In the past year, thanks to facebook, I and some of my brothers have refound ourselves with the Camachos and other cousins, not Camachos but part of the same grandma Apache Clan. We share the same grandmother but not the same grandfathers so we are not the same but the ones that are interested in some relationship I'm open as long as they haven't been to jail and have been part of the criminal element. The kind that the FBI won't identify in background checks.
I reunited with my father's sister the Ramirez Machichi (if you ever doubt the Apache blood the name says its), the Guardados, at least one Steve who is the son of my father's half brother Jose whose now moved on to the afterlife. And the other Camachos' from El Centro, their father Miguel was Julian Sr. youngest brother from same father mother. However, I didn't know the two youngest daughters so its like I've never known them.
At first I was hesitant because of the feo look bordering on criminal. Even my father would tell his sister in the 70's that her kids we so ugly they itched and they would all laugh. We just looked different and part of it is because the Ramirez Camacho's (Adela) cousins to the Camacho(Miguel) Ramirez. In essence they are first cousins from both sides of their parents. My tia Adela's former husband was brother to my tio Mike's wife Tonia. So they have a deeper bond plus we've been separated for close to 28 years for all reasons--same reasons others are.
But as I'm getting older 43, I got the curiosity bug of my father and this is where the story begins sort of.
In 1969, before I was born an Apache woman who my grandmother went to for clarity saw my father in Imperial and told him "you won't see them grow up". This was before any of us were born and knew how many Camacho babies would come into being. My father later told my mother, "vieja pendeja" and went on.
Then life began. My father started his family, his sister Adela hers, his brother Miguel and the older half brother Jose already had one son older than me plus older half sisters too. Life proceeds and as nagging, other women, and tragedy take its hold within the next ten years, the father's disappeared. Adela's husband found a girlfriend and started another family but his pain was forgetting his three sons. Lorenzo my cousin said he didn't see his father from age 4 until age 15. My tio Jose, who was a family man found himself in a bar fight and in self defense killed the attacker but was still sent to San Quentin for manslaughter. Because he did not stop hitting the attacker with a brick the system punished him, in San Quentin he had to defend himself where he spent three years. By the time he came out by 1977, his wife had disappeared along with his two sons. I did not have memory of my tio Jose until 1977 when we attended his wedding in Fresno and I always assumed he never had children. It was not until the mid 80's when I heard he had had two sons but where never heard from.
By this time, in 1980, my father had died to a heart aneurysm and the local witch's prophesy had come true. He would not see his sons grow up. At the time of his death, his sons ranged from 10 years old to 14 months old. In ten years, all three of these families did not have their fathers to many circumstances. In addition, that older half sibling my father had, well the eldest Chepina (Josefina) was mentally handicap and would have these children. Hence to not lose them to the Mexican system DIF, my grandmother had adopted two Maria Herlinda and Edward, one was given up for adoption in Tecate, my tia Adela adopted Cynthia and in 1979, my grandmother adopted a set of twins Obed and Yesenia (Jehovah Witness fade). Then by 1984, more children were adopted by my tio Miguel and his wife Tonya and two more were lost into the Baja California adoption system in the Imperial Valley.
Technically, four families were fatherless but my tia Chepina's kids were really orphaned sort of but they at least ended up within the family. Yet they still missed they parents so there is their pain. But because my family frequented my tia Adela because she would leave my cousins with my mom while she partied we have memory of each other at least up until 1982. In a strange way, I see my cousin Cynthia as a Camacho because she was raised with us. My tia Adela sort lived near by in Gardena, Bell, Long Beach so we were near sort of. My tio Mike lived in El Centro so we rarely saw each other. That distance did make a difference because after 81 or 82 he had two female daughters who are the only female Camachos because I never had a Camacho sister from my father. But I've only seen them twice in my whole life time so we would not recognize eachother in public.
From this complicated history is where the curse of the father or parents begins: my dies, my tia Adela kids are divorced and disappears for 11 years, my tio Jose's prison stint lead to his ex wife forgetting him, keeping his kids away--she kidnapped them-- and remarried, my tia Chepina's mental condition forced the removal of her children (another story) and then later my tio Mike's wife died in the mid 1990's while the daughters were in their teens.
By 1995, four sets of my families were fatherless, parentless or motherless. Add to this tragedy from my mother's side, her youngest brother was killed in a truck accident in Baja California in the Valle de la Trinidad and three more children were fatherless in 1979 and by 1988, my aunt's husband Jesus also died and my two cousins Sandra and Jesus Jr. were also fatherless.
We lived through these tragedies in the 70's, 80's up to the mid 1990's. Even by 2010, my father's youngest brother Mike had succumbed to diabetes that I became an elder at age 39. Not that I attended the funeral because I and my brothers were excommunicated that even invites to death is not handed out. My tio Jose also died by 2005 in a car accident because some idiotic female driver crashed into his porch and pinning him. Hence why we all began to look for eachother on facebook or at least the ones we grew up with: my cousin Lorenzo, Cynthia and then Steve (son of my tio Jose) friended me that we were all looking for something we never had, communication. We could now do so free of the eternal conflicts between sister in laws or a manipulative grandmother.
And we did, with hesitation as only my brother Mario agreed to go along, in secrecy from our mother because she would not comprehend that even after 30 years my brother and I were looking for our father that could only be found in my tia Adela and the cousins. Because no matter how crazy or problematic we have the same blood. But the years had also taken its toll as we were all strangers, my tia Adela was also standoffish, maybe her dislike of my mother factored in. My father's youngest half sister Angie greeted me by only shaking my hand which was the strangest reception but then again, she's not my father's full sister and there is a difference. My tia Adela knew why Mario and I were there and she gave me a painting of my father as a two year old. Something I never knew existed.
We ate and then went to a park with my cousins Lorenzo, Cynthia, Morgan and Dennis and hung out at a park because that was the most convenient. As we saw each other as adults, we just marveled at the years that had gone by and were happy to see each other.
As I drove back, I could not help and wonder the tragedy we have all lived as if there was some curse because it might be nature but the fact remains that father's don't exist in my family. And it was not just our generation. My father was not raised by his father due to my grandmother, yet both of my grandmother's had also not had their fathers. My maternal grandmother's Alberta was abandoned by her father in the 1920's and lived another life in California and my paternal grandmother's father died in 1936 in Yuma on one of the reservations so she was also fatherless. And my children's maternal grandfather died two years before their births that the curse has carried over to them through no fault of them. They will never know a grandfather.
I just drove home with a tear in my eye. The Apache foreteller was telling the future truth we just didnt know it.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Friday, July 6, 2012
My Only Obituary (Hopefully Last)
Gustavo Magaña Pardo
16 de junio, 1922-29 de diciembre, 2005
By
Julian Segura Camacho
El 29 de diciembre, del 2005 a las 10:30pm en el hospital de Centinela en Inglewood dejo de existir el padrino de todos, Nino para mi, Gus para otros, Don Gustavo para muchos mas, compadre y tio aun para algunos de uds.
Gustavo Magaña Pardo nacio el 16 de junio, 1922, fecha en el cual uno no estaba exacto porque mi Nino nunca decia exactamente su fecha de nacimiento. Yo recordaba tres fechas hasta que porfin supe la verdad con su hermano mayor Aurelio. Mi nino nacio en Tlazezalca, Michoacan, hijo de Herlino Magaña y Josefina Pardo. Despues fue criado en Zamora donde empezo la aventura de su vida, que aveces parecia que fuera una pelicula del cine Mexicano que una vida vivido.
De sus años como muchacho joven quien trabajaba con su padre aprendio el amor del campo, de los caballos, de los gallos y gallinas, los perros y el ganado. De esta vida fue donde aprendio de la jugada: como apostar a todo riesgo; apostaba en la corridas de caballos, en los palenques y alli fue donde aprendio a jugar la baraja.
De esta cultura que el adoraba con pasion tambien aprendio a tomar como el decia, “puro vino” y comer lo que hasta al final a el le encanto: sangre, tripas, carne de res, carnitas, birria, caldos de res y su café negro. El anhelaba su sangre con gusto, vivia de sus recuerdos.
Y de aqui fue donde mi Nino empezo a usar sus famosos sombreros que el uso hasta el final de su vida. Mi Nino y sus sombreros y luego despues con sus cachuchas fueron sinonimo con quien fuera Gus. Cada cachucha expresaba su intento.
De Zamora tambien surgen cuentos de sus famosas aventuras en las cantinas donde tenia su club de fans y donde contrataba su banda para que le tocaran por la calle. Quien se iba imaginar que esta persona era Gus?
Por el destino y razones inexplicable, tal vez una aventura y por nuestra suerte y fortuna, Gus se vino de Bracero al norte, a California en 1943. El decia, “viaje una pinche semana en el tren del D.F. para caer en Oceanside a 45 minutos de Tijuana”.
Alli en los campos de “los traques” empezo la segunda vida de Gus. El decia que los Mexicanos por necesidad se robaban la ropa de los negros para enseñarnos lo duro que fue la vida, no solamente para el, pero para su generacion. De aqui salieron sus aventuras de ida y vuelta al D.F. de como se trajo a su primo Javier y como empezo su vida en California.
A el no le gusto el field, ni trabajar en las minas, le gusto encuarnidar clavos metales del tren. El se sabia el ferrocarril como si el hubiera inventado el tren. “Los Nuevo Mexicanos me enseñaron a trabajar” y como un sueño relataba su pasado que muchos vivimos con el. En una de esas pasadas por Los Angeles conocio a Frances Guerrero, Kika como muchos la conociamos. Como aguanto a mi Nino no lo se? Tal vez con su sonrisa y sentido de humor.
Gus fue un encanto. Un solitario encanto que nos atrapo y mi Nina Kika nunca lo solto aunque le hice sudar y mucho. Alli con mi Nina Kika conocio a los demas Guerrerros en Inglewood, cuando Inglewood toda via era un rancho.
Mi Nino decia que el alcanzo a conocer hasta los padres de Kika, sus futuros familiares que estuvieron juntos hasta que la naturaleza se los llevo: Nieves, Josie, Emilia, Sarge, Paulino, y otros que yo no conoci.
Mi nino decia que esos años eran duros, habian restaurantes donde no les daban servicio: “No Mexicans, No Blacks and No Dogs” served y con su calma el decia evitavamos esos lugares y sin rencor.
Gus trabajo por años despues en el Smooth Holdman pero para jugar caballos. Santa Anita y Hollywood Park fue su segunda casa y iglesia a la vez. Alli comadriaba y sudaba con su pasion y como fiel seguidor seguia la corrida de caballos hasta Del Mar y Tijuana. De alli sale su leyenda: Mi pobre Nina aun sudaba cuando nos contaba que mi nino habia vendido su carro para seguir apostando y luego comprarlo de nuevo para regresarse a Inglewood. Quien no se va asustar!
Mi nino fue ser humano con sus adiciones, pero a la vez su vida tambien fue un riesgo, una apuesta aver si le sale bien a uno. La vida era un juego de barajas y alli en los caballos el seguia haciendo la persona quien siempre fue. Por lo menos podia escojer su caballo!
Despues de los 1970’s mi nino supo hacerse amigo de gente recien conocida donde el mismo compartia lo que era ser Mexicano en Los Angeles: todos nuevos pero aun parientes.
Los caballos fue el lugar de su compadrazgo con muchos que nunca conocismos pero que aun existe esta coneccion, por eso estamos unidos hoy dia para despedirnos de el. El nino de todos.
Esas aventuras donde el le decia a mi tio Jesus, “Poca luz” triaes la pelicula alrrevez y Jesus le decia para que mi bautizaba si ya estaba viejito listo para murierse y con carcajadas se murian de gusto que hasta el final mi nino contaba esa historia para nosotros. Cuando contaba esa historia yo sabia que su final se acercaba y como me gustaria oirlo contar sus historias. Mi tio Pocaluz le contaba, “Viejito le voy a brindar este alto pero cuando el policia le dio el ticket a Pocaluz, mi Nino le daba carria. Despues, Pocaluz se vengo cuando le rezo a la virgencita que le bajara ese caballo que habia ganado la carrera”. Mi Nino solamente decia que le descalificaron su caballo y de eso vivio cuando Pocaluz y mi papa Julian se anticiparon y lo dejaron.
Lo increible de Gus fue que despidio casi a todos: Mi nina, Josie, Emilia, mi papa, mi tio Pocaluz, su hermano Aurelio, Antonio, Herlinda, una hermana que nunca conocio, sus animales que tuvo atravez de los años por la ballona en Inglewood.
Y por suerte, nosotros pudimos disfrutarlo en estos ultimos años. Muchos de uds. fueron su familia tambien, Doña Luisa y su esposo, Belen, El Doctor, Evelyn y Russell quien vio por su salud y sus famosos roommates: Ruben, Larry, Bimbo, Judith y Gabriel.
Todos estamos aqui a brindarle unos caballos y unas hamburguesas con papas porque lo quisimos por lo sincero y vacilon que fue en su sala o en la lavanderia de Lennox.
Su humor fue unico y muy muy simpatico y asi es como lo debemos recordar: como el hombre que nos iso reir y sentir bien. Con el dos horas de puro vacilon eran como 10 minutos. Nos deja con risa para una eternidad.
Aun enfermo supo disfrutar el momento: antes de que entrara al hospital, la enfermera le pregunto que si podia puupu y con una sonrisa grande conteste, “Jes, y very well, very well” con su sonrisa de sol.
Y asi como un sueño bonito y con risas para una eternidad se fue el hombre quien para mi fue mi padre, abuelo y padrino en uno, mi mejor maestro de la vida quien me aconsejo y ayudo en momentos oscuros y demostro cariño y compasion en momentos de errores. Soy egoista, no lo niego porque siempre quisiera tener Gustavo a mi lado igual que uds. pero el ya estaba listo de irse y ver se de nuevo con mi Nina, su mama Josefina que el nunca conocio, sus hermanos, Josie y Emily y finalmente sus hijos adoptivos; Julian, Pocaluz y Florentino. El esta con ellos y ojala este jugando caballos y gallos con Poker como a el le gustaba vivir con su sombrero y sonrisa.
Lo quisimos mucho Mi Gustavo Magaña Pardo, descanse en paz mi Nino!
16 de junio, 1922-29 de diciembre, 2005
By
Julian Segura Camacho
El 29 de diciembre, del 2005 a las 10:30pm en el hospital de Centinela en Inglewood dejo de existir el padrino de todos, Nino para mi, Gus para otros, Don Gustavo para muchos mas, compadre y tio aun para algunos de uds.
Gustavo Magaña Pardo nacio el 16 de junio, 1922, fecha en el cual uno no estaba exacto porque mi Nino nunca decia exactamente su fecha de nacimiento. Yo recordaba tres fechas hasta que porfin supe la verdad con su hermano mayor Aurelio. Mi nino nacio en Tlazezalca, Michoacan, hijo de Herlino Magaña y Josefina Pardo. Despues fue criado en Zamora donde empezo la aventura de su vida, que aveces parecia que fuera una pelicula del cine Mexicano que una vida vivido.
De sus años como muchacho joven quien trabajaba con su padre aprendio el amor del campo, de los caballos, de los gallos y gallinas, los perros y el ganado. De esta vida fue donde aprendio de la jugada: como apostar a todo riesgo; apostaba en la corridas de caballos, en los palenques y alli fue donde aprendio a jugar la baraja.
De esta cultura que el adoraba con pasion tambien aprendio a tomar como el decia, “puro vino” y comer lo que hasta al final a el le encanto: sangre, tripas, carne de res, carnitas, birria, caldos de res y su café negro. El anhelaba su sangre con gusto, vivia de sus recuerdos.
Y de aqui fue donde mi Nino empezo a usar sus famosos sombreros que el uso hasta el final de su vida. Mi Nino y sus sombreros y luego despues con sus cachuchas fueron sinonimo con quien fuera Gus. Cada cachucha expresaba su intento.
De Zamora tambien surgen cuentos de sus famosas aventuras en las cantinas donde tenia su club de fans y donde contrataba su banda para que le tocaran por la calle. Quien se iba imaginar que esta persona era Gus?
Por el destino y razones inexplicable, tal vez una aventura y por nuestra suerte y fortuna, Gus se vino de Bracero al norte, a California en 1943. El decia, “viaje una pinche semana en el tren del D.F. para caer en Oceanside a 45 minutos de Tijuana”.
Alli en los campos de “los traques” empezo la segunda vida de Gus. El decia que los Mexicanos por necesidad se robaban la ropa de los negros para enseñarnos lo duro que fue la vida, no solamente para el, pero para su generacion. De aqui salieron sus aventuras de ida y vuelta al D.F. de como se trajo a su primo Javier y como empezo su vida en California.
A el no le gusto el field, ni trabajar en las minas, le gusto encuarnidar clavos metales del tren. El se sabia el ferrocarril como si el hubiera inventado el tren. “Los Nuevo Mexicanos me enseñaron a trabajar” y como un sueño relataba su pasado que muchos vivimos con el. En una de esas pasadas por Los Angeles conocio a Frances Guerrero, Kika como muchos la conociamos. Como aguanto a mi Nino no lo se? Tal vez con su sonrisa y sentido de humor.
Gus fue un encanto. Un solitario encanto que nos atrapo y mi Nina Kika nunca lo solto aunque le hice sudar y mucho. Alli con mi Nina Kika conocio a los demas Guerrerros en Inglewood, cuando Inglewood toda via era un rancho.
Mi Nino decia que el alcanzo a conocer hasta los padres de Kika, sus futuros familiares que estuvieron juntos hasta que la naturaleza se los llevo: Nieves, Josie, Emilia, Sarge, Paulino, y otros que yo no conoci.
Mi nino decia que esos años eran duros, habian restaurantes donde no les daban servicio: “No Mexicans, No Blacks and No Dogs” served y con su calma el decia evitavamos esos lugares y sin rencor.
Gus trabajo por años despues en el Smooth Holdman pero para jugar caballos. Santa Anita y Hollywood Park fue su segunda casa y iglesia a la vez. Alli comadriaba y sudaba con su pasion y como fiel seguidor seguia la corrida de caballos hasta Del Mar y Tijuana. De alli sale su leyenda: Mi pobre Nina aun sudaba cuando nos contaba que mi nino habia vendido su carro para seguir apostando y luego comprarlo de nuevo para regresarse a Inglewood. Quien no se va asustar!
Mi nino fue ser humano con sus adiciones, pero a la vez su vida tambien fue un riesgo, una apuesta aver si le sale bien a uno. La vida era un juego de barajas y alli en los caballos el seguia haciendo la persona quien siempre fue. Por lo menos podia escojer su caballo!
Despues de los 1970’s mi nino supo hacerse amigo de gente recien conocida donde el mismo compartia lo que era ser Mexicano en Los Angeles: todos nuevos pero aun parientes.
Los caballos fue el lugar de su compadrazgo con muchos que nunca conocismos pero que aun existe esta coneccion, por eso estamos unidos hoy dia para despedirnos de el. El nino de todos.
Esas aventuras donde el le decia a mi tio Jesus, “Poca luz” triaes la pelicula alrrevez y Jesus le decia para que mi bautizaba si ya estaba viejito listo para murierse y con carcajadas se murian de gusto que hasta el final mi nino contaba esa historia para nosotros. Cuando contaba esa historia yo sabia que su final se acercaba y como me gustaria oirlo contar sus historias. Mi tio Pocaluz le contaba, “Viejito le voy a brindar este alto pero cuando el policia le dio el ticket a Pocaluz, mi Nino le daba carria. Despues, Pocaluz se vengo cuando le rezo a la virgencita que le bajara ese caballo que habia ganado la carrera”. Mi Nino solamente decia que le descalificaron su caballo y de eso vivio cuando Pocaluz y mi papa Julian se anticiparon y lo dejaron.
Lo increible de Gus fue que despidio casi a todos: Mi nina, Josie, Emilia, mi papa, mi tio Pocaluz, su hermano Aurelio, Antonio, Herlinda, una hermana que nunca conocio, sus animales que tuvo atravez de los años por la ballona en Inglewood.
Y por suerte, nosotros pudimos disfrutarlo en estos ultimos años. Muchos de uds. fueron su familia tambien, Doña Luisa y su esposo, Belen, El Doctor, Evelyn y Russell quien vio por su salud y sus famosos roommates: Ruben, Larry, Bimbo, Judith y Gabriel.
Todos estamos aqui a brindarle unos caballos y unas hamburguesas con papas porque lo quisimos por lo sincero y vacilon que fue en su sala o en la lavanderia de Lennox.
Su humor fue unico y muy muy simpatico y asi es como lo debemos recordar: como el hombre que nos iso reir y sentir bien. Con el dos horas de puro vacilon eran como 10 minutos. Nos deja con risa para una eternidad.
Aun enfermo supo disfrutar el momento: antes de que entrara al hospital, la enfermera le pregunto que si podia puupu y con una sonrisa grande conteste, “Jes, y very well, very well” con su sonrisa de sol.
Y asi como un sueño bonito y con risas para una eternidad se fue el hombre quien para mi fue mi padre, abuelo y padrino en uno, mi mejor maestro de la vida quien me aconsejo y ayudo en momentos oscuros y demostro cariño y compasion en momentos de errores. Soy egoista, no lo niego porque siempre quisiera tener Gustavo a mi lado igual que uds. pero el ya estaba listo de irse y ver se de nuevo con mi Nina, su mama Josefina que el nunca conocio, sus hermanos, Josie y Emily y finalmente sus hijos adoptivos; Julian, Pocaluz y Florentino. El esta con ellos y ojala este jugando caballos y gallos con Poker como a el le gustaba vivir con su sombrero y sonrisa.
Lo quisimos mucho Mi Gustavo Magaña Pardo, descanse en paz mi Nino!
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Title 9 Not Good
The White House on Facebook sent out celebratory notifications this week in celebration of Title IX Gender equality that mandated equal funding in college sports but it also included admissions to programs in law and medicine. Forty years later the end result are more White women not only in college sports including Blacks and the occasional Mexican American female and others known as Latinas. But there are overall more females in college than males today amongst Whites, something that has caught the attention of many but to no avail. Moreover there are more White females in law schools--look at the over representation of female judges or attorneys, doctors via medical school and the fact that more women are now earning doctoral degrees than males. I am not sure this is something to celebrate because it means somebody has had the doors closed.
If we break it down racially, Mexican Americans continue to account state wide in California at 15-18% for B.A.'s and drops down to less than 2% in doctoral programs hence what has happened that one could really be happy about. If one accounts by lumping other Latinos and undocumented students from Mexico and raised in the US, the number of Mexican Americans drop much more drastically. Yours truly was rejected for 6-7 doctoral programs for all the reasons of having a penis, brown skin, not annointed by a college professor who valued my interest, no sobbing story of having been in the US without papers, etc.... or yeah and I am not gay so that does not help me. People can say I am a cry baby and sure I can accept their criticism yet it does not take away the fact that numbers speak for themselves. Since Title IX was signed Richard Nixon the end result is that Whiteness has still prevailed under the veil of inclusion and affirmative action in a skirt.
But why did this happen if one takes into account that White women were not historically discriminated, I don't recall a bus that stated, "White Women in the back", or "White women are not served", plus they had female colleges that the likes of Hilary Clinton attended to. So how were they discriminated? They couldn't vote argument until 1919 is then brought up but that was solved in 1919 and yet in the height of legal segregation they were still immune from colored places. Plus, White women were given the right to vote but Native Americans were non citizens in 1919 even if they had been born in this territory. In Arizona where my Apache grandmother Luz was born, she wasn't even given a birth certificate. She was assigned a number in 1926 only. Yes I have a reason to vent, where White women segregated like my grandmother?
Then after segregation was outlawed in 1954, White women as part of being from a White family were able to participate in the suburban funding of America and as a former older White female student once told the class, (her mother was a CIA operative for a Vice President in a US Airline), "the Black neighborhoods behind the our White houses in Florida were poorer and in horrible conditions". I thanked her for her honesty, she was great. She was an RN and would say many of the White male doctors were simultaneously idiots. Therefore, how were White women thrown into the Civil Rights equation plus they could marry up something Mexican American males cannot do today so lets put this in perspective.
The damage occurs when Lyndon Baines Johnson forced the South to sign on to the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and they did so by adding legislation that included gender as a way to stifle the racial equalization the law was intended to solve. The focus was on Blacks and even though Mexican Americans were a national minority they were not included because they were not defined as a national minority until 1971 even though authors like Carey McWilliams mentioned that in California, Blacks were progressing in admissions to UCLA while Mexican Americans were numerically more and poorer. Stephen Pitti makes the same point in The Devil in the Silicon Valley, White administrators at San Jose State would advocate Blacks civil rights issues though they were only 2% of the population and Mexican Americans were 20%. And it did not help that on paper even until today, the Census classifies Mexican Americans as White, Hispanic Whites.
Thus White women inclusion was the devil in the language and when Title 9 is added in 1972, it was easy to make this legislation because they were included back in 1964 and the damage is visible today. White women have more access to college than Mexican American males and we are the minority so go figure. Yet who advocates for this position. Its worse, The White House celebrates it while Mexican American males, US born have the lowest college attendance rates and worse by generation, the longer in the US the worse the educational results are. Even in the political world, the results are seen because they do not vote but I don't believe voting does anything especially when I have to get in line behind, White women, gays, unions, undocumented students, corporation and so forth.
Hence I pose the question, what is there to celebrate if I am a Mexican American male. I've been let go of all the part time college positions I had because of budget cuts while women of all colors and White males along with the chosen brown people are given participation for something that I have paid into as a tax payer along with my parents, grandparents and even great grandparents. Honestly, I could care less about White women's issue while I have to beg for my existence but what do I expect, its not as if they care about my condition and obviously not even the White House.
Title IX was bad legislation and to promote it as good is both historically erroneous and contemporarily damaging as White women progress. And though I was rejected for doctoral programs, I have published 7 books hence their negative judgement of me was incorrect but what do I expect from a system that has their minds made up. Next time I'll check female on my applications.
If we break it down racially, Mexican Americans continue to account state wide in California at 15-18% for B.A.'s and drops down to less than 2% in doctoral programs hence what has happened that one could really be happy about. If one accounts by lumping other Latinos and undocumented students from Mexico and raised in the US, the number of Mexican Americans drop much more drastically. Yours truly was rejected for 6-7 doctoral programs for all the reasons of having a penis, brown skin, not annointed by a college professor who valued my interest, no sobbing story of having been in the US without papers, etc.... or yeah and I am not gay so that does not help me. People can say I am a cry baby and sure I can accept their criticism yet it does not take away the fact that numbers speak for themselves. Since Title IX was signed Richard Nixon the end result is that Whiteness has still prevailed under the veil of inclusion and affirmative action in a skirt.
But why did this happen if one takes into account that White women were not historically discriminated, I don't recall a bus that stated, "White Women in the back", or "White women are not served", plus they had female colleges that the likes of Hilary Clinton attended to. So how were they discriminated? They couldn't vote argument until 1919 is then brought up but that was solved in 1919 and yet in the height of legal segregation they were still immune from colored places. Plus, White women were given the right to vote but Native Americans were non citizens in 1919 even if they had been born in this territory. In Arizona where my Apache grandmother Luz was born, she wasn't even given a birth certificate. She was assigned a number in 1926 only. Yes I have a reason to vent, where White women segregated like my grandmother?
Then after segregation was outlawed in 1954, White women as part of being from a White family were able to participate in the suburban funding of America and as a former older White female student once told the class, (her mother was a CIA operative for a Vice President in a US Airline), "the Black neighborhoods behind the our White houses in Florida were poorer and in horrible conditions". I thanked her for her honesty, she was great. She was an RN and would say many of the White male doctors were simultaneously idiots. Therefore, how were White women thrown into the Civil Rights equation plus they could marry up something Mexican American males cannot do today so lets put this in perspective.
The damage occurs when Lyndon Baines Johnson forced the South to sign on to the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and they did so by adding legislation that included gender as a way to stifle the racial equalization the law was intended to solve. The focus was on Blacks and even though Mexican Americans were a national minority they were not included because they were not defined as a national minority until 1971 even though authors like Carey McWilliams mentioned that in California, Blacks were progressing in admissions to UCLA while Mexican Americans were numerically more and poorer. Stephen Pitti makes the same point in The Devil in the Silicon Valley, White administrators at San Jose State would advocate Blacks civil rights issues though they were only 2% of the population and Mexican Americans were 20%. And it did not help that on paper even until today, the Census classifies Mexican Americans as White, Hispanic Whites.
Thus White women inclusion was the devil in the language and when Title 9 is added in 1972, it was easy to make this legislation because they were included back in 1964 and the damage is visible today. White women have more access to college than Mexican American males and we are the minority so go figure. Yet who advocates for this position. Its worse, The White House celebrates it while Mexican American males, US born have the lowest college attendance rates and worse by generation, the longer in the US the worse the educational results are. Even in the political world, the results are seen because they do not vote but I don't believe voting does anything especially when I have to get in line behind, White women, gays, unions, undocumented students, corporation and so forth.
Hence I pose the question, what is there to celebrate if I am a Mexican American male. I've been let go of all the part time college positions I had because of budget cuts while women of all colors and White males along with the chosen brown people are given participation for something that I have paid into as a tax payer along with my parents, grandparents and even great grandparents. Honestly, I could care less about White women's issue while I have to beg for my existence but what do I expect, its not as if they care about my condition and obviously not even the White House.
Title IX was bad legislation and to promote it as good is both historically erroneous and contemporarily damaging as White women progress. And though I was rejected for doctoral programs, I have published 7 books hence their negative judgement of me was incorrect but what do I expect from a system that has their minds made up. Next time I'll check female on my applications.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
The Diasphoral Model Does Not Apply
I recently came across a news letter titled the California Mexico Project pushed by Chicano Studies professor Armando. He was advocating for a show of support for the 32 million Mexicans in the diasphoral and that they should be included in the upcoming election, presidential in Mexico.
The part that bothered me was this diasphoric claim which means they have left the homeland bus a Mexican American of Apache heritage this statement counters my belief that for us US Mexican Americans, the diaphoral model does not apply because I'm living in the same homelands of my Apache ancestors, so I find it troubling that this view exist in the field of Chicano Studies which is the study of Mexican Americans not Mexican from southern Mexico Studies which I believe harms the education of those people like myself who have a northern heritage from the US side.
Why is this separation from the homeland viewed even permitted in Mexican American Studies if the claim of the basis of Chicano Studies was from Aztlan which refers to the US desert or Northern Mexico. But I understand why it happened and its simple, all these Mexico born, most from the south arrive and push their agenda, personal, cultural and political and push those like me to the aside because they feel they are owed something. Yet how can a foreign born be given preference over a US citizen of birth, protected by the 14th amendment but because universities take the view, they are all the same, there is no respect for US born. What is worse is the ignorance that is taught by pushing
these deposed view from the homeland when that is not the case, these people left voluntarily for their own self interest. For those of us born here, there is no diaphoral model for explaining our history, but one of belonging in continuity, plus unlike those born in Mexico I'm not interested in Mexican politics or matters down there because I have no connection to anybody down there.
And because they weren't born here they push their form of culture and history at the expense of those that are from here, plus they live in two places at the same time whereas we don't. And if do, our relatives are from small towns within the US not from a 1000 miles away. The diasphoral model is based on the Jewish model of being displaced from Jerusalem but that was based on a forced exodus, for the Mexico City people, there is no forced displacement because they voluntarily moved for a job and a pension which I find problematic because that supercedes cultural survivor because the south of Mexico was not conquered whereas the north was. And it was those people that suffered.
I came across a quote from Geronimo who tells a Mexican officer, "You are from the south, I am from the north, you go south, I go north, I nor my people want nothing to do with you". Especially when they are intercepting our narrative and imposing they own views over us. Erasing our existence in the process.
The part that bothered me was this diasphoric claim which means they have left the homeland bus a Mexican American of Apache heritage this statement counters my belief that for us US Mexican Americans, the diaphoral model does not apply because I'm living in the same homelands of my Apache ancestors, so I find it troubling that this view exist in the field of Chicano Studies which is the study of Mexican Americans not Mexican from southern Mexico Studies which I believe harms the education of those people like myself who have a northern heritage from the US side.
Why is this separation from the homeland viewed even permitted in Mexican American Studies if the claim of the basis of Chicano Studies was from Aztlan which refers to the US desert or Northern Mexico. But I understand why it happened and its simple, all these Mexico born, most from the south arrive and push their agenda, personal, cultural and political and push those like me to the aside because they feel they are owed something. Yet how can a foreign born be given preference over a US citizen of birth, protected by the 14th amendment but because universities take the view, they are all the same, there is no respect for US born. What is worse is the ignorance that is taught by pushing
these deposed view from the homeland when that is not the case, these people left voluntarily for their own self interest. For those of us born here, there is no diaphoral model for explaining our history, but one of belonging in continuity, plus unlike those born in Mexico I'm not interested in Mexican politics or matters down there because I have no connection to anybody down there.
And because they weren't born here they push their form of culture and history at the expense of those that are from here, plus they live in two places at the same time whereas we don't. And if do, our relatives are from small towns within the US not from a 1000 miles away. The diasphoral model is based on the Jewish model of being displaced from Jerusalem but that was based on a forced exodus, for the Mexico City people, there is no forced displacement because they voluntarily moved for a job and a pension which I find problematic because that supercedes cultural survivor because the south of Mexico was not conquered whereas the north was. And it was those people that suffered.
I came across a quote from Geronimo who tells a Mexican officer, "You are from the south, I am from the north, you go south, I go north, I nor my people want nothing to do with you". Especially when they are intercepting our narrative and imposing they own views over us. Erasing our existence in the process.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
No Maternal Home
Six months ago, my mother had to move in with my youngest brother because my other brother moved on and had a beautiful little girl named Cheyanne.
However the tragic part of this story was that in essence something much more profound was lost lost for the rest of us five other siblings, which was a maternal home to return to. As a child, especially after my father died, with the uncertainty of Reagan's inflation, income limitations placed on earnings from Social Security and low wage employment, housing was always a perilious experience. So we end up in Lennox in the worst neighborhood according to my liking and we felt trapped there for 15 years. Even after college it seemed we could never get of of there.
Apart from some crazy neighbors at first and a few slap sessions, things calmed and we became friends with some of the neighbors but much more my brothers because they were younger and attended the same elementary and then junior high schools. When we moved there I was 15 versus 9, 8, or 6 hence as had become my experience after elementary school, my mom uprooted us from the Inglewood area I grew up in 95th and Arbor Vitae, across the street from the 405 freeway. Living a life as gypsy had become a way of life and my friendships were lost in that part of Inglewood. Lennox was just too far to walk to though my friend Scott would visit when he could. Even though he moved to to Gardena not long after I had moved.
In the subsequent years, the house in Lennox was home but never felt like home because the neighborhood was dirty, crowded, ugly, rat infested and just plain hideous. Even the devil would not create hell in this manner. But we stayed because that was all we could afford and felt like the song Hotel California, "you may check out but you may never leave". I checked out from Lennox but I never really left and so did my mother and nobody could really help. We were on our own.
When we left, it was as an individual for me but I felt I abandoned my siblings, then my brother left to live with his girlfriend, the other two to play college football and finally we moved my mother to Hawthorne which was suppose to be better but the apartment was a fraud; the second bedroom was a converted something, prostitutes roamed El Segundo Blvd. and it just did not feel like home even though my aunt lived in the floor below. Even though I have never admitted it, there was a lose with the neighbors from Lennox, somewhat still continues.
But by now the reality had kicked in that my mother would now live with us because she had never never been able to purchase a home because because, she was not permitted to. And it would make a difference which is why we moved around alot prior to remaining in Lennox for 10 years. When we moved to Whittier, it was to create that home base and independence but it never quite worked out for all kinds of reasons from financial to uncooperation from each sibling head and in the end, when my brother had the baby and moved back to the homeland of Inglewood and the increased mortgage and non refinancing of the house what was once dreamed of ended. Eventually she moved in with my younger brother where she lives comfortably but ultimately it's his house not hers, hence it's not a neutral home were we can all go peacefully.
When its moms home even though she might be messy and lacked better hygiene kitchen habits. it was still that home you felt you grew up in. Instead of complaining about the dishes or the grease on the wall, I would clean my part up. In her home, she had pictures of us as kids, high school graduates, now the grand kids and trinjunklets collected throughout the years even if dusty or not sliding to the side. The hanging towels of my mothers scent aromatizing the house and the television that is permanently fixed on the Spanish channels for the novelas that always have the great looking chiks. That is now gone because my mother was never allowed to build a nest and neither were we because we haven't really been successful apart for survival purposes. I know what its like to return to that nest, I spent time with my paternal grandmother in El Centro, California were no one sibling controlled the others. Pulling up to that driveway felt like home. My maternal grandmother also had a neutral home in Mexicali, Baja California and only when everybody was there did I feel crowded but not at home. One could sit under the mesquite tree and even sleep if it felt too crowded or just sit and enjoy the stars and the occasional ghost visiting us, we have quite a few. I know whats that like but I don't have it anymore and neither do my children. Not that my brother is not welcoming, he is but it's his home and his soon to be wife. We can't be too comfortable. At my moms house, I wouldn't ask to use the restroom, would sleep on the couch and roamed as if I was a home because I was. This I have no more
And even my other brother Alberto mentioned the same thing, though the only solution would be a home 100 miles away and that's not an option. But as he stated, "We need a home base, sometimes we need a break from everything" or just the feeling of returning to a place we called home. If we get separated there is a place to go to, fired from work (which happens quite frequently) or just want pure love without the nagging and responsibilty of adulthood. Its not there anymore!
However the tragic part of this story was that in essence something much more profound was lost lost for the rest of us five other siblings, which was a maternal home to return to. As a child, especially after my father died, with the uncertainty of Reagan's inflation, income limitations placed on earnings from Social Security and low wage employment, housing was always a perilious experience. So we end up in Lennox in the worst neighborhood according to my liking and we felt trapped there for 15 years. Even after college it seemed we could never get of of there.
Apart from some crazy neighbors at first and a few slap sessions, things calmed and we became friends with some of the neighbors but much more my brothers because they were younger and attended the same elementary and then junior high schools. When we moved there I was 15 versus 9, 8, or 6 hence as had become my experience after elementary school, my mom uprooted us from the Inglewood area I grew up in 95th and Arbor Vitae, across the street from the 405 freeway. Living a life as gypsy had become a way of life and my friendships were lost in that part of Inglewood. Lennox was just too far to walk to though my friend Scott would visit when he could. Even though he moved to to Gardena not long after I had moved.
In the subsequent years, the house in Lennox was home but never felt like home because the neighborhood was dirty, crowded, ugly, rat infested and just plain hideous. Even the devil would not create hell in this manner. But we stayed because that was all we could afford and felt like the song Hotel California, "you may check out but you may never leave". I checked out from Lennox but I never really left and so did my mother and nobody could really help. We were on our own.
When we left, it was as an individual for me but I felt I abandoned my siblings, then my brother left to live with his girlfriend, the other two to play college football and finally we moved my mother to Hawthorne which was suppose to be better but the apartment was a fraud; the second bedroom was a converted something, prostitutes roamed El Segundo Blvd. and it just did not feel like home even though my aunt lived in the floor below. Even though I have never admitted it, there was a lose with the neighbors from Lennox, somewhat still continues.
But by now the reality had kicked in that my mother would now live with us because she had never never been able to purchase a home because because, she was not permitted to. And it would make a difference which is why we moved around alot prior to remaining in Lennox for 10 years. When we moved to Whittier, it was to create that home base and independence but it never quite worked out for all kinds of reasons from financial to uncooperation from each sibling head and in the end, when my brother had the baby and moved back to the homeland of Inglewood and the increased mortgage and non refinancing of the house what was once dreamed of ended. Eventually she moved in with my younger brother where she lives comfortably but ultimately it's his house not hers, hence it's not a neutral home were we can all go peacefully.
When its moms home even though she might be messy and lacked better hygiene kitchen habits. it was still that home you felt you grew up in. Instead of complaining about the dishes or the grease on the wall, I would clean my part up. In her home, she had pictures of us as kids, high school graduates, now the grand kids and trinjunklets collected throughout the years even if dusty or not sliding to the side. The hanging towels of my mothers scent aromatizing the house and the television that is permanently fixed on the Spanish channels for the novelas that always have the great looking chiks. That is now gone because my mother was never allowed to build a nest and neither were we because we haven't really been successful apart for survival purposes. I know what its like to return to that nest, I spent time with my paternal grandmother in El Centro, California were no one sibling controlled the others. Pulling up to that driveway felt like home. My maternal grandmother also had a neutral home in Mexicali, Baja California and only when everybody was there did I feel crowded but not at home. One could sit under the mesquite tree and even sleep if it felt too crowded or just sit and enjoy the stars and the occasional ghost visiting us, we have quite a few. I know whats that like but I don't have it anymore and neither do my children. Not that my brother is not welcoming, he is but it's his home and his soon to be wife. We can't be too comfortable. At my moms house, I wouldn't ask to use the restroom, would sleep on the couch and roamed as if I was a home because I was. This I have no more
And even my other brother Alberto mentioned the same thing, though the only solution would be a home 100 miles away and that's not an option. But as he stated, "We need a home base, sometimes we need a break from everything" or just the feeling of returning to a place we called home. If we get separated there is a place to go to, fired from work (which happens quite frequently) or just want pure love without the nagging and responsibilty of adulthood. Its not there anymore!
Monday, March 26, 2012
Memories Not To Be Mentioned
Life is at a crossroads for the simple reason that I am getting older and yes older. I still have my black hair, still have my teeth, a few extra pounds and my memory. I have posted on facebook commentaries dating back to the years of high school about rejections whether it never being asked out for the Sadie Hawkins Dance by the women as they are suppose to or complaining about being rejected for the year book staff. My journalism fromt he beginning were tainted and have never gone anywhere. Hell I even vented at the arrogance of the honor students who thought they were too good because they were the selected smartest students according to the curriculum but come on, high school teachers are not necessarily the most appropriate at judging what is quality. They are high school teachers not members of the Noble Prize Award committee. Teachers who got their credentials from National University.
The commentaries even from friends have been fascinating to say the least with comments about let it go, its been 20 years, you can't live in the past, something is wrong, what does this say about you and move on. But I don't see it this way, maybe because these were rejections of the innocence when one is not defensible and you take them at face value and move on. But those rejections linger in ones life at least for me because I have a memory that is like a megabyte, I just don't forget and closure is something I want in the form of revenge. I am vengeful and have always been because I was never the one who wanted to harm somebody, so why would someone want to harm me in return. When someone has done me harm, its the Apache, I contemplate patiently and I do respond like a wrestler should with a reversal or a counter in boxing and its not with malice as those rejections were. I counter simply by bringing up something that would be memoried away and it seems to resonate because some took it personal even though nobody was mentioned. As a matter of fact I have forgotten many individuals and faces as 25 years of post graduation takes its toll and eternity fades away.
What struck me the most was the mere mentioned conjured up personal reactions when the questions posed were generalizations of the nobody, just circumstances of ponderings. In youth, I just swallowed the rejections in adulthood I question and challenge because arbitraryness is the rule of the law and if the popularizaiton of continuous 25 years later we are still the same and that is one place I don't want to be in because I'm getting old and I don't have to swallow rejections. At least now I can say, I hated those rejections or those people with their click mentalities and vice versa, I don't forget those that were the kindest when I was the most vulnerable like Louie Marin who gave me rides after wrestling practice and I didn't have to walk home, or my mother who would pick me up from football practice, fed me in the car and made sure I made it to work. And even the young woman who introduced me to life without me knowing what to do. I have never forgotten her and never will even when I did fail her because of my immaturity. Who knows I might be a grandfather right now or I would have caused her pain too as I seem to do frequently. I just don't like others determining my fate and that's my pedo.
On another note, I wrote an article for an online journal titled "A Voice For Men" under "Demonizing Machismo" under newer rejections for my thinking. But now I'm an adult and I don't hold back so I critiqued how places such as CSUN or Tia Chucha's bookstore along with feminist faculty and girlie men not only rejected my published book known as Huevos because it counters Chicana Feminism and advocates for Mexican American machismo. How threatening and logical is that, a bookstore who cries all the time about not selling enough books and they are not the only ones, refuses to sell my book because of its content. But if it was Gabriel Garcia Marquez book, "Memorias de mi Putas Triste" they would have no problem promoting it.
My reaffirmation was when I wrote the article the feedback on the site had 25 plus comments applauding what I wrote and cheering me which both reaffirmed what I said and have encouraged me to continue writing my convictions because I can't be afraid of the world. And what others think, I'm not in it for a popularity contest but to express what I feel which is ultimately what I do when I write or publish my books. By the way, I have two books that will be published within the summer on my grandmother's Apache Spirituality and my time at a Protestant Anglo church as a teenager. Will be you informed.......................................!
The commentaries even from friends have been fascinating to say the least with comments about let it go, its been 20 years, you can't live in the past, something is wrong, what does this say about you and move on. But I don't see it this way, maybe because these were rejections of the innocence when one is not defensible and you take them at face value and move on. But those rejections linger in ones life at least for me because I have a memory that is like a megabyte, I just don't forget and closure is something I want in the form of revenge. I am vengeful and have always been because I was never the one who wanted to harm somebody, so why would someone want to harm me in return. When someone has done me harm, its the Apache, I contemplate patiently and I do respond like a wrestler should with a reversal or a counter in boxing and its not with malice as those rejections were. I counter simply by bringing up something that would be memoried away and it seems to resonate because some took it personal even though nobody was mentioned. As a matter of fact I have forgotten many individuals and faces as 25 years of post graduation takes its toll and eternity fades away.
What struck me the most was the mere mentioned conjured up personal reactions when the questions posed were generalizations of the nobody, just circumstances of ponderings. In youth, I just swallowed the rejections in adulthood I question and challenge because arbitraryness is the rule of the law and if the popularizaiton of continuous 25 years later we are still the same and that is one place I don't want to be in because I'm getting old and I don't have to swallow rejections. At least now I can say, I hated those rejections or those people with their click mentalities and vice versa, I don't forget those that were the kindest when I was the most vulnerable like Louie Marin who gave me rides after wrestling practice and I didn't have to walk home, or my mother who would pick me up from football practice, fed me in the car and made sure I made it to work. And even the young woman who introduced me to life without me knowing what to do. I have never forgotten her and never will even when I did fail her because of my immaturity. Who knows I might be a grandfather right now or I would have caused her pain too as I seem to do frequently. I just don't like others determining my fate and that's my pedo.
On another note, I wrote an article for an online journal titled "A Voice For Men" under "Demonizing Machismo" under newer rejections for my thinking. But now I'm an adult and I don't hold back so I critiqued how places such as CSUN or Tia Chucha's bookstore along with feminist faculty and girlie men not only rejected my published book known as Huevos because it counters Chicana Feminism and advocates for Mexican American machismo. How threatening and logical is that, a bookstore who cries all the time about not selling enough books and they are not the only ones, refuses to sell my book because of its content. But if it was Gabriel Garcia Marquez book, "Memorias de mi Putas Triste" they would have no problem promoting it.
My reaffirmation was when I wrote the article the feedback on the site had 25 plus comments applauding what I wrote and cheering me which both reaffirmed what I said and have encouraged me to continue writing my convictions because I can't be afraid of the world. And what others think, I'm not in it for a popularity contest but to express what I feel which is ultimately what I do when I write or publish my books. By the way, I have two books that will be published within the summer on my grandmother's Apache Spirituality and my time at a Protestant Anglo church as a teenager. Will be you informed.......................................!
Friday, February 17, 2012
El Bobo Castillo & the Screwball
I want to write about something that's been bugging me for the longest time which is the lack of recognition for a Mexican American baseball player named Bobby "Bobo" Castillo who taught Fernando Valenzuela how to throw the screwball.
I remember el Bobo Castillo because as a kid I use to know the name of every baseball player on the Dodgers and because they won and I saw the World Series in 1981, and 1987 and remember the pain of losing in 77 and 78 to the Yankees, that damn Reggie Jackson interferred with the ball thrown to first base. Yet what really bothers me and it sort of did also back in the day was why all the attention by the Mexico born fan base was given to Fernando Valenzuela though Castillo had been there for a few years and taught Fernando the famous screwball. I'm not arguing different types of players, some would say Fernando was a better overall player, the Cy Young and Rookie of the Year Award proved it but it was the skill of a Mexican American, born in Los Angeles who taught the southern Sonoran player how to throw that famous screwball. El Bobo never seemed to get attention except for Vin Scully saying LA's own but that was the extent of the recognition which should have been much more because he was one of our own and in those days baseball use to mean something to me. Granted I was never good, would hit the ball at Centinela Park(underhand pitch) and watched the ball go up in the air. My grandmother Kika would yell "run, mijo, run" and I would watch the ball go up in the air and then decide to run. My father Julian and grandpa Gus would just throw their arms into frustration. Later when I played at Sentinel Field in Inglewood, on Inglewood Avenue with the vaunted 3-4 story high fence I would never hit the ball, dropped flyballs that my friends on the opposing teams wished I would hit the ball to get over the embarassment of being the worse player. Baseball was not for me and I knew it, but I was a Dodger fan.
I never dreamed of making it but it meant something to see a brown Castillo versus a Black Castillo from the Caribe or Venezuela. Castillo had been on the Dodgers but as soon as Fernando arrived, he was overly promoted and the dog pack from Mexico responded in kind along with the Dodger machine. But those same Mexican nationals did not support a Bobo Castillo even though it was known that he taught Fernando Valenzuela how to pitch the screwball. I remember in 1982 visiting Mexicali where they are big Aguila followers and even attended a game at the Nido Stadium but when Fernando was going to pitch, even the mudo of the neighborhood Cuautemoc where my father's friend lived uttered words to see "lllll tolo llll tolo" el toro was going to pitch as my Ernesto el Cochis, my father's adopted brother translated. Every little television was on and El Bobo was a forgotten player nobody mentioned much less in Mexicali.
I see this phenomenon, as indicative of a trend where Mexican nationals come to the US, sometimes sponsored, or on their own but the people who help them along is some solitaire Mexican American who sees a kin or because he's the one that translates for the Whites just like Fernando, he did not know how to speak English. Mike Brito was the translator, Vin Scully tried his sombrero comment, Tommy Lasorda was carrying sentences and even Stu Nahan travelled to the Mayo rancho where Fernando was from and spoke in his Canadian Version of Spanish with Fernando's parents. Fernando did not have to speak English and made much more money while el Bobo got lost in the mania.
I always wondered how El Bobo must have felt, because he never got his recognition or fan support simply because the Mexican nationals did not see him as one of them. Even though his knowledge is what made Fernando Fernandomania but as I once saw an interview on the farmworkers, Gilberto Rodriguez stated that he and other Mexican Americans taught the newly arrived braceros how to work in the fields because it is a learned skill and the Mexicans were getting paid more. It obviously bothered him because he would not have mentioned this in the Cesar Chavez documentary. My Nino Gus would say that it was the Mexican Americans who taught Mexican nationals how to work in the railroad tracks in the mid 1940's otherwise the jobs would have taken longer to learn. And 50 years later, he still remembered that skill before his passing.
I guess I see that the Mexican nationals want to see themselves and only believe that those in Mexico are like them and do not consider those of us north of the border as them hence the Bobo Castillo phenomenon of not being known anymore or celebrated back then when pitching schools should have been established with the screwball being the signature pitch.
And that still happens today, where the Mexicans with skills, capital--Chivas USA, or preferred labor even without residency arrive and are given access while the average Mexican American fights for is existence and is lumped in with the rest of Mexican nationals as if he was one of them even though he was born in the US. In the Mexican national eyes, a Mexican American is an American and now a Gringo. Hell the Mexican nationals are allowed to even move in academia Chicano Studies which was based on the Mexican American narrative of US birth and have been pushed aside for the undocumented plight, dream act and fight for amnesty when none of those issues have anything to do with a Mexican American. Mexican Americans don't face deportation hearings so that is not our narrative. We can vote assuming there is no criminal record but that also applies to Whites, Blacks and women.
Fernando was a phenomenon which I believe was first inspired by ABBA that then carried into the baseball mound but those of us with baseball memory know that before Fernando ever crossed the border, El Bobo Castillo was already pitching with the Dodgers practicing the screwball pitch that Fernando was able to use for his own development. I wonder if he was like Adele's ex boyfriend wanting part of the royalty for inspiring "Rolling in the Deep".
Fernando I hope once acknowledged him for that lesson.
I remember el Bobo Castillo because as a kid I use to know the name of every baseball player on the Dodgers and because they won and I saw the World Series in 1981, and 1987 and remember the pain of losing in 77 and 78 to the Yankees, that damn Reggie Jackson interferred with the ball thrown to first base. Yet what really bothers me and it sort of did also back in the day was why all the attention by the Mexico born fan base was given to Fernando Valenzuela though Castillo had been there for a few years and taught Fernando the famous screwball. I'm not arguing different types of players, some would say Fernando was a better overall player, the Cy Young and Rookie of the Year Award proved it but it was the skill of a Mexican American, born in Los Angeles who taught the southern Sonoran player how to throw that famous screwball. El Bobo never seemed to get attention except for Vin Scully saying LA's own but that was the extent of the recognition which should have been much more because he was one of our own and in those days baseball use to mean something to me. Granted I was never good, would hit the ball at Centinela Park(underhand pitch) and watched the ball go up in the air. My grandmother Kika would yell "run, mijo, run" and I would watch the ball go up in the air and then decide to run. My father Julian and grandpa Gus would just throw their arms into frustration. Later when I played at Sentinel Field in Inglewood, on Inglewood Avenue with the vaunted 3-4 story high fence I would never hit the ball, dropped flyballs that my friends on the opposing teams wished I would hit the ball to get over the embarassment of being the worse player. Baseball was not for me and I knew it, but I was a Dodger fan.
I never dreamed of making it but it meant something to see a brown Castillo versus a Black Castillo from the Caribe or Venezuela. Castillo had been on the Dodgers but as soon as Fernando arrived, he was overly promoted and the dog pack from Mexico responded in kind along with the Dodger machine. But those same Mexican nationals did not support a Bobo Castillo even though it was known that he taught Fernando Valenzuela how to pitch the screwball. I remember in 1982 visiting Mexicali where they are big Aguila followers and even attended a game at the Nido Stadium but when Fernando was going to pitch, even the mudo of the neighborhood Cuautemoc where my father's friend lived uttered words to see "lllll tolo llll tolo" el toro was going to pitch as my Ernesto el Cochis, my father's adopted brother translated. Every little television was on and El Bobo was a forgotten player nobody mentioned much less in Mexicali.
I see this phenomenon, as indicative of a trend where Mexican nationals come to the US, sometimes sponsored, or on their own but the people who help them along is some solitaire Mexican American who sees a kin or because he's the one that translates for the Whites just like Fernando, he did not know how to speak English. Mike Brito was the translator, Vin Scully tried his sombrero comment, Tommy Lasorda was carrying sentences and even Stu Nahan travelled to the Mayo rancho where Fernando was from and spoke in his Canadian Version of Spanish with Fernando's parents. Fernando did not have to speak English and made much more money while el Bobo got lost in the mania.
I always wondered how El Bobo must have felt, because he never got his recognition or fan support simply because the Mexican nationals did not see him as one of them. Even though his knowledge is what made Fernando Fernandomania but as I once saw an interview on the farmworkers, Gilberto Rodriguez stated that he and other Mexican Americans taught the newly arrived braceros how to work in the fields because it is a learned skill and the Mexicans were getting paid more. It obviously bothered him because he would not have mentioned this in the Cesar Chavez documentary. My Nino Gus would say that it was the Mexican Americans who taught Mexican nationals how to work in the railroad tracks in the mid 1940's otherwise the jobs would have taken longer to learn. And 50 years later, he still remembered that skill before his passing.
I guess I see that the Mexican nationals want to see themselves and only believe that those in Mexico are like them and do not consider those of us north of the border as them hence the Bobo Castillo phenomenon of not being known anymore or celebrated back then when pitching schools should have been established with the screwball being the signature pitch.
And that still happens today, where the Mexicans with skills, capital--Chivas USA, or preferred labor even without residency arrive and are given access while the average Mexican American fights for is existence and is lumped in with the rest of Mexican nationals as if he was one of them even though he was born in the US. In the Mexican national eyes, a Mexican American is an American and now a Gringo. Hell the Mexican nationals are allowed to even move in academia Chicano Studies which was based on the Mexican American narrative of US birth and have been pushed aside for the undocumented plight, dream act and fight for amnesty when none of those issues have anything to do with a Mexican American. Mexican Americans don't face deportation hearings so that is not our narrative. We can vote assuming there is no criminal record but that also applies to Whites, Blacks and women.
Fernando was a phenomenon which I believe was first inspired by ABBA that then carried into the baseball mound but those of us with baseball memory know that before Fernando ever crossed the border, El Bobo Castillo was already pitching with the Dodgers practicing the screwball pitch that Fernando was able to use for his own development. I wonder if he was like Adele's ex boyfriend wanting part of the royalty for inspiring "Rolling in the Deep".
Fernando I hope once acknowledged him for that lesson.
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