Una Identidad Sin Fronteras: Verdolaga Dreams

September 1st is a day that, for the past 15 years, has given me pause because it is the anniversary of my Tata Manuel’s death. He was, and is, my hero.

He was taken from us far too soon in 1995 by pancreatic cancer that wilted a heavy-ish burro of a man into a frail calavera in less than a year’s time. Watching him deteriorate was the saddest yet most profound eras of my life because he suffered with dignity and faith in God that had the power to unite my family in his memory through the present day.

When he was still in his strength, Manuel III would spend hours upon hours cleaning the graves of our family’s ancestors and friends – making sure weeds were pulled, the tierra around the plot was raked, any trees/shrubs watered, and the forms painted a gleaming white. I recall that a great tia’s grave had a water jug tied to the fence that surrounded her resting place.

“What’s that, Tata?”

“Well, mijo, it’s in case your tia or anyone nearby gets thirsty and needs some water.”

“Oh.”

It made sense to me. This is Arizona, after all.

Ever since my tata’s passing, my dad became the caretaker of all the graves with that endless cycle that promised that his dad’s plot would be another added to the rounds. In speaking to my Nana earlier, she told me that my dad spent the evening scraping and painting the cemento around my Tata’s grave for the anniversary – this was not a surprise because it’s what we do.

I’m only a hundred miles from home, but it’s relatively far considering that seven generations of my paternal line is buried within a ten minute drive of where my parents and last living grandmother live today. Each remaining generation taking care of the resting place of the previous. It’s who we are…

…which means that pulling weeds is pretty much stamped into every speck of habanero in my veins.

So there I’ve been all week after work in the tierra that I arrogantly call: Mine. Pulling weeds, raking, pruning, watering – in anticipation for my 30th Birthday Carne Asada which is doubling as a CasitaWarming Party (a year later = Mexican Standard Time) – and on the 1st of September, I couldn’t help but think of all the same work that’s been done for generations in my family and the respect & love that fuels it; not knowing that 100 miles north my dad was fulfilling his responsibility to my Tata and all the Nanas and Tatas and Tios and Tias that preceded him.

Only I was having trouble.

The weedeater was not working on these weeds – they were too juicy and remained in place, mocking the 21st Century: “you wanna get rid of us, then bend that lazy spine and pick us with your hands!” A memory stirred, but not until I had lit a candle to remember my Tata that night, said a few prayers and went to sleep.

I was walking through rows of grapevines in Florence, Arizona, amazed that they could grow in the desert. Large clumps of succulent goodness in all sizes and hues. My Tata pointed to an older vine to the left and explained that the dried ones were raisins.

“Ohhhhhhh!” said my youthful self upon making the connection: that’s where raisins come from.

Nana Mary had fallen behind as my Tata and I continued looking for grapes along the row to pick and take home to enjoy. She was poking around in the dirt at the base of the vines, looking at…something.

“Nana, what are you doing?”

“Nothing mijo, go with your tata”

And I woke up.

The thought process got rolling without the added benefit of café: “Could it be? Nah, that’s too weird. Yeah, but it’s been nearly 20 years since you’ve seen them raw, so it’s possible. Thank God for Google.”

Vergoladas.

Verdoladas.

Verdolagas!

The same weed that my Nana was hunting for all those years ago in the dirt of a vineyard just a stone’s throw away from the dry Gila River has made itself quite comfortable in the rear portion of my yard. No wonder the weedeater was nearly smited earlier this week, that carpet of nutritious goodness was waiting patiently for me to remember.

Thanks for the reminder, Tata.

And Nana: it doesn’t gross me out anymore that they’re weeds because tan deliciocas con ajo, cebolla, cilantro y tomate – something that I’ll never forget again thanks to Verdolaga Dreams.

 

Una Identidad Sin Fronteras: Piedras

This site has been quiet for the past few months, but not without reason. Something snapped in me around the inauguration. My life felt stagnant and I was ready for a major change beyond the Change that was bandied about during the Presidential campaign.

I made the decision to put my social life on hold and save money like there was no tomorrow in order to invest in buying a roof over my head. Well, that day came on Friday, August 14th, 2009 at approximately 2pm. I have joined the ranks of home ownership.

What’s been amazing is the support from my family and friends, most of whom live over 100 miles away. Each weekend I’ve been blessed to have many of them here to help me prep the new digs and assist with the movement of all the stuff I’ve accumulated over the years.

The past few weeks have been a time of purging and cleansing, painting and upgrading. My new casita is a 2-bedroom, 1-bath home built in 1952 and has front row views of sunsets framed by the Tucson Mountains to the west and the city lights to the west at night. I am a stone’s throw away from one of the longest continually inhabited area in North America at the base of Sentinel Peak.

Even though I’ve only been here a couple of weeks, I feel at peace.

This past weekend my nana was here to help with the work of getting into a new-to-me house. Soon to be 79 years old, she is my only remaining grandparent and is so full of love that my heart can’t help but to swell when she shares a bit of herself with me. Right before leaving on Sunday, she pulled out a vial of holy water, led us in prayer and blessed my casita. A moment I will never forget.

One of the features of the house is a series of rounded river rocks that adorn the sides of the house and several areas of the expansive, desert-landscaped yard. She chose one and took it with her back to my hometown to put in her yard so she can link my piece of tierra with that of my ancestors. Speaking to her on the phone yesterday, she asked that I bring several more with me when I go home in a couple of weeks so they can be placed at the graves of mis abuelitos.

As she choked up during the request for more piedras, she said, “You are a part of them, and they are a part of you. Always. And when I die, I want you to take the rock from my yard and put it on my grave.”

I couldn’t help but get emotional. Familia is so important to me and the cultura. It is a beautiful and powerful force. Knowing that I am able to connect this new chapter of my life to them all is something that will strengthen me as I spend the rest of my life making this pile of bricks a home.

 

It’s Not Easy Being Green

er…Brown.

I’ve been blogging since January 1999. I was starting my second semester as a freshman in college and picked up a part-time job to help pay for life expenses. Between class, work, and the general pangs of Growing Up™, the writing became an important outlet so my head wouldn’t explode.

A curious thing occurred, though, when I began to explore and assert my inner-Xicano – Una Identidad Sin Fronteras. Like scales falling from my eyes, I realized how much centrifugal force was applied by assimilation to eradicate any instance of dissonance with Normal (read: white).

From language to learning styles to the way words are spoken to the clothes that are worn to interpersonal relationships both familial and professional, the subtle baseline note that came through like a tuning fork that my ear was finally trained to detect was: “You’re doing it wrong”

It is something that all people of color experience at some point in their lives. If they haven’t yet, they will.

Like any mezcla of humanity, there’s the eternal push-and-pull of influence. Por ejemplo, I guarantee that for every Republican that supports full rights for gays and lesbians, there is a close friend, sibling, or someone that’s positively affected their life who identify as homosexual. Empathy.

It’s a step forward, but the situation is not the same on either side of the flag that’s tied in the middle of the tug-of-war rope. The historically dominant side seeks to eradicate the perceived weak by two methods: denouncement and/or disappearing.

Perceived because the weakness is like a mirage in the Sonoran desert.

Over the past few years, my experience of being a citizen of the United States with Mexican ancestry has been enlightening, to say the least. Anti-migrant hysteria from conservatives and nativists who’ve declared war on my cultura and identity alongside demands for mass deportations and family destruction have been a source of radicalization that’s ignited the habanero in my bloodstream.

The haters have a smart strategy, though.

By making immigration a “Latino issue”, they’ve succeeded for years in ghettoizing (denouncement) and marginalizing (disappearing) voices like mine and others who can actually speak to how failed immigration policies affect those whom are targeted by enforcement-only campaigns. Institutional and often outright racism has guaranteed that the vast majority of faces of those raided at their work sites or homes, detained and deported, are brown, even though the U.S. has undocumented workers from every part of the world with varying degrees of melanin.

The irony is that pointing this out somehow makes me the racist. Still don’t know how that all works out, but I digress…

The Lou Dobbs and Pat “Operation Wetback” Buchanans of the world thrive because of their ability to hold back coalitions. They represent a power structure that would crumble into dust and drift away like expelled flatulence if enough human beings chose to “Build Bridges and Break Down Walls” as our tag line states at The Sanctuary instead of destroy.

Which brings me to the point of this series – Luis Ramirez.

to be continued…

 

When An Inauguration Becomes A Deep Breath

It’s been over two weeks since I had the honor to attend the swearing-in of the 44th President of the United States of America, Barack Obama. It was a trip that I promised myself to make the night of November 4th. That night, tears of joy escaped my eyes for only the second time in my life.

The first time was when I was a small child. We were living in Oklahoma and had to make a sudden trip back home to Arizona in order to visit a dying grandmother. The town I grew up in, and most of my family’s roots sprout from, is nestled in a breathtaking valley of mountains that are aptly named Superstition. When we turned the corner after the drive up the pass that leads to the valley, the familiar and yearned-for sight of the rock sentinels sent me into a fit of tears. It was a release, and one that was deep enough to not be repeated until a few months ago.

I have been horrified by the direction taken by my country over the past decade. On September 11th, 2001, I was not one of the countless who went into a revenge-fueled blood lust for war, rather I felt compelled to pray. And pray I did, along with hundreds of others who gathered for a candlelight service we planned on the lawn of my church.

“There has to be another way” – it is a silent and sometimes spoken aloud musing of mine. It is something that guides me in my everyday dealings, even when I put on the macro lens and ponder the world around me.

You can imagine my blood pressure levels during the Bush regime as torture became sanctioned, habeas corpus rights dashed, and political maneuvering signaled a declaration of war against latinos through the not-so-subtle tying of border security with the fight against terrorism. Sadly, just the tip of the iceberg that also involved the beginning of the current economic nightmare unleashed for many of us.

When tears flowed down my face on election night, it was a moment to finally let go of all the anxiety, fear and anger that has been my constant companion as latino culture and latino identity has been under assault. We all have felt the repercussions of Bush policies in our own way, I’ve written many times here about my own dealings with the fear-based reality that was created.

Inauguration, and the swearing-in of President Obama, was meant to be a clean break. Change. And in many, many ways, things are already starting to move in a more sane direction, but there has been so much pain wrought and the seeds planted for future hardship, that it is hard to remain patient and trust that justice will someday be served or that government will begin to work for the people rather than against it.

I am barely sharing my thoughts now because the past couple of weeks have been utterly horrendous in Arizona. Former governor Janet Napolitano’s exit has presented the real possibility that education will be thoroughly gutted at all levels in our state. As a longtime employee of schools, this is something that I’ve obviously monitored closely. We are bracing ourselves for destructive cuts that will violate the long-term strength of our society. How can education be the thing that motivates saliva of uber-conservative legislators who are given the sacred trust of holding political office yet govern on the premise that government should be defunded and destroyed? I will never understand it. There has to be another way.

So reality has slapped me across the face painfully since my return to the desert. Instead of being able to bask in the amazing experience I had in Washington, D.C., the entire eight days has now turned into a deep breath. One that I must have known I was taking at the time. A deep breath of preparation for what was undoubtedly on its way. An oasis of solace that I fear makes our lawmakers too comfortable and insulated from the horrors that are lived in the streets as jobs are lost, tuition rates double, and concentration camps rise in our cities.

It is why we must hold our elected officials accountable to what is happening in our lives. We need to continue calling, faxing, marching and voting so that our system of democracy returns to its rightful place of assistance not a roadblock to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. There is another way – and if I learned one thing after being in that gigantic sea of humanity on Tuesday, January 20th – it’s that we are not only on this journey together, we are also the makers of the map that will ultimately lead us to treasure.

Realizing this all over again, each day, I can only take a deep breath and then take a small step forward.

The view from the Key Bridge between Georgetown and Rosslyn

The extremely long line to the Purple Gate

The Washington Monument, as viewed from the FDR Memorial

There was snow on the beach, but I had to make a pilgrimage!

Yes We Can Netroots Nation Party

Mariachi Los Camperos De Nati Cano at the Latino Gala

The Great Hall at Union Station for the Latino Gala

 

Adobada Hangover

Semana Santa came and went with a flash this year. The familia gathered for our annual Easter picnic all weekend at a rancho that sits nestled in the Superstition Mountains. Carne adobada, carne preparada, pollo, elk, deer, cebolletas and tripas de leche were scattered across the three placas for most of the day. I’m still feeling the effects of a food hangover.

Chatted with a tío who was going on about Obama and his “racist S.O.B. pastor” – that was fun. He (my uncle) hadn’t listened to Barack’s speech on race and knows nothing of his background and story. It was frustrating, trying to give a bigger-picture view to someone who is locked in to their caricatured version of a candidate…at least I didn’t hear the m-word come out of his mouth – that would have unleashed a bout of verbal violence. Although, I did hear the term “illegal” used as a noun in a later plática. There’s something to be said about consistent offensiveness, I suppose.

This was the first time that most of the conversations I had with friends and family was about politics. Perhaps it was due to my recent trip to Washington D.C. Lots of ‘why were you there’, ‘who did you meet’, ‘website? what website?’, etc. Obviously, I need to do a better job of self-promotion.

One of the problems I see, at least here in Arizona among a sampling of relatives, is the cultural amnesia that is prevalent. There is a need to educate ourselves on the history of our people. Beyond that, seize the orgullo that comes from knowing our roots and celebrate their legacies that we blaze each day in our own ways. I see far too many who have allowed a media and social narrative to dominate their thinking that demeans Mexican-American/Xicano identity as thuggery, laziness, and lacking in Good Ole American™ Assimilation. How anyone could allow a cultural oppressor to define their existence is dumbfounding to me.

I see figures like my padre who has never voted and refuses to vote anytime soon as an example of the other extreme. He is quite aware of the history of this region and my family’s chord within the greater melody, but sees the government as completely worthless in addressing the ills of our communities in a way that is meaningful or non-intrusive to a way of life that has been cycled for generations. “It’s politics – nuthin’ but a load of B.S.” – can’t say that I disagree a lot of the time, but unfortunately for every human rights-oriented voice that stays out of the civic engagement game, a notch is turned up on the megaphone to figures like Russell Pearce and Sheriff Joe.

Don’t know about you, but I can’t in good conscience let that happen.

 

Una Identidad Sin Fronteras: Posadas

Today, December 17th, marks the second day in another example of centuries worth of cultural synergy in action – Las Posadas. It is a cultural tradition that gave birth to many iconic aspects of modern Latin@ culture.

Within a decade of the appearance of La Virgen de Guadalupe in Tenochtitlan, Roman Catholic missionaries were working on supplanting the Aztec celebration of the birth of their sun deity Huitzilopchtli, which occurred during the (European) month of December, with one that was more Christian in nature. St. Ignatius of Loyola, founder of the Jesuit Order, received permission from Rome to institute a nine day period of prayer leading up to Christmas in the “New World”. Now commonly known as a novena, each day for this particular novena was to signify the nine months of Mary’s pregnancy.

Las Posadas, which means the Inns in English, is the reenactment of Mary and Joseph’s experience when they arrived in Belén.

²³⁴⁵⁶⁷In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. All went to their own towns to be registered. Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David. He went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn. – Luke 2:1-8

Each night of Las Posadas, processions of candle-carrying pilgrims make their way in song to pre-determined destinations where they are symbolically and, sometimes truly, turned away. Usually there are figures of Mary and Joseph carried in honor with the procession, as well as a nacimiento (nativity scene) at the house that the people gather. As the nine days progress, verses of the traditional song are added, telling the story of a very different Jesus than is commonly espoused by the rich and elite. Here is the English version, but I’ve only ever heard it sung in Spanish.

Outside
In the name of Heaven
I beg you for lodging,
for she cannot walk
my beloved wife.

Inside
This is not an inn
so keep going
I cannot open
you may be a rogue.

Outside
Don’t be inhuman;
Have mercy on us.
The God of the heavens
will reward you for it.

Inside
You can go on now
and don’t bother us,
because if I become annoyed
I’ll give you a trashing.

Outside
We are worn out
coming from Nazareth.
I am a carpenter,
Joseph by name.

Inside
I don’t care about your name:
Let me sleep,
because I already told you
we shall not open up.

Outside
I’m asking you for lodging
dear man of the house
Just for one night
for the Queen of Heaven.

Inside
Well, if it’s a queen
who solicits it,
why is it at night
that she travels so alone?

Outside
My wife is Mary
She’s the Queen of Heaven
and she’s going to be the mother
of the Divine Word.

Inside
Are you Joseph?
Your wife is Mary?
Enter, pilgrims;
I did not recognize you.

Outside
May God pay, gentle folks,
your charity,
and thus heaven heap
happiness upon you.

Inside
Blessed is the house
that shelters this day
the pure Virgin,
the beautiful Mary.

Final Celebration
Enter, holy pilgrims,
receive this corner,
for though this dwelling is poor,
I offer it with all my heart.

Oh, graced pilgrim,
oh, most beautiful Mary.
I offer you my soul
so you may have lodging.

Humble pilgrims,
Jesus, Mary and Joseph,
I give my soul for them
And my heart as well.

Let us sing with joy,
all bearing in mind
that Jesus, Joseph and Mary
honor us by having come.

linkage

As I mentioned at the beginning of the post, the celebrations for Posadas are full of iconic symbols of la cultura mexicana. Piñatas originated during the first fiestas in the form of estrellas to signify the Star of David that alerted the wise men and shepherds to the birth of Christ. Traditional foods such as tamales, buñuelos (cross between doughnuts and sopapillas), and champurrado (chocolate atole) are also part of the usual forms of celebration.

Across the United States, Posadas are being celebrated by communities and neighborhoods, with some gleaning the obvious political realities faced by their families.

NOGALES, Ariz. — With border agents, Customs officers and police looking on, a group of Catholics here turned the international border into Bethlehem and sang Christmas songs into a green metal grille separating the United States and Mexico.

The Saturday afternoon “Posada on the Border” was a dramatization of Mary and Joseph’s search for lodging in Bethlehem the night of Jesus’ birth. Re-enactments occurred simultaneously on both sides of the international line, with those on the U.S. side incorporating border politics into their performance.

In a shadow cast by the cement-and-steel border wall, 11-year-old Gerardo Perez, playing Joseph, and 11-year-old Luz Mariela Robles, as Mary, walked the sidewalk along the international border seeking shelter, or posada.

Led by Miriam Lewis, also 11, who played the angel, they knocked on doors of three “inns” named Arizona, California, and New Mexico/Texas.

Each time, they were rejected and the group prayed for migrants who have died in that state while trying to cross into the United States from Mexico on foot.

Catholic officials say the dramatization was intended as a message that we need to be more welcoming of migrants seeking jobs and homes in other countries.

linkage

This is one of my favorite celebrations of the year because it turns the commercial-infected holiday season into one infused with the spirit of charity and family. Traditionally, gifts were not even opened on Christmas day, but rather on Dia de los Reyes Magos in January, but as with any melding of cultures, I’ll be handing out presents to mis hijados and getting some from family on the 25th. There is one aunt that waits, though, and I smile to think of her.

She lives in the house of my great-grandmother who passed when I was a small child. Although I was a little guy at the time, I can still visualize the corner of her living where the nacimiento was layed out with care – the same nacimiento that was given to me when she passed on – the same that I proudly put out every year during these final days of the year.

It is a reminder of where I’ve been and, more importantly, a re-realization of the charity that is expected of me as a follower of a boy who was born in a stable among animals because his family was turned away.

Mas información:

Posadas – Wikipedia
Navidad en Mexico – Mexconnect.com
Posadas on Olvera Street
Holiday Traditions – Mexico (with Champurrado and Arroz con Leche recipes!)

 

Of Russian Thistle and Headstones

It was a Sunday that began like many others spent at my parents’ house while I visit – with my madre yelling up the stairs at me to get up if I wanted to x, y or z. This particular time was y, where y = go to breakfast with my ninos at their restaurant (and you thought algebra was useless). Knowing that breakfast would involve the best bowl of posole on this earth, it didn’t take much for me to wipe the lagaña out of my eyes and get ready for the day.

Ironically, I passed on the posole once the spicy scents of the entire menu of food filled my hungry imagination. The red chile was too enticing, not to mention the freshness of corn tortillas made regularly in the room next door – so the chilaquiles were what brought a big sonrisa to my face as they were laid in front of me.

Throughout the meal, my parents, godparents and I talked about the família and all the new additions to it. Many of my cousins are having children and it’s fun to see how our characteristic genes recreate themselves in new, vibrant ways. We’re all an extension of our roots and I’m learning that the key to my feeling whole is to renew my commitment to the traditions that have defined my very existence.

Following the desayuno rico, we made our way to the town cemetery for a few hours of work. You see, el Día de los Muertos approaches, and it’s an act of honor and love to maintain not only the memories, but the gravesite of loved ones lost. It is more than just an act, though, it is an obligation.

While I wish I could brag and say I did tons of work that day, the truth is I was a supporting character to my parents and godmother who labored wielding paint brushes, brooms, rakes, hoes and weed-eaters. Once the plots were free of the weedy overgrowth and the borders were suitably whitewashed for another season of regular visits, flowers were places in the holders to bring new life to the blessed ground.

Breaking the monotony of this round of cemetery duty, I learned that my mother’s grandparents and great-grandfather were also buried there. You would think that as much time as we’ve spent among the graves over the years, that I would have known that, but alas, it was news to me.

As we approached the site in the older portion of the grounds, I noticed a large colony of russian thistle, commonly known as tumbleweed, thriving. Contrary to the cartoonish version of it that depicts an old west town bisected by a dirt road, tumbleweed bouncing happily down the thoroughfare, the stuff is pretty nasty. It’s full of thorns and gets easily tangled in whatever happens to be in its way as it does its tumbling act.

Wack!
Wack! Wack! Wack!

That took care of that.

Revealed in the brambly tierra was a white marble headstone that proclaimed the name of my great grandmother – Francisca Ramirez. The dates and information depicted on the headstone made my heart beat a bit faster than before – it was all etched en español.

Directly to her right was a four foot wrought iron cross, which stands as sentinel over the resting place of nana Francisca’s father – known as Fimbres. There are details of names and locations in a book, but my cousin has it in El Centro, so I’ll have to find out more about their stories. What I do know is that Francisca was married to my great tata Jose, who was buried yet another few feet up the slightly inclined hill. After cutting away more of the weeds, I noticed that growing inside the concrete border of his grave were several vigilant iris. No flowers, but the bulbs and plants were there in defiance of the tumbleweed.

“Those have been there for as long as I can remember, even when I was a little girl,” my nina remarked to me when I pointed them out. “And over there is the mesquite tree that we used to sit under when we ate lunch during our break from cleaning the graves.”

Looking back 48 hours or so, I can only smirk at how odd a person I’ve become. Mundane moments to everyone around me can turn out to be powerfully instructive memories to my very identity and worthy mile-markers on my path to reconnecting to mis raíces. Resting now in the tierra, surrounded by nature in its various forms, are keys to the door that I keep trying to unlock.

I’m sure part of it will be answering the question that my parents and nina threw out to no one in particular that day: “Who’s gonna clean our graves when we pass?”

…and I find that a shovel and rake are already in my willing hands.

 

Una Identidad Sin Fronteras: Dos Banderas

Alla al pie de la montana
Donde temprano se oculta el sol
Quedo mi ranchito triste
Y abandonada ya mi labor

Triste? Not this weekend.

The spirit of an indigenous people that refuses to allow its history to be pillaged and conquered will burn brightly as we gather to celebrate nuestras Fiestas Patrias. El Grito del Pueblo will ring out among the crowd, flanked by the two flags of our borderless community. The trumpet and guitarrón will lead our souls in song while the dances and vibrant Jalisciense colors emerge from the stage as rainbows of cultura and love.

Ancestors, alive and beyond, will join us in honoring the past while preparing for a future that is unafraid to rise beyond the systems that holds us down. A system that attempts to wrestle down and tame our tongues with only one language, a system that underfunds our schools and then blames the victims for not living up to some pseudo-level of success, a system that would do all it could to deny college to someone because they were born on a different piece of the boundary-less tierra.

Oh yes, mi gente, this system will be transformed – but it will take all of us, together, working for change. Tengo esperanza pero tenemos mucho trabajo por hacer. ¡Vamos!

 

Una Identidad Sin Fronteras: San Juan Bautista

[bumped up for the Feast Day – Man Eegee]

This weekend is the Pueblo Viejo’s annual fiesta to welcome the monsoon season. It’s a synergistic legacy that comes from the early days of the region’s history. In honor of San Juan Bautista, la gente will gather near downtown and celebrate the cultura that thrives in Baja Arizona.

Dates: Saturday, June 23, and Sunday, June 24, 2007
Time: 4:00 p.m. – 9:00 p.m. (both dates)
Place: West Congress St. at the Santa Cruz River (south side, west bank)

The traditional procession and blessing will take place on Sunday from 4:30 to 5:30 p.m. People interested in walking in the procession are asked to meet at the Pima College Community Campus, 401 N. Bonita Ave., north of Congress St. The procession will follow along the Santa Cruz River to the fiesta stage where Bishop Gerald F. Kicanas will perform the blessing.

The Día de San Juan Fiesta features Escaramuza and Charros Flor de Primavera performing on horseback. Live music and dance groups include Navegantes, Mariachi Brillante Juvenil, Ballet Folklórico-Tanatzin, and Danza del Venado.

Más información at the City of Tucson website

Drawing from a post I wrote last year, here’s some history of this particular feast day.

I’m always fascinated by the way traditions evolve from a single point. In the case of El Día de San Juan on Saturday, the night before is celebrated across Spain with bonfires and rituals of cleansing and renewal; messages preached by Saint John at the waters of the River Jordan. The fires are kindled across cultures and borders to the shores of Ireland where the bonfires trace their roots to Celtic influence.

Perhaps it’s the hostile climate that I’m reacting to in 2007, but attending and supporting events like this seem all the more important. Any opportunity to celebrate one’s cultura should be taken advantage of; even if we have to create our own traditions based on the history of our roots.

In this particular case, I think of my dad who, like clockwork, goes to my hometown cemetery to de-weed and water the graves of our various ancestors every single Wednesday and Saturday. It is his way of communing with our past, as well as re-focusing his center so that he can be more present to the now and future. It comes from a deep place of respeto y orgullo – hopefully something that I will be able to continue when it’s my turn to take up his shovel and mangera.

Water is something sacred to people living in the southwest. I can hear padre’s voice echoing in my own throat on a regular basis that, “Man, we really need rain. The animals and desert are thirsty.” I guess it’s something we have our pulse on when a lot of our free time is spent outdoors – the place where we feel most at peace.

That lifeforce offered by the tierra y cielo is something that is worthy of celebration. If you’re in the Tucson area this weekend, join the fiesta along the (ironically) dry banks of the Santa Cruz and feel yourself be woven into the history that surrounds us.

Doing something like that is always worth it.

Part of the Una Identidad Sin Fronteras series

 

Follow Up on Latin@ Blogger Study

Part of the Una Identidad Sin Fronteras series

Spoke with Toni this morning, it was a great interview regarding the role of Hispan@/Latin@ bloggers in the wider realm of blogtopia (yes! skippy coined that term); I thank her once again for reaching out.

She is still seeking participants, I’m going to forward over a non-comprehensive list courtesy of k/o’s Blogs United group, but if you know of others who would provide good commentary on what it means to be a Latin@ blogger, please get in touch me via email at man.eegee at gmail dot com so I can get you in touch with her.

One question that has stuck with me from the interview was when she asked if there were any issues that pertain specifically to Latin@s. The truth is, we blog about the same things that other ethnic and non-ethnic blogs write about, only using our lens. And really, that’s how it is with each individual blogger. After some crafty evasion on my part (probably not too crafty since it was 7am’ish, hehe), I expanded a bit on what it means to talk about immigration reform from a Latin@ perspective.

I’ve come across alot of people on the “left” end of the political spectrum who hold the same exact positions as the Minutemen-wing of the GOP, but for completely different reasons. It’s difficult to get them to understand that there is no way to separate the way race intersects with the overall discussion of immigration reform. It takes dance steps more complex than a full-blown salsa competition to pretend otherwise, in my not so humble opinion.

The Latin@ community feels the direct impact of racial discrimination in this environment of workplace raids, increased police-state environments, and English-Only based nativism. It’s not something that is proven by statistics or widespread news coverage (cough), but rather through our experiences. Here’s a perfect example of what I’m talking about.

On Sunday I was eating breakfast with one of my closest amigas at a Mexican restaurant in downtown Tempe. As we were chatting, a raised voice gonged its way through the room from the front register area. It was an older Anglo gentleman with a camouflaged baseball hat adorned upon his salt and peppered hairy head.

He was berating the woman at the register because he claimed she was overcharging him for four pints of frijoles. Berate is one word for it, the other would be humiliate and denigrate. He cussed her out as if she had just spit on the grave of his mother.

The woman was visibly shaking, but in as forceful a tone as she could muster, told him that he needed to not be disrespectful to her nor the rest of the customers. He continued on his tirade, and at that point the entire dining room had stopped their conversations and tuned into the show.

My blood was at a rolling boil at that point. I wanted to intervene but the line hadn’t been crossed yet – she was handling it fine on her own.

Until.

First, he demeaned the way she spoke English. It was flawless, but apparently her accent was too much for him to handle. Second, he uttered the words that got me out of my booth and in his face, “Go back to where you came from!“

As I walked up and stared him down, he was standing at the exit and continued to yell offensive mierda. I told him that if he didn’t leave, I would be the one to call the cops. After telling me to go Cheney myself and that I wouldn’t dare do any of that, he ended his temper tantrum and left.

So, you see, we have plenty of perspective to add on what the immigration free-for-all has done to our communities. These are our families, our sisters, our very dignity being trampled upon and, unfortunately, the situation is often ignored or deemed insignificant when it comes to the larger goal of political point-scoring by the Democrats and Republicans.

It is why we must continue to give voice to the struggles and hardships endured by our people. If our stories are not told, then who beyond la gente latina, will receive the flicker of motivation to stand up for our basic human rights?

Thanks again for the opportunity to go into full meta-mode this morning, Toni, you’ve helped me shoot some adrenaline into the bloodstream of my groggy muse.

Paz, Man Eegee