You ever notice how some white people say the word Mexican? The way they vomit the word out, it sounds like a slur, like a dirty word they shouldn’t be calling me. He’s a Mexican.

Compared to how it sounds when Mexican people say it. Soy Mexicano. It has this untouchable pride, like I dare you to say something bad about it.

I wish more people would speak Spanglish. 

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.

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.

*trigger warning for white Californians*

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.

I think as you get older you realize the premium importance of maintaining positive energy environments.
Just like your skin and your knees, your energy doesn’t bounce back like it used to.
Being an adult means doing things that you don’t want to do and being in situations you’d rather not be in. So when you actually have the luxury of choice, it’s a beautiful thing to be able to spot situations that are no good for you and remove yourself.
Recognizing negativity and finding ways out is definitely a life skill.

What if I exist in an alternate reality, and in that alternate life I chose to do the right thing in every situation I encountered Instead of choosing the wrong path all the time.
If I met that person, would I recognize him? Would it even be me? Do our decisions define us? Are our current selves just a culmination of all our choices?

Whenever I go somewhere and start to drive, I picture a car going full speed, plowing into my blindside. The windshield crystalizes. The rosary swings on the rearview mirror. I can just about feel the impact, but I never feel no fear.
I wonder is this my acknowledgment of chaos in the universe? Or is this the negativity which with adulthood has left me cursed? I used to daydream of love, success and things of the supernatural. Maybe its a predestined expression of the future’s actual path. Maybe shattered glass from an October past. Blood on the seatbelt, horn dying slowly, but I barely remember that. I’m just tryna get to work in one piece.