I love it because it’s like the natural selection of language. It’s like when two people fuck and their baby gets the best traits from both of them. It’s two languages competing inside of someone to put together the best possible communication.
You might not know what to call something in Spanish because you don’t get enough practice, so you say it in English. Sometimes when describing something, English may not be strong enough, or a Spanish saying or phrase will give the other person that exact feeling you’re looking to convey.
I don’t know about anyone else, but I was sort of taught to separate the two, to go ahead and speak one or the other, but that mixing them created this filthy uncivil bastard of a language. It’s bullshit and I think it’s so beautiful and articulate when someone can seamlessly weave together both to give you the sober black and white lines of English meaning painted in with the passionate colors of Spanish.
Vi una pelicula tan babosa… Que horible. La unica manera de que se excita el pendejo es con hacerla sufrir. Eso no puede ser amor, es un maniaco el cabron. Tenia la pobre plebe amarada, y todas las viejas viendo la pelicula reindo. No me gustó. Dice mi amiga que no estoy de moda, vete a la chingada.
If someone gives you a crusty book with a cracked spine and folded pages, make sure you read that shit. It means the message is worth more than the paper it was printed on. Someone read it and decided it was good enough not to leave on a dusty shelf or in a box in the garage.
Most people hear “hitting rock bottom” and think of a drug overdose or waking up in the gutter Edgar Allen Poe style.
Maybe hitting rock bottom is the day you quit your dreams and get a “real job” to placate the ravenous urges of an American dream unfulfilled. The urge to be a gear in the machine. Because it’s safe.
How many young Americans hit rock bottom every day but go completely unnoticed because it’s what they were designed and groomed to do? Because it’s normal.
You listened to Metallica and you felt tough, NWA and you felt hard, Bobby Brown and you felt like a playa. Morrissey was more introspective, made it okay to feel awkward. Which is worth a lot when you’re in that coming-of-age phase.
-Robert Zardaneta, in an interview with Javier Cabral
I feel like a lot of Latin@-Americans have this unique eclectic relationship with music. It’s a positive that comes from having shorter roots than others in this country. You’re allowed the freedom to sort of pick and choose and not pigeon-hole yourself out of loyalty to a certain aesthetic. I love it.
Chicanos liking Morrissey and The Smiths is my favorite stereotype. We grow up, at least as males, in like this secret machismo society. We learn from our tios, abuelos and dads that emotions are to be surpressed until you’ve been pisteando and you forget not to remember que tienes all this mierda inside of you and can’t hold it anymore. So then, it comes out, along with Chente and Ramon Ayala. Tragos de amargo licorrrrrrr. And that’s what it reminds me of singing to Smiths songs. Cuz he was talking about those forbidden subjects, but he was doing it mad like the rancheros. It was romantic shit with a vengance y con huevos bien puestos. It makes you sing with your hand out like you’re trying to crush an invisible baseball. The only difference being that it makes you wanna dance, not ponerte pedo, which is always good.
You wouldn’t think twice about a Korean rooting for Korea in the World Cup or someone from Japan wearing a Japanese jersey. Same goes for Argentinos, Chilenos, Brasilenos. They don’t hear a thing about their jerseys.
Why then is it acceptable to question Chicanos on their loyalty to America because they root for Mexico or wear the tricolores?
It’s perfectly fine for immigrants to support the nation of their culture, but for Chicanos it’s treason. It’s only ok if the country is far away and out of sight.
Why? I think because there’s so many of us here in Southern California. It triggers shame and fear. When people start seeing the green/white/red everywhere it reminds them whose land this really is. That way you can’t help but look down at the desert dust on your shoes and be reminded whose bones it’s made of.
If my heritage makes you scared or subconsciously ashamed, good.
Passionate interactions between people, like ecstacy or anger, leave immediate dramatic impressions, but with a bit of time, those impressions fade.
Acts of sincere kindness are like a grain of sand, small but enduring. However ordinary, a memory of gentle kindness can find its way into a persons mind to reveal profoundness even years later.