aside from that, Jessica Luna simply wasn’t a likeable character.

Perhaps you’re not supposed to admit things like this in a formal review, but I was reading Michelle Tea’s Rose of No Man’s Land at the same time as Houston, we have a Problema. The two books are worlds apart, but they were both written in first person from the main character’s perspective. Tea’s main character is a young teenage girl, while Zepeda’s is a twenty-six-year old woman. Despite this fact, Rose of No Man’s Land managed to be biting and intellectually stimulating; it had backbone and its character had nuance and layers. Zepeda’s character Jessica Luna lacked depth of any kind and was completely self-involved, uninteresting, and annoying. You’re forced to sit through her every mundane thought concerning her ridiculous love life and her boring job at an insurance company. Her internal struggles are so trivial that her "problems" are laughable. This sad state is only compounded by the fact that she visits a psychic for guidance- should she date the gabacho or the Mexicano? Should she do web design or try for a promotion at the insurance company? By the end of each chapter you’re left thinking who gives a fuck?

Houston, we have a Problema was obviously intended to be Jessica Luna’s coming of age tale, but if falls very, very flat. It also only furthers certain negative stereotypes associated with Latinas; that all of us love drama, that we want men who are bad for us, that we’re meek, apologetic, and indecisive. Though the protagonist routinely says she’s purposely steering clear of marriage, she spends more than half the book obsessing over men. Jessica Luna lets her life pass her by, unwilling to make her own decisions and unable to pinpoint whatever it is that she wants. I’d like to say that the novel ends on a promising note, but it doesn’t. In the end she dumps the white guy and the Latino painter … and then entertains the thought of dating two new men. Big whoop. ¶

Tina Vazquez is a writer for Feminist Review.

Circle of Beach

2009-03-23T22:54:00.000-07:00

Commuter’s Corner
Maria Ventura

It was a stormy, wet Monday afternoon and I was sitting at the bus stop clutching my umbrella tightly so that it wouldn’t fly away. That’s when she approached me.

"May I sit here?" she asked in broken English.

"Yes," I replied.

She smiled and sat down and then like two old ladies we sat there huddling at the bus stop holding our umbrellas closely together to protect ourselves from the rain.

"What’s your name?" she asked.

"Maria," I replied as I shook her hand and smiled.

"What’s your name?" I asked.

She said her name but I couldn’t understand, so I just smiled. I had been on campus that day to pick up my Bachelor’s Degree from Admissions and to attend an El Reflejo meeting. I looked onto the street staring at CSULB, reminiscing about my memories as a student there. I was so locked into my own thoughts that I didn’t notice when she asked if I also attended the school.

"No, I graduated already," I said.

"Oh, it’s my first semester here."

"Oh, really?" I asked.

"I am here all alone. I am an international student."

"Oh cool, you’re an international student? Where are you from?"

"Vietnam. Do you know where that is?"

"Yes, I know where that is."

She then offered me raisins which I took politely as we waited for our buses to come; we ate the entire box. A short time later, her bus arrived and she waved goodbye as she boarded the bus that took her away. I was alone once more, waiting for my bus and glad that the rain had finally stopped. ¶

The CSU: Inception of "The People’s College"

2009-03-23T22:40:00.000-07:00

Rafael Vásquez

This article is the first of a three-part series where we look at the CSU system: how it relates to other public institutions of higher education namely the California Community College and University of California systems, and the changes that have occurred to its fees. The second article will study the reactions and actions taken by the California community—students in particular—in response to the changes, and thirdly, we will study similar student reactions and actions taken in different parts of the world. Our goal with this series of articles is to collect our findings and organize a summer forum inviting the community to collectively begin conversations on the issue. We bring this to the table in hopes of re-kindling dialogue considering past, present, and future discourses, in shaping the future of the CSU.

California’s public higher educational systems have withstood a lessening of access, quality, and affordability. A dismantling of the educational system looms such that the great equalizer of any given society—education—may become more and more illusory for many California students. Segments of this populace face increased obstacles within the context of the extant overall worsening of educational conditions. So, whereas education often harkened to a bettering of the socioeconomic position of constituents, present exigencies (i.e. lack of financial aid) may effectively stem the opportunities of students in achieving even a small measure of post-secondary educational success. In this series, we tackle the latter issue—affordability and fee increases at the California State University (CSU). In order to contextualize the current trends of "budget cuts" and its adverse implications, we begin by describing the inception of our three-tiered higher education systems and attempt to describe how the CSU situates itself among these.

The University of California (UC) was the first formal system of higher education in the state and a system where its founders weighed heavily on the creation of later institutions—CCC and the CSU. The first formal university of the system, Berkeley, was established in 1868, which was considered among the best universities in the nation, sharing the ranks with Harvard. Along these lines, the UC became among the leading research universities. The founding elements—nonsectarian and nonpolitical decision making, the tuition-free policy, and the mandate for geographic representation—of the UC became extremely important principles, not only guiding the development of this system but also influencing the development of a set of regional state "teachers colleges" and, as mentioned earlier, acting as a catalyst for the creation of California’s junior colleges. Although the system suffered setbacks, it did not incorporate tuition for over a century. In theory, all Californian’s could have the opportunity to attend the state university.

During the middle of the 19th century, largely influenced by presidents and friends of elite national institutions such as Yale and Stanford to name a few, the junior college movement took-off to meet the needs of all students who dreamed of attaining some college education. It was presumed that many students, who might not otherwise initially be admitted to the UC, should have other opportunities for pursuing higher education. As a result, under the guise of democracy and other elements, in 1910, the first junior college—community college—was established in the state. These new junior colleges had many missions. Among them, to create vocational programs, create terminal degrees, and develop semi-professionals. Since then, the two-year educational system has seen some changes, including the creation of 110 community colleges to meet the needs of its surrounding constituents. Currently, the community college is almost exclusively subsidized by the state, arguably, accessible with modest student fees—although fees have risen.

"Normal schools" were established with the primary focus of training its students to become teachers. These became the first systems of higher education established by the State in 1862. Largely ubiquitous, these institutions were later named "teachers colleges" after the 1920s--appropriate for the type of institution. It was not until after this point that these institutions were able to confer bachelor’s degrees in education and later master’s degrees. The turning-point came after the 1960 Master Plan for Higher Education, which canonized these institutions to what we now refer to as the California State University. It is at this juncture, where its exponential growth can bee noticed and where the universities under this new system became largely financed by the State with a continued emphasis on teacher education.

The rapid increment of college ready "baby boomers" led university officials to create policy to allow them to gain opportunities to enter California’s systems of higher education. Under the 1960 California Master Plan for Higher Education, admission policies would change, allowing the 12.5% of high school graduates to enroll in the UC and allow the top third graduation high school class to enter the California State University (CSU). In addition, this new policy created a hierarchical grade point average (GPA) system, allowing only some groups to enter the four-year institutions of higher education, while leaving others at the gates. The plan also served to formalize the three-tiered system:

The UC was to remain the State’s primary academic research institution and provide undergraduate, graduate and professional education, with exclusive rights in conferring doctoral degrees.

The California Community Colleges was to provide vocational instruction, remedial instruction, and continue its semi-professional orientation.

CSU’s primary mission was to educate undergraduates and graduates, including teacher education.

Per our discussion, however, the Master Plan sought to reaffirm California's long-time commitment to the principle of tuition-free education to residents of the state. To this end, we begin to delve into the issue of "budget cuts" and tuition increases at the CSU.

It was five years ago when governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, UC president Robert C. Dynes, and CSU chancellor Charles B. Reed reached an agreement on a six year "Compact" that would ensure affordability, among other things. This "Compact" took effect on 2005/06 and continues through 2010/2011. In following, we give a few facts and illustrate how student fees have dramatically risen since then at the CSU:

In 2003-04 the CSU Board of Trustees and the UC Board of Regents increased student fees by 30 percent. These fee increases were in addition to 10 percent increases that each governing board implemented in 2002-03.he Governor’s 2004-05 Budget proposed the following fee increases for the CSU in 2004-05:

A 10 percent increase in the system-wide graduate fee, which would raise this fee from $2,046 to $2,251 per year at the CSU

A 40 percent increase in the system-wide graduate fee, which would raise this fee from $2,256 to $3,158 per year at the CSU

A 20 percent increase in the out-of-state surcharge, which would raise this fee from $8,460 to $10,152 per year at the CSU

Look for the second installment of this article in the next issue.

A Day of Remembrance

2009-03-23T22:35:00.000-07:00

Mizraim Martinez

To be a minority within this nation is a strange thing. One breathes the same air, shares the same space and believes in the same inalienable rights that were bestowed upon its people so very long ago. With César E. Chávez Day approaching, one can only look back and reflect on how over the past 40 years many battles for immigrant and minority rights have been fought; some were won — while others lost.

One such battle that lives in the minds of many Chicanos is the Boycott of Delano Farms. It was in this fight that the power and resilience of the minority worker was brought to light. The unity created within the Mexican American and Filipino communities shined, while proving to the nation that they would stand united in the struggle no matter how long it took to succeed.

Just as this struggle dominates the minds of many Chicanos, there is also such struggle and injustice that to this day resides in the minds of many of our Filipino brothers and sisters. To put it simply, it was a promise that was never kept.

During World War II, the United States called upon its people to fight in a war that still holds consequences today. As reported by CNN on Feb. 23rd, in addition to fighting for one’s country, "The U.S. military promised full veterans benefits to Filipinos who volunteered to fight." It would be a promise that would not come to fruition for another 64 years, and even then the "benefits" would be limited.

At the time of the war, 250,000 Filipino volunteers signed up to fight. Of those, only 15,000 still live today. It is an astonishing number that only sees the true injustice when one realizes that the "benefits" promised are as follows: those "[W]ho have become U.S. citizens get $15,000 each; non-citizens get $9,000." Even then, the families of those who have passed away waiting for these benefits are not eligible.

Although the recent action by President Barack Obama to finally recognize the service of these veterans is a step in the right direction, this small monetary compensation, "[D]oes not correct the injustice and discrimination done … 60 years ago," as Franco Arcebal, a leader of the American Coalition for Filipino Veterans, stated to CNN.

While President Obama has not made any follow-up comment regarding the funds to be distributed, I call on him to give these men their just compensation. As a man who ran on the platform of change and equality, he should realize these men deserve more. It was because of the promise of a better life that these men signed up; a promise that was erased as quickly as it was offered.

President Harry S. Truman wrote in a letter to the House and Senate in 1946, "The record of the Philippine soldiers for bravery and loyalty is second to none. Their assignment was as bloody and difficult as any in which our American soldiers engaged." If for no other reason, these veterans — those here and those who have since passed on — should be rightfully and justly remembered.

While this may be an issue that has been fought over in the highest levels of government for decades, it does not have to end there. With César E. Chávez Day approaching, we should take the time to remember our fellow "Brown Brothers" who fought in the war, and make it known that the Latino community has not forgotten about the Filipino community.

By celebrating them, we also celebrate the accomplishments that they helped trigger in Chicano history and in our own lives. ¶

Buscapalabras Chican@

2009-03-23T22:30:00.000-07:00

Jaime Agredano

This puzzle features influential people, actions, and figures of the Chican@ Movement.

ADELITAS
AZTLÁN
César CHÁVEZ
CHICANA
CHICANO
COATLICUE
CORKY González
CUAUHTEMOC
Paulo FREIRE
Dolores HUERTA
Chicano MORATORIUM
Plán de SANTA BÁRBARA
Emiliano ZAPATA

Lack of Huevos (PART I)

2009-03-23T00:41:00.000-07:00

Jot@s Anónim@s:
Anonymous

There’s no worse feeling in the world than making your parents cry. To know that you are the reason for their discontent is to know betrayal and heartbreak at the same time. That’s what happened a couple of weeks ago when I came out to my father.

I’d been dwelling over it night and day during that week. To confess something that in my heart I felt that he already knew. The morning of my coming out, my sister approached me with the subject.

"I think it’s time you tell dad," she said.

Her freshly plucked eyebrows caught my attention and it was the only thing I could seem to focus on. Or maybe it was that I wanted to shift my attention on anything but my sexuality.

"He’s gone a long way since his drinking days and therapy is doing him good," she continued as she struggled to look for my lost thoughts.

She is right, I thought. My father is no longer the man who would disappear on the weekends in one of his alcohol-fueled binge parties. He is no longer the man who struck me down for my lack of masculinity. He is what you call a sober person.

Though I’ve long forgiven the man who would carry a round leather flask, I’ve yet to find the man who I can call my friend.

In my heart, I just knew it was time.

There is no book on how to prepare your coming out to your parents, let alone your Mexican dad. Maybe there is a Chicken Soup for the Ashamed Mexican Son Who Won’t Come Out To His Father Due To His Lack of Huevos, but I’ve been too obsessed with David Sedaris lately to read anything else.

I worked late that night, so my father came by my job to pick me up. I tried to make conversation to open some sort of dialogue between us. I asked if he was hungry. He only nodded. I tried the almost rainy weather, the family back in Mexico, my old shoes, and even President Barack Obama. It was useless. I only managed to get a few words from him.

It was right around the corner from my house that I opened with "I have something to tell you."
As we parked in the driveway and both of us were silent, the rain started pouring in the most cliché way possible. And then it was just the two of us. Inside his car. With the pouring rain outside. I cannot make this shit up.

"Just say whatever you have to say," he said.

He wouldn’t look at me. The both of us were staring at the white garage door in front of us. The cracked wood from the garage door created some sort of nifty design, nearing a piece of masterpiece artwork. The kind of artwork that you just don’t understand but cannot take your eyes away from because you don’t want to accept the fact that you don’t know shit about art.

"Look dad, I think you know what I want to say and I just don’t know how to say it," I said, looking him in the right side of his face.

He knew what I was talking about. The tears began to pour from his eyes. It was as though he was competing with the tears coming from the sky. His were tears of sadness and disappointment.

"I assure you that I wish I wasn’t gay." ¶

Look for 'Part II' in the next issue.

AB-540 Ally Training

2009-03-23T00:30:00.000-07:00

Mojad@s Anónim@s:
"Leticia del Rio Bravo"

Last Friday, March 13th, several faculty and staff from California State University, Long Beach attended the campus’ second AB-540 Ally Training.

Passed in 2001, Assembly Bill 540 allows non-residents to pay in-state tuition as long as they meet a few requirements. These requirements include having attended a California high school for three or more years, graduating from a high school or attaining a GED, and being accepted into a California college or university. Undocumented students who fulfilled these requirements were exempt from paying out-of-state tuition. Upon acceptance to a university, these students file an affidavit stating that they qualify for Assembly Bill 540 and will apply for residency as soon as they are able. The passage of Assembly Bill 540 was only the beginning.

After being accepted into a university many students maneuvered through the system undetected and unnoticed. It is not hard to see why many students did not speak out about their situation. Maneuvering under the radar comes with some consequences, though. If people don’t know you or know about you, how can they help you meet your needs? That is the problem that we undocumented studentscontinue to face, and until now we did not have enough resources to reach out the faculty. More importantly, we did not have security.

After the passage of AB-540, some years later, countless organizations on different university campuses have emerged. There is an entire network of support groups for AB-540 students on most colleges and universities. Some of these groups include: IDEAS (Improving Dreams, Equality, Access and Success) from UCLA, Voces del Mañana from Glendale Community College, and FUEL (Future Underrepresented Educated Leaders) here at CSULB. Yes, there is an AB-540 support group at CSULB as well.

Established in Spring 2007, FUEL members have been involved in several high school outreaches, fundraisers, and immigration forums. In weekly meetings, FUEL members often discussed the frustration with the faculty and staff on campus; students felt afraid to approach them regarding their "situation." They felt frustrated at the insensitivity received or they felt afraid of disclosing information to the wrong staff. That is where the idea of training the faculty and staff began.

Dr. Elena Macias, assistant Vice President of Governmental & Community Relations and FUEL’s Faculty Advisor, listened and understood our frustrations. She, along with Jamie Johnson from the Upward Bound Program on-campus and a member of the Orange County "Dream Team" for the past 5 years, ran the first training in the Fall 2008 semester.

Dr. Elena approached and asked us, "What if students could identify the people with whom they could speak about AB-540?"

When we first heard this we all simply replied, "Well, we would feel more comfortable, we wouldn’t have to explain everything to them, and we wouldn’t be afraid. But how would we know whom to approach?"

Dr. Macias and Mr. Johnson established the training around the needs that we, FUEL members, needed. At our Fall 2008 retreat, we sat together and compiled a list of things that we needed in an ally. During the trainings, Dr. Macias has shared with the staff and faculty what we feel we need from them. Fortunately with the training, our allies will give us confidentiality and we will no longer feel afraid to approach them.

A particular lack of information has been of great concern to me, however: the origins of the training. It is very important to acknowledge that the Ally Training was inspired by the LGBTQ Safe Zone training. It is also important to recognize the similarities between the undocumented student population on campus that cannot speak out to just anyone and the LGBTQ community that cannot just come out to anyone on campus either. A student is able to recognize the AB-540 or Safe Zone plaque and immediately understand that it is a place of confidentiality. The link between these groups is important because both can be considered an invisible minority on campus. If a person can understand the frustration of one group, they can begin to understand the frustration of the other. I do believe that the similarity between the Safe Zone Training and the Ally Training can help establish solidarity between many groups.

That is exactly what we need right now. All groups fighting for social justice to join together and understand each others’ struggles. ¶

For more AB-540 student resources, check out CSULB's AB 540 On-Line Resource Guide.

Whose Legacy?

2009-03-23T00:21:00.000-07:00

Yadira Arroyo
El Reflejo should have attacked this measure before the voting took place. I know, I know.

Thankfully however, the Beach Legacy Referendum did not pass.

If it had passed, the BLR would have increased student fees at Cal State Long Beach by $95 per semester ($70 for a summer semester) starting in 2010 to fund athletic scholarships, a new soccer field, a new track, and a women’s something-or-other sports team so that the school wouldn’t lose a men’s sports team.

Well, it did not pass, so what use is it now to break down the arguments? No use really, except perhaps to record my own humble opinion. So, I won’t do that. At least not thoroughly. What I can’t seem to put aside though, were the peculiar events that took place on the first day of voting.

A bunch of us were scheduled to flyer at 2pm on Wednesday March 11. I marched to the Raza Center to gather the troops, but perhaps there had been a misunderstanding, or the revolution was not scheduled for that time and I missed the memo, because several of my peers seemed puzzled, or a bit lax when I announced, "It is time." I left the Center alone, with a stack of flyers that Indira, part of Students for Quality Education, had provided for us.

I called Julio, fellow Reflejo staff member and cartoonist extraordinaire, only to find he was actually way ahead of me, at that moment fighting the good fight at Maxson Plaza, right outside of Brotman Hall. I met him and Indira there.

Traffic was slow and we decided to move our actions to the walkway by the Psychology building and bookstore. Julio left and I was glad to see members from La Raza Student Association and FUEL arriving to replace him. There, we happily flyered – until they came.

Immediately, I could tell that they were athletes. The sweatpants and rowdiness gave the group of women away.

Cackling, they approached one of our allies, whose name I must apologize for forgetting, took flyers from him and asked him for more. And then…

Their fearless leader jumped on a bench, and standing on her toned and tanned legs announced:
"This is what I think of this!"

Rip. She tore one of our flyers to pieces as her teammates cheered her on. And as if that weren’t enough drama, she haughtily tossed the shreds in the trash.

I cringed at the sight. Suddenly, I was flooded with acid memories of high school, where the cheerleaders tormented the geeks, who for the most part, actually gave a fuck about shit. Except that wait – I was raised in South Central and I never went to a school like that. I realized then that I was confusing my life with the one portrayed in white teenager films and television shows like She’s All That, Popular, and Bring It On. That’s where those memories came from!

We continued to pass out flyers and encourage people to vote against the referendum. They continued to harass us – I mean, vouch for the BLR.

"You see her?" exclaimed the leader, pointing at me. "She doesn’t care about her school. She doesn’t care about school pride!"

And what could I say? It’s true, I don’t care about school pride. The last time I thought that sports and pride were essential to a fulfilling college experience, I was a goofy freshman who took pride in her bowling alley, pool tables, Panda Express and video arcade.

"She doesn’t know what she’s talking about!" she continued. "I bet she’s never even been to a basketball game…"

Her buddies roared, because I’m a loser, or an American freak, or something. But then came the kicker.

"…in her life!"

I was bewildered. I looked bewildered.

"Umm, what does basketball have to do with anything?" I turned and asked them.

And I was hoping they’d let me in on the secret. Like, watching basketball has been proven to quicken the path towards graduation. Or basketball is the ultimate embodiment of coolness, like being sexually active. But it doesn’t come.

"Why are you voting ‘No’?" one of them asks me.

"I am voting ‘No’ because I cannot afford to pay for tuition. I had to drop to part-time this semester and even then, it’s difficult to pay."

But, they were armed with the perfect rebuttals. I was no match.

"Wow! Is that the only reason you’re voting against it?"

More cackles.

"Did you know that Cal State Long Beach is one of the best value colleges in the nation? Top 3! You’re paying some of the cheapest tuition anywhere in the States!"

My demands were ludicrous.

"Yeah, and I still cannot afford it."

Somehow, the "I’m one of those for-real broke people," message was not getting across. How could I sit down and tell them of my parents’ financial woes? How could I explain to them that because my parents own property, I cannot receive grants?

And so, they continued. I felt like I was at an anti-war protest. Their "She has no school pride!" taunts reminded me of "You’re not an American!"

I’ve been wondering this whole week whether I can pull the race card on this one. As I looked around that day, I noticed that those of us flyering were Latino, and most of the BLR supporters were white. They wore "Beach Gear" and looked primp and proper. But perhaps the class card would be more fitting.

The results of the elections made me happy, made me believe in people a little bit. Certainly, the economy had a lot to do with the referendum not passing. The majority of voting students saw their request as ludicrous.

As I have flashbacks from that action, the cackling of Cal State Long Beach’s women’s basketball team echoes in my memory. This was but one small victory in the battle for more equal access to higher education. And I can laugh my ass off and gloat in self-righteousness too, but I have more class than that. ¶

Ni una muerta mas en Juarez

2009-03-23T00:01:00.000-07:00

Fernando Romero

The Part About "La Violencia"

An all-out war against drug cartels has raged in Ciudad Juarez, Mexico since January 2008. The drug warfare has pitted the powerful drug cartels present in Northern Mexico and the armed troops trickling into the city located on the U.S. - Mexico border across El Paso, Texas. According to reports by the Associated Press, the death toll has already reached over 2,000 as of March 2009. The dead include members of drug cartels, soldiers, law enforcement personnel and innocent men, women and children.

In the midst of la violencia propagated by the dueling sides, the narcos and the federales, the city of Juarez remains a harvesting ground for a phenomenon almost two decades in the sow. In between daily executions, shootings and kidnappings, a familiar terror looms in the city. Girls and women are still disappearing at an alarming rate and their bodies continue to turn up in waste grounds and ditches of Ciudad Juarez. The victims tend to be young women, usually teenagers, but sometimes even younger, most of working-class background who were either students or maquiladora factory workers.

No human rights crisis in Mexico has moved world public opinion more than the rapes and murders of young women in Ciudad Juarez. According to Amnesty International, over the past 16 years, approximately 600 women have been brutally murdered in Ciudad. Juarez, while scores are still missing and remain unaccounted for. As of this March, Women’s History Month, six women have been killed in Ciudad Juarez.

According to an article published at the end of last year by newspaper La Jornada, the current volatile and hostile situation in the city claimed the highest number of murdered women in 2008 at 86. The article cited that 2008 surpassed 2002 when 42 women were murdered. 2007 is third on the list with 32. The autopsy reports all showed indicators similar to previous cases stemming to 1993, which read that at least a third of the victims suffered some form of sexual assault. Within the same timeframe, between January 2008 and March 2009, at least 18 girls and women have gone missing.

Maria Luisa Garcia Andrade, co-director of Nuestras Hijas de Regreso a Casa, a non-profit organization based in Ciudad Juarez said the recent disappearances are reminiscent of past years. Garcia Andrade’s sister, Lilia Alejandra, was kidnapped, raped and murdered in 2001. The case was never solved. Organizations like Nuestras Hijas de Regreso, and others, work to prevent and denounce the femicides in Juarez, as well as ending gender violence.

Via a phone interview, Garcia Andrade said in Spanish the current disappearances of women have taken a turn for the worse.

"Women disappeared and, unfortunately, soon after that we would find them dead because they had been brutally murdered," Garcia Andrade said. "Unfortunately, now they are disappearing, but we don't know what's happening to them. We don't know if they are alive or dead."

Amnesty International field organizer, Julissa Gomez said the violence has escalated since Mexican President Vicente Calderon declared an all-out war with the drug cartels in January 2008. She added that the situation of violence has impelled a surge in multi-faceted aggression affecting all the inhabitants of Ciudad Juarez, but that gender-based violence remains rife and prevalent.

"The violence has definitely escalated since the drug wars began," she said. "But you still see the same patterns on female murder victims. Still, they tend to be young, working-class, maquiladora workers."

The Part About the Murders

The girl’s body turned up in the Campestre Virreyes district of Ciudad Juarez. A 13-year old girl from working-class background was found beaten, raped and strangled to death. "Alma Chavira Farel – stuck and strangled, violated by two," read the description on the website No Angel Came. The website provides articles, activist links and stories of the departed women in Ciudad Juarez. The account happened in 1993. January 23rd 1993. From then on, the killings of women began to be counted. But it’s likely there had been other deaths before her. Perhaps for the sake of convenience, maybe because she was the first to be killed in 1993, she heads the list. Although surely there were other girls and women who died in 1992. Other girls and women who didn’t make it onto the list or were never found, who were buried in unmarked graves in the desert or whose ashes were scattered in the middle of the night, when not even the person scattering them knew where he was.

On Feb. 14, 2001, V-Day, 17 year-old Lilia Alejandra Garcia Andrade disappeared. A maquiladora worker and mother of two. Lilia Alejandra was last seen after her shift at a maquila walking toward the unlit area of waste ground that she had to cross every night to reach the bus stop. When she did not come home that night her mother knew something had happened to her and reported her missing the next morning. Four days later some people living near a waste ground in Juarez called the police to report that they could see a naked young woman being raped and beaten by two men in a nearby parked car. No police car was dispatched. Following a second call, a patrol car was sent but did not arrive for over an hour, by which time the parked car was gone. Police made no investigation into the attack, the identity of the victim, or the inadequate response time. Lilia Alejandra’s body was found in the waste ground where the attack occurred only two days later, showing grotesque evidence of physical and sexual assault. The forensic report concluded that Lilia Alejandra had been held captive for at least five days before she was strangled to death a day and a half prior to the discovery of her body.

On March 10, 2008, two days after International Women's Day, Paulina Elizabeth Lujan, disappeared and was later found raped and murdered in the same manner as more than two dozen other young women.

The idiosyncrasies in the murders and investigation teeter on the absurd. In November 2001, skeletal remains of eight women were found in a vacant lot 300 yards from the Association of Maquiladoras headquarters, a group representing most of the city's U.S.-owned export assembly plants. In this case, only the body of Claudia Ivette Gonzalez, 20 years old was identified. There was no investigation into the maquiladoras.

The Part About the Femicide

Femicide, a word that has been incorporated into the lexicon from the Spanish word feminicidio, or, femicidio, can be specifically attributed to the continuing reports of murders and disappearances of women and girls in Ciudad Juarez. The term refers to gender-based violence, and specifically to the systematic killing of women.

Femicide implicates brutal acts of violence. In Ciudad Juarez, the majority of femicide victims were tortured, raped, mutilated, cremated and even quartered. Femicide also implies a disregard for the welfare of all women by the State. Therefore it is considered "femicide" when concurrence of different factors are involved including; the criminal element, the silence of said crimes, disregard for human birth rights, as well as the negligence and complicity of the authorities in charge of preventing and eradicating these crimes.

The term is aptly attributed to the murder cases in Ciudad Juarez and also Ciudad de Guatemala, Guatemala, due in part that it’s believed authorities are not investigating the murders with diligence on the basis that it involves women.

In fact, the State’s response to the murder cases in Ciudad Juarez has been one of delays, denials, delusions, shoddy investigations and multi-layered exercises all muddled within the bureaucratic realm. Investigations were characterized with botched or even lack of investigation, loss or theft of key evidence and files and mistreatment of victim’s relatives.

The phenomenon and the dimension of the cases have caused worldwide attention, attracting human rights groups, activists and celebrities demanding authorities to stop the continuing femicide from happening and to demand justice for the murdered women and girls. Amnesty's Women's Human Rights campaign has long been active on the femicides in Ciudad Juarez. Its 2003 report "Mexico: Intolerable Killings," along with subsequent actions and activism, has played an important role in bringing attention to the lack of accountability in Ciudad Juarez and the mishandling of the murders by local law enforcement authorities.
Gomez said that Amnesty International has cited many human rights violations regarding the cases in Ciudad Juarez. She said that the lack of persecution of suspects, the rampant impunity; all encompass a disregard for the victims’ families and are all human rights violations.

"Impunity in Mexico has been a problem for many years," Gomez said. "There is a lack of judicial system. That leads to the detriment of human rights. There’s been evidence of investigations just falling apart. There is no justice there."

Authorities claim the femicides are a chapter from the past, but the recent disappearances and killings fit a familiar, sordid pattern. Garcia Andrade said, "Nothing has been resolved here. It’s not my organization that’s saying that. It’s all the murders which continue, that are saying that. It’s the impunity, that’s saying that."

Gomez said that life for women in Ciudad Juarez is dire. She said the societal problems that exist in Mexico and other parts of Latin America contribute to the reasons why femicide continues. She cited the patriarchal society, machismo, and victim-blaming, among other causes, for the continuing femicides.

"It’s a society that doesn’t seem to value women as much as men," Gomez said."This is a systematic problem."

Garcia Andrade uttered what seemed a sense indifference by authorities. "In the end, it’s only women who were murdered. And to top it off, they were poor. What importance does that have?"

The Part About Taking Action

Thanks to the efforts of the families of the victims and local women's organizations in Ciudad Juarez, coupled with international campaigning by the likes of Amnesty International and V-Day, things have begun to change. In 2004, amidst mass protests and rallies, the federal government of Mexico got involved.

Garcia Andrade said the problems in this issue need to be addressed to bring awareness at different levels in society.

Gomez said that Amnesty International’s main concern on the femicides in Juarez is to continue to bring awareness to the issue. Gomez said, "Our goal is to keep this issue in the focus of people’s mind and to not let it become a forgotten issue."

At Cal State University, Long Beach, an event dubbed, "Femicide in the Americas," is scheduled for Thursday, March 26. The event will be hosted by the Women’s Studies Student Association and will tackle femicide directly, addressing the femicides in Ciudad Juarez, Guatemala, Canada, and other parts of the region affected by the issue.

The event will include panel discussions, film screenings and keynote speaker, Lucia Muñoz from Mujeres Iniciando en las Americas. MIA’s mission is to increase public awareness in the U.S. of the femicide and maltreatment of women in Guatemala. Last semester, members of WSSA traveled to Guatemala as part of a delegation to end femicide in that country.

Gomez said that another goal sought by Amnesty International is to continue to pressure the governments of U.S. and Mexico to act. "We’re introducing a resolution to both the House and the Senate, in the hopes to set up a branch of government that will be purposely geared to set up programs in Juarez to combat this issue."

Gomez said Amnesty International will ask its members to call on Congress and push for the resolution bill. She said one of the things that students or the general population can do is to tell friends and keep the issue alive. She added that as U.S. residents, students can call delegates in Mexico and ask to appoint a special prosecutor at the federal level to combat and solve the femicides. Gomez said, "I encourage students to sign on with us, to the keep the issue relevant and focused on people’s mind."

Garcia Andrade said spreading awareness on the issue and educating the public are the best weapons to combat the current femicide in Ciudad Juarez.

The issue has been taken up as a feminist cause, but has trascended the realm of feminism. Amnesty International has recommended for people to get involved in this issue and write to proper authorities, Mexican authorities, Mexican Embassy highlighting concerns, publicize the case in local and national media and distribute details of this case to individuals or groups who may be interested and could potentially pose as allies in this issue. ¶

Marcha Migrante IV

2009-02-23T10:29:00.000-08:00

Fernando Romero

Story and video courtesy of Daily 49er available Daily 49er

The pro immigrant-rights group Border Angels made a stop at Cal State University Long Beach on Wednesday, Feb. 4 during Marcha Migrante IV, their fourth annual cross-country trip to Washington D.C. to lobby for comprehensive immigration reform.

Enrique Morones, founder of Border Angels, was at the head of the march. The San Diego-based group is made up of volunteers who work to stop migrant deaths at theU.S.-Mexico border by setting up water stations throughout the desert and spreading awareness about the dangers and deaths at the border, in order to provide aid.

Already in its fourth installment, Marcha Migrante IV is the annual caravan made up of activists and volunteers who criss-cross the nation gathering support to pressure politicians to enact legislation for just and humane immigration reform. The caravan made stops in different cities en route to the nation’s capital including those in Arizona, Florida, Georgia, New York, New Jersey, among others.

The event presented at CSULB was sponsored in part by HSI – Mi Casa: Mi Universidad, Future Underrepresented Educated Leaders, the Chicano/ Latino Studies Dept. and the Long Beach Immigrant Rights Coalition. The reception for the event was held at the Karl Anatol Center and was attended by faculty, students and the volunteer activist and participants of the march. The event included a panel discussion spearheaded by professors, speakers, performers and a video chronicling the daily life of an undocumented student.

Also, testimonials provided by undocumented students told of some of the struggles they encountered as AB 540 students. Two of them, currently enrolled at CSULB are AB 540 students, while the third graduated from CSULB a year prior.

The three testimonials presented different perspectives and different facets of the lives of undocumented students. The testimonials proved to be the highlight of the evening. The university graduate told of the struggles faced by undocumented students who’ve graduated and the inability to find a job for lack of proper documentation. Another student was a prospective graduating senior in the current Spring semester and told of the anxiety and desperation of an uncertain future. The third was a recent transfer to CSULB who also expressed the sentiment of anxiety and uncertainty, but with a dash of hope in light of the new presidency.

The event was capped off with a candlelight vigil to commemorate the lost lives of migrants crossing or immigration-related deaths at the U.S. – Mexico border.

Organizer said their goal of marching to Washington was to persuade President Barack Obama and members of Congress to deliver on campaign promises on the issues of immigration reform. During the event at CSULB, Morones identified three key issues that are at the forefront of the agenda sought by his group and others from the pro-immigration movement. 1) Stop construction on the border fence, 2) end the raids by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement and 3) enact legislation for just and humane immigration reform.

Morones cited that the building of the wall, referred to as the “Wall of Shame,” is causing migrants crossing the border to seep into deserted territories and is one of the main reasons the death toll of migrant crossers has reached an unfortunate level.

“We have got to continue to take action,” Morones said. “The person that is going to make the change is the person that you look at in the mirror every morning. Each one of us has to take action and rise up.” ¶

Slightly Better "Other"

2009-02-23T03:18:00.000-08:00

Mojad@s Anonim@s
''Leticia Bravo''

When I was growing up here, in the United States, I was always labeled as an "other". Correction: I was labeled as a slightly better "other." I never quite understood why I received that label, though. Why have I not been an "other" but a "slightly better other"?

More importantly why is it that we keep accepting some "others" and keep rejecting a specific type of "other". Is there really such a thing as a better type of immigrant? Unfortunately, in the United States, there is a more desirable immigrant.

The term "other" has always made me cringe, yet I have always known that I was an "other." I might’ve come to terms with it, or the "slightly better" label might’ve overshadowed the "other" label. "Slightly better" might’ve been an alleviation to my "otherness". I really do not know. I just knew I was not the same.

People knew that I was undocumented, yet I did not receive the same treatment as other immigrants. I have not received the same treatment and I will not. But why is this so? We are all immigrants, right?

Yes, there are certain things that I will not have to face. Yes, there are certain discriminations that I will not have to go through. Yes, I can go under the radar. But the fact that I can go under the radar in no way justifies the faulty immigration system; it has been an advantage for me. Just like with anything that looks at privilege, I have to acknowledge that I had many advantages growing up.

I came to the U.S. at a young age, which facilitated my understanding of the English language. I have always wondered what my life might’ve been like if I had come to this country at my sister’s age. When we crossed the border she was 16; I was 4. Knowing what my sister went through and continues to go through, makes me see the absurdity of being labeled a "slightly better immigrant". You (Reflejo readers) can see this within your surroundings, as well. Many of us can see it at home.

So, what happens when I have been labeled a "slightly better other" and I begin to accept it? How can I stop myself from becoming the people that have named me an "other"? There has been an incredible fear and worry inside of me which has risen from this acknowledgement. I am afraid that I have internalized the "other" mentality and that I will see that in future immigrants. I do not want to become that person.

I do believe that a lot of "us" and a lot of non-"us" forget that there are many types of immigrants out there. Linking this to some of the issues discussed in my women’s studies classes makes it easier for me to understand.

It is that same difference that allows us to contribute so many wonderful parts to everything. In the same way that understanding the different experiences of women all over the world is essential to feminism, understanding that there are different experiences for immigrants all over the world is an essential part of comprehensive immigration reform.

This needs to be at the forefront of the reform, because being stuck on the antiquated belief that European immigrants are the best types of immigrants is a rejection of the importance and contribution of every immigrant.

Recently, the thought of becoming a more desirable immigrant has entered my sister’s head and it absolutely breaks my heart; she is a desirable immigrant.

Just a Girl Out Looking For Love

2009-02-23T03:12:00.000-08:00

Jot@s Anónim@s
Anonymous ♀

I can see Tila Tequila claiming that her "bisexual dating show," A Shot at Love, made same-sex relationships acceptable and was the curious variable that pushed through the legalization of same-sex marriage in California in early 2008. I can hear my male coworker telling me how the woman who is walking out the door has a beautiful body as he bites his lip, apparently admitting me into the vulgar world of "those who like women." I remember going on a date with a guy recently and hearing the "Ahh…" that follows the admission of a kink; the one accompanied by private thoughts of him and me… and some other chick. The stereotypes and personalities constrict me and it’s like - whoa.

I first came to understand my sexuality in the contemplative solace of a far-away land - I studied abroad my junior year. At that time, I was twenty, 15 pounds lighter and a women’s studies major. I was taking a class titled Sexualities and Feminism, taught by an F-to-M transsexual. The beginning of the course reminded everyone that sex isn’t so black-and-white - intersex people, anyone? We discovered the barbaric lengths to which Western society will go to eliminate the so-called "gray areas" of nature by surgically altering newborn-baby genitalia. We flipped through the history of sexuality, Bible through contemporary politics. If I had done all my readings, it would have been an even lovelier class.

And, in between all this talk of pre-op and post-op, and of using prosthetics to urinate standing up (funnels, anyone?), my dear professor proposed something one morning that began the end of my sexual paranoia and confusion. He proposed that people’s sexualities change based on factors of society, culture and stage on one’s life - that sexuality is not static and that indeed, it is fluid.

It clicked at that moment. All the instances of doubt flashed through my mind like primitive thoughts that I’d been too close-minded to let develop. What had been until then, a desire to classify and fit in somewhere seemed to suddenly dissipate into the sea of enlightenment that was my human mind. I breathed. I was going to be okay.

I brought all this back to the States with me, and it is here that the liberty of my love and desire tinkered with and met the realities of identity. The more I stopped resisting my inclinations, the more it became apparent that in accepting fluidity, I would have to take up a queer identity. It was inevitable because I started getting really annoyed when people assumed I only liked men, or terribly peeved whenever homophobia was expressed. I’d always gotten angry anyway, but suddenly it was personal. So, it is ironic that the identity that had freed me from myself actually trapped me publicly. I didn’t expect that.

Take an innocent act like feeling attraction towards a woman, for instance. Before I gave myself the liberty to look at a woman and feel that attraction, I always felt society’s pull inside me. Look at her. No, wait! What are you doing - she’s a girl! Then, when I gave myself the liberty, the urge to respect her suddenly worried me. It was no longer "looking at her is wrong", but "looking at her is going to freak her out." When I look at women, I would hate to disrespect them and their heterosexuality. I would hate to stare at their boobs. I would hate to stare at their butts. It’s hard to help, sure, but I would hate for a woman to think of me as a creep; it’s happened before.

As a woman, I know what it’s like to be under the objectifying male gaze. And while I don’t want to ever fight my feelings of attraction again, I also would hate to imitate that gaze. I know what I think of men who stare at my body with savage lust.

Sometimes I wish we all wore tags. Mine would read: Chicana, feminist, atheist, fluid sexuality. I wish we did, and that it was matter-of-fact and that no one got their asses kicked for it. I would identify other open mujeres and smile at them without hesitation. But I guess that’s what those rainbow accessories are for.

And I write all this to say the following: to love women and men and everything in between is an honest and innocent desire. I want to stop feeling like a freak. I want my sexuality to stop being perceived as a fucking kink. I want my love to be invisible and ordinary, just like yours.

Film Review of 'Che': A-

2009-02-23T03:11:00.000-08:00

Fernando Romero

Che, the two-part film portrait of Ernesto Guevara de la Serna, is a hauntingly beautiful effort to one of the 20th century’s most important figures. The film captures the passion, dedication, raw honesty and love for social change that burgeoned within Ernesto “Che” Guevara. With its lyrical beauty and strong performances, the film can be riveting. It is worth seeing for its attention to visual detail and ambitious filmmaking, making it if nothing else, one of the best films of the year.

Click here for trailer The Argentine
Click here for trailer Guerrilla

Nearly five hours long, including an intermission, Che, is a reconstruction of a pair of brutal insurgencies spearheaded by Guevara. Divided into two parts, dubbed “The Argentine,” and “Guerrilla,” Che, is an epic journey of the Argentinean physician-turned-revolutionary who became Fidel Castro’s right-hand man in the Cuban Revolution and then moved on to spread socialist insurgencies throughout the world.

Benicio Del Toro gives a strong performance worthy of an Oscar nomination as a veritable Che. Del Toro embodies Che with such semblance that it leaves the viewer thinking “that is exactly how Che must have been.” We see Che taming his asthmatic coughing fits or reading books between battles. Che is by turns scholar, guidance counselor, drill sergeant, and comandante, and Del Toro makes him a warrior-saint who learns, against his will, to cultivate a gruff bruiser facade. He yearns to be a “true revolutionary, the highest level of humanity,” and it’s no insult to the film to say that Del Toro succeeded in portraying Che.

The first part of the movie, “The Argentine,” details the brutal campaign of the armed guerrilla led by Castro. The movie makes flashbacks to Che and Castro’s first meeting at a safe house one night in Mexico City where the two spent that night perched on a balcony discussing imperialism and oppression in Latin America. There are also intercut scenes of a visit to New York Che made in 1964 to address the United Nations. Dressed in war fatigues creating a contrast to the suit-wearing, U.N. representatives, as if almost stating that even in New York, a town of glitz and glamour and lots of talk, Che remained a man of action and revolution. These particular shots are gorgeous in the grainy mock-antique black-and-white. The speech delivered at the U.N. stands as one of the most dramatic scenes as Che defends himself against a barrage of verbal accusations. “¿Fusilamientos? Si. Hemos fusilado. Fusilamos y seguiremos fusilando. Nuestra lucha es una lucha a muerte. Patria o muerte!” Intense.

The second half, “Guerrilla,” delves with Che’s attempt to start a socialist insurgency in Bolivia. The opening credits detail a map of Latin America in red, highlighted, the way Che must have seen Latin America, like a tinderbox waiting to be ignited. Here, we see Che as a quixotic-vagabond who left his adopted country and gave up everything anyone could ever want to fight on the side of justice. The drama that unfolds in the second half is deadly as Che becomes a symbol for an idealism that was too pure for his own world; an abstract of Marxism and how it only takes one person to change the world.

If anything, the downside is that the film relies too heavily on the diaries Che wrote during the insurgencies in Cuba and Bolivia. Anybody who goes to see Che expecting a handsome survey of his life will be surprised by what’s not there. Nothing about the budding of his radical beliefs which was rather too-lovingly captured in The Motorcycle Diaries, starring Gael García Bernal as an improbably gorgeous Che.

Albeit great acting and scenery, the film may come off as a mere panel of war, with Che and his comrades prepping for battle after battle. Che fights the bourgeoisie on the side of the proletariat, but as his nom de guerre changes from Ramon to Fernando there is little room for emotional attachment. My appetite was whetted to learn even more about Che, in particular how his humane ideals were tested, and compromised.

The film is an extraordinary effort though; for a man who packed a lot of life into 39 years, it was captured fittingly, but not enough for even a five-hour film. Paradoxically, Che is twice as long than it should have been, but only half the film it ended up being. A quote attributed to one of Latin America’s greatest writers is fitting for the film.

“I could write a thousand years and a million pages about Ernesto Che Guevara.” – Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

Once, She Loved a Girl

2009-02-23T03:04:00.000-08:00

Jot@s Anónim@s
Anonymous

From: ms. mumbles
Date: Aug 26, 2008 3:22 PM

heyyy load the photos!!! (;
hope you slept well... cuz... i didn't really sleep at all LOL

From: \\\LIKEmeBEFORE///
Date: Aug 26, 2008 3:39 PM

Details, girl!

From: ms. mumbles
Date: Aug 26, 2008 3:57 PM

okay, okay...so here it goes.
I got there around 3:30am. we chatted...and chatted some more.
I was sooo nervous cuz, fuck, I haven't kissed anyone other than Gloria for the past year.
So yeah, he said he was nervous too... then he kissed me (:
GREAATTTT!!! Make-out session (soft lips) it was nice.
I hate it when someone shoves their tongue down your throat, ya' know?

Umm...then well, foreplay....(VERY GOOD!!!)
Don't like going down on a guy at all... UHG!!! So yeah, that didn't happen.

Then, he got like a guy (I GUESS) A lil' more rough? Like a rabbit? I guess, lol... dang... I don't miss that AT ALL!!!!

I can think back to all the guys i messed with and I always had this feeling with them...(LIKE FEELING UNEASY. ALWAYS THINKING... 'FUCK... I WISH IT WAS OVER ALREADY CUZ I DON'T FEEL ANYTHING')

SO... that's when i started to miss being with a girl – I was trying to make sure that it wasn't ME missing GLORIA...but instead me missing a girl...
I miss a girl's soft skin...how they smell so pretty...their hair...how I know their bodies more... I missed it );

So yeah... I didn't even cum with him. Not like that's new, but yeah... I think I’m a complete sleaze...
I don't think that means I won't kiss a guy… but sleeping with them is sooo boring... (I guess like Jessica said... "for Shits 'n' Giggles")

Okay! feedback... cuz it almost seems like I'm having an identity crisis!

From: \\\LIKEmeBEFORE///
Date: Aug 26, 2008 4:41 PM

first of all... you've got game. i give you props for that. :)

I think you're affirming what you like, womyn. you know what you want. being with the guy makes you know what you want. And you did a power play... 'for Shits n Giggles'... that is so awesome.

i felt like i was reading a novel, you should publish this. for real... this is great work. I think people should see this.
you were describing feelings i haven't felt since i met kazu. you know... when it meant something.
you know what you like

From: ms. mumbles
Date: Aug 26, 2008 4:50 PM

wow Luis... thanks
Can't believe I'm 25 and just finding this out about myself...but it's okay though, right?
I guess it did make me feel more empowered...it almost really wasn't about sex. It was about finding out something. SO I CAN KNOW...

ummmmmm what do you mean by a power play???

From: \\\LIKEmeBEFORE///
Date: Aug 26, 2008 5:03 PM

You were in control the whole time with the guy. you know what you want.

From: ms. mumbles
Date: Aug 26, 2008 5:08 PM

That makes me happy...
you know what I realized? Since I've been getting hit on a lot...from these two guys...then that total drunk chick last night...and Molina...saying what she said (even if nada will ever happen)

it's nice to know...shit. Am I attractive...? Do I still have game? (;

The Vagina Monologues

2009-02-23T02:57:00.000-08:00

Julio Salgado

If you spent this Valentine’s Day alone and you’re a straight male, then you only have yourself to blame. This month, the Women’s Studies Student Association sponsored a free screening of the Vagina Monologues. The Multicultural Center was full of young female students and just a handful of males, including my boyfriend and I. I don’t understand straight guys. Here you have the perfect opportunity to mingle with your beloved opposite sex and you screw it up. You could have learned a thing or two about vaginas and what women really want. You could have been seen as the understanding male willing to go outside his box and dedicate an hour to vaginas. Not in a sexual way, but in a very informative way.

Playwright Eve Ensler wrote the Vagina Monologues after talking to a bunch of women about their vaginas. She talked to Caucasians, Latinas, Black and Jewish women about the one thing it seems they don’t get to talk about often. Ensler’s gift for writing and performing has made this piece of informative art such a classic. The play has gone on to be extremely successful world wide, gaining accolades from celebrities and Oprah Winfrey (come on, la Winfrey is on a whole different category from celebrities.)

My personal favorite was the piece titled My Angry Vagina. I never really thought about certain inventions that have been created by men for women. Ensler hilarious delivery about the cruelty of tampons and the duck-like tools used by OBGYN’s is just dead on. Women have always been seen as the weaker sex. But honestly, until the day that men are able to pop babies out of their assholes, we will never know about the brutality of childbirth. The day that men are able to squeeze a human being from a small orifice in their body is the day that the pill will be given like candy in the Boys Scouts. And that my friends, is an unfair world for the vagina.

Happy Place

2009-02-23T02:53:00.000-08:00

Commuter's Corner
Julio Salgado

The water is getting through my slip-on Gap shoes. I don’t necessarily love The Gap, but these shoes only cost me $10. Had I known that The Gap made such crappy shoes, I would have opted for two trash bags instead. I disobey the law at the Artesia station and cross the train tracks before the Metro heading to Downtown Long Beach beats me first. I barely make it to the sliding doors as they’re closing. I hate taking the Metro when is raining. Not because I hate the rain, but because of the obvious inconvenience. Your backpack seems to gain some extra weight and your crappy slip-on Gap shoes fill with water.

I discreetly remove my shoes to try and dry my wet feet with the air. It’s useless so I take out a book and try to fade out the noise behind me.

"Ernesto, stop it already!" a sorta angry, sorta flirtatious female voice behind me screams.

I put my book down and turn my head to try and catch this Ernesto in the act. A young woman wearing a huge men’s jacket and a short skirt is trying to push Ernesto off from her. At first, I wonder if I should come to her rescue. But I can tell that theirs is the kind of love therapists and our mothers warn us about: sick. As Ernesto tries to grab one of her breasts, this woman begins to laugh hysterically. She’s in her early 20s and he’s probably in his late 30s. Her curly brown hair is damp from the rain and it’s sticking to her face.

She looks like the kind of girl who has been waiting for someone to whisk her off from her home, where she was either abused or taken care of. Ernesto has the look of the cholo veterano. Baggy pants with a pair of white Nike Cortezes. I begin to feel like a chismoso so I turn back to my book.

It’s useless. I can’t concentrate because of their constant bickering and loud kisses. I wonder how long they’ve been together and if other Metro riders are wondering the same thing. They don’t look like they’re on drugs. But they sure look like they’ve had a tough life. The young woman’s sad eyes confess the need to be touched. The need to be held. Shit, I want to hug her. He embraces her with the kind of passion you see in the movies.

Despite the cold weather and the rain, the woman is wearing sandals. Maybe they are on drugs after all. They finally get off at Anaheim station. I notice that the man is carrying a sports bag. Probably filled with all of their belongings. I wonder if they’re running away. I remember that there’s a Greyhound station around Long Beach Blvd. but I can’t remember exactly where.
There they are again, arguing over which direction to walk. As the train takes off, the couple becomes smaller and smaller. I secretly wish them good luck and hope that they find the happy place they’re desperately looking for.

Postpartum Collegian

2009-02-23T02:46:00.000-08:00

Maria Ventura

As I sit here at my desk in my cramped bedroom, I still have not come to realize that my days as a collegian are over. I have been fresh out of college for no more than a month and already I have been given stern lectures, like demands from my parents to find a job other than Target:

"You need to act like an adult, not a college student."

"Your priorities are not straight."

"You have a degree, now go use it."

Not only that, but now I have to pay rent and to let go of my life at CSULB. I made life-long friends and joined some amazing student organizations as a student. I never realized that it would be so difficult for me to transition out of college. I understand where my parents are coming from in a way. Yes, I do have to transition from being a student to an adult and enter the realm of the real world, but I also feel that once I have left school, the friends I made will no longer be there. Maybe it’s all in my head. Who knows.

I never thought that looking for a job would be difficult. I have an idea what I want to do for a career but I decided not to pursue grad school right away and am left finding a job unrelated to my degree in sociology. Sometimes I wonder why I didn’t major in business management or marketing because maybe then I would be better qualified for jobs. I feel that having a Liberal Arts degree limits me to jobs that I am not eligible for. A variety of jobs require 2-3 years of office experience and in some cases, a certification of typing speed? My typing is inadequate. It’s a Catch-22: how am I supposed to get an entry-level job in an office if I don’t have experience?
During the first week that I spent looking for jobs, I was completely unmotivated; I didn’t want to look. I had the stubborn and naïve mentality that a job would just fall on my plate. Well, another week passed, I got motivated and checked out some openings for social workers at some hospitals. I found that a bachelor’s degree in sociology did not make me eligible for the positions. On a given day, I spent about five hours on the computer searching for jobs. Damn.

Then I realized that if I want to find a job, then I need outside resources. I decided to go to the Career Development Center on campus. The counselors there were helpful and their Beach Link job search-engine helped me find a list of potential jobs. Here’s a word of advice to those seniors who plan to go straight to work after graduation: plan ahead at least six months, create a resumé, and practice writing cover letters. Take advantage of the Career Development Center at Brotman Hall. There are a variety of helpful tools to assist a student searching for a job, from mock interviews to scheduled on-site interviews with campus-sponsored companies like Target. They also have workshops that show students how to write resumés and search for fellowships and scholarships. Alumni are granted one full year of free services.

With luck, I was finally called in for an interview at a vocational nursing school. At first I thought "How can I work here? This school is unknown to most people." It was tiny and family-run. The first interview went great and I was called in for a second interview; I have yet to be notified if I have the admissions representative job. I was just happy that I had an interview after two weeks of searching.

The following day I was called for another interview at a life insurance company located by the Long Beach Airport. Supposedly the employer found my resumé on Monster.com. It sounded like a good opportunity and I thought I would probably make bank. I went to the interview and it was going rather well until the interviewer asked if I owned a car. He said I would need a car because I would be visiting clients at their homes. Well, there went another great opportunity down the drain.

Now I am back at square one and hoping that any replies are nearby and that it will not require a driver’s license. I know I need one, I mean, it’s long overdue. I have been practicing but need to let go of that fear of driving or I’ll never get it, hold back my career and limit myself from great opportunities.

This might be the most challenging year of my life.

La desilusión por mis "compañer@s"

2009-02-23T02:37:00.000-08:00

Jocelyn Gómez

Hello my friends, I am speaking to you all as Jocelyn Gomez, member of La Raza Student Association. So my opinions are pretty biased, I’ll admit.

Last semester Jim Gilchrist was invited to CSULB by our archenemies at the Conservative Student Union. The reason for his unpleasant visit was to talk about La Raza (Student Association) and Racism, as in Raza is racist.

When this happened, we La Raza Student Association, got support from the Women’s Studies Student Association, the Center for Peace and Social Justice, people from UNITE HERE, the other individuals who came to us to show support. But what happened to my Latin@ organizations? What happened to our Latin@ support and unity that supposedly exists?

I thought brown and very light brown faces from different Chican@, Latin@ and Hispanic groups would come out and say, "La Raza Student Association is not racists."

Not that we need this type of defense, especially against clowns like Gilchrist and Haydes, but at least for show and support. To show that no mater the problems that exists in our small community here at CSULB, we will always be united when someone attacks any of us.

All this time I had the hope that no matter what the petty differences we have, the tensions that exist, (yet some refuse to accept) we would still come together and protect each other. But it didn’t happen.

When real problems come. When a conference such as "La Raza and Racism" comes along, with Gilcrhist as the main speaker, no support was there. We have been a target of the Conservative Student Union ever since its creation and no one seems to say, "don’t mess with our people," just to show some loyalty, I say.

Maybe these other organizations didn’t get the memo. They missed the news, twice. Or is it that they thought it was nothing important to get all rowdy about.

But come on, people give support even when they know it’s not necessary just to let the others know they got their backs.

Think of it this way, like when you go to your aunt’s or other family member’s house and you ask, "How can I help you" just to be polite and helpful, but you really don’t want to help and hope he/she says, "Nada. Sientate a comer."

But you still showed some interest in helping.

But I can help but to think that they chose to ignore it and let us take the attacks on our own.

If there is no real, concrete unity between some of us, we should at least be united in moments like these, when we have, what I think is, one common enemy.

I guess what I am asking for is for hypocrisy. Kind of the one we have now, where we talk to each other, expressed our desire to want to collaborate.

No, maybe not.

I want people to actually get mad when some piece of crap comes to our campus and calls our fellow classmates racists, because we are suppose to go through the same experiences and somewhat of the same hardships. Most of us are from the working or low-income class, and maybe we have experienced some sort of racists attacks.

So if an events hurts one of our own, we should all be like "what gives? Don’t mess with our people!" or something.

And I know people talk shenanigans about us.

I sure as hell have done my share of trash talking, but because I don’t like people talking about us!

I know, it still doesn’t make it right. Tsk tsk Gomez, tsk tsk.

And I don’t like the people say about us:
That when we go to certain meetings (LSU) we are demanding and like to go against other groups, that we take ownership of places (Raza Resource Center) that are not ours, that our men are sexist and childish, and other accusations I don’t know about but I can guess are out there.

In my knowledge, they are not true. We just like to be assertive. We like to make our opinions known. Well other Raza members do, I just like writing about them and hiding behind these letters.

The men we have in Raza are the most progressive men I have met, and all of them are open-minded and respect other people. Our women are also the most progressive and really active. Neither men nor women fit the stereotypes and don’t try to conform to gender roles.

This is who we are. We want people to progress; that is our whole deal.

Well that’s what I think. I just hope we can all count on each other like I heard it was in the old days.

I am no longer expecting much from anyone. I just hope things clear up in the future.

So this is how I feel. Maybe others don’t share the same ideas and concerns I do, not even my fellow Raza members. Maybe I am being dramatic.

But it doesn’t matter, at least you read the article.

A Story in My Mind

2009-02-23T02:35:00.000-08:00

Alejandra Villalobos

A story echoes in my mind
And as it does it leaves a legend behind
It slowly cradles in my mouth
And as soon as it begins to come out
My mouth trembles in and out
And as it touches my lips
It disappears into the sky like the rain
into the sea

Ellos

2009-02-23T02:33:00.000-08:00

Daniel Romo

I was in third grade when my mom bought me
A pair of denim pants the color of throw up.
And I told her they looked like throw up.
And she told me that’s what "they" are wearing.
Though she never did say who "they" were.
But I’ve grown up Mom,
And I finally know who "they" are.
— They are young Latino mothers
Who drag their children ‘cross town
From garage sale to garage sale
And then on to Sears
Every Saturday morning,
And push Graco strollers every Halloween
-Sans costumes-
With those Sears bags tied to them
Unabashedly expecting candy
For six month old babies.
And maybe it is for their six month old babies,
And their costumes are simply
Young Latino mothers.
— They are awkward poets,
In the good awkward way,
Quirky educated hipsters who think too much
Ands sport Melton wool caps
Spending hours in bookstores
Talking to themselves under their breaths
In dialects only other good awkward people
Appreciate and understand,
Who take occasional breaks reading published peers
Properly reshelving those peers despite knowing
They’re more accomplished,
Just less connected.
—They are silly girls
Who dress silly, and act silly, and kiss silly,
And smile silly,
Who like serious things
Like good film, good literature, good music,
And good men,
And listen to R.E.M. when they can’t sleep
Contemplating nightswimming
In his too honest not honest enough eyes
And surmise sometimes incorrectly,
They are silly girls who left me.
They are overworked inner city teachers
Going and making the proverbial distance
And difference.
They are suburban white boys nodding
Trust fund heads up and down to Tupac
Who think they have a free pass
To use the "n" word in their wannabe existence.
They are devoted Target consumers.
They are stronger people for being
Victims of unfounded rumors.
They are tenement single mothers.
They are medal of valor brothers,
Crude casualties of mistaken identity.
They are nomadic spirits who spend
Christmas Eve in fast food joints
Fading into Santa Ana sunsets
Like buffalo nickels in wishing wells.
They are Rwandan rebels just growing
Pubic hair unaware that Call of Duty
Is just a video game.
They are biracial presidents.
They are legal and illegal residents.
They are sad stories put to pretty music.
They are the Indians and the Calvary.
They are whoever you want them to be.
They are so fuckin’ stupid.
They are so fuckin’ beautiful.
They are the ones who finally did
Grow up.
And Mom,
They did look like throw up.

Chorizo and Eggs

2009-02-23T02:29:00.000-08:00

Daniel Romo

Surrounded by people of pigmentation
Predominantly lighter than mine,
It’s a must my cultural preservation,
The Latino way I dine.
It’s what keeps me grounded
Like an Incan Fortress
Cemented to my roots.
Deep with heritage
Glowing with pride
A fact I can’t refute.
And despite the quiche and espresso walls
And the variety for which Vanillaland begs,
I prefer to forgo Spinach soufflés,
Opting for my chorizo
And eggs.

Like an Ambulance Chaser

2009-02-23T02:28:00.000-08:00

Daniel Romo

I merge on to light speed boulevards
And become intimate with busy streets.
Stealing stories and collecting one-liners
That repeat without permission.
Listen to what they say,
Day to day existence inside a white picket fence
Or black security bars on windows
Both make for a majestic muse.
Not to be confused with envy.
I do long to stroll on sidewalks
In front of the large houses whose lawns
My immigrant grandfather used to mow,
And look through their renovated bay windows
To see what their dreams are made of
But I’ll never know,
Because my mother taught me,
Sunsets over treetops look the same,
And the grass only looks greener,
Because we’re the ones who watered it.
Free to see and be,
A simple nomad I am.

Renaissance Man

2009-02-23T02:25:00.000-08:00

Daniel Romo

I’m a Renaissance man.
A modern day beatnik who finds
Romance in grey skies
And bewilderment
In why the suicide rate
Stays so high
In Seattle.
Who shuns laptops
And text messaging,
Preferring to write
With wooden pencils
Confessing
They keep me closer to
Nirvana.
Product of an early 90’s
Northwest revolution
Dressed in apathy
Bathed in flannel.
I’ve not watched Vh-1 in years
And changed the channel long ago
Only to become obsessed
With reality TV,
Watching top, anorexic, wannabe models
Flaunt their sexuality,
And fallen hip-hop heroes
Diminished to the depths
Of actually
Dating
Their groupies.
Who YouTubes
"Kimbo Slice" and "backyard fights"
And Googles
"Saul Williams" and "Open Mic readings"
Transforming proper nouns to verbs
Seeing
Through the superficiality,
And vicarious reality—
It is written and spoken word
That keeps me honest.
For I decode
Keenly folded dreams
Written in shorthand
On the second floor of bookstores
Ignoring
And bucking the system
That comes with
Being a male poet.
My proud pectorals protruding,
Alluding
To the fact
My manhood’s intact,
And I’m sensitive enough
To feel.
I reject coffee houses
And commercialism,
Yet wonder if it’s a contradiction
To be a devoted
Target consumer.
It’s no coincidence
I’m slow to dispel the rumor—
I find flaws in rainbows
Keeping quiet
Letting Mother Nature know
I can keep a secret.
In a perfect world,
There’d be no secrets.
There’d be no secrets,
No stereotypes
Misogyny,
Pollution
Book burning
Poverty,
High gas prices
American Idol
Dog fighting
Communism
Eating disorders
Rosie O’ Donnell
And WAR.
Isn’t that what artists
Strive for?
And while I’m on the subject,
I’ll add cutting funding for the arts
In high schools to the list,
Because billions of dollars spent
On space exploration
Fueled by egos and speculation
Is
Bullsssssshhhhh…..

I’m a Renaissance man.
A modern day beatnik
Who simply wants to
Be,
One step closer,
To a more forgiving world…

The Itch

2009-02-23T02:02:00.000-08:00

Yadira Arroyo

i got an itch
on my lower back
on my neck

come scratch it
like i have no soul
fuck it

my nipples tingle
and my eyes narrow,
lock on to a moving target

i am blind and forget
that i am me -
i glide to your throat

with unstoppable
momentum -
i slide to your feet

pushed to feather ice
melting at the mercy of
the steaming flesh

soaring through
accelerated air
i land

so you can
rather easily
bend over

and scratch.

'El Reflejo' Featured in CSULB's Daily 49er

2009-02-04T03:24:00.000-08:00

El Reflejo was featured on the front page of Cal State Long Beach’s Daily 49er on February 4, 2009. Read article here.

Pictured here are some of the staff members, from top to bottom, left to right: Julio Salgado, Maria Ventura, Fernando Romero, Claudia Ramirez, Pablo Ildefonso, and Yadira Arroyo.

(Photo credit: Tiffany Rider.)

Circumstance

2009-01-26T00:50:00.000-08:00

Yadira ArroyoIt’s just another morning at the corporate coffee shop where I work. I can see the golden rays of our L.A.-faithful sun kicking it on the sidewalk. I shift my attention to my job and systemically scan the lobby for tables that need busing or things that need arranging, but find everything impeccable; I’ve done my job well. I lean against the counter behind the register, and take a self-allotted break from nothing. My mind momentarily lingers on the thought of getting paid as the clock ticks. The prospect of one more dollar is unexciting though, so I am forced to thrill myself otherwise.

I drag my eyes slowly towards the undeserving Ripple TV screen and catch the horoscope frame. Intrigued, I walk closer to the bait and can see the first four: Aries, Taurus, Gemini and Cancer. Filled with mystic anticipation, I wait for the screen to change so that the next four are revealed.

"Don’t fret about circumstances. Your boundless energy is perfect for making life a bit easier to live," reads the Virgo horoscope.

I gush at the liveliness compliment. Why, thank you, Mr. Ripple.

My circumstances sure are dire.

I walk sluggishly back to the counter and place my hands in my apron pocket. I wait for customers who find nothing interesting happening in Downtown L.A.’s business district on a sunny Sunday morning.

I look around and see that my supervisor is in the back room. Good. I round my painted lips, bend my tongue inside my mouth and start to whistle the Star-Spangled Banner. Suddenly, I see myself marching in a patriot parade, red-white-and-blue glitter bikini and all. My hair is yellow and my eyes are blue and well, it’s just not me. I snort to stop myself from laughing.

I look through the glass doors and finally see someone approaching. Even from inside the store, I can see that his jean jacket is faded and that his dirty blonde hair is, well, dirty. He reaches for the door handle and I straighten myself up.

"Hi!" I greet him.

"Hello there," he smiles. "Refill."

At that moment he presents his cup, and I cock a mental eyebrow. The paper cup is tattered and filthy; I keep a pleasant front.

"I always wanted to be a barista," he starts.

There is a sneaky quality to his tone, as if he was cunningly flirting with the spoken word, but I relate nonetheless. At one point, I too had believed that this was the dream job.

"I am the only one in my family who has not been a barista," he continues.

I fake a chuckle now, not because I am snobbish, but because his simple comment just turned into a customer story.

Taking the sad excuse for a liquid-holding container in my hand, what I should be doing is demanding to see some proof of purchase.

"Dark or mild?" I ask him.

"Dark," he chooses. "I’ve applied to work here before, but you know what always gets me?"

"What?" I ask him.

"Those damn questions! You know, the ones that are really obvious but that try to catch you in a lie."

"Yeah," I say, my attention on the cup. I try in vain to lock the lid on its worn-out rim. Doesn’t he know I could burn him?

"They’re so obvious though," he repeats.

"Yeah," I say.

***

A week later, during a weekday-morning shift, my coworker begins to tell me.

"There was this man who came in yesterday," she says. "He pulled out a dirty, old cup and when I didn’t give him the refill, he started yelling at me."

"Was he blond?" I ask her.

"Yeah!"

"Well, what did he say?"

She rolls her eyes.

"He said, ‘Go to hell, you fucking wetback!"

I snort. ¶

Las Dudosas

2009-01-26T00:19:00.000-08:00

Iris Arcón

Bisexuality could have stopped the ban on same-sex marriage. I know, you’re all probably thinking, "What the hell are you talking about?" More open people, less Mormons, and fewer hateful people could have stopped the ban on same sex marriages. But isn’t bisexuality somewhat like that? It can be said that bisexuals are open to either a man or a woman, right? Some see it as confusion, while others see bisexuality as the place in between. A place where you have chosen not to choose. You are not on a "side" yet. Oh, that infamous "side." The side that changes you forever. Ni de aqui, ni de alla. Estás dudosa o dudoso. However, you choose to define bisexuality, I do believe that everyone should be bisexual. Bisexuality could help us understand sexuality in so many ways. More importantly, the hostility towards bisexuals that might exist out there, especially towards bisexual women, need not be necessary. Before I dig myself into a deeper grave with my fellow lesbians and gays (or anyone else reading this), hear me out first.

I’ll start off by painting a picture of the kinds of hostility that I have noticed in the "gay world." Ask most lesbians and gays in the bars of Los Angeles and they’ll tell you their thoughts on the fallacy of bisexuality. Many who identify as lesbians and gays do not believe there is such a thing.

Ask any straight woman or man however, and they’ll say that bisexuals do exist.

I have noticed a difference between the reaction to bisexuality that some gays and lesbians express. Tell most lesbians you meet that you are a bisexual woman, and you’ll get an immediate "look." A look of, "Then why the fuck are you wasting my time? There’s no such thing as bisexuality." It’s a look that says, "Well you’re either in or you’re not in. You cannot be both." As a woman trying to find a good woman where my options consist of the few gay clubs and a friend of a friend of a friend that knows a lesbian (that might be single), the search can be very frustrating. I understand that lesbians are looking for other women with whom they can have stable, loving relationships and that they do not want to be left for a man, but nobody wants to be left for anyone else, man or woman, right? Maybe it is the betrayal for another man that might make lesbians think twice about getting involved with bisexual women. I do not quite know. Whatever it is, I do believe the attitude is completely unnecessary.

In contrast, a bisexual man can tell a gay man that he is bisexual and the response will be completely different. The gay man will immediately say, "Oh, don’t worry hon’, you’ll be gay soon." The reaction to bisexual men versus bisexual women makes me rather upset. Why do men get to be bisexual with less judgment while women get "the look?" I have never come across a gay man who realized he was straight after all and then started dating women again. I have also never come across a bisexual man who did not turn out to be gay over time, but I would love to meet one though. That would be a great experience for men, and it would help us understand sexuality. Bisexuality in all men could help them understand what it is like to be part of an oppressed group, as well. If all of the men and women that had voted for the ban on sex-marriage had been bisexual, they would have understood us more. Could that have helped us keep same-sex marriages?

So, why is the reaction different for bisexual men and bisexual women? Why is society still harsher on women than on men? Even more importantly, why are lesbians and gays harsher on women than on men? Shouldn’t gays and lesbians know what it’s like to be in situations where there are all sorts of pressures from family, religion, and culture?

Homosexuality is completely different for men and women. Society has constructed our culture to believe that men are puñales upon any sort of contact with the same sex. Any sexual arousal that comes from being attracted to masculinity is considered well, gay. For them, it’s put quite plain and simple. Men cannot go back. They have already betrayed heterosexuality. When it really should not have been. That is why the reaction at bars is always, "You’ll be gay soon." That is also why it is easier for men to be gay. I am not saying this in terms of who gets harassed more (men or women) or who can get away with this or that more. That would be putting two oppressed groups in a competition over which one is more oppressed and it is certainly not what I want to do. I am referring to this in terms of the path to a "defined" sexuality, something that is more black and white. It is easier for gay men to identify as gay men because of what they should never ever do: enjoy sex with another man. It is not the same for women though. But why?

There are certain pressures that women experience, but men do not and they never will. If men grew up to be either gay or straight, they were always raised to be straight men. Gay men were raised to be heterosexual and to marry a woman. Men were raised to receive servitude from women and they were taught to be dominant and in charge. Yes, I acknowledge that there are also many abusive same-sex relationships, but gay men were still not raised like Latinas. I, as many other Latinas do, know exactly what it feels like to grow up a Catholic girl with the constant pressure to serve the men of the house. I know what it feels like to have been raised with the concept that "true love" and "the one" will only come from a man. I have had heterosexuality and traditions hammered into my head ever since I can remember. I am a woman: a bastion of my culture. My children will inherit my culture and in order to do so I had to understand that for women things are a certain way. I could never relate to it of course, because I never saw myself married to a man, let alone serving him. But that was how it was shaped for me, for us. Men never experienced this.

It is that quest to avoid continuous sexism that has made female sexuality more fluid. Gay men, being men, have never and will never have to flee sexism like women. That quest to be treated with respect, equality, and as wonderful, beautiful women that we are has been the reason for much judgment on behalf of many. And it should not.

A week ago, I met up with a friend of mine at a bar. We talked for hours about stuff going on, including the women in our lives. In college, like many other women, she came out of the closet to her friends as bisexual. She started her first long-term relationship with a woman about a year ago. It was a relationship that not only made her acknowledge her lesbianism, but unfortunately it also left her emotionally damaged. Even though it hasn’t been the relationship that she had wished it was, she knows she’s a lesbian.

"I met a guy the other day at the bar."

"A man?"

"Yeah. He’s so nice to me. Doesn’t treat me like shit. Makes me feel good again, you know?

That’s what I need right now."

"Yeah. I can tell. There’s a smile on your face now."

"I haven’t met women. And well, you know how hard it is to meet good women."

"Yeah. I know."

Many lesbians and gays might say that she doesn’t know what she wants, that she’s confused; how can she go back to a man? She needs to choose a side.

This all brings me back to Proposition 8. We all know what it feels like to be judged by our love for the same sex. We have all experienced it and many of us will continue to experience it. This is exactly what we are doing to our fellow bisexuals. Yes, some might turn out to be straight. Many will also be either gay or lesbians. Some will choose not to choose.

But, no matter what happens to them and what "side" they have chosen, they will all know what it feels like to be on our side. They have experienced it. They have walked in our shoes. The ones that have figured out that they are straight, know exactly what we go through every single day in society. They have stepped outside of their privilege bubble and they have lived as an oppressed group. That in itself means so much. Isn’t that sort of what we would like to get across to the entire nation in the first place? Don’t we want some sort of understanding from the heterosexual majority? Yet, we cannot give that understanding to bisexuals? How can we expect understanding when we cannot give it to each other in the first place? I believe that if everyone were bisexual, we wouldn’t have had a ban on same-sex marriage. If everyone could understand and experience what it is like to be a lesbian or gay, they would not have taken our right to marry away. Bisexuals, no matter what "side" they choose, are our allies.

So, lesbians, chill the fuck out with your "looks." Straight men and women, please become bisexual. Gay men, stay bisexual. And you bisexuals, just stay cool. ¶

Give Me Patience

2009-01-26T00:08:00.000-08:00

Anonymous

The ‘My Class Schedule’ section of the MyCSULB university registration website is looking back at me. It’s on step three of the ‘Drop Class’ menu. That means that my classes have been dropped for the semester. That is, the two classes I thought I’d be able to afford this semester. There is still hope I’ll come up with the money, sign up and be able to breathe again but in the meantime, I’ve got no classes.

And I’m not scared, really. Stressed? Yeah. Scared? Not so much. Every single semester is the same thing. Never the expert in financial management, I always seem to be caught with less money that I thought I had. It’s not like I can fall back on a financial aid check. As an undocumented immigrant, I get none.

Every single semester is the same old routine. As I frantically search for every single option in order to gather a few extra cents, all I do is give myself a headache and sweat way too much in the hand area.

The thing is, I’ve reached the point where I’ve accepted the fact that I may or may not go to school this semester. Or the next semester, for that matter. I’ve not given up yet, but I cannot allow this burden to eat my mind away. It’s not a careless thought or a step closer to being a college drop out. It’s about accepting what I have, what I can accomplish and what I cannot change.

"God, give us grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed, courage to change the things that should be changed, and the wisdom to distinguish the one from the other."

Never the most religious Catholic in my family, I’ve looked back over and over at this quote. I’m not sure if I believe in God, but I am certain that there is a higher being out there who looks after us.

Because my father is a recovering alcoholic, I know that Alcoholics Anonymous attendees have adopted the quote as part of their 12-step program to find a better and sober life.

Like an alcoholic dealing with a disease they cannot seem to shake off, I cannot change the fact that I am an undocumented student. But it’s hard to not want to crawl into a hole when the people working at Brotman Hall give you a certain look when you’re inquiring about deadlines and it’s getting pretty close to the beginning of the semester. A look that says, "Look at that student, leaving things for the last minute. He deserves no help." But, who can blame him? He doesn’t know that I’m an undocumented student who lacks funds to pay his tuition in a timely manner, that I used the $500 scholarship that I won last semester to pay my share of the rent. He doesn’t know that this past Christmas, not a single member of my family got a present from me since I was broke and there was no chance of getting a few extra hours in at work due to this failing economy.

He doesn’t know.

As of today, I’m without classes because I have no money. That simple. But even if I don’t go to school this semester, furthering even more my graduation date, I know that I will be granted some sort of serenity to accept my current situation. Even as I type this, I find some sort of comfort in knowing that there will be more semesters ahead of me.

Students and professors reading this, please don’t feel bad for me. Students, take advantage of every single penny the government gives you to further your education. Professors, teach your students not just the theories of the brown individuals who made it possible for us to walk on this campus, but also about the actions that they can do to change the laws that stop students like me from getting an education.

I may or may not see you next semester, but whatever my faith is, fill your brain with lots of fancy words and stand out from the others. ¶

Change is Us

2009-01-26T00:01:00.001-08:00

Jesús Iñiguez

So, Obama’s finally in the big house.

It was a relief to see the voting machines working properly during this last election process, and it was exciting – and surprising, honestly – to see that most votes were counted and accounted for. The American majority has spoken. On January 20, 2009, the entire world tuned in to hail the man who had changed the face of politics forever.

The world – as Americans know it – has started to show major fissures in its foundation. Seems like everything is imploding into itself and the collective paradigm is shifting and reaching for a greater good. Everyone is rushing to adapt with the times. The rest of the world is finally exhaling sighs of relief, patting Americans on the back as if saying, "Congratulations!! You’re finally catching up with the rest of us."

But I’ll be honest with you all. Personally, I’m not sure how confident I am in the incoming administration. Over the years, I’ve grown to be quite distrustful and suspicious of all politicians. I’m sure many of you have developed a similar attitude towards the major players in the political arena, who seem to only cater to corporate side deals that allow them to gain and eat their slice of the American pie. The notion of inclusion into a cultural melting pot has been put on the backburner, and we’ve all been simmering in the slow-rolling boil of exploitation.

But, I can’t deny the response that Obama has created amongst the masses of struggling working-class folks, the imaginations of young impressionable minds, and in the hearts of many hopeful souls. He has stepped up and revived hope in many individuals who have lost faith in their participation in democracy. His words and aspirations have inspired many to seek an opportunity for participation and discussion. And no matter where one stood on the political spectrum, "change" was the key word.

But, he can’t do it by himself.

I feel that we, as a nation/society, have finally truly taken the first step towards achieving change. Many folks are finally talking. About transformation and (r)evolution. They’re expressing their hopes, praying for strength, and working towards making amends. They’re connecting with each other across faiths, borderlines, color-lines, lifestyles, and political affiliations. The trauma of the past eight years, along with the multiple ongoing global catastrophes of today, has brought many of us together, encouraging a healing process. We’re beginning to understand that we’re all in this together.

The first and most difficult step has been taken. As a people, we’re no longer standing silent, fearful and hopeless. We have assumed responsibility for our voices and our votes. We have found it in ourselves to participate in a belief that we’ve been promoting and pushing onto the rest of the world. We have voted for change.

In order for us to alter our political reality, we must maintain our focus on preserving communication. It would be a disappointment to see people turn away from our newly elected president after having placed our collective anxieties, worries, and hopes on his shoulders, along with the expectation that the administration work out all the kinks and issues without our input. Though Obama has undoubtedly become synonymous with the will and optimism of the disenfranchised, he is not by any means our savior. Obama simply represents an ideal that we have all yearned to seize and dream for.

This is our time. We are now confronted with an opportunity to reconcile and rebuild. It’s time that we hold those who abused the public trust accountable for their misdeeds. It’s time that we speak louder and that we continue to stay involved in the happenings of our government. It’s time that we progress as participants in a democracy, that we strive for peace, and that we work towards resolving the many internal national conflicts.

It’s time that we evolve as human beings.

In the meantime, let’s maintain our channels of communication open. For 2009, I hope to see folks open themselves up to new possibilities.

Change is here. We just have to make it work for us. ¶

So long, 2008!

2008-12-01T22:06:00.000-08:00

It’s been a wonderful year. We know, that is not what you may be thinking when you check your pockets, but it has certainly been a wonderful year for El Reflejo. As you may or may not know, the newsletter, first published in 2006 was able to resume production after a year-long hiatus.

At the beginning of the last Spring semester, several of us motivated estudiantes convened to plan the most revolutionary act to occur on campus since RAZA’s last Taco Sale: we wanted to publish Chcan@/Latin@ thought and art. We wanted to leave our mark. Pa’ que luego no digán que no hicimos nada.

We’ve begged for donations, thrown two fundraising paris, tabled at a campus event, visited classes, passed out flyers, passed out issues, started a mailing list and now, we are tired.

But that’s why we get a winter break.

The dedicated staff would at this point like to thank you. Thank you $upportive professors and peers, thank you chili pepper department, thank you, oh trustworthy Espie, and of course, thank you Nuestro Señor Jesús...Iñiguez that is, for getting the show on the road and bestowing your Almighty wisdom upon us all.

Y gracias lectores, que sin su respaldo, no tuviéramos ganas de seguir haciendo esto. Pero por favor, tampoco no sean gachos y echenos la mano -- con muchas submissions y dinero! Afterall, it’s the season for giving, or whatever.

Enjoy the break. Enjoy the winter sun, and see you in 2009.

Sincerely,
El Reflejo Staff

Jot@ Diaries: Intro

2008-12-01T21:35:00.000-08:00

Chicken Shit

2008-12-01T21:34:00.001-08:00

Artist: Adrian _____?

La(tin@) Mala Educación

2008-12-01T21:28:00.001-08:00

Fernando Romero

The Latino Education Forum was presented inside the University Student Union Ballrooms on Tuesday, Nov. 18 to address the concerns regarding Latinos and education.

The forum was organized in part by the Chicano and Latino Studies Dept. (CHLS) at Cal State Long Beach. The event included a discussion panel, followed by a question-and-answer session with audience members. The five-person panel was comprised of CSULB faculty, a "social critic", area educators and local politicians. The event provided the opportunity for students, educators, community leaders, and those who work for and on behalf of Latino students to engage in a dialogue that would proactively address the needs of all Latino students.

The panel discussion focused on issues of critical interest, especially those related to student participation, parental involvement, higher education opportunities, cultural awareness and dropout prevention.

The panelists talked about the possible problems and the reasons why Latinos continue to underachieve in education across different measures. The latter part of the forum was spent discussing the viable solutions to combat educational issues which persistently afflict Latino students such as excessive high school dropout rates, low enrollment in post-secondary institutions and the low attainment of baccalaureate and master’s degrees.

CHLS professor José Moreno served as one of the facilitators of the event. Moreno said that the idea for putting together the Latino Education Forum was to bring together an array of viewpoints and have a serious discussion about the problems Latino students are facing in the nation’s educational system.

"The idea for coming together tonight was to be able to engage these folks [panelists] with our ideas and to provide a forum to talk openly about the problems and solutions relating to Latinos and education," Moreno said.

The Latino education gap was exemplified in literature provided to the audience made up primarily of CSULB students. The statistics and numbers attributed to the 2000 U.S. Census cited that for every 100 Latino elementary school students, 48 drop out of high school and only 52 graduate from high school. Of the 52 who graduate from high school, 31 enroll in college. And of the 31 who enroll in college, 20 go to a community college and 11 to a four-year institution. Of the 20 who go to a community college, 2 transfer to a 4-year college. Overall, of the 31 who enrolled in college, either community or four-year, only 10 will graduate with a bachelor’s degree.

When compared to other demographics, Latinos trail in every category of educational achievement. Of the four major ethnic/racial demographics in the U.S., Latinos trailed last substantially. The Latino high school graduation rate stood at 52 percent, compared to African Americans at 72, Asian Americans at 80 and Whites at 84. Post-secondary enrollment had similar statistics for the disparity in Latino achievement. Latinos graduated with a bachelor’s degree at a rate of 10 percent, while African Americans at 14, Asian Americans at 44 and Whites at 26 percent.

The panelists cited different causes for the persistent underachievement of Latinos across different educational measures. Panelist Olga Rubio, professor at CSULB in the Teacher Education Dept. said that factors such as lack of preparation of teachers as well as a "subtractive environment" in the K-12 school system contribute to the underachievement of Latinos in education.

"Some of the critical issues that I see are student and school disconnection. There also seems to be a lack of preparation of the majority of teachers in schools who can help Latino students confront cultural differences," Rubio said.

Social critic Ernesto Caravantes, author of Clipping Their Own Wings: The Incompatibility Between Latino Culture and American Education said cultural differences have played a definite role in Latino underachievement in education. The author cited the disconnection between "Hispanic culture" and the requirements the American education system demands. Caravantes said that the cultural differences of Latinos have not placed education as a priority and have accounted for the educational underachievement.

"Hispanics have put other things before education. Not that they don’t value education, but they have put other things before education," Caravantes said. "Hispanics have primarily placed other things such as family, traditions, solidarity before education."

Caravantes did not present any evidence for his findings, but asserted that his book did not posit a "blame-the-victim" approach toward the underachievement of Latinos in education.

Caravantes said, "I think the discussion could be greatly improved if the word ‘victim’ isn’t used. I’m not trying to blame them, but to simply state that Hispanics as a culture have a list of principle values and education is not at the top."

Former deputy superintendent Rubén Barrón of the Anaheim and Hesperia School Districts, said the educational crisis afflicting Latinos requires more attention.

"The system is not working," Barrón said. "It’s not a national priority. We need to make it a national priority."
Lorena Moreno, Assistant Principal at Demille Middle School in Long Beach said some of the most pragmatic solutions included a wider involvement of Latino parents in schools.

"We need to continue to develop community relations to parents and teachers," she said. "Schools that reach out to parents do better."Rubio said that there also existed a lack of information and of programs designed specifically to alleviate some of the cultural differences Latino parents have, such as language barriers.

The panelists agreed that the underachievement of Latinos in the education system is a complex issue. The cultural and language differences coupled with socioeconomic factors has placed Latinos at the bottom of the secondary and post-secondary educational ladder. The five-person panel agreed that access to information and the change of the institutional education climate through outreach to parents and students will alleviate Latino underachievement in education.

Latinos in postsecondary education have not been keeping pace proportionate with their growth among the general population. Latinos currently make up 15 percent of the U.S. population. The population growth and contribution to the economy makes the improvement of Latino achievement in education vital to the nation’s workforce. ¶

La niña de mis ojos

2008-12-01T21:28:00.000-08:00

Anonymous
I rushed home from the university to live the moment on my computer. I planned on YouTubing Obama’s speech as soon as I could lock myself in my room and get on my laptop. On the long ride home, I had been listening to a punk version of "A Change is Gonna Come", thinking it perfect for the occasion. Later, I was delighted to hear him quote the song in his victory speech. "It’s been a long time coming," he bellowed.

And then, in the midst of all the tears of joy and the surreal quality of the night, I kept anxiously refreshing the Los Angeles Times web page for results of the California elections.

I had a headache, but I kept clicking and clicking, getting the most up-to-date results as the minutes went by. Even as I was hearing our president-elect speak in the YouTube video, I couldn’t help but refresh the page. It looked like it was passing, but that was from preliminary results in conservative counties, the web site said. Hope. I clicked again and again until my head hurt so much that I decided to just sleep on it.

In the morning, things were still muddy, but I kept the Internet close. By mid-afternoon however, it was getting clear: voting Californians, well about fifty-two percent of them, had passed the motion that would amend the state’s constitution to define marriage as that which occurs between a man and a woman. That’s when I started to get different feelings about these historic elections.

It was Saturday night after the elections. With the weight of human hate on my shoulders and the thought of comfy chickens, I had a right to be emotionally exhausted. But that was nothing that a good evening spent at my grandmother’s house with all my cousins, aunts and uncles couldn’t wisp away. Yeah.

I was sitting in the living room when my uncle approached me. He got straight to the point.

"What did you vote on Prop 8?"

"What do you think?" I answered him, coolly.

"I think that you voted ‘no’," he replied.

"And you?" I asked, almost reluctantly but unable to refuse his attempt at meaningful conversation.

"I voted ‘yes’ because I do not want my kids to be taught blah, blah, blah, gibberish, blah…" referencing of course, the successful public-schools-will-turn-your-kids-gay-if-this-proposition-does-not-pass television propaganda.

I stared at him for a second. I sighed. I had to try.

"But it’s not going to make them gay. And what’s wrong with that anyway?" I told him.

Then, my other uncle and his wife decided to chime in. That is how, in what seemed like five seconds, a one-on-one discussion turned into a yelling match. Even my mom was trying to help me. After a few minutes of listening to the same circular arguments, I let myself sink into the background. I sat there, sandwiched between these gay-passionate straight folks.

"Gays this! Gays that!"

"Oh, the horror! Fragile little children will get so confused!"

"Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve!"

Then, my uncle stopped all conversation, marking a triumphant victory for the haters in the room. Thundering with druggie-turned-apostle-of-Christ wisdom, he turned to look at my mother, who was arguing against him. His forehead vein popping, he challenged her. He asked her the make-it or break-it question:

"¿Pero está bien moralmente? Crees eso en tu corazón?"

And I heard my mother falter. I continued to stare at my lap, at that moment feeling quite detached from the world. I knew better than to hold her accountable for anything. I let them keep talking, keep yelling, keep knowing.

But, I’m not the type to let it stay like that. My patience has its limits and I finally decided to interject. I took a deep breath.

"As a…bi…sexual," I struggled to declare. They turned to look at me. "Bisexual" isn’t even the label I like, but given the audience, I wasn’t too concerned with the technicalities. I did it as a sort of plea for authority on the subject, for respect, for a bit of compassion.

And it only made them listen for a few seconds in momentary discomfort. They smiled smugly, as if I was trying to trick them out of their convictions by presenting worthless evidence. They weren’t fooled by my honesty. They resumed the argument and by then, my face was scrunched and I was crying.

I stood up quickly and retreated to my cousin’s room – I had just come out to my family. For the first time in twenty-two years, they seemed to be complete strangers, arrogant inhibitors of love and progress. I wondered how they could be my lifelong support and joy, and then turn into fiery rhetorical wolves at the passing of a petty law. None of this was about marriage. None of it was about civil rights. It was about allowing advocates of tradition to openly express their otherwise politically incorrect homophobia. They needed to sit me down in the living room and tell me what was up because of course, they were able to vote for it on Tuesday. Their too-often-repressed voices had to be heard! I guess.

I sat on my cousin’s bed sniffling. See, this whole "degenerate" sexuality thing is fairly new to me. I just came out to myself this year. Perhaps that is why I couldn’t handle it like a woman with ovaries. It’s so damn fresh.

I got up to look at myself in my cousin’s makeup mirror. I was crying, but I also did not want my eyeliner to run, which is an excellent thought for subduing tears. Stepping in closer, I looked into the peaceful depth of the blue-shadowed, brown eyes that were staring back at me. Like a clairvoyant, I tried to see the future revealed in my misty eyes.

The thought bit, and I asked the forces that be to show me if there was any way that years from now, I could end up with only a taste for boys. I concentrated and looked in deep, but at that moment, I could only see la niña de mis ojos. ¶

Uncovering the Lie

2008-12-01T21:23:00.000-08:00

Gloria Anzaldúa

"Some of us take another route. We try to make ourselves conscious of the Shadow-Beast, stare at the sexual lust and lust for power and destruction we see on its face, discern among its features the undershadow that the reigning order of heterosexual males project on our Beast. Yet still others of us take it another step: we try to waken the Shadow-Beast inside us. Not many jump at the chance to confront the Shadow-Beast in the mirror without flinching at her lidless serpent eyes, her cold clammy moist hand dragging us underground, fangs bared and hissing. How does one put feathers on this particular serpent? But a few of us have been lucky – on the face of the Shadow-Beast we have seen not lust but tenderness; on its face we have uncovered the lie."

:from Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza

Who doesn’t want to save the children?

2008-12-01T21:19:00.000-08:00

Iris Arcón

On Election Day, I was checking the polls anxiously waiting to see the results. When I got the results that Obama had won, I cried, but it was a bittersweet victory. The ban of same-sex marriage completely devastated many of us. We received the news along with numerous statistics that African American and Latinos had voted ‘yes’ on Proposition 8. I was furious. Why did Latinos, mi raza, vote against me? Upon hearing this, I wanted to protest in Compton and East LA. I wanted to scream, "How fucking dare you take away my right to marry the woman of my dreams? Who gives you that right? ¿Es mas, a ustedes qué les importa con quien me caso? How can you ban us from having the same rights as everyone else when you know what it feels like to be discriminated? We are all in the same struggle together and you hurt us like that?" Yes, I’ll admit to this anger, frustration, disappointment that I felt towards my community and the black community. I’m not proud of it, but you have to understand it was not easy. It hurt so much. Worst of all, I fell for the lies.

Some people say that California put the propositions on the ballot and that Californians voted as a democracy. Each campaign had a chance to win and now it is over. Pardon mis chilangueadas, but ¡ni madres! The opposing side clearly used many lies to win, especially about schools teaching children "gay things."

Jack O’Connell, the California Superintendent of Schools stated that, "Prop 8 has nothing to do with schools or kids. Our schools aren’t required to teach anything about marriage."

Proposition 8 had nothing to do with altering the school curriculum, but the opposing side made everyone believe that farce. At a family dinner, this was the topic of discussion. The majority of my aunts, uncles, and cousins, all Catholics, believed that it was not their business to interfere with someone’s life. That was where my family, and possibly a lot of other people, hesitated. And that is where all of the lies worked. We must also remember that history has showed us that majority consensus is not always fair.

Then I started wondering, why couldn’t African Americans and Latinos relate to this discrimination? Many Latinos agreed that banning same-sex marriage would not make all of us equal. I feel that LGBT activists did not reach out to the Latino or Black population, and now my community along with the African American community are being blamed. Initially, I too blamed both communities, and I did not question the older, religious groups. It made me wonder if this was for a reason. It would certainly not be the first time that we have been put against each other. Even when I attended the consecutive marches, I felt out of place. I arrived wearing my "Legalize LA" t-shirt wanting to speak up for two groups and "kill two birds with one stone." I felt several faces stare down at it. The primarily white faces made me question so many things. Of course Latinos and Blacks could not relate to this discrimination! The LGBT community did not approach Latinos or Blacks.

My sister, a straight Latina, brought this to my attention. She realized that there were so many commercials for the ‘Yes’ campaign, but where were the commercials for "No on 8" in Latino and black programming? The "Yes on 8" campaign rolled constant commercials stating that they wanted to "save the children." Who doesn’t want to save the children? I even wanted to save the children! Yes, religion played a huge role in this campaign, but there are a lot of religious, Latino families with Queer sons and daughters, and the "No on 8" campaign did not tap into this reality. The LGBT community did not approach my community and now it blames it.

It isn’t until now, with the Day Without Gays movement on December 10th, that I have seen something where the Latino community can relate and understand the similar discrimination. A Day without Gays will be a nationwide Strike and Boycott in support of marriage as a right for all Americans. It was "inspired by the film A Day Without A Mexican and the nationwide strike in 2006 called A Day Without Immigrants that protested against proposed immigration laws." You see, this is what needed to be done ahead of time before harsh, racist remarks were made. I am glad that it is happening, but it only took place after we failed to interact with the Latino community.

I have big hopes that good things will happen. We will overturn the vote. You can see it in the marches that have taken place. A lot of us are pissed off and a lot of us want to do something about it. It is nice to see us all together fighting for this cause. We can only learn from this. We will not turn on our communities. Neither the Latino communities nor the Black communities are to blame. We will not blame the equally oppressed. Instead we will unite; we will all get to see a wonderful wedding day.

¡Que viva la jotería!

TRANS-Migration

2008-12-01T21:18:00.000-08:00

For more information on trans-migration issues, please visit: Sylvia Rivera Law Project

Elisa

2008-12-01T21:08:00.000-08:00

Anonymous
When I was eleven years old I went to Robert A. Millikan Middle School in Sherman Oaks because I had nothing else to do during the Summer. We couldn’t possibly afford anything fancy like a summer camp and I didn’t really have any friends, so my mom decided to send me to Summer school. She didn’t care about the classes I took, she only wanted for me to have something to do for three months. They had open enrollment back then, so it didn’t matter that I was a poor kid from Van Nuys. I would just have to take the bus every morning and take it back down a three-mile stretch of street.

I had an entire Summer and a slew of choices. I settled on taking "Introduction to Design Concepts" and "Environmental Art" (apparently, they meant murals). There was one other girl who had the same classes and took the same bus home. Her name was Elisa. She was thirteen and therefore an older girl. She had a pretty face, thin and with a birthmark painted on the left side of her face, like the milk you just poured into your café. Her hair was long and wavy, the color of canela. She had fairy-like hands and moved with a swift gentleness that betrayed her personality and her strawberry-scented conditioner.

She had been born in East LA. Her mother was from Guatemala. She had grown up like every child of an immigrant; at the crossroads of two cultures. Constant conflicts with her grandmother had made her strong, though not without a hint of sadness. She had slender shoulders and they were strong and determined. She was always confident, even when she didn’t really believe that she was. She was rebellious and constantly dressed in red, black, and white (this was before The White Stripes). Her studded belt matched her leather boots and her chains jingled with her stride.

When I met Elisa, I considered myself to be what every other 11 year-old girl didshould be; normal. I listened to pop music and I wanted to be popular. Elisa, on the other hand, listened to punk rock, alternative rock, and metal. I started looking for all the rock music that I could find, hoping that I would at least like some of it, and that I could bring back something to talk to her about. Mamá was startled with my sudden changes in music tastes. I told her that I was finally being an individual, breaking free from the pack, and listening to what I wanted to instead of what I was told to (words still too big for me to comprehend just yet).

After meeting Elisa, I no longer wanted to be another sheep, another cog in the capitalist society that we had been bred into (I had yet to learn what capitalist meant). I wanted to dress like her, be like her, and just have more things in common with her. Even if I had never decided to try and please her with all my sudden changes in likes and dislikes. She was a catalyst in my life for uncovering a new emotion in me; jealousy.

I will always remember the last time that I saw her…

It was the last day of Summer school and she was going to high school in the Fall. I turned around as the doors were closing, to wave goodbye to her one last time, to try and memorize her face before she left me forever. But she didn’t notice. I watched her profile smile and her delicate wrists slide a piece of her hair behind her ear. She was talking to one of the boys who always rode the bus. To be fair, he was actually very cute, but she still wasn’t looking at me. Me, who she would never see again. As she laughed, her eyes sparkled. She didn’t love me.

I was just the little girl that followed her around. We took the same bus and the same classes, and being her shadow was the most I could really hope for. Even if I was too young to become a good friend, I tried to learn as much as I could from and about her. She radiated with the rebellion that all eleven year-old girls are drawn to. One could even say that she set me on the right track for feminism, equal rights, and critical analysis of established systems. She taught me a lot about myself, and even though I will probably never see her again, I will always remember my first girl-crush. ¶

Those Bloody Days

2008-12-01T21:05:00.000-08:00

Yadira Arroyo

i bled
in chunks
and rivers

my vulva
all soaked
stained panties

seven pads
in seven hours
expensive

when i sat
on toilet
it flowed

and my lips
they pulsed
throbbing

aching vulva
bleeding hole
coincides with --

i don't bleed
so bad
anymore

one pad
in four hours
not stressful

a spot
here and there
at ease

at ease
my mind
and my wounded

vagina.

Untitled: Natural Beauty

2008-12-01T20:41:00.000-08:00

Monsus

WE ARE PEOPLE OF THE LAND
OUR BODIES SQUARE AND THICK
FLAT AND BROAD
CLOSE TO THE DIRT WE WALK
BECOMING MORE LIKE IT,
DARK, DARKER, DIRT
ONLY NATURAL BEAUTY

The "I" Word

2008-12-01T20:38:00.000-08:00

Lorena Romero

Among ourselves we are anything but Indian,

Among ourselves we understand the allure de
ser "mestizo."

Among ourselves we know not to utter our
heritage aloud,

Among ourselves we recognize the shame but do not speak of it.

Among ourselves we have quietly rewritten history,

Among ourselves we pray that no one will find out.

Among ourselves we hate one another for making it difficult to blend in.

Among ourselves we are desperate for affirmation,

Among ourselves we long for pride of that suppressed history.

And among ourselves we hope that being Indian will someday be acceptable.

Contemplative and Hopeful

2008-12-01T20:34:00.000-08:00

Anonymous

So, another year has gone by, another notch on my educational belt leaving me one step closer to graduation. Damn, it’s been too long of a trip already. Still, as I reminisce on the past year I find myself wanting, for even with the election of Barack Obama, it feels that this year was lost to politics.

You see, this year has been one of turmoil, with wars around the world, genocide, and ICE raids becoming an unfortunate norm; nothing has been spared. Even the 2008 Olympiad, a competition that has stood for unity saw controversy directed its way before it even started.

Still, with a growing economic meltdown and the failure of the three big automakers hurling along the horizon, all I can think about is what classes I’m going to be able to take next semester. Sad, isn’t it? Among so much, I choose to reduce my focus to so little. This is the reality to most, whether we admit it or not.

Thus, I reminisce and think back to a Raza Student Association general meeting where an Hermanos Unidos member asked for help with the Border Angels organization.

I still remember how I sat there listening to the presentation as he gave the stats on how many people risk all just to enter into the U.S.. It touched home in a way that I truly wasn’t able to express. Hector Gomez, the HU member, mentioned that on average, one traveler gives the ultimate sacrifice for freedom every week. But what touched me most were photos of a grave of the unknowns where they have laid to rest 600+ who have been found in the vastness of the desert between Méjico and the U.S.

Yeah, it is some crazy shit. But the battle isn’t done. You see, as the semester draws to a close and the holidays loom near, while most are just wondering where they will head out to for Christmas and New Year’s, I still remember the days when all I could do was wonder how my family in Méjico was doing. Wondering if I was going to be able to visit them one day and still have the chance to come back, without the assistance of a coyote. Wishing that El Niño Dios would know where I was now and where to bring my gifts.

Thus, I reminisce about this past year and wonder how many more have died along the border, how many have had their families broken due to the "law." How many children will lie in their beds praying on Christmas Eve with only one wish in their hearts:

"Por favor, deja que mi familia, mi mamá, mi papá, mis hermanos y mis hermanas estemos juntos otra vez esta Navidad."

And with this, I hope. I hope that while we count our blessings this holiday season we look back and remember those we have lost. That we look back and pray, to whomever we can, for those whose families that have been broken up due to forces beyond their power.

But most of all that we act, for as this year comes to an end, a new one is just about to dawn. With it comes the promise of a fresh start, new hopes, new dreams, and new mistakes ready to be accomplished and overcome.

As this semester, these memories, and this crazy thing we call the year 2008 comes to a close, let us think back and hope for the future. ¶

Fasting for the Future of Immigrant Rights

2008-11-03T23:21:00.000-08:00

Fernando Romero

L OS ANGELES --- On Wednesday, Oct. 15, members of civil rights organizations, activists, students, day laborers and pro-immigrant supporters began what is considered one of the largest hunger strikes in American history at Placita Olvera in advocacy for immigrant rights.

Already into its third week, the hunger strike dubbed "Fast for Our Future," aims to call attention to the oppression, the disrespect of civil rights and unfair treatment of undocumented immigrants by the current Bush administration.

The fast is scheduled to continue for 21 days until after the presidential elections on Wednesday, Nov. 5. A permanent encampment at Placita Olvera has been set up with tents to house the nearly 100 pro-immigrant rights activists and supporters who have fasted intermittently for nearly three weeks.

The fast also dramatizes and coincides with a nationwide effort to gather over 1 million signatures in a pledge/petition of people who are committed to "vote for immigrant rights, fast at least one day, recruit five family and friends to sign the pledge and take action to hold the new administration accountable for our votes," the pledge reads. The pledge will be sent to the winning presidential candidate.

On the first day of the hunger strike, over 70 people came to fast at the encampment on the south side of Placita Olvera, the historic heart of Los Angeles. Fasters have been given on-site necessities such as water and medical provisions for the prolonged hunger strike.

Organizers said that over the course of the hunger strike, people have fasted sporadically, but a core group of a dozen activists have maintained their fast and will continue to do so until Nov. 5.

Organizer Kai Newkirk said, "A lot of the fasters have been coming and going. We’ve had a lot of college students present and some would fast for a couple of days, especially over the weekend and then go back to school on Monday."

The fast is being organized by RISE, a movement of immigrant rights leaders and advocates. The focus of the movement is on non-violent actions to confront the escalation of anti-immigrant raids, unlawful detentions and other repressive measures by the current administration, as well as legislation for a just immigration reform.

The RISE movement was conceived in the non-violent action and tradition of civil rights leader Martin Luther King and farm labor and organizer Cesar Chavez. Organizers and activists of Fast for Our Future assert that the oppression of undocumented immigrants has become the most important civil rights issue of our time. The disrespect for civil rights is reflective of the 60s and actions such as this hunger strike are necessary to shed light on such a vital issue, organizers said.

The repression against undocumented immigrants has become a dreadful fact fueled mainly by xenophobic and anti-immigrant sentiment. According to the Coalition for Humane Immigrant Rights of Los Angeles (CHIRLA), detentions and deportations have taken a drastic measure in terms of numbers.

In recent years, the federal Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency (ICE) has steadily increased raids and deportations, reaching new records. The Bush’s administration persecution and repression of immigrants has taken an Orwellian characteristic. ICE’s Fugitive Operation Teams have more than quadrupled in the last three years, going from 18 in 2005 to 50 in 2006 and 75 in 2007. Detentions have increased drastically in the last decade going from 5,532 in 1994 to 27,500 in 2007. In the fiscal years of 2007, an estimated 270,000 people were deported, also a new record.

All across the country, ICE agents have routinely breached the civil rigths of individuals. In cities and small towns throughout the U.S., ICE have detained people in their homes, on the streets, on bus stops, and questioned them about their immigration status without a warrant.

Reports show that the encroachment upon these people and further questioning by ICE is based mainly on the person’s skin color and ethnicity. The racial profiling tactic has also resulted in wrongful detentions and deportations of American citizens.

ICE uses raids to send shock waves to immigrant communities and repress rigths. The results are devastating; families are separated, communities are traumatized and losses to the economy are created. According to CHIRLA, some five million children have at least one undocumented parent. Most of these children are U.S. citizens. The intense persecution and oppression of immigrants has torn families apart and separated mothers and fathers from their U.S.-born children.

Endorsers and participants of the hunger strike include Dolores Huerta, co-founder of the United Farm Workers; Maria Elena Durazo, leader of the Los Angeles County Federation of Labor; CHIRLA and students from Cal State Long Beach, among others.

Huerta and Durazo joined the hunger strike and fasted for one day during the three-week period of the fast.Both Huerta and Durazo urged voters and immigrant rights advocates to act on behalf of undocumented immigrants.

As of Friday, Oct. 24, 50-60 people remained encamped at Placita Olvera. Some maintained their fast, while others stayed in support of the cause.

Mariana Mendoza, a 56-year old native of Durango, Mexico, is one of whom fasted for a handful days before medical personnel advised her to abandon the fast. An activist, Mendoza said she began her fast a day prior to the start of the Fast for Our Future campaign. She has worked alongside Border Angels and other organizations aimed at helping the immigrant community. She said she joined the fast because she considers the immigrant issue an important socio/political issue which needs a resolution.

"The main goal of the fast is to bring forth a just immigration reform," Mendoza said.

On the third day of her fasting, Mendoza told how she was rushed to the to Beverly Medical Center. Mendoza, a documented U.S. resident, said she remained committed to the cause

"I felt dizzy, I felt like I was floating. I thought I was gonna die," Mendoza said. "I had gone to the bathroom and started to vomit blood and that’s when they took me to the hospital."

Jorge Valles, a Cal State University Northridge student is one of the continuous fasters. He said he wants to continue his fast until the end of the hunger strike because of his strong commitment to the cause for pro-immigration rights. The 27-year old said that the immigration issue has become one of the worst crises in this country.

"The immigration issue is such that it requires a mass action such as this one to elevate the cause and make it prominent on the agenda of politicians," Valles said. "We needed a big action that was emblematic of what we’re fighting for. That we’re fighting for the most simple rights."

To sign the pledge, go to www.therisemovement.org. ¶

Photos and Video by Fernando Romero/El Reflejo

Long Beach Visage

2008-11-03T23:01:00.000-08:00

Pablo Ildefonso

Driving down Ocean Boulevard in Long Beach, one will get the impression of a prosperous city. Its shiny World Trade Center and Hilton Hotel glitter the street of Ocean Blvd. It would remind you of Los Angeles in the 80's; the years of excess.

Though driving north in Long Beach, the city begins to change; it seems to have a different face. Starting at the intersection of Ocean Blvd. and Pine Avenue, the buildings spaces are full with shops, nightclubs and restaurants. The further you head north, one can slowly begin to see empty shops with lease signs in front of windows.

According to a recent Long Beach Press-Telegram article, tourism in the City of Long Beach has been bringing a steady amount of money, despite the troubling economy. What brings tourism are the many conventions the city holds throughout the year. Conventions like Electronic Expo, Imprinted Sportswear, and coming soon TRPI 5th Annual Education Conference. These events bring millions of dollars to the city.

In addition, the U.S. Census reports that one-fifth of Long Beach residents live below the federal poverty line. That line being $9,973 annually for an individual and $19,971 for a family of four with two children.

In terms of race, Latinos make 27% of the poverty level, African Americans 25%, Asians 18%, and Whites 9% in Long Beach.

The Long Beach Coalition for Good Jobs & Healthy (LBCGH) communities stated that the City of Long Beach in the last 30 years has spent $450 million dollars in redevelopment money. The goal is to redevelop the city into a viable visitor and convention destination. The coalition further adds that redevelopment has failed people because many receive poverty wages, which limits the amount of money that could stay in the local economy.

One of the things the Chamber of Commerce and the City of Long Beach wanted, was to be able to have a financial entryway into the city; with its World Trade Center, the beautiful Hilton Hotel, a new school, and new condominiums to show a nice space in the city. "So anyone coming into the city can see brand new buildings, and brand new condos. And wouldn't have to look at the blight or poverty," said Tonia Reyes-Uranga.

In a People-To-People tour, put togther by LBCGH, Tonia Reyes-Uranga, City Councilmember of District 7, talked a bit further about the tourism industry of Long Beach. "Development has been mostly occurring on the off ramp [of Ocean Blvd] that leads you to Downtown which have been pushing people into the west side and north side of the city where mostly the working poor live," mentioned Uranga.

"After twelve years of an administration focused on trade and tourism, what it brought was low paid jobs in the hospitality industry, in the ports, and trucker industry. They are the lowest paid workers in the industry," said Uranga.
The city has focused its efforts to bring Long Beach up economically through tourism and it has resulted in poverty wages in the industry.

In an effort to revitalize Downtown, the people of Long Beach do not have the income level to start a business. People are having trouble paying the rent. The farther you go north, the less you see revitalization in the city.

You can hear an interview with one of the workers from the Long Beach Hilton Hotel below:

¡Estás borracho!

2008-11-03T23:00:00.000-08:00

Nunca me había emborrachado. No voy a decir que no había tomado antes pero pedo, pedo, nunca había estado. He aquí la historia de aquella noche de abril en la que el alcohol me permitió hablar sin algún temor.

Era la boda de un amigo y la recepción fue al aire libre. Era una noche con mucho viento y sorpresivamente fría. Para ganarle al frío, mi amigo propuso comprar una botella de Patrón. Y así fue. Caminamos a la licorería más cercana y ¡Salud! Pa’ que se nos quite el frío y brindar por una vida mejor. ¿Mejor? Así como estaban las cosas en mi casa, la vida me pesaba.

Pero ahí no terminó la fiesta. Seguimos brindando en la que sería la ex-casa del novio. Más Patrón y una que otra Pacífico. Perdí la cuenta de los shots que me tomé, pero fueron más de seis en menos de cinco minutos. Cuando me paré, me sentí como recién bajado de las teacups de Disneyland, bien mareado. Sentía que estaba patas arriba. Fui al baño y ya casi tomaba agua purificada…con pipí y caca. Casi me caigo de cabeza en el excusado. El mundo seguía dando vuelta y yo seguí tomando más cerveza importada.

Se llegó la hora de ir a casa pues ya eran las tres de la mañana y mi amiga nos llevo a la bola de borrachos a nuestros respectivos hogares. En el carro empecé a hablar, hablar y hablar y también a llorar, llorar, y más llorar. Éramos cinco en el carro y todos sólo me trataban de consolar y hasta hice a algunos llorar.

Llegue a casa con los ojos rojos como si me hubiera fumado un toque de la tía María Juana. Prendí la luz de mi cuarto y ¡Sorpresa! Miré a mi mamá y escuche su dulce voz que me dijo: "¡Estás borracho!"

Y con la facilidad de palabra y la honestidad que el alcohol nos regala, sin pensarlo le dije, "¡Sí, estoy borracho!" – "¿Por qué?" Muy consternada me preguntó. – "¡Tú sabes porque!

Estas palabras se convirtieron en una conversación de una hora. Bueno, yo hablé toda la hora. Ella sólo me escuchaba y me miraba con lástima. Me prometió que todo cambiaría, que ella y yo estaríamos bien. Yo le creí. Me sequé las lágrimas, le besé la nariz, y ella me cobijó y en tres segundos el mundo se apagó.

Esa tormentosa madrugada, le dije a mi amá todo lo que mi corazón sentía después de que por una semana entera ella me dijera que mejor quería estar muerta, que como era posible que yo así fuera, que era una vergüenza, estaba mal, que cochinada, ¡Qué asco! ¡Cambia! ¡Haz algo! ¿No tiene cura?

Todo esto pasó por algo que les dije a mis papás cinco días antes de la borrachera. Mientras lloraba y todo el cuerpo me temblaba, prendí el fosforo que incendiaría el fuego que hasta ahora más me ha quemado el alma. Después de esas cinco palabras llegaron noches de culpa, inseguridad, miedo, coraje, impotencia, dolor, pero también valentía, honor, dignidad y aceptación por quién soy. Así que entre mocos y lágrimas saladas les dije: "Pues, es que soy gay."

Pan dulce duro

2008-11-03T22:59:00.000-08:00

A quien le corresponde,

Tu eres como pan dulce duro, the worst and most disappointing type of thing. Tú eres el veneno de mi paz, y el tormento de mis sueños. Vienes por unos momentos de placer, con mentiras tú me haces creer que sientes algo por mí. You touched my skin with the softness of your skin, and then of course you touched la de tú novia. You left me marked up, and yet you expect me to hide everything shamefully. Dame otra mordida y a ver qué te pasa. El valor que tienes de verme entre las piernas, hold me tightly all night, and do the same thing to your partner the next morning. I’m not going to mend your ego, to tell you you were great at it or worth it. No te entiendo, tienes todo y todavía quieres más.

¡Si no vas a respetar a tu pareja, respétame a mí!

No soy tuya,
La Miranda Moon

NACCS Joto Conference

2008-11-03T20:27:00.000-08:00

Iris Arcon

The Second Annual NACCS, Joto Caucus Conference was a three day event full of great presenters and performers including Cherríe Moraga, an internationally-recognized feminist, Chicana lesbian writer.

The conference was called “Sacred Space Making: Mapping Queer Scholarship, Activism, and Performance,” and was hosted by California State University, Los Angeles.

Moraga, who has written such great works including This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color, Loving in the War Years: Lo Que Nunca Pasó Por Sus Labios (1983).

The conference had several workshops like “Feminism as a Sacred Space for Queer Men of Color,” “Immigrant Lesbians and Gay Men: the Missing Color in the Rainbow,” and “Queer Documenting, Archiving, and Researching.” Other workshops included, “Conectando Nuestras Fronteras: Bridging Queer Aztlán,” Queer Youth at the Forefront of Youth Organizing; Building Safe, Inclusive and Equitable Schools,” “Postcards from La Raza/Postales de La Raza,” “Implementing Queer Chicana/o Latina/o Studies in the CSU System,” and “Ave María Purisima de l@s jot@s: Testimonios on the Intersections of Religion, Spirituality, and Jota/o Identity,”

The last day was dedicated to Moraga. She read her newest work entitled, “Still Loving in the (Still) War Years.” Her piece embodied her Chicana lesbian side once again. After her reading, we got a chance to hear her reflect on the audience’s questions. She scolded us and said, “Why is there no movement? This scares me.”

When she uttered those words, “Queer Aztlan: The Re-formation of Chicano Tribe,” Moraga’s powerful article came into my head. She has been saying it all along. In her, Queer Aztlan, she, “felt the racism from the women’s movement, felt the elitism from the gay and lesbian movement; and homophobia and sexism from the Chicano movement.”

That is why she envisioned “Queer Aztlan.” Moraga reflected on, “ a dissolution of an active Chicano movement. The gradual Hispanization of Chicano students, the senselessness of barrio violence, and the poisoning of la frontera. For (her) ‘El Movimiento’ has never been a thing of the past. Those words were playing over and over in my head. She scolded us and asked “Why is there no movement.”

This question of whatever happened to the movement needs to be brought up again. The movement isn’t dead. It’s just waiting. What’s more important is that yeah, students have heard about the Chicano movement, but so many have not. Why don’t we know any of this information? Yes, that is what the walkouts represent.

Why don’t we know about AB540? Why don’t they know about what SB1301 and Prop. 8 stand for? And I can’t help but wonder are we still in the same place? Have we really not progressed anywhere since the Chicano Movement?

Yes, we all know certain things that pertain to immigration like the infamous May Day march. We all know about the raids, but we haven’t learned anything about queer issues. We still need to learn more.

This brings me to another issue. Will immigrants and queers have to fight the same struggle as the Chicano youth of the ‘60s? We are the students that have embodied the spirit of the Chicano Movement. We keep fighting for the all inclusive classes. We want to read about Cherríe Moraga and other writers like her. We don’t want to have to go to the women’s studies department to learn about queer theory and feminism. We don’t want to have to go to the sociology or history department to learn about all aspects of immigration. Our department should have all of these topics within the curriculum.

So with the current redevelopment of the Chicano studies department, has the department remembered to add immigration, Chican@ Feminism, and Queer issues? More importantly why aren’t we requesting these requirements within our curriculums?

One man asked, “You are a prominent lesbian Chicana writer. Where are all of the jotos? Why don’t we have queer men to look up to?”

La Cherríe left us with this, “You all have to go back home and challenge daddy. ¶

El Mentado Voto Latino

2008-11-03T20:22:00.000-08:00

Fernando Romero

Every four years they come. Like vultures almost. It’s a cyclical visit. It’s weird. Seems they only come during presidential elections. Every four years, Latino voters are courted como la niña bonita de la fiesta con la cual todos quieren bailar. Both senators, Barack Obama and John McCain, tell Latino voters what they want to hear. That they care about Latino issues. They talked about their knowledge of Latin American socio-political issues. They’ve held debates for the Spanish media and even spoke to us in Spanish. Never before in the history of the United States has the Latino vote been more sought after.

In a close presidential race, such as this one, it is very likely Latino voters will decide the outcome of the election. It is estimated that over 9 million Latinos will cast their vote on Tuesday, Nov 4. Less than one in ten voters this Election Day will be of Latino descent, but Latino voters are important because they are concentrated in swing states that can decide the outcome of the election.

It makes sense for politicians to reach out to Latinos. Some perceive it as a good sign of the times and of the political muscle Latinos can now flex. Others see it as pandering by politicians trying to secure a burgeoning demographic. While others see it as patronizing, even.

Latinos are coming of political age, and probably face a dilemma. But which is better, being pandered to, or ignored?

The word “pander” is appropriate because it seems candidates are providing some form of gratification for Latinos’ political desires. Both candidates have made promises of making Latino issues, particularly immigration reform, a top priority as presidents. If you’re asking if whether this is pandering, the answer would be yes. Both have made immigration a top concern on their agenda when speaking mainly to Latino caucuses such as the National Association of Latino Elected and Appointed Officials, the League of United Latin American Citizens and The National Council of La Raza.

But, to pander has a negative connotation and the concept seems highlighted when it refers to Latinos, the largest and fastest-growing minority in the nation. This electorate is familiar with politicians making promises they don’t always keep. Chances are we will see both McCain and Obama favor border security before immigration reform. Both have already favored a measure of building a wall along the US-Mexico border. Now they turn around and say they favor just immigration reform in front of Latino audiences; seems like pandering to me. So Mr. Obama and Mr. McCain, please don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining.

Patronizing? Yes. The way in which Obama will utter simple phrases in Spanish like “!Sí se puede!” the emblematic rallying cry of Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta. Or “libertad,” like he did during a speech about Cuba. Uttering a handful of words in Spanish to simply garnish votes comes off as patronizing and will not necessarily get the Latino vote nor the goodwill of 550 million people who live in Latin America.

Patronizing the way in which McCain ran an ad in some the swing states trying to emphasize the contributions Latinos have made to this country. In the ad which ran in Colorado, Nevada and New Mexico, McCain refers to the military service of Latinos of past and present wars.

John McCain: “My friends, I want you the next time you’re down in Washington, D.C., to go to the Vietnam War Memorial and look at the names engraved in black granite. You’ll find a whole lot of Hispanic names. When you go to Iraq or Afghanistan today, you’re going to see a whole lot of people who are of Hispanic background. You’re even going to meet some of the few thousand that are still green card holders who are not even citizens of this country, who love this country so much that they’re willing to risk their lives in its service in order to accelerate their path to citizenship and enjoy the bountiful, blessed nation.”

To say that it is good that Latinos are willing to risk their lives and die in Iraq and Afghanistan is patronizing to the families of Latinos who have lost a son or daughter in these international conflicts.

Okay, a little bit of background history. The 2000 presidential election was decided in Florida by some 537 Cuban-Americans who voted for George W. Bush. In 2004, it was decided by 67 thousand Latinos in New Mexico, Colorado and Nevada who voted for Bush and not John Kerry. That year, Bush garnished 40 percent of the Latino vote in the swing states, just enough to give him the presidency. That is the lesson; Latinos are deciding elections.

More and more Latinos are becoming a part of the social fabric of this country. More and more are voting. Political parties are trying to lure the Latino vote because in a way Latinos are poised to be an integral part of the future of this country. Latinos are currently 15 percent of the population totaling roughly 46 million. According to projections by the US Census, Latinos will go from 46 million to 125 million in 2050, almost a third of the population. It makes sense that politicians are reaching out so emphatically to Latino voters.

The question is, do the candidates actually care about the issues that afflict the Latino community? Or, is it an episodic care which comes every four years? Every four years es lo mismo. La verdad, yo no se por que la hacen de tanto pedo, si solo nos van a dar atole con el dedo. Yo por eso me quejo y me quejo. No me lo creo todo. Aquí es donde vivo y yo ya no soy un pendejo. As a significant electorate, Latinos need to make the winning candidate accountable for promises made on the campaign trail. Todos unidos tenemos que pedir un cambio. As voters, we need to make our voices heard and assume political power. Many of us still live in la pobreza. Este país se sostiene en la espalda y se mantiene gracias al sudor de nuestra gente.

While not much has changed in regards to the way politicians will continue to pander for the Latino vote, one thing that has changed is the fact that Latinos are now deciding elections and will one day decide the path this country takes. That’s a good change.¶

Mojado Routine

2008-11-03T19:33:00.000-08:00

From Monday through Thursday, I fight against the covers in order to get up. Mis lagañas still fresh when I look in the bathroom mirror, wondering why I’m doing this in the first place.

From Monday all the way to Thursday, always the same routine. Living with the parents and feeling too old to keep doing this.

I feel like I’m past my college student prime, but I can’t let that stop me.

Sometimes I wake up early enough to have breakfast. Sometimes I just grab an apple and off I am to the bus stop.

Cold weathers, hot weathers, I’ve endured them all under the buses’ thin-sheet metal roofs. Always staring out the window and dreaming of the possibilities.

Not sure what the possibilities may be, but possibilities nonetheless.

I get to school and lose myself in the sea of colorful faces that seem to be worse off than I am.

I look at my wallet and empty its reminders in my hand to so that I can buy a Rockstar to fuel me up.

Mondays are the worst. May sound like a cliché, but it's true.

My muscles ache from the previous Sunday night’s shift at work, where I have to clean up a kitchen and mop and brush floors. It usually involves bosses younger than me, telling me that I should really pay attention to detail. But I just don’t care enough to listen.

I hate that job. I’ve gotten better offers, but the lack of a job permit in this country stops me from doing anything better.

Selling drugs or hustling my body is just out of the question. It’s too easy, and I like challenges.

My body is tired, but I am restless.

Some friends get headaches when they see my schedule. Always busy. Always doing something.

I tend to look at my hands a lot. Not out of some obsessive compulsion to make sure they’re clean. I like to look at the little scar that I have right above my right wrist.

No, I didn’t try to commit suicide because I’m an undocumented immigrant. Again, that’d be too easy.

I got that scar during the couple of semesters I spent washing dishes at a restaurant in order to pay for my tuition.

That scar is a reminder of where I come from and where I can go.

I look at the scar above my wrist to remind myself that, yes, I’ve had some shitty jobs because of my legal status, but I am in an institution of higher learning because I intend to do more than wash dishes for the rest of my life.

When the day is done and I bus my way back home, I take a deep breath and think about the day’s endeavors.

I like to stare at the people riding the bus. Some stare back, some fall asleep.

I wonder about their lives and what it’d be like to walk in their shoes. I also wonder if they feel the same way. Do you feel the same way? Would you like to walk in my shoes?

XV

2008-11-03T17:47:00.000-08:00

Yadira Arroyo

This past weekend was my cousin Erika’s quinceañera. The whole family came out to celebrate her presentation to the “adult” world. My father told me earlier that day that he was not going to drink. At the statement, my mom felt his forehead for a fever and I smirked. In the middle of the party, I reminded him of his proclamation.

“¿Esta no es boda?” he asked with a feigned look of surprise. “Me malentendiste. Dije que solo si era boda.” We all had our fun.

As I stood in the background through the entire day’s events, I could not help but think of my own quinceañera a few years back. I thought about it when we were in the two-quinceañeras-for-one mass (efficiency!), when we went to the East LA park for the princess photo shoot, and later on when I was inebriated and calling forth my otherwise-shunned Jalisco roots by zapateando clumsily. Except of course, that I didn’t really have a quince, in the spectacular sense of the word.

There were several reasons, but perhaps the most controversial was the following: la misa. Although, I was only 14 at the time, I had been a staunch atheist since I was 12.

“¿Cómo vas a tener una quinceañera sin misa?” would ask my mother, puzzled.

“Pues fácil,” I would reply. “Sin misa.”

Or, there was always the more engaging:

“Yadira, ¿qué te cuesta sentarte en una silla por una pinche hora?”

“¡Pero yo no creo en eso! ¿Y si me empiezo a reír?”

Variants of this conversation would continue for a few months prior to the weekend of my fifteenth birthday. Teenage angst took its toll; how I hated religion! The thought of going through with the ceremony seemed hypocritical on far too many levels.

Either way, my mother wouldn’t have it and I wouldn’t have it and so, the potential guests didn’t have it.

Oh yes, the guests. As their only daughter and eldest child, my parents certainly fancied the idea of presenting me to the world, a proper and primp señorita. Herein lays another problem: I was nothing of the sort. I was, at best, awkward at 15 and having been raised in a very private home setting, I kept only a handful of friends. I was almost emotionally indifferent to mere acquaintances, and the thought of hosting these strangers at my big day not only seemed superficial, but quite frankly, annoying. That and I sure as hell did not want to do it in a pink dress, which at the time, my mom believed was the way to go.

And so, unwilling to compromise what were then my super revolutionary ideals, my mind knew that a quinceañera was not for me. Nevertheless, standing in the midst of a barrio upbringing, with its high school amigas, Spanish-language commercial signage and early-morning tamaleros ambulantes in the year 2001, my heart ached for acceptance as a daughter who could be presentable and whom my parents would be proud of.

One week prior to my birthday, my parents caved. As they were sitting on the back doorstep and I was walking from my room to the kitchen, I heard them murmur in all their regret. Months had passed by and not a single proactive move to plan mi fiesta was made; never mind that ideologically, it could not have been. They looked up at me as I walked back to my room and my mother called my name. I looked down to where they sat and they looked back and forth at each other, a bit nervously. One of them finally spoke. With my approval, I was to have a party con DJ and a lavender dress the following weekend.

I know that by speaking my mind and being una niña especial, it will always be difficult to gain effortless acceptance from the eldest bearers of my culture, namely my parents. This fact has been quite painful, but I’ve also always wanted things far greater than the grasp of any social confine could offer. Thankfully, my parents have stood by me, through reluctance and relajo.

While I respect and yes, broodingly envy other muchachitas who have bailado el vals and greeted their guests merrily, having a quinceañera could never be for this “loca”, as my mom so kindly puts it. If being mexicana means being una “buena” hija, or falling neatly into the role of a beautiful, altruistic, obedient and domestic daughter, then my identity is inevitably threatened . But, if it in the context of progress, it also calls on a history of pride and resistance, then I reckon I’ll be just fine.

List of El Reflejo's Past Issues

2008-10-19T19:11:00.000-07:00

So here is the current list of all the past publications from El Reflejo. I was not able to find all the past issues in pdf format. But they are in the process in being converted into pdf and to be posted as well. Thanks for the help Espie.

• Volume 1 Issue 1 March 7, 2006
• Volume 1 Issue 2 April 22, 2006
• Volume 2 Issue 2 May 7, 2007
• Volume 2 Issue 2 May 21, 2007
• Volume 3 Issue 1 March 17, 2008
• Volume 3 Issue 2 April 7, 2008
• Volume 3 Issue 3 May 25, 2008
• Volume 4 Issue 1 September 2, 2008
• Volume 4 Issue 2 Monday October 6, 2008

Fake Ass Chicanos

2008-10-06T19:55:00.000-07:00

Juan Pablo Gómez de Anda

Chicano. The word just ain’t what it used to be. Seems like nowadays anybody could call themselves Chicano and nobody would argue, especially if you’re walking around rocking Aztec tattoos. The term has lost its meaning, its vision, its drive, its purpose, and its very intellectual root.

See, being Chicano doesn’t mean that your parents are Mexican and you were here - it is so much deeper and more important than that. Leaving it as a racial term makes the word generic and mediocre, like calling yourself an American. What is that supposed to mean nowadays? If any “Mexican-American” could call themselves Chicano, we only group ourselves with the lower and lesser parts of “our race”.

My brother gave me a good example that I happen to agree with:

I’ve tried to see us all as one blood, raza, and one family. But then you get that guy dressed in his ostrich-skin suit, gold medals of the Virgen de Guadalupe and an even bigger one of an AK-47, and a huge, sparkly weed plant on the back of his jacket - that’s when I say “Nah, it can’t be”.

So now what? Do you include that person as part of your own, well knowing that he stands for everything you fight against? What about gang bangers? What about wife beaters? What about drug dealers, users and drunkards? Do we let them be a part of us and what we aim for in life?

Of course not! They are not Chicanos. They are fuck ups that shouldn’t have a chance at this precious gift we call life. They only add to the pressure, stress, violence, frustrations, and strife. For me to define you by the same identity I define myself and others like myself would only be me shitting on my own being.

Because being Chicano means you are knowledgeable enough to do good for yourself, your family, and your community. Being Chicano means you help those in need; not in “giving a man a fish”, but in “teaching him how to fish”. We are pushers, movers, and shakers, not those that move with whatever is pushing and shaking us.

We are innovators in whatever we do. Our music, our art, our dances, our very culture should be distinctively and crucially one of our own. We should not be sucked in to make our culture one that we must forcibly assimilate into (Americanism). On the other hand, our culture should not be one in which we keep our eyes locked on our past (in my case, a history based on Mexica/Indigenous culture). Neither does us any good: in the first, we are stuck with the present day bullshit in which we live in. In the latter, we only keep bitching about our20past. We keep yelling “We gotta take back Aztlán!” and come out as nothing but a whining, bitchy population that gets nowhere in action. They are both backward steps and they are both mental and intellectual traps.

The key is to make our own, brand-new culture, leaving our own dent in history. We are a people who don’t take shit from anybody. We are a people who will never compromise or sellout our vision. We are a people who fight for what we know is right, rather than what others believe is right.

This being said, Chicano is no longer a racial term, but a mental, spiritual, and intellectual identity. So now when they come and ask “what are you?”, stand tall and proud and still say Chicano, knowing that it has nothing to do with race. What does it matter, right? What does it matter if you are a good person who fights for what is right and is intelligent enough to know what right is?

So now I’m glad the term Chicano isn’t what it used to be as it has grown and matured into a more powerful and intellectual concept. We Chicanos come together as20brown, black, white, and yellow people seeking to destroy the slave mentality taking over our human race. We do not think of ourselves as “free-thinkers” because there is no such thing - all ideas are in one way or another installed into your mind by different ideas and mediums and could never be free-minded in this society of dishonesty, self-loathing and media dominance. But we are intelligent thinkers, we are spiritual warriors, and we are organic intellectuals.

This being said,beginning this day and for all eternities to come -

Forget Chicano as a racial term -

It is an automatic rifle mindset.

Cool Brown Dudes

2008-10-06T19:43:00.000-07:00

Most of the guys that belong to Raza remind me of the guys I grew up with in high school. Cool brown dudes who have a passion for sports and a fascination with the female anatomy.

I’ve seen them at the parties. Checking out the girls from Hermanas Unidas and exchanging phone numbers and Myspace Latino addresses. Well, not really. We’re too Americanized to actually use Myspace Latino.

Despite the fact that I am not a Chicano and Latino Studies major, I’ve gotten to know a few of these guys.

But I don’t know if they really know me.

See, I’m gay.

I wouldn’t say right-in-your-face-gay, but definitely gay. I’m the type of gay who is down to chill with the guys and endlessly talk about J-Lo’s butt.

I don’t think I’m that feminine, so I don’t know how many of them know that I’m actually gay. Notice this is the fifth time I type the word gay, which is making me reconsider how much of a gay I really am. But I digress.

The fact that my fellow brown brothers are here for the same reason I am, to get educated and give back to the community, just makes me so proud to share the same room as them, no matter how stained the carpets are or how wiggly the stairs leading up to Raza get.

We brown men, the men who are constantly being portrayed as the gang-banger or the wife beater, are trying to better ourselves by getting an education.

But being a gay Latino can be a bit hard. To try and find acceptance from the same guys who throw the word "fag" here and there and use maricon with a negative connotation towards my people can be quite challenging.

Now, I’m not going to get all gay pride on your brown asses. I just won’t do that. I don’t think I’m all that proud yet. I’m in a stage of my life where I’m still trying to figure out what the future holds for me and wonder when the fuck I am going to graduate already. Managing a job, school and a boyfriend can be tough. But I’m hanging in there.

Like most of you.

I’m hanging in there because I want something better for me and I can’t wait until I am a Latino man with a professional life and leave my parents’ house (yup, still live at home) with a degree that will hopefully make this transition easier.So you see my hermanos, I am not that different from you. We all share the same vision and the same goals. In the eyes of some, we are bound to fail. But we won’t let that happen.

The only difference is that I like to kiss boys. And you guys like to kiss girls. Just like the Catholic Church drilled into our heads. Which probably explains why we are so fucked up in the head when it comes to opening our minds to other people’s sexual preferences. I don’t even think I’m that open. No pun intended, cabrones.

AN UNLICENSED EXPERIMENT

2008-10-06T19:40:00.000-07:00

La Malinche

It was a Friday and my big brother Lalo and I were going to Lopez’s birthday party at our local jazz and fondue bar, the Hip Kitty. We were driving down Foothill Blvd. when we saw a crop of blindingly bright lights. Several cars were pulled over and there was a long table set up in front of a portable trailer. The place was infested with cops. Lalo looked over at me and I scanned his face, wondering what we were going to do. He calmly pulled into the checkpoint and the white male police officer leaned in to talk to us.

“This is a DUI and license checkpoint. Can I see your driver’s license?” the police officer asked.

Lalo looked him in his blue eyes and told him steadily, “Actually officer, this is only a DUI checkpoint, and drivers don’t have to show their licenses unless it is publicized to be a license checkpoint.”

The officer looked stunned. He repeated again, “This is a DUI and license checkpoint. Let me see your license.”

Lalo then informed him that officers at DUI checkpoints are only supposed to check if drivers appear impaired. The officer looked irritated.

“Do you want to speak with the sheriff?” he asked Lalo.

“I’d be happy to.” Lalo replied. The officer didn’t appear to believe what he was hearing.

“You want to speak with the sheriff?” he repeated.

“Yes, I’d be happy to.” Lalo said again.

The officer sighed and said “Okay. Pull over there by the other cars.” So, we pulled over and waited for the sheriff.

Something I haven’t mentioned is that we knew that there would be a checkpoint in that place and at that time. See, my brother and I are activists, and lately in our community (the Ontario-Pomona-Claremont-Upland area) we have noticed that there have been a lot of checkpoints. DUI checkpoints, or sobriety checkpoints as they are often called, are meant to deter drunk driving and catch drivers who are under the influence. However, checkpoints that are located in areas with high populations of people of color and/or are conducted in the morning, afternoon, and early evening are not looking for people leaving bars drunk; they are looking for undocumented people.

Lalo had been reading up on the legal aspect of this issue for awhile and in the course of his research he had found that there are two different kinds of checkpoints: DUI checkpoints and DUI and license checkpoints. Whatever kind of checkpoint it is, it must be announced through the press and there must be signs telling you what it is. This checkpoint we were sitting at was not supposed to be for licenses and none of the signs indicated that it was.

Lalo and I talked about the checkpoints a lot:

“What about the fourth amendment?” I had asked him previously.

“Michigan v. Sitz.” he had replied.

The Fourth Amendment is the one that safeguards people against unreasonable search and seizure. Considering the fact that DUI checkpoints garner about 100 cars each which are towed away for various reasons (only about 3% of which are DUI related), the Fourth Amendment appears to be meaningless as of late. That’s where Sitz came in. In 1990 a group of Michigan residents got pissed and sued Michigan police for violation of their civil liberties according to the Fourth Amendment and the Michigan Court decided that they were right. However, the police took it to the Supreme Court who decided that in this case, the public benefit of getting drunk driver’s off the road surpassed what they considered to be the smaller issue of the violation of the civil liberties of the people and actually ruled DUI checkpoints constitutional, as long as they stick to strict guidelines.

Another officer came over to the car and asked Lalo to step out of the vehicle. He grabbed his copy of the bill of rights with the Fourth Amendment highlighted and walked over to the long table. The police were swarming around him and one of them searched him. I watched him speak to an officer on the other side of the table and at one point he lifted the paper he had grabbed and began to read it. The next thing I knew, he was being handcuffed and taken away.

See, the law is funny. So much of what happens is really up to the officer’s discretion, and no officer wants some civilian telling him how he is supposed to do his job. Lalo was put in a holding cell with a $10,000 bail for delaying a police procedure. When the white male officer who originally stopped us came back to the car to tell me they had arrested Lalo, he just kept saying that he should have just shown his license. I told him that my brother was aware of his rights, as we all should be, and asked if I could leave. He looked nervous when he asked me, “Can I see your license?” His face was priceless.

Some of the guidelines that police are supposed to follow are that they have to announce the checkpoints, they have to either stop every car or every nth car (ex: 3rd, 4th, 5th, etc.), they have to also educate the public about drunk driving, they can’t pull someone over just for avoiding a checkpoint, and, if the checkpoint is solely for DUIs, they are only supposed to stop you long enough to determine sobriety. Also, according to the Attorney General if it is a combination DUI and License checkpoint there must be advanced notice in the press and signs at the location.

I ended up showing that cop my license and going to the Hip Kitty. After a few hours, they let Lalo go without bail and I picked him up, but he still has a court date to go to in October. Our hope is to get the criminal charges dropped and sue the police, but we don’t really know what is going to happen. See, Lalo is lucky enough to have a license. But many people do not have licenses and when the police do these checkpoints and ask for licenses, they are really targeting the people unable to receive them, the undocumented.

I probably don’t have to explain the exploitation and oppression that undocumented people have to endure: the lack of financial aid for college, the ICE raids, deportations, detentions, imprisonment, racism and terrorizing by White America. These checkpoints are just one more tactic for the police to find and scare them. If the true reason that the checkpoints are done is to find drunk drivers, then why is the immigrant community so disproportionately affected? And why are only 5 or less out of 100 cars taken for DUI related reasons? Why are the police asking for licenses at non-license checkpoints? And why are not all cars stopped?

I think we know the answers to these questions. So, let’s do something!

Here is a list of things we can do:

1. Check the Crime and Public Safety section of your local paper for checkpoints, set up a Google alert, or sign up for text message alerts on Copwatchla.org. Then, when you find out where the next checkpoint will be, let people know! Make a listserv, post a bulletin, send text messages, make announcements at church, organization meetings or any other groups. My friend’s dad even keeps a sign in his trunk to place around checkpoints so people know where they are. Be creative!

2. Avoid the checkpoints. Technically they are not supposed to pull you over just for avoiding them. That doesn’t mean that they won’t or that they can’t make up an excuse.

Remember, driving without a license is not necessarily an arrestable offense.

1. California Vehicle Code Section 14602.6 says that if a police officer determines a person is driving without a license, or the license was revoked or suspended, the person’s vehicle “shall be impounded for 30 days.”

2. However, there is an appeals court ruling that says they are supposed to give you 30 minutes time to call a licensed driver.

3. Keep in mind, a lot is up to an officer’s discretion, and the police do not like when you tell them about the law.

Also, know your rights:

1. If you end up getting stopped at a checkpoint, be sober and have a driver’s license.

2. If you do not have a license, ask the officer(s) if you can call a licensed driver to come drive your car home.

3. Take pictures or otherwise document the conditions of the checkpoint. Your attorney may be able to use this in your defense. ¶

Mojad@s Anónim@s

2008-10-06T10:15:00.000-07:00

Anonymous ♀

The Matricula Consular: a commonly used ID issued by the Mexican Consulate for Mexican born citizens who reside in California. I got mine when I was almost 17.

I was anxious to go out and use it because I thought, “Hey, I’m finally of “legal” age!” With my Matricula, however, came other dilemmas. What places take Matriculas Consulares and what places do not? You might have recently turned 18, 21, or perhaps you’re past those days and turning a quarter of a century. Whatever your age, the point is that you still like to go out and have fun with your friends. You also want to hit up new and exciting places just like the rest of us. But, we all have experienced the dread of having to show the Matricula, waiting for a possible rejection.

It’s a Saturday night. A friend might say, “Hey, I know of this great new place. I think you’ll love it!” You will definitely be excited, but in the back of your head you will be thinking, “God, I hope they take my Matricula.”

This is why we have compiled a list of Matricula-Friendly Hot Spots, and even some haters in an attempt to inform our community and avoid embarrassing moments of rejection. All research was done by Matricula-holding students.

The Lovers:

LONG BEACH
Cohiba
v2o
Rock Bottom
The 49er
The Bull Bar
Reno Room
Sevilla
Executive Suite
Debra’s (Club Ripples)
Vault 360
Alex’s Bar *depends on their mood

LOS ANGELES
The Catwalk
The Mayan
The Echo
Echo Plex
The Grand
La Cita
Coco Bongo
Sabor Lounge
Vertigos
La Sausa
The Heist

DOWNEY/NORWALK
The Mirage
Hully Gully
The Stardust Club
Anarchy Library
Kelly’s
Sage (Whittier)
Flux (Lakewood)

ORANGE COUNTY
Tia Juana’s (Irvine)
Rumors (Santa Ana)
New Oz (Anaheim)
Bravo (Anaheim)

HOLLYWOOD
Boardner’s
The Troubadour
Rage (West)
Arena (West)
Circus (West)
The Akbar (Silverlake)
Zen Sushi (Los Felix)

HUNTINGTON PARK/ S. GATE
Margarita Jones
La Boom
El Potrero (Cudahy)
El Pescador (S. Gate)
El Parral (S. Gate)
El Rodeo (Pico Rivera)

The Haters:

Clockwork Orange
Beat It
The Saddle Ranch
Elephant Bar
Applebee’s
Que Sera (Long Beach)
The Sandwich
Spaceland
The [fucking!] Nugget

Feedback time! Know any other locales that accept/do not accept Matriculas? Send them in to get loved/burned: el.reflejo.mojados@gmail.

Para mi "peor-es-nada"

2008-10-06T00:04:00.000-07:00

Anonymous

Yeah, it’s me again. ¿Quién mas esperabas? ¿La sancha, o qué? Haha, foo’, calm down; no te voy a reclamar nada.

Solo queria decirte que that other night, when you dropped me off, cuando ni siquiera te volteaste a ver si entre bien a mi apartment ‘cause you just drove off? Pues it got me thinking see, it stung in here once more; made me realize que en tus ojos, maybe I’m just some stupid whore. Que en los ultimos meses you lied to and cunningly deceived, pero que dices que me quieres, ay papí lo prometes, que soy la unica pa’ ti.Yet, you don’t kiss me right. Siempre usas mucha lengua. Y cuando te la muerdo en broma, well, let’s not even go there – me dejas en vergüenza.

I always thought I liked you. I guess I really just might. Pero papí, why can’t you just tell me if you’re in a bad mood? You don’t even have to explain it, or talk about it si no quieres.

I just wish you didn’t scream at me and curse that I’m pathetic. Que soy mensa y aburrida, ni tan flaca y mal hablada. Que I won’t put out fast enough por mis tonterias de no quedar embarazada. Que soy confusa e incrédula, yeah, but I believe everything you say. That’s ‘cause I love you baby. I’m true to you, always & forever. You know, like the song says.

People are always talking shit, diciendo que you’re a good-for-nothing porque dejastes el estudio and you don’t support me in MY studies. Dices que I’m just wasting time, what’s the point, si I’m gonna marry you? "Girl, drop that schoolbag," you like to tell me. Like yeah, who am I trying to fool, right?

Anywho, I just had to get this off my chest.

Mis ojos are rojos and my lips are swollen y mi hair’s a mess. I’ll understand if this letter nunca la lees. I know you’re busy and occupied, but when you lose your temper and I’m not here to answer, don’t say I didn’t try.

It’s kind of hard having to live on edge and pretend nobody is listening. Nobody notices when your senses are twisted and your breath is caught short ‘cause you can’t form the words.
In the struggle to be sensible, shy, tu novia querida grapples the trifled language, the painfully extracted sappy phrase:

"I’m fine."

The Latin American Film Series at The Beach

2008-10-06T00:02:00.000-07:00

Fernando Romero

The Latin American Film Series began on Thursday, Sept. 25 with the screening of Los Andes no creen en Dios and will continue through Oct. 16 on successive Thursdays at 7 p.m. in the University Theatre at Cal State Long Beach.

The annual film series exhibits four movies made by Latin American filmmakers or produced specifically for Latin American audiences. This year’s theme, “Love Stories: Diverse Visions,” focuses on a compilation of films that present narratives of the intricate idiosyncrasies of love coupled with the socio/political backdrop and settings of Latin America.

Series opener, Los Andes no creen en Dios by Bolivian filmmaker Antonio Eguino was released in 2007 and subsequently screened throughout Latin America. It has the recognition of being the most expensive Bolivian film ever produced. It has received acclaim for its cinematography and was also Bolivia’s submission to the 80th Annual Academy Awards for Best Foreign Film, but failed to make the final cut.

It took more than 23 years for Eguino to premier his latest film after 1984’s Amargo mar. A veteran filmmaker, Eguino makes a comeback with Los Andes no creen en Dios and adds to his repertoire of films including Pueblo chico (1974) and Chuquiago (1977). His films concern the everyday lives of Bolivians threaded with the cultural and socio/political circumstances within that country.

“Los Andes no creen en Dios is an homage to the miners of Bolivia,” Eguino said. “It is an homage to the men and women who dedicated their lives and passions to the mining industry.”

The movie is set in the 1920s and 1940s, when mineral mining peaked in Bolivia.

“I wanted to reconstruct a forgotten age of the Bolivian mining industry,” Eguino said.

With ample artistic license, Eguino recreated and restructured three novels by Bolivian writer Adolfo Costa Du Rels forming the basis for the movie plot.: La plata del diablo, La Misk’i simi (Labios Dulces) and Los Andes no creen en Dios, which later became the title of the film, and gave life to the narrator of this novel turning him into the film’s protagonist.

The film follows writer Alfonso Claros (Diego Bertie) who travels to the small, Bolivian mining town of Uyuni wherein he befriends Joaquín (Milton Cortez). Both friends fall in love with Claudina (Carla Ortiz), the misk’i simi, and get tangled with mining prospector Genaro (Jorge Ortiz) and house madam Clota (Schlomit Baytelman).

Eguino said that his filmmaking is one which reflects about social realities in a region marked by contrasts. He cited that The Andes and most of Latin America is plagued with social inequalities which beg the question of whether or not God exists.
Eguino’s film is one of two dramas to be screened during the film series, the other being Madrigal by Cuban director Fernando Pérez.

Organizer and film and electronic arts professor at CSULB Jose H. Sanchez said the selection for the films is based on diverse criteria.

“The entries are selected through attending film festivals, such as the Los Angeles Latino International Film Festival,” Sanchez said. “We also take into account recommendations from film and electronic art students attending film festivals such as the Sundance Film Festival.”

This year’s selections included two dramas and two comedies. Asegure a su Mujer, was screened on Thursday, Oct.2. This film is a 1934 comedy made by Fox Studios and directed by Lewis Seiler. The movie was produced for the Latin American market in the 1930s. Sanchez said that prior to its exhibition at the University Theatre, the film had only been publicly screened once before within the United States.

Cuban film Madrigal by Pérez is scheduled for screening on Oct. 9. This dramatic love story is set in two time periods, the years 2005 and 2020; blending fantasy and reality.

The Latino Film Series will conclude with the screening of Maldeamores on Oct. 16. Directed by Puerto Ricans Carlos Ruiz and Maria Pérez Rivera, this comedic film follows many characters who are searching for romance.
The Latin American Film Series is free and open to students, faculty and the general public. All the films are subtitled in English.

“The Latin American Film Series is an excellent way for us to reach both students and the community. Our goal is to provide an experience that will facilitate openness to and understanding of Latin American cinema and culture,” Sanchez said. ¶

Governor Vetoes DREAM Act For Third Straight Year

2008-10-06T00:01:00.000-07:00

Fernando Romero

Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger vetoed the California DREAM Act on Tuesday, Sept. 30, a bill which would have allowed undocumented AB 540 college students to apply for need-based financial aid at public colleges and universities.

SB 1301, the California DREAM Act, proposed by Sen. Gil Cedillo (D - Los Angeles) had been brought to Gov. Schwarzenegger’s desk twice before, in 2006 and 2007. The governor vetoed both previous bills on the basis that such legislative measures would take financial aid resources and other programs away from U.S. citizens.

In his veto message on Sept. 30, Gov. Schwarzenegger cited the state’s faltering economy as the focal reason for vetoing it.

“I share the author’s goal of making affordable education available to all California students, but given the precarious fiscal condition the state faces at this time, it would not be prudent to place additional demands on our limited financial aid resources as specified in this bill,” he stated.

The DREAM (Development, Relief and Education for Alien Minors) Act would have made undocumented AB 540 students eligible for grants, scholarships, work-study and loan programs administered only through the campuses. Under AB 540, undocumented students are exempt from out-of-state tuition or international tuition.

Assembly Bill 540 students are those who have met specific requirements to be eligible for in-state tuition. AB 540 students are those who have attended a California high school for three or more years, graduated from a California high school or received a GED and agreed to apply for lawful immigration status as soon as they are eligible to do so.

The amended and filtered bill, SB 1301, did not include the Cal Grant program, which is the largest source of California state aid to college students.

The bill focused on the monies and financial aid allocated to by the state and administered by individual institutions. Each college and university is allocated a certain amount of aid and monies from the state and is free to implement it freely; including university grants, loans and work study programs.

The bill was also exclusive of any federal financial aid administered by the state and would not have put a strain of the state‘s budget as it used monies already being allocated to individual institutions. SB 1301 was written to not use additional state funds or create a new state program to fund it.

Because of the governor’s veto, the three systems of higher education in California, the UC, CSU and CCC will continue to regard undocumented students as ineligible for need-based financial aid.

The veto follows a recent state appellate court ruling that AB 540 was in violation of federal law. There are several AB 540 students at Cal State University Long Beach, and hundreds more throughout the CSU, UC and CCC systems. The veto of the bill is a blow to the estimated hundreds of students who continue to struggle to pay the high cost of rising tuition and stay in school. ¶

Past issues soon to be posted

2008-09-15T00:01:00.000-07:00

Past issues of El Reflejo are soon to be posted as PDF file. And the new issue of El Reflejo will also be added. So, stay tune.

There’s this Girl In A Coma...

2008-09-02T22:34:00.000-07:00

Fernando Romero

In the singularly fluid universe of Girl In A Coma, a world has been forged to fashion a unique sound of modern punk and alternative rock softened with melancholic, swaggering vocals and tightly-fitted with a retro-cool, bad-ass Riot Grrrl! attitude.

Girl In A Coma (GIAC), the all-female band out of San Antonio rocks in the classic guitar-bass-drums paradigm, but still sounds fresh and innovative. Formed eight years ago, the trio comprised of sisters Nina (guitar and vocals) and Phanie Diaz (drums) and Jenn Alva (bass) has awaited the appraisal and recognition of fans and critics alike for almost a decade.

The band’s big break came in 2006 when cable channel Si TV, the first Latino network to broadcast in English, featured them in their documentary series "Jammin." The band was flown to New York to meet their idol, Joan Jett, who surprised them by signing them onto her indie label, Blackheart Records.

"It happened at the right time too. We had always talked about getting signed on the spot, but we never really thought it would actually happen," Jenn, 28, says.

The band released "Both Before I’m Gone" in May 2007. The album debuted on Billboard’s Heatseekers at No. 23. The band has toured with artists including The Pogues, Social Distortion and Morrissey. It was only fitting that GIAC, which borrowed its name from The Smiths’ 1987 single "Girlfriend in a Coma," was asked by "Moz" himself to open up for him in a string of tour dates last Fall and Winter in the United States and Europe.

The band is just now starting to reap the rewards after all those years trying find the right chemistry and gigging wherever and whenever.

While still in middle school, Phanie bonded with classmate Jenn over a magazine cover of Kurt Cobain’s death. Both Phanie and Jenn shared a liking for bands like Nirvana, The Smiths and The Pixies. The pair instantly linked to start bands of their own. One day, at age 12, Nina, a full eight years younger than Jenn and Phanie, played one of the songs she had written for Phanie and Jenn, trying to get their honest opinion on it. The two older band mates had no idea Nina could play guitar, let alone write songs or that she could sing so well.

"I used to watch them a lot and they would inspire me," Nina, 20, says. "I was just writing some songs and wanted to see what they thought about them."

Both Phanie and Jenn were mesmerized by Nina’s voice and songwriting skills that they decided to form a band with her despite the eight year age difference.

"We were both just blown away by her singing," Phanie, 28, says. "But still, I think she has matured. Her voice and her songwriting have definitely grown a lot since."

The decision says a lot about the faith in Nina’s voice and songwriting. Nina has received countless compliments for her warbling melodic voice, rich in alternative rock that is both dreamy and ethereal and coupled with passionate lyrics coded in irony. Nina’s voice has been likened to Billie Holiday, Patsy Cline, Björk and yes, even, Morrissey.

GIAC also stands amongst a select few of female rock bands comprised by Latinas. There has not been a representation of Latina rock bands who sing primarily in English. Aside from GIAC, the only other U.S. Latina rock band in the public eye is LA-based Go Betty Go.

The members of GIAC assert they have not encountered any roadblocks for being a Chicana/Latina rock band.

"Our heritage is not a downfall, we see it as a bonus really. We just see it as something that opens up more doors for us," Jenn says. "The fact that we’re Latinas or Chicanas is only beneficial for us. It’s not bad at all. We get to be a part of different circles and concerts. We get the best of every world. We don’t see it as something that is excluding us from anything. We’re very proud of who we are and where we come from."

Hailing from San Antonio, influenced by the Tex-Mex culture, the members of GIAC say they like to think they are opening more doors to other Latina-fronted bands.

"We’re hoping to inspire girls to start bands by showing them, this is how you do it," Phanie says.

Currently on tour, the band will take a break late in the Summer to work on their follow-up album and be back out on the road this Fall with Tegan and Sara. Known for incessant touring, GIAC developed a loyal fan base the classical way; doing it non-stop.

"We preach about touring. We tell all the bands back home to hit the road because it’s the most direct way to develop fan base," Phanie says.

"As long as we can stay on the road and people continue to come to our shows, we’re going to continue to do it," Jenn says.

The women from Girl In A Coma are no girls, they’re definite veterans of rock even for Nina who exudes decades’ worth of experience beyond her 20 years in both her voice and songwriting. They carry a very simple philosophy stemming from their humble and poor beginnings.

"All we said we ever wanted was to make a little money, and be happy. What we’re doing, it’s like a minimum wage salary by rock band standards type of thing, and we’re happy doing it. "Jenn says. ¶

...and then, GIAC in Long Beach

2008-09-02T22:30:00.000-07:00

Fernando Romero

Girl In A Coma, the Latina trio out of San Antonio came to Alex’s Bar in Long Beach to play their fast-paced, gritty brand of alternative punk rock.

The band’s sound is like The Pixies and early Blondie coupled with the angst of Nirvana.

Bassist Jenn Alva was intense and energetic and the most vibrant of the group as she jumped up and down and back-and-forth on the stage.

Vocalist/guitarist Nina Diaz did the same and sang at the top of her lungs, while her eyes widened as if they would pop out at any moment.

Drummer Phanie D was relentless on drums, providing a beat prompting you to do something - anything.

At the center of it all was vocalist/guitarist Nina, with her stylish, rocker-crooning voice like a cross between Morrissey and Björk. Nina has a voice that makes you lift your head from whatever drink you’ve buried yourself into and pay attention, This was so on "Their Cell," which has melancholy lyrics like "tattooed lovers, they don’t like to reminisce/keep pictures of the ones you once loved." This line, this song is about longing and loss, with infectious melodies and harmonies and her vocals are emotive as if they could reach down into her pathetic, barely-beating heart to rip open the pain from her chest and share it with you.

Fans sang along to songs from the band’s debut album Both Before I’m Gone. The band also introduced a handful of unreleased songs including "BB," "Ven Cerca," and "Slaughter MM," all of which sounded tighter and tougher than the ones fans who have seen the band repeatedly have become accustomed to. Nina’s voice was moving, it was melodramatic and wound up with exasperation, while the band’s rhythm remained alternative punk.

At Alex’s Bar, the trio merged the power of punk and alt rock with pop-y hooks and infectious lyrics, which left the audience asking for more. ¶

Support the DREAM Act

2008-09-02T22:24:00.000-07:00

Fernando Romero

The California DREAM Act will be sent to Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger’s desk on Sept. 4, prompting supporters of the bill to advocate for its ratification which would allow undocumented AB-540 students to apply and compete for financial aid at California publi- colleges and universities.

Supporters of the bill urge the Governor for approval of SB-1301, the California DREAM (Development, Relief and Education for Alien Minors) Act which has already passed both the State Assembly and Senate.

The bill serves as a supplement to Assembly Bill 540, allowing students to apply and vie for financial aid at California public universities and colleges without the use of the Federal Application for Student Aid (FAFSA). AB-540 students cannot receive government financial aid to pay for college.

The Governor has vetoed two similar legislative proposals in the past, saying undocumented students might take financial aid resources away from U.S. citizens. Previously, the bills included state-funded financial aid such as the Cal Grant. SB-1301 excludes the Cal Grant and targets financial aid administered by individual institutions.

José Moreno, Chicano & Latino Studies professor at CSULB said the bill is about providing equal opportunity in higher education for all students in publicly-funded schools. "I think the bill’s principle is about equity and fairness."

Moreno added that all public schools have a responsibility to educate students regardless of their immigration status. "We expect all our kids to do well in school and we tell them to dream big and to be whatever they want to be. We have kids trying to get a college education and here they are and we tell them, ‘we can’t help you, you’re on your own," Moreno said. "I think that’s morally wrong."

SB-1301 would not call for additional state funds or the creation of a new state program to fund it. The bill would not affect state-funded financial aid and will rather be institution-based. Each college and university is allocated a certain amount of aid and monies from the state and is free to implement them freely; including university grants, scholarships and work study programs.

The Immigrant Rights Coalition, based in Long Beach, will schedule a rally on Sept. 4 at 7 p.m. at the Universalist Unitarian Church on Atherton St. and Bellflower Ave.

Annette Quintero, IRC volunteer, said the program will include guest speakers, two testimonials from AB-540 students as well as the collection of pens (to symbolize the 25,000 undocumented students who graduate from high school each year), letters and signatures to be sent off to Sacramento advocating ratification.

Quintero said the approval of SB-1301 is the right thing to do because it would alleviate the financial burden of thousand of students seeking college degrees. "The previous bill was based on more of a macro-level. The only difference is that this bill will only be an impact at the university level, not statewide," Quintero said.

Moreno said the passing of SB-1301 will be beneficial to California’s economy. "From a moral, educational and economic ground, it makes a lot of sense," Moreno said. "This bill allows AB-540 students to not only be allowed to stay in school, but to pursue their dream, better their lives and contribute to society."

Both Moreno and Quintero are expectant SB-1301 will be signed by Gov. Schwarzenegger. The bill is economically-sound and fiscally-responsible. It has the support of the UC Regents, CSU Board of Trustees, CCC, the Governor-appointed Postsecondary Education Commission which oversees policy governing higher education in the state, the UC and CSU student associations and the California Teacher’s Association, among others.

Moreno said, " I don’t see what rationale the Governor can have to not sign the bill." Moreno said there may exist an underlying anti-immigrant, xenophobic sentiment evident should the Governor veto SB-1301. "To deny this, it makes me believe it is discriminatory. I don’t know what else it could be, but anti-immigrant and anti-children," Moreno said.

The CSULB professor tied in the California DREAM Act with the pro-immigration movement and cited compatibility between the two. Moreno said the immigration-reform movement is an important social issue that requiring resolution.

Moreno said, "I think the immigration movement is a human and civil rigths issue."

Moreno added that it was especifically true for a demographic of minors who had no choice when their parents emigrated to this country and are now trying to better their lives with higher education.

"The conversation about immigration should be about being humane. Immigration reform is about being just and is also about the dreams of children," Moreno said. "AB-540 students, by going to college, will contribute more to society and the economy and become the kind of immigrant that the country will want." ¶

Mirrored

2008-09-02T18:28:00.000-07:00

Yadira Arroyo

I wake up at the sound of the alarm’s buzz, buzz, buzz. The time is 11:30 a.m. on a completely free day. Free from work, free from school, free from friends and maybe even free from family. I hit the snooze button. About ten minutes later, I am grabbing my towel for a much anticipated, summer-morning shower.

In the bathroom, I pull the hair elastics from my slept-in, lopsided pigtails, scrunch my hair with my hands and then lazily undress. When all my clothes and hair accessories are piled on the toilet seat cover to be taken to my personal hamper after I am done, I grab my toothbrush and toothpaste and place them on the dry ledge of the bathtub. I look into the large mirror opposite the shower, as I always do, and think that it may not be a bad day to skip makeup. I run my hands over my face and then look at the rest of my body, not unsatisfied. I squeeze my breasts because they ache ridiculously, then notice that I need to shave my legs and underarms. I grab a razor from the compartment behind the sink mirror to put beside the toothbrush, but as I close the small door, I squint my eyes to get a better look at what I hadn’t noticed before. It’s there on my upper right arm, ugly and evident.

I turn to the long mirror again and look into my eyes; they begin to flicker in every direction as my body plunges bluntly into accelerated thought. Maybe it was an accident, races my mind. I step up closer to the mirror and examine it. The mark’s shape is so easily distinguishable that there is no mistaking how it got there. There are flashbacks from the previous night. I place my left hand over it and squeeze it gently; I feel the bruised pain at each of its perfectly-arranged four points. I stare at the floor thinking of everything it could mean outside the four walls that I find myself hiding in. The shock of such frailty mocks me.

I turn around to slide open the shower door, turning the showerhead on as soon as I step in. The cool water slows the feral molecules that had begun to boil my blood. I breathe. Calm gloom sets in and I begin to sing. I sing a song that carries me as far away from the cause as possible. If this is your venom, I can just as fiercely conjure my antidote. I force myself to bliss.

When I am done, I wrap a towel around myself and look into the mirror once again, my brown eyes tinged with disappointment. This is not my destiny. I take another angry glance at the mark, holding back tears, and walk to my bedroom. Once away from the bare vulnerability of the cleansing room, I dress myself. Covering the cruelty with a striped blouse, I trap the shame in the mirror. If I succumb to weakness now, it is an eternal loss. I finish gathering myself and open the front door. The sunlight once again wraps me in truth as I walk across my front lawn; my destiny remains clutched in my own hands.

Sandwiches de sal

2008-09-02T11:07:00.000-07:00

Fernando Romero

I was seven. I remember that it was November because my birthday had just passed. I was sitting on a bench inside the courtyard of Juan Escutia, the primary school my brothers and I attended in Tepatitlan, Jalisco. A Bimbo bread bag rested on my lap as I stuck my hand inside and reached for a sandwich. My friend, Monica, sat beside me. We usually ate together right before we played an intense game of tag with the rest of our classmates.

Every weekday, my mother would get up in the morning and make our lunches for school, which usually consisted of sandwiches. She would prepare them, put them in the same bag the bread came in and then walk us to school. Once there, she would hand over the bag to the school nurse, Susana. I was the one entrusted with the duty of retrieving the sandwiches because my class was closest to her office.

Monica ate out of her lunchbox. She took out a ham sandwich, a small carton of milk and a bag of chocolate cookies. She assembled her food on the bench in a uniform, parallel fashion; like the streets of a city.

She asked me if I wanted to play jump rope after we fi nished eating, but I didn’t answer her or even bothered to look up because I was too distressed and saddened by my lunch.

I looked at the sandwich like a painter inspecting his artwork of oil on canvas. I squinted, trying to fi nd something, but didn’t even know what. I fl ipped the sandwich over, under, to the side; nothing. The two pieces of white bread were simply slathered with a coat of mayonnaise and sprinkled with salt.

Inside the bag, were another four sandwiches, one for each of my brothers. They all had the same ingredients; mayonnaise and salt. Like the bearer of bad news I would have to make sure they got to where they were supposed to.

The bag mocked me. But for some strange reason, I wasn’t even surprised that there was no ham or even a slice of cheese gently resting between those two pieces of white bread. I knew my mother had not forgotten how to make sandwiches and I knew for a fact that it wasn’t Friday during Lent, but I still took it with an almost matter-of fact attitude. By this age I already knew we were poor and that sometimes, going hungry was just a matter of fact.

Monica looked at me; I looked back at her. In her eyes, there was a dance of light from the refl ection of the beaming sunlight upon the asphalt. Her face, a smattering of speckled freckles, spelled out disbelief. She wanted to say something, but didn’t know what.

She asked with skepticism as she ogled the salt on mayonnaise, “That’s your lunch?”

“Yeah,” I quipped. “My mom made it.”

A sense of shame overcame me and I started to put the sandwich back in the bag.

“Aren’t you gonna eat it?”

“Nah. I’m not hungry,” I lied.

I felt a shooting pain in the recesses of my stomach. I wanted to make up an excuse, to tell her that my stomach was full and that I had eaten earlier in the day; that these mayonnaise and salt sandwiches were just snacks. But the truth was that the shame overcame me. Today, I figured I’d go hungry.

She didn’t understand; I didn’t understand either. All I knew was that my parents worked hard. They worked como burros, as my mother would say, to provide us with a good education. Inevitably, “ends meet” sometimes became critical.

I stood up and walked away. I wasn’t mad at Monica or anybody, but I just did not feel like joining in the playground games. The remainder of the lunch period, I stood pressed against the fence, like a lone wolf; bitter at the idea that any child, for any reason would skip a meal or ever go hungry. I was always a worrier for the poor.

The nuns who ran the school used to say that God had a special place for poor people; that God was more merciful. But like everything else the nuns said, and partly because I was just a kid, their message was simply lost on me.

And on that afternoon when I went hungry, the worries of my childhood superseded all that was me. As I walked home, I chewed on stalks of grass. I heard my stomach growl. I climbed an orange tree and stole an orange from some unlucky person’s house.

Even then, I had a way with words like a struggling poet. I wanted to tell stories of what I saw and how I lived, of those meager streets of houses and buildings, of unsightly characters who roamed the streets. I thought a lot. I wondered what it must be like to live in a house with a big front yard and sprinklers that twirled, and of moms who baked pies and left them on the window sill. My mind reverted to food again and again.

I thought about the streets of Tepa. We lived on Calle Allende 71. From school I would usually walk down Avenida Moctezuma or Lerdo. Both were parallel to one another and if one kept on walking downhill, one would reach La Plaza Morelos, where my parents would take us every Sunday for Mass and to a taco stand at La Plaza afterwards. At that time, I didn’t know that those streets would have such an effect on me. Calle Allende became Atlantic Avenue and it was all still the same, but different.

When I got home, my parents were still at work. The afternoon was still young. I went inside and heated up some tortillas on the comal. I slapped some cheese on the tortilla and ate. I felt guilt, remorse and shame for taking food that my mother may have needed later on; for the rest of us.

With the tortilla rolled up and cheese gushing from the corner of my mouth, I went out to the patio. My stomach did not feel as empty. My brothers were home by now. In the patio, Ezequiel, David Alejandro, Valentin and Gonzalo were all playing marbles and making bomb sounds
on the cracked, uneven pavement.

My twelve-year-old brother Ezequiel, as the oldest, always took it upon himself to initiate the name of the game; he had the temperament of a mule, but could sometimes be fair and reasonable.

“So what you guys wanna play today?,” Ezequiel asked with indifference.

We all kind of shrugged. When it came to games, our options were always limited. We would either make up our own games or construct our own toys. Fun times ranged from catching tadpoles at a nearby pond, to making forts out of cardboard boxes. Playing with matches was at the top of the list for fun, until some way, somehow, when I was in kindergarten, we accidentally set my parents’ mattress on fi re. We got the punishment of a lifetime for that one.

We needed to kill time until my parents came home from work. My stomach grumbled. I could sense my brothers’ did too. Valentin said we should play outside. At nine, he was already a vagabond and always wanted to go outside.

“I have my soccer ball,” Valentin said. “Let’s just go outside and play soccer.”

“Can’t,” eleven-year old David interjected. “Mi Amá said no. Remember?”

My parents had gotten too many complaints from the neighbors for our alleged terrorizing of the neighborhood. My parents said to stay inside until they came home, which was usually less than hour after we got home.

David had always been the quietest, but he loved a good fi ghting. If there was anything he ever liked to do, it was beat up on his little brothers.

“Okay, then where’s the frisbee?” Ezequiel asked.

“I know! It’s over there,” Valentin said as he pointed to what seemed like the box where we kept a lot of our stuff.

I was closest to the box so I walked a couple paces to where Valentin pointed and looked inside. I only saw a pile of toy cars and some coloring utensils.

“Nope! No sir,” I said with a wrinkled face, being no one’s fool.

“Not there, stupid!” Valentin snapped. “Behind it.”

There it was. I picked up the frisbee and tossed it to Valentin. It probably sounded more fun in our heads than it actually was because no one seemed animated enough to play.

“This sucks! Let’s do something else,” Ezequiel said.

“Yeah! This is dumb. I’m goin’ inside,” David said.

We stood outside for awhile. Gonzalo, the youngest at fi ve, sat on the ground, took some chalk and started to draw on the ground.

Man, that looks like fun, I thought.

At that moment my mother came home from work. We all went inside to wash up in the kitchen sink. She said dinner would be ready soon.

Every one of my brothers went into the living room to watch the Wonder Years, dubbed in Spanish. On the television, Kevin Arnold and his family sat in their dining room table in white clothes eating. Later on, my father came home and plopped himself on the living room couch, beaten from a job that made little money.

My mother and I were in the kitchen, steam covered the glass windows from her cooking. My mother scurried back and forth making dinner. I wanted to talkto her about school and what had happened during lunch. But most importantly, I knew Christmas was coming up soon and I wanted to ask her to get me the most coveted toy there ever was. Sure, for Christmas I wanted for Baby Jesus to be born and for there to be happiness and peace in the universe, but most importantly, what I wanted was the toy sword the leader of The Thundercats used. I wanted Lion-O’s sword more than anything.

In those days, it seemed that my mother was always at the stove, her pale skin glistening as the steam team rose.

“Amá,” I started. “For Christmas…can I get a…umh.”

I didn’t even get a chance to finish.

“What is it?” she asked. “ You know what? Not right now, okay? We’ll talk about it a little bit later.”

I said okay. I knew “later” would never come. I knew enough that in Mexican culture, later, or “mas al rato” usually meant a week, a month, a year or maybe never.

The sun had set before my mother called everyone to dinner. We sat there: my mother’s eyes looked exhausted but had a vibrant glow as she scanned the table of six faces before her. Steam silvered the room while she said grace; my brothers with their heads bowed made ugly faces at the vegetables on their plates. I gagged too, but eagerly ate big rips of buttered tortilla that held scooped up beans with melted cheese.

Like every other night at dinnertime, the house grew louder. A sense of insomnia descended upon the house. By now, we were accustomed to a life of surprises and evenings with festivities, even on non-festive days.

Finished eating dinner, I went outside. The air was cold. The hunger pangs were lulled. But those pangs in my stomach have followed me like a shadow; a reminder of who I was, where I’ve been and where I’ve come from. ¶

CAUGHT IN TRANSIT

2008-07-07T22:23:00.000-07:00

Caught in Transit: The Rochester Border Patrol Station from Newshouse on Vimeo.

working on the layout

2008-07-06T19:29:00.000-07:00

.... hope to get it done soon.

rhyme for Ché

2008-05-25T18:11:00.000-07:00

Yadira Arroyo

Bum bum dee dum.
I was walking along, cerebrum
scrambled in a humdrum
fashion while kicking rocks (for purpose)
and wearing white socks
on the bottommost part of my corpus.

You know. I was running along,
skin warmed by the sun with my hair in a bun
while the world simply spun.
And then I so sudden stopped
'cause I bumped into a boulder.
No, no, it was a man's broad shoulder
and he appeared not so older
so I felt my clit do that which my nipples do
when it gets colder.
Behold the beholder.

Shocked and distraught,
these feelings I fought.
I wanted to walk
but I was being forced to talk.
I searched in my stock
and from it couldn't concoct
a potion that would motion
the promotion of my heart.

I'm a witch and a snitch but I'm failing
to magick away my ailing,
or to even speak and seek the unveiling of my teat
that would quickly cease the sick wailing.
I fear him bailing 'cause I witness him scaling
my wee wit and weak training.
Against all others, I'm tailing!

Yes, I want his caress to halt gaunt loneliness
and then consequently, oh-so-gently grant happiness.
This is only a test and if I do my wise best
I will rise above the rest
and discard my hard role as near-sycophantic pest.
Sure, it's power I desire
but your flower tongue, I admire,
for your eloquence inspires what so evidently tires
the deep chambers of my tower
and whose rolling thunder fire
heats my soul to rose-perspire.
Humble me no more, I cower
before this self-fulfilling prophecy, so sour.

Border Crossing

2008-04-07T19:39:00.000-07:00

"Amá, why are we running? Why do we have to hide?”

"We have to run, so they don't catch us."

"But who's trying to catch us, Mami?"

"The people that don't want us to come."

"Come where? Where are we going Mami?"

"We're going to go see your Papi."

"But why do we have to run so much? Mami, why are you scared?"

"Mi’jita, right now I can't explain it all. We have to keep running. When we get there I'll tell you everything. Now your brother is gonna carry you on his shoulders, okay? You're too little to keep up with our running."

"Okay, Mami."

* * *

My father left us when I was three years old. He left my mom, brother, and sister behind. He left on his own. I don't know why, but he left. He came to America to work for a year, along with my uncles and aunts on my mom's side of the family.

There was such fear in my mother's face. It was more of a combination of fear and worry that I have never seen in my mother except for that day; the day we came to America.

"We're going to go visit your dad," my mom said one day, “We will leave to go see him in a few days.” This was the best news I had ever heard. I missed my dad so much. Every day I would stare out the window when the clock struck five o'clock waiting to see him come home. He never came, though.

During the next few days I repeatedly told my cousins, "We're going to go see my dad. We're going to go on an airplane to see him, and we'll all be together again, and then we're going to come back, and my daddy will be with us again." My cousins simply smiled at me.

A few days later we all said goodbye to each other. It was a Sunday in September, eighteen years ago. The smell of burning cooking oil and the sound of soccer games on TV always remind me of that day. Every Sunday, my family visited my grandmother and she cooked the best food. There was nothing like her food. That day I kissed my grandmother and grandfather and hugged all my uncles and aunts.

"Don't cry grandma, we're just going to go get my dad and then we're going to be back," I exclaimed. That was the last time I ever saw my grandmother and I will never see her again.

The entire trip took three days. It began with an airplane ride from Mexico City to Tijuana. In Tijuana, we spent a day in a hotel waiting for the long journey. Even as a small child I knew there was something approaching, but I didn't know what. My mom kept dropping things and zoning off when I asked her questions. We woke up early the next morning and met up with our coyotes. I couldn't help but stare at one of the coyote's massive mustache. It took over his entire face. I could hardly see him or his tiny eyes. He was a tall, lanky man with a blue cap and khaki-colored pants. The other coyote was wearing a brown cap and blue jeans. These two coyotes would help us cross the desert; while a third one waited for us in San Diego.

Early in the morning we drove to the U.S.-Mexico border. Back then, there was no eight-foot fence stretching over the entire border. We drove down a long isolated road, like those roads on your way to Las Vegas. This road ran parallel to the massive green fence. We got out of the car and one coyote wandered along the fence, while another coyote stood close to us. Everyone stood with one foot behind the other, how Olympic runners prepare for the run of their careers. Well, this was the run of our entire lives. The coyote waited for a signal from the other coyote. My brother tied his shoes in a tight knot and then placed me on his shoulders. We waited in silence a few minutes. The coyote waved his hand in the air in an abrupt motion from the left to right side. We finally got our signal and off we were. We entered into the U.S. territory in a matter of seconds, but it took us two hours of continuous, non-stop running to get close to San Diego and close to the nearest road.

Running for two hours through an isolated, barren, dry desert was not easy. At first there was hardly anything in our path. The heat from the sun baked everything around us to the point that we could see several mirages in the distance. Everything was dirt and then some more dirt. A series of bushes began to occasionally appear. We expected to see some sign, or remnants of forgotten shoes or sweaters; we were waiting for a sign that other people had passed through the same place. The sign of other people's belongings would give us some hope. We needed to know that other people had successfully passed through the same path as us. We saw nothing.

* * *

"'¿Amá, que tiene Doña Mari? ¿Porque esta tirada en el piso llorando?" I asked as I stared at our neighbor. Her face was shiny from her own sweat and tears. She had black streaks across her face from the dirt on her hands. She had been sitting on the floor for some time now and her hands, along with the rest of her body, were completely collapsed on the dirt. Every time she tried to wipe her tears and sweat, more and more black streaks appeared on her face.

"Her body just can't keep going; she just can't run anymore."

"Why are they saying that we're gonna leave her? Mom, are we really leaving her
here all alone?"

"Yes, we do have to leave her here, but that nice man is gonna stay with her until she feels better."

My mother pointed to one of the two men guiding us through the desolate desert we were crossing. The man simply looked at me and said, "Si mi’jita, Doña Mari nadamas necesita descansar un poquito."

The only time we stopped was right before leaving Doña Mari. It was a quick ten-minute break near the most shrub-rich place we could find.

We left Doña Mari. The coyotes told us to keep running. They were going to wait for her. When the coyote saw that were losing energy he would say, "We're almost there. Falta poco."
We ran for a long time, as quickly and quietly as we could. The two men kept telling us, "¡Ahí vienen! ¡Corran mas rapido!"

Every time we heard the coyotes shout at each other we knew that there might be someone behind us. The fear of getting caught was the boost of energy we needed to keep going. I sat on my sixteen-year-old brother's shoulders through the entire chase. I could feel his temples pulsating quickly, along with his warm forehead. I leaned my stomach on the back of his head and wrapped my hands around the circumference of his head, just above his forehead. I was careful to make sure I didn't cover his eyes. Up to this day I still don't know how he did it. How could he have carried a small three-year-old child while running through a desert full of hazardous obstacles?

We felt relieved when we started to see a road in the distance. A gray Oldsmobile came driving down the road and the coyotes quickly said, "¡Metanse, rapido!" That was our third coyote. The coyote never looked back or even greeted us. We could just see his eyes reflected from the mirror. We noticed that he kept scanning the road behind us, though.

* * *

Burritos and Sunny Delight were our first meals in Los Estados Unidos, in San Diego. The coyotes were kind enough to offer us their homes. It was a quick visit before we had to get on our last and final plane ride to LAX. The food they brought us was new to us. It had an awkward taste to all of us too. My mom hated the sweetness of Sunny Delight; I just frowned when my burrito became unwrapped and I couldn't wrap it again.
"¿Que es esto?" I asked my sister.
"No se, pero parece un taco con una tortilla gigante," responded my brother.

* * *

The light from the city lamps kept shining over my heavy, closed eyes and I kept squeezing them tightly as the car kept moving. I couldn't open my eyes even though I was curious to look at everything outside the window. I kept dozing in and out of sleep. I was tired, but I still could not completely fall asleep. I finally felt the car stop and the car door open. Rough, callous hands lifted me from my mom's lap. I managed to slowly open my eyes, first the left, then the right.

"Hola, mi chiquita."

With my vision still a bit blurry, I smiled and squinted to open my eyes,

"Hola, Papi."

I held on tightly to my daddy's neck and felt him carry me up a flight of stairs. I looked over my dad's shoulders to make sure that I could see my mom, sister, and brother who were close behind. I held on to my dad even tighter and rested my head on him and I finally fell asleep.

Under the Same Moon

2008-04-07T18:47:00.000-07:00

Fernando Romero

Under the Same Moon.

La Misma Luna is a heart-wrenching film layered with sociopolitical topics centered on the thematic story of the bond of two distanced souls; that of a mother and her son.

Under the Same Moon revolves around 9-year-old Carlitos. He hasn’t seen his mother Rosario (Kate Del Castillo) in four years after she left him in the care of his grandmother and headed to “the other side” to look for work and a better life for both. After the grandmother passes away, Carlitos (13-year-old Adrian Alonso) is fixed on being reunited with his mom even though he doesn’t even know her address. And so begins a journey of epic proportions as Carlitos makes his way north encountering the realistic tribulations many migrant workers endure to set foot on American soil.

Seven moons and seven suns rise and fall as Carlitos searches for his mom and she toils away as a maid in Los Angeles. Amidst his odyssey, Carlitos meets a migrant worker named Enrique (Eugenio Derbez).

The movie is a crowd-pleaser and feeds to people’s innate feelings balanced with moments of glee and melancholy. It was raw and touching and because of its core story is undeniably affecting.

Not since the Lion King had there been the pervasive futility of tears strolling down cheeks. The movie does a superb task of engaging the viewers with emotionality that sometimes brinks on the abyss of sappiness.

The movie’s poignancy was fueled by its debatable topic but devoid of any polarization brought on by politics. It is a movie that speaks to Latin Americans depicting the harsh realities of migrant workers crossing over, the complexities of life, of death, of sacrifices; but most importantly it is about family and the unequivocal bond of a mother and her son. But it even speaks to outsiders saying, “Yeah… it is that fucked up!”

Moments of great acting and raw emotions are weaved throughout. The levy of waterworks broke five minutes into the film when Rosario herself bursts into tears. In a weekly phone call between mother and son, a saddened Rosario tells Carlitos she loves him “te quiero mi amor” and sets down a palpable bond between the two. The audience can’t help but empathize with Carlitos. When both Enrique and Carlitos reach Los Angeles, they search up and down for Rosario only to literally walk right past her while she sat on a bench; a scene which beckons any audience to gasp with a quasi-dying breath of anxiety.

The actors delivered strong performances. Del Castillo aptly epitomized the beautiful and struggling mother. Carlitos is the quintessential tyke with sad big brown eyes and has the audience eating out of the palm of his hand. Derbez stood out for his lone-wolf archetype characterization of migrant worker Enrique. Derbez, known for his humor, shows that comedians know funny, but they also know sad as he takes the audience on the transgression of Enrique’s character and commits the ultimate sacrifice to ensure Carlitos sees his mother one again.

Albeit the movie falls a bit short of perfection. Too many coincidences along the way. Abundance of stock characters. It relies heavily on too many plot devices including a “Chekhov’s Gun” in the form of a street corner where Rosario calls Carlitos every Sunday.

Nonetheless, La Misma Luna is definitely worth checking out because it is a movie the importance of family bonds. A well-done film about an all-important topic which deserves light to be shed upon. In the end, it numbs the issue of immigration and reminds us we’re all human, stating that it is love which makes the world go round.

Corroded Coral Pink

2008-04-07T18:21:00.000-07:00

Yadira Arroyo

The night was just beginning. We went to Foufoune's and sat on the second floor, where we could look down into the dance floor/mosh pit. After about three pitchers, we had some sort of liquor. It was dizzy dizzy, but I ain't no fool -- or so I thought. He cupped my chin with his hand and leaned his head in. I pulled away.

"Why don't you want to kiss me?" he asked. I told him that I just didn't want to.

I got up from my seat, determined to keep enjoying my buzz, and leaned against the rail to look over the crowd. Intoxicated, the thumping punk rock and the stimulating movement of the young ones below gradually propelled me towards sensory bliss. I closed my eyes. Taking it all in, I ignored his presence in order to fully live the moment. With the streaks of light bearing upon me, I began to sway my hips and dance alone. Shut out from the world yet thoroughly alive in it, I smiled to myself. Mmm.

It was nearing midnight and not wanting him in my apartment again, I urged him to be on his way so he could catch the last bus to Kahnawake. He, however, thought it better to prolong the fun. He thought that he could stay at my place. And I? I was drunk. I agreed on the condition that he would have a spot on my floor -- not my bed, not again. So, we stayed until closing and then got into a cab; he was broke -- how nice.

We entered my apartment and lacking the most minimal courtesy, he helped himself to a glass of water. Or was it James who would so obnoxiously take? Anyway, he had something from my kitchen -- how nice. I went into my bedroom to change into my pajamas where I rolled my eyes; I was tired. Not knowing if Heather was home, I did not want to have him roam the apartment unsupervised. After all: my guest, my responsibility; that was my logic. I pointed at the hardwood floor in a corner of my room and, slurring, informed him that he would sleep there. He complained that it was too cold to crash there, but he wasn't really complaining.

I was drunk. I failed. I, whose poise is by sistahs thoroughly exalted in the daytime world, caved. Easily convinced in this state, I told him that he could sleep on the opposite end of my queen-sized bed. I crawled into it and covered myself in order to shield myself from the atmosphere. He took off his shoes, his jacket, then his shirt and his pants. Yeah, to my surprise and utter disgust, I watched as he undressed completely. I stared blankly at the floor, becoming cognizant of the blood draining itself from my body. He walked over and crept into my bed; I could feel the intrusive pressure that he applied to the mattress as he invaded and I could hear every creak of the springs. Facing away from him, I held my eyes wide open. My bed. Mine. My safety. My room. I closed my eyes tight. I heard and felt the mattress again as he crept closer. Even at that point, I give people the benefit of the doubt. Like, perhaps there is some eternal good in people and so maybe I was misunderstanding everything. However, as if on some unimaginative horror movie cue, his fat white body pressed against mine. Shit. Expecting it, sensing it, I next felt his erect penis on my lower back, and then sliding down to my ass. I scooted to the edge of the bed; alert, quiet. I felt his fat white hand creeping over my abdomen. I flung it away, trembling violently inside although I was in fact, still as a rock. He did it again. I removed the perverse filth from my temple. I hung on the edge of my bed; scared, sickened. Whatever it took to keep that thing away from me…

In the morning, I woke up and didn't dare look over my shoulder. I didn't want to risk engraving the repulsing scene into my ever-keen visual memory. I went to the bathroom and stayed there for a long time. To look at him would be to admit that it had really happened, and yet, I couldn't wait to acknowledge the thing that was lying on my bed so that I could throw it out. Of course, I wasn’t about to actually do anything proactive about it, was I? No. Instead, I sat at the dinner table, somberly watching the dreary day through the kitchen window.

He soon woke and smiled. Like nothing. He put on his nasty black leather jacket and met me in the kitchen. Honestly, I was in some sort of shock. He acted like nothing had happened. Not even a fucking apology. He was hungry. In a curious expression of my unscathed humanity, I offered him waffles and the last two eggs in my refrigerator. I watched irately as he flavored the eggs with basil that he decided to steal from my roommate's cabinet, and then merrily fixed himself breakfast. I stared blankly, abused really, at my plate. I made some excuse about having to run some errands and he fuck-finally got the message. He left, but not before taking some more from me – he needed money for the bus. (Yes, yes, take it!) When I shut the door downstairs after he exited, I was extremely relieved.

Climbing up the stairs though, I suddenly felt sick; I was dirty. Cleansing my body suddenly became my most immediate need, so I proceeded accordingly. Standing under the showerhead, my tears ran along with the steamy water in the wet and foggy blur that was being produced. I scoured my soft, loyal skin while simultaneously apologizing to my own body for having let it down in such a manner that at that moment, its honey-brown tone looked more like a corroded coral pink. I scrubbed once, twice, and still, his putrid scent would not begin to fade! I washed my hair with wicked desperation. Panting and realizing that I had done all that I could in the shower, I wrapped a towel around myself and walked feebly to my bedroom. I sat on my bed staring at nothing, but thinking of everything. Miserably sobbing, I clothed myself. I stood in the middle of the room. Then, in a sudden fit of fury and disgust, I tore the blankets and comforter off my bed, carried them in a bundle and tossed them into the washing machine. Unfulfilled, it next occurred to me to wash those tainted dishes. To hell with it, so I threw away the cup. I swept. I cleaned. I tidied. I sanitized. What did I need to do to crawl out of my skin and rid myself of his permeating stench? There were flashes of memory, of the spectre’s flaccid naked body against my back. How could I get rid of his rotten touch?

Well, they say that time is the best cure, and I’ve lived long enough to know that it sure as hell is. But you know, I’d like to expand on that concept. I didn’t know that it also made the best friggin’ sanitizer.

In my Place, I looked up at the Glass and saw the Vendor

2008-03-17T18:25:00.000-07:00

Yadira Arroyo

I am being told to thirst for you. And I sort of do because there is only so much that I can resist. I mean, wow, in terms of the system, you are a gem. You don't see that of course, but I know better. And what if despite my credence, I could still pocket you? What a secret accomplishment that would be for me. Then you would become my trophy.

That's when it gets twisted. You are something strange that the system expelled. You are strange because you are positively (you know, like, not achromatic) colored vomit and that carries with it a lot of stigma. If anything, your buddies should be the first ones to undo the myth, but no, you refuse to undermine your own discomfort for it is you that the system holds the dearest. If anything, I'd say that you are the system's greatest excrement. You are its pride for you have the tools of dissatisfaction to raise your consciousness and overturn the whole demonic thing, yet you haughtily choose to remain within its walls. You are by far its most obedient baby.

So in your awkward and intriguingly dissectible position on the plane, stupid as you are to stay where you are, I find you interesting. If only I could say that I held you in my hand, what a feat that would be! That alone would qualify and accept me within the system. Secretly, I would betray everything that I stand for. I think that what I am most concerned with though is having an obedient baby's praise. Now that, would surely fuck things up. It's your unique position that allows me to crave you. A craving only lasts so long though, I am well aware. I want to get in and stay in you for a long time and I want you to enter and exit as fast as possible. Hell, it would be the best if you didn't even have to be in me.

Now, why am I writing this? Well, I have a unique position too. This position is tenuous, weak and hurtful because it demonstrates my inability to perform for the system. I don't actually want to be active in it, but if my mere presence could activate that false power, ooh how that would make me giddy! I have a unique position too, but you tricked me. Given the circumstances, I made my calculations and wrote out the formula for a perfect ride. You however, turned out to have the upper hand. How? You were never in the same position as I was and that's what I had figured. As time passed and I connected more dots, I became aware of your strange position. And now, as I deal with the numbers and figures, the new information leads to one answer: I'm getting fucked in this position. Everything would be good if I didn't secretly want to purchase a piece of the poisonous pie. Now I see that I am truly being made into my essence and that's because you are still playing the game. I stopped playing but to you, I will always be something within. Essence.

Album Review: Memo Rex

2008-03-17T01:49:00.000-07:00

Fernando Romero

Rock en español has a future; and the future is Zoé.

Memo Rex Commander y el Corazón Atómico de la Vía Láctea is the band’s third album. The LP is a compilation of 13 tracks delivering a sonic adventure weaving through the stylistic paths of alternative, synth and Brit-pop, garage rock and grunge; but everything about it is hard-rocking Zoé. The album has a blend of guitar-driven songs, up-tempo pop melodies as well as melancholic moody ballads; all of them shadowed with headphone-tweaking sound effects. The record shows a noticeable synth-pop influence.

The quintet out of Mexico City has cultured a revolutionary sound transcending the spheres of music and language. Much of the lyrical content throughout the band’s career has been multilingual. Unlike any other rock en español band, the band’s sound is reminiscent of a cross-breed between Nirvana and The Killers, added with Spanish and English lyricism. Memo Rex… is a powerful and formative effort.

The highlights of the album are inescapable. Opening track “Memo Rex” evokes a psychedelic emotion of sorts. The noisy guitars and drums all echo in crescendo until the acoustic chords and melodic choruses of vocalist Leon Larregui kick it up a notch.

Perhaps the most notable track on the album follows suit. “Vía Láctea,” with its pop-beat, hums with a heavy bass and becomes an authoritative rock song when you listen to the lyrics and the keyboards that are almost imperceptible in the backdrop.

“No Me Destruyas” is another goody. Also a song with a stylistic pop sound similar to anything The Cure ever made, it makes you want to get up and dance . Another track to remember is “Ms. Nitro,” with grungy guitars and sonic, sometimes noisy keyboards coupled with a good chorus. “The Room,” sung completely in English is another unforgettable track. Larregui’s voice is perfect for this one. The opening keyboards and the subtle yet graceful composition of the guitar chords create a moody and melancholic ballad.

“Human Space Volt,” starts off heavy and is all punk-rage. It is a synth-pop track that rides on a rhythmic-guitar overdrive. The band closes with a track that is the epitome of Zoé. “Paz,” has an ethereal, almost gloomy start. The percussion and the drums are intermittent. The lyrics are poetic, “paz en forma de afecto / paz en todo el universo,” Then, the beat picks up with frenzy with electronic synth-pop, a faster drum beat, the guitars on overdrive, the bass in the background and the chorus in English for a universal sound that rocks in any language.

Released in July 2006, the album debuted at No. 1 on the Mexican charts. The album received Gold certification for 40,000 copies sold in four weeks, an exemplary effort for a band signed onto an indie label.

The band has garnished critical acclaim and in the past year Memo Rex was nominated for three Latin Grammys, including “Best Alternative Music Album,” “Best Alternative Music Song,” for “No Me Destruyas” and “Producer of the Year,” for music producer Phil Vinall. The album was also nominated for “Best Latin Rock or Alternative Album,” at the 50th Grammy Awards ceremony which was held on Feb. 10 2008.

The band’s fusion of different music styles as well as the hybrid of Spanish and English lyrics are perfect for fans of good rock music whether you’re bilingual or not, it doesn’t matter.

Volume 1 - Issue 1

2006-03-07T21:07:00.000-08:00

The very first one, linked here.

Click here: Volume 1 - Issue 1