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
Monday, March 23, 2009
Our Form of Expression
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…
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?
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
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
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.
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
Jesus Cortez
"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.
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.
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.
"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.
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. ¶
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
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.
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
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. ¶
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"
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:
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
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@
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
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
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