The question of cultural identity is the focus of what is generally considered to be the first Chicano novel, Pocho (1959), by Jose Antonio Villarreal.
This feeling of not belonging and finding cultural identity has been happening for years and will maybe never end.
once upon a time.
I don't know why, but this phrase sounds very strange when it stands alone like this. "Once upon a time," like what time? Read it over and over again and it sounds kind of weird.
panache
According to Oxford dictionary, Panache means: flamboyant confidence of style or manner.
novel begins working its magic
As if the novel were a wizard and was to cast a spell on us and transcend the reader to another world.
Stendhal syndrome, the psychosomatic response (which can involve fainting, a rapid heartbeat, vertigo, and hallucinations) to the power of art, a disease first identified with and endemic to Florence, where even today a few cases are diagnosed each year.
Oh wow I didn't even know there was such medical term for it or that there was a syndrome at all.
Art–and here I am speaking not of music or abstract painting but of the narrative and figurative, of literature and portraiture–can describe certain experiences that seem to be common to human beings: birth, death, procreation, falling in and out of love.
I feel like nowadays in the world ridden with technology and social media, we see, as humans, that we have all experienced similar moments in life, thoughts and ideas, all depicted in memes, not books.
he felt his whole life had changed after seeing a performance
Sidenote: Hitler sucks. But I understand this line is something that has affected everyone at some point of their lives. Art is all about taking you to another world and experiences or seeing things one has thought not to experience. For example, I remember leaving the movie theater feeling so inspired after watching the last Star Wars movie or after a concert. It was life changing because it made me realize, career wise, that this is what I want to do. There is that "glitter" of excitement that becomes enlightened within people.
Why do I love the marvelous scene in Francis Ford Coppola's The Godfather in which Sonny speaks out of turn and the Tattaglia family knows that the Corleones are vulnerable and can be attacked? And why do I think there is beauty in every moment of Michael K. Williams's portrayal of Omar Little in David Simon's TV series The Wire?
Although not everything is to ones aesthetic and there can be beauty within something because it is truly unique. It could feel strange and question why we made up in our minds that this thing is beautiful, we are drawn to it. There could be some underlying bias or even just the fact that it is so unique that it makes you think how did the creator think of such thing.
Conception and execution are major factors in the narratives on the page and screen that I tend to remember as beautiful.
The foundation in which the canvas or base for any form of art is the meaning behind it. It is what the artist wants to express through s specific medium and however they chose to express it can either compliment or ruin the meaning completely.
I am on my individual well-being, aware too of how taboo it is to talk about one's Mexican family this way, not just criticizing its quirks or occasional slip-ups but labeling it fundamentally misshapen, wounded.
One can feel shame speaking about their family in this way especially because Mexicans hold their family morals in high standards at some times. But one can't help it when it is contradictory to their beliefs.
An embrace because I feel I've escaped the poverty they lived, the one I, too, lived. I've made good on their ultimate objective: to have their children work indoor, kinder, climate-controlled jobs rather than outdoor jobs in the sweltering heat of South Texas.
One of the many ambiguous views of the American Dream.
He decided that as soon as school ended, Mom would take the Mimis and Syl and drive them to California to participate in the seasonal grape harvest with the migrant workers, to meet up with Dad's cousins who did this periodically, since the Mimis were now fourteen and fifteen and Syl was sixteen, and they could all, with Mom, collect a full salary. They would be treated like adults there, paid the same as everyone else.
Oh no this would definitely be a reality check for the Mimi's and the mom after living on a cloud of "luxury" for a while.
Marge and Mare, as the Mimis, had decided to align themselves with their more American–more European–genetics even if it was through bad hair dyes and pretending to not understand Spanish.
Purposely giving themselves a 180 in identity transformation.
The older Mimi convinced our mother to adopt the dog and have his hair carved into poodle fashion, had even bought it colorful striped sweaters that made the near toothless dog pant wetly in the year-round South Texas heat.
Even the dog had to go through a complete transformation in order to fit the Mimis standards of what fitting in was.
What I learned from that experience was this: IfI write in Spanish, I will be rejected. If I write in English, I will be celebrated and win prizes. The underlying message was that English would lead to success in this country.
Black and white thinking.
Years later, I would learn the term for what had happened to me: subtractive bilingualism--the removal of my mother tongue, the psychological violence of tearing out a piece of my being.
I didn't even know there was a term for something like this. Unfortunately, i've experienced the same thing. My Spanish got bad to a point where i got called a "yo no sabo." Fortunately, at my workplace its pure Spanish and I feel like slowly I'm getting my Spanish back.
So yes, though “home” permeates every sinew and cartilage in my body, I too am afraid of going home. Though I’ll defend my race and culture when they are attacked by non-mexicanos, conosco el malestar de mi cultura.
This reminds me of the poem we read in R&A 3 called Alta Traicion.
“¿Y cuándo te casas, Gloria? Se te va a parsar el tren.” Y yo les digo, “Pos si me caso, no va ser con un hombre.” Se quedan calladitas. Sí, soy hija de la Chingada. I’ve always been her daughter. No ‘tés chingando.
This made me giggle because their silence speaks fear and the author could seriously care less.
Even as a child I would not obey. I was “lazy.” Instead of ironing my younger brothers’ shirts or cleaning the cupboards, I would pass many hours studying, reading, painting, writing.
Relatable! I rebel against the norms as well. I argue why can't my brother do something himself. Why do I always have to do the chores in the house? Why isn't my brother allowed to touch a broom? Why can't my uncle fix his own plate of food, why do i always have to do it? My mom is a tough nut to crack when it comes to these things but my siblings and I have been trying to teach her that men can do things too.
Me entra una rabia cuando alguien—sea mi mamá, la Iglesia, la cultura de los anglos—me dice haz esto, haz eso sin considerar mis deseos. Repele. Hable pa’ ’tras. Fuí muy hocicona. Era indiferente a muchos valores de mi cultura. No me deje de los hombres. No fuí buena ni obediente.
I get the same kind of rage when I hear my uncles speak but i have to understand that it was the way they were raised. They are very strict on where a woman's place should be and i am fortunate enough that my dad is not the same way and allowed for my siblings and I to pursue and education. I understand where the author is coming from because its these high authorities that we are supposed to trust with what we are supposed to do with our lives. But there is always that feeling of shame and guilt when you try to do anything that they think you are not capable of.
no one saidlet us learn to love ourselvesheal ourselvescare for ourselvescare for each otherteach each other how to begin with this essential task ofloving ourselves
Unfortunately everything these days is all about competition, especially in an individualistic society.
music like most things in life enters in only one of two waysel amor o el dolor
Never thought of it that way but its true.
blood turned against itselfout bodies falling in battlethe enemy everywherewithin and without but the word war turns us against ourselves and the word diseaserenders us victims and the war is unendingand a war always claims casualties
This what the world has become. There is a massive gap between people and their quality of life. We humans made our world this way with ego, money, Big Pharma, Big Oil, capitalism, healthcare, class, education etc. We are all humans no matter what.
you cannot live in fear you cannot heal in fear fear will never make you stronger
Holy cow I really needed to hear this.
and I became a full-blown queen – convincedthat camouflage is no longer sexy and that Herbal Essence hairspray does not have the same healing powers as Aqua-Net.
This made my mind think of the narrator trying to fit in "camouflage" and herbal essence hairspray. But it did not fix what she knew or felt as much as the smell and reminder of Aqua-net.
for speaking Spanish on the premises
This reminds me of one time when my parents were invited to a grand opening of a hotel in downtown Austin and they got kicked out for speaking Spanish. What hurt even more was that there was nothing we could do about it, only deal with the feeling of defeat.
OK, amigo?
Typical. Heard this from different ears many times.
when the Summers were afire. And driven by hunger, I’ve come face to face with the uprooted fury of the West Texas wind, on linoleum-covered dirtfloors
Terrible working conditions not only for anybody, but for a child.
The saliva moved in her, the girl says. Moved in, I say,settled into that empty space, and grew.
Could be conception and then pregnancy?
Allow you red wine in bed,even with my vintage lace linens.Maybe. Maybe.For you.
Risky move to have red wine of a bed of vintage lace linens but all that material stuff doesn't matter when there is someone that matters much more.
My mother roared like the ocean,“No. No. It’s their beach.It’s their beach.”
The mother repeated her self, almost as is she is reminding not only the little sister but also herself even though it could be the beach in her home.
I am the welder.
The welder has the control to put things together and make as they wish. Taking control of her own life. Almost like the creator.
looking around, each with a dream in their heart,thinking they’ll get a chance to change their lives.
Fresh hope will make this part of their lives seem like a bump in the road they just need to go over in order to continue.
men are hollering back and forth cell to cell,saying their sinks don’t work,or somebody downstairs hollers angrilyabout a toilet overflowing,or that the heaters don’t work.
The conditions of this prison.
But right away we are sent to work as dishwashers
I hear this line many times in people who I've met and ask them what they did once they came to the U.S. There is always a demand for dishes to be washed, but there is also a demand in dreams to be fulfilled.
a jagged prison world where hate is a common expletive, seems everyone hates, seems everyone is a convict, even the guards and counselors do time here, everyday trudging into this abysmal human warehouse.
I think it is interesting how Sanches says "jagged" which means spiky or barbed and the layout of the following lines does just that. There are different size indentations and and the ending of multiple lines have negative or sharp words at the end; Jagged.
the art form of our slums more meaningful & significant than Egypt’s finest hieroglyphics.
This is such a strong line because Egypt's finest hierogliphics are there to record history. They are a mystery and an awe to many people who look at them or study them. Whereas the neighborhood art is more expressive. It conveys what a person cannot say, it is not recording how things where done in history, and it is more connected to everyone who sees it compared to hieroglyphics.
(the kind you’ll never find in a café)
I appreciate that Salinas put this parenthetical here because it shows that the food that they'd eat wasn't commercialized junk from companies or business.
Perhaps La Llorona is the one they named the creek after, she thinks, remembering all the stories she learned as a child.
That's what i was thinking because "La Gritona" gave me La Llorona vibes because supposedly you can hear her loud wails as her spirit is searching for the souls of her children.
It was hard to say which since Soledad, as a rule, didn’t mention him.
Interesting. I thought I was a bit strange that her name was soledad because I know in Spanish Soledad means loneliness. But, it make sense now that she is "widowed",
lay on her side of the bed listening to the hollow roar of the interstate, a distant dog barking, the pecan trees rustling like ladies in stiff petticoats--shh-shh-shh, shh-shh-shh--soothing her to sleep
Understanding that she came from a large family of brothers, I think the whole jungle of noise puts her to sleep soothingly rather that annoy or irritate her.
I will have to explain that night on the drive home about Rio and I
Good to hear that there is communication within this relationship. Even though it may be a hard truth for the narrator, he will at least be honest to his significant other and be transparent about it instead of hiding it.
The only way we look like our mothers is our eyes.
This reminds me of Harry Potter. They'd always remind Harry about how much his eyes looked like his mothers.
when a man started changing it all.
Erick refers to these men, who hit on his mom, a "man". Non-plural, a singular man, because they are all the same person to him: a man who tries to be with his mom because of her beauty.
speak in a drawl
According to Cambridge dictionary, this means to "to speak in a slow way in which the vowel sounds are made longer and words are not separated clearly."
“I don’t need to practice,” I said.
This is one of the hardest comebacks to come out of his mouth. Not only is for his father but to his mother and life. The fact that he doesn't need practice for living alone because he has lived alone his whole life with the "occasional" encounter with a parent. Maximiliano matured at a very young age and didn't see the world with rose colored glasses. He studies everything, made list, and understood the matters of "transactions" that would involve moments in his life. He grew so quick that mentally he was practically a grown adult by the time he was ten.
My little ruby-hearted girl. She opened her eyes. As wise and black as yours. Her little hand tried to grasp my fingertip. I held her up to my cheek, humming the lullaby my mother had hummed to me. And the small sound became a large sound, a thunderous sound. Her body, tiny and powerful, rumbled with it. And my hands warmed and started to radiate a golden light. And even in the blanket she was swaddled in, I could see her ruby light flashing like a jewel through her skin. Her heart beating fast like a hummingbird’s.
Not gonna lie, some tears started surfacing at my eyes when I read this paragraph. Unfortunately, I know multiple couples in my life who have miscarried. They explain how there is this surge of excitement. There are hopes, dreams, fantasies, excitement, and fulfillment when theres news of a baby coming. However, when it all goes away, it never goes away. The way the Narrator describes her ruby heart, like a fetus in an early stage tells me that they lost their baby all too soon. Extremely unfortunate, and there is a saying that a loss of a kid either makes a couple stronger, or breaks them up, and I think that is one of the pillars to Antonio's and Raquels on going conflict. I believe that Antonio at this border is the border of what could have been.
And anyway, after that fight, Marcos and I became friends. Marcos had good fists. But he had a better heart.
Typical. I know a lot of people who have gotten into fights and then realize that they can actually be really good friends. I have personally experienced this but not because of a physical fight, more emotional than anything.
And I understood that the voices were telling their own stories and the stories they’d been trusted with and the stories of this land that no longer had a voice to speak them. And my story was one of those stories. The faces had been witnessing, telling my story, braiding my story into all the stories that lived in this earth, connecting me, making me theirs.
He came to a realization that these voices in his head are the stories of people who are like himself. His story is only a fraction of the man but are all one braid. he says that these faces have been witnessing his story because its all the same.
the little neon orange flags marking a line on the ground are as obscene as they are in full daylight. I fall on my hands and knees, the voices swirling around me and start pulling the flags out of tehground.
Could he possibly be pulling out the little flags that are the marking of the border?
I am the eyes of woman,sheltered beneathher shawl of black,deep and sorrowfuleyes that bear the pain of sons long buriedor dyingdeadon the battlefield or on the barbed wireof social strife.
This symbolism of not being able to do anything about the conflict or traumatic events other than to witnessing, is powerful here. He switches from saying he is other people to a Woman. I could take the last two lines of this stanza and think of the "barbed wire of social strife" as a country border.
the paradox ofvictory of the spirit,despite physical hunger, orto exist in the graspof American social neurosis,sterilization of the souland a full stomach.
This reminds me of a trip to Mexico when some family members said that life in the north is all worry about money. The brains of Americans is all capitalism, consumerism and TikTok. Meanwhile, life in Mexico is about having a good time and not having to worry about having the next big thing. I like how these two ideas have a strong contrast with each other. For example the "victory of the spirit" compared to "sterilization of the soul" or "physical hunger" to "a full stomach." I think its a perfect way to say that your sould is full, but you are still physically hungry on the side of the paradox which is Mexico.