San Francisco trash can. Caution, items may escape.
This weekend in San Francisco I was asked a couple of questions that sort of surprised me and for one reason or another have lingered in my thoughts.
Someone asked me if I was Native American but they meant north of the US border native. It’s a common enough question but still interesting that the border still somehow defines a “regular” Native American person from an indigenous person in Mexico. I recognize no borders when it comes to my pre-European heritage.
Another person after hearing me speak for a few minutes asked me if I was from New Mexico. To this person’s ears my heavy vowel and soft consonant accent reminded them of their family from the region. Do Chicanos in the Bay Area not have accents? Anyways, I explained the accents are similar because they are derived from border languages of Spanish and indigenous dialects that moved west with folks from New Mexico, Arizona, Sonora and Chihuahua. But the accent here in Los Angeles is changing. It’s only the old-timers that speak like George Lopez nowadays. Glad to hear it’s alive and well in the ranchos of New Mexico.
Interesting that both of these simple questions brought up many more issues of identity than I was prepared to deal with at the time. Don’t ask me these kinds of things while I’m enjoying a beer, unless you’re prepared for a brutally honest response or a long, rambling answer.
Over at LA Eastside there’s been a long discussion on 90s culture in Los Angeles. Commenter Metro Vaquero linked to the awesome video above of a parking lot turned dance floor in the Valley. Quebradita was crazy popular in Los Angeles during the early 90s. It was the first time in my life where listening to your parent’s music was acceptable and dressing like a Mexican was something to be proud of. The tejanas and botas are still in fashion today. And I still dream of one day dancing Quebradita…
My grandfather, Atanasio “Tony” Garcia with the locals.Note the lederhosen on the young boys.
The war stories from my grandfather only came during rare moments. He never bragged about his service nor volunteered information about his experiences in World War Two. According to my uncles and mother, my Grandpa Tony did his best to not remember what happened during the war. I’m sure he wasn’t the only one.
Grandpa Tony before the war. He sure loved his cars!
The stories about his service were eventually passed on to me. Being a Mexican in the US Army was a struggle in itself. He was treated as inferior and given riskier assignments and positions. However, he accepted them without protest and persevered. The document below explains how he received the Silver Star. Thanks to Hollywood films, I can imagine visually how the battle went down. More vivid to me is the story told to me by my uncle. For many years after my grandfather returned home from the war, my grandmother would sit him at the kitchen table in the morning and gingerly pick out pieces of shrapnel that were lodged in his skin. As part of the troop front-line, he caught the worst of a land mine. I wish I would have been old enough to ask my grandfather about these things but he probably wouldn’t have wanted to share them with me – too much shrapnel in his memories.
Citation-Award of the Silver Star Medal, 83rd Division
Thankfully, my father’s time in Vietnam was a little less traumatizing. As kids, my brother and I heard all his stories and would tease him a bit when he told the same ones again and again. We would often joke “Here comes Vietnam story number 103!” after he took us to see the latest Hollywood Vietnam era film. He might not like me to speak of it but I was pleased to know he questioned his command for their racist practices. Unfortunately, this got him in substantial trouble but he says he has no regrets. I’m proud to know I come from a family of folks who are not afraid to speak their minds and stand up for their rights.
Altar dedicated to my grandmothers and some favorite revolutionaries: Emma Goldman, Zapata and Phoolan Devi, 2008.
Both my mother and grandmothers have always had different kinds of altars in the house, some have been religious and others, just a pleasing way of placing favorite objects. Until I was an adult I didn’t give much thought to this tradition, even though I found myself replicating them in my own home. The unusual use of materials and creative placement is what usually catches my eye in other people’s altars. I was already well acquainted with the examples I’ve seen here in Los Angeles – a public altar aesthetic that is familiar to those who attend Chicano produced Dia de los Muertos events i.e. lots of papel picado, glittery, bright colors. In Mexico I was able to see quite a few traditional and native altars or ofrendas (as they are called in Mexico) and have included these photos as examples of the various regional styles.
It wasn’t until the last few years that I discovered my family had been living in Los Angeles much longer than I thought. I always assumed it was my great-grandmother Matilde who decided to move west after my 32 year old great-grandfather Zacarias died from turberculosis (a disease most likely related to his working in the Arizona copper mines.) Apparently, Matilde’s mother, known in our family as Nana Grande had already been living here in Los Angeles and according to family hearsay had also been running a boarding house in New York City. I can’t imagine this last part is true because the rumor concerns some salacious rumors of secret offspring and such and furthermore, how in the world does a Mexican woman of limited economic means move between Sonora, Los Angeles and New York in the early 1900s? I suppose it’s somehow possible.
As I slowly make my way through the old family photos, I see “Los Angeles” on a great number of them, such as this photo of my great-great aunt Trinidad and her husband Enrique Porter. I often wonder what life was like for them? My grandmother has told me countless stories of discrimination and yet, it seems she and her family easily intermarried and mixed/socialized with non-Mexicans. Not too much has changed in this city.
I’ve recently taken a small diversion from Flamenco and electronic music to explore the realms of Border music. I think it has to do with my ongoing nostalgia for the Southwest. A few years ago, I took trips to Arizona and New Mexico to do some genealogical research and left feeling connected to that geographic area, the roots trailing behind me on the highway home. Unfortunately, I no longer have immediate family in the region, but I’m sure Tucson is filled with distant relatives I will probably never meet. These trips and my on-going genealogical investigations inspired my new found interest in border music.
These emotions were stirred up recently when I watched the Arhoolie produced video, Chulas Fronteras.
“’Chulas Fronteras’ provides a magnificent introduction to the most exciting Norteña (“Northern†Texas-Mexican border) musicians working today: Los Alegres de Teran, Lydia Mendoza, Flaco Jimenez and others. The music and spirit of the people is seen embodied in their strong family life and sheer enjoyment of domestic rituals preparing of food and eating, celebrating a 50th wedding anniversary, gathering in the backyard with friends. At the same time Blank does not overlook the hardships, in particular the Chicano experience of migrating from state to state with the seasons for work in the fields. He makes clear the role that music has in redeeming their lives by giving utterance to collective pain. For music, politics and life are integrated in this film in a way that is both enchanting and unsettling.â€
These past few weeks I’ve spent most of my free time sorting, scanning and editing old family photos. I’ve been trying to get copies to various family members, while at the same time researching the stories behind the pictures.
The photo above was taken in El Sereno and is of my great aunt Doris (who recently passed away) and her daughter Suzie. Suzie says this picture made it into the newspaper and I can see why. Snow in El Sereno?
I hope kids in Baldwin Park were able to get pictures of themselves playing in the ice/snow that unexpectedly covered their neighborhood today.
See here for more info.
By the way, I spotted reproductions of old Teen Angels magazines for sale at a Downtown Broadway magazine kiosk just last week.
I recently checked my blog stats and was surprised to discover “chola bracelets” was one of the top search queries leading to this site. I myself have had difficulty finding graphics, photos or any info whatsoever having to do with the once ubiquitous black rubber bracelets. So I’ve decided to placate the Google gods with these images in order to aid those looking for graphic samples of this not quite forgotten 70s chola fashion accessory. Example number one, above.
