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Music That Cures Seasonal Affective Disorder

By Daniela Serrano

Despite all my literary aspirations I spend more time listening to music than actually reading. Commuting used to be my reading time but given the choice of having to find a way to hold onto a chair and a book or music, I will choose music. Listening to music, for me, since I moved to Boston, has been something that while calling it political would be stretching the word too much, it certainly is deliberate. In one of the essays in Known and Strange Things Teju Cole says about music: “The music you travel with helps you to create your own internal weather.” When I read this I felt that flash of soul validation one feels when someone else puts into words what we have been struggling with. By putting on headphones and listening, always on repeat, oftentimes mumbling along--in a volume I am certain has made more than one commuter uncomfortable--every once in awhile softly dancing by myself, to the songs I like and the rhythms I wished were more common in Boston I am cocooning myself in this space where I am most me in a city that asks for too much assimilation.

Choosing a definitive list of favorite songs is slightly ridiculous. There is far too much music in the world to try to do something as nearsighted as a “definitive list of songs.” In an exercise pulled directly from High Fidelity one of my most favorite, problematic books I decided to cluster groups of songs when they suited different needs.I organized the songs by seasons because I found I need some of these songs with more urgency during certain weathers. Music has also helped me navigate this new phenomenon. Seasons. This radical and rather violent changing of the weather every set of months. We don't have this where I come from (Yes, Colombia doesn't really have seasons, No, Colombia is not hot all the time, we're not the caribbean). How do people not go insane in living with such an inconstant partner. Anyways, music, my own personal selection of music, has served as a stabilizing weather.

SPRING

1. "Las Transuentes” - Jorge Drexler

With its temperate weather and ontological confusion: is it its own season or just some taunting relapse of winter? It´s a time when I need something soft, but also something sweet. During Spring's warmer days I like to waltz around the city feeling as if everything belongs in a Jorge Drexler song. In particular this song. I also like to listen to pop-y reggae that reminds me of warm nights and drinks and the promise of people. 

2. “Dulcito e Coco” - Vicente García Junto a Kumary Sawyers 

Spring music, like the season itself should blend into the background and make the days bearable without quite marking them. I love in particular listening to Piel Canela, even when I believe it to be “Aunt Music” because it feels redeeming while living in a language that does not have the proper words to describe my skin. I think about this a lot. 

3. “Piel Canela” - Andres Cepeda

4. “Every Other Freckle” - alt-J

Although I know Alt-J is the one odd duck in the list, I still find myself returning to this song and band often. I like the music I like for the same reasons I like the people I like: porque sí and because there is something weird and appealing about them. This song is strange and soft and sometimes even I need a dose of English. 

SUMMER

5. “Sober” - Lorde

I both love and am terrified of Summer. The hours are too long and oftentimes there is too little to do. For me, at least, this particular Summer has involved two things that make me extremely uncomfortable: idle hours and writing. So even though I might front a lot about listening to music in Spanish, I can only write while listening to indie-singer/songwriter-type of music.

6. “The Ideal Husband” - Father John Misty

To be honest, had you looked into my most repeated songs three or four years ago it would have been all Indie Coffeehouse Playlist™. 

I´m all about Belle and Sebastian, I can not not pay attention to anything Father John Misty puts out. Guys, this is a big confession: Indie music is my biggest guilty pleasure. I tag it as guilty pleasure just because I know. I KNOW.  I have seen first-hand the level of pettiness and self importance that inflates people who usually like this music. I still like it. The writing is pretty and the singing is mumbled enough i don't feel tempted to sing along so it does not distract me from writing. 

7. “No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross” - Sufjan Stevens

I end Summer with Tú Sonrisa Inolvidable because it might be one of my Top Five favorite songs, and it deserves a spot somewhere. 

8. “Tú Sonrisa Inolvidable” - Fito Páez

FALL

Fall might be my favorite season for extremely sartorial reasons. It is the perfect season for cute dresses and cute jackets. It is also the weather most similar to home, I think. I like to listen to melancholy music here. They grey of the city does not get more colorful by listening to the always masterful old-school Shakira, but it is brighter. There are some people who, when extremely happy, only like to listen to really sad music. It is something like that.

9. “Que Me Quedes Tu” - Shakira

Things are never “bad” but they can always get better by blasting Me Dediqué a Perderte in my room as if it were a karaoke night after the worst breakup recorded by mankind.

10. “Me Dediqué a Perderte” - Alejandro Fernández

WINTER

11. “Señora” - Otto Serge

Two years ago, as I was preparing to go into the first real winter of my adult life I created a playlist I decided would cure me from any Seasonal Affective Disorder. Sort of a musical equivalent for those sunshine lamps. Since I am the only person who has listened to the playlist I can not claim it “scientifically” works, but it has certainly kept me together. And I believe it has kept me together due, only, to the extremely trash reputation of the music I chose.

On the first night we went out with my two American roommates, as we were asking each other the questions meant to paint an accelerated picture of  this-person-I-am-agreeing-to-pay-to-live-with, we talked about music. I told them I was very glad neither of them had any of the social context to judge the trash I listened to. They didn't understand how what I listed could be trash if all Latin music is dancey and fun. But it´s not. Some of it is vallenato, and although it is Intangible Cultural Heritage according to UNESCO it is also reminiscent of drunk, misogynistic men getting drunk off Old Parr. 

Some of it is reggaeton or salsa. An inordinate amount is champeta that I listen and dance to and sing badly both in private in public because walking about the city with Kevin Florez blasting in my headphones feels like keeping a unique kind of secret. 

12. “La Invite A Bailar” - Kevin Florez

I am aware that the lyrics in most of these songs are problematic at best. But, in all my reading, and lord knows i read a lot, few genres provide such catchy and immediately satisfying lines as “Hay un chorro de bobos que te tienen ganas / pero dile que tu eres Del Rey como Lana”.

13. “Si Tu Novio Te Deja Sola” - J. Balvin  ft. Bad Bunny

At the end of the day what I listen to falls squarely within the realm of things that are my problem. And I will listen to anything and everything that makes me happy, and smile, and reminds me that I used to live in a place where, if I wanted to, I could have gone out dancing every week. And I never did, because I never liked it that much. Until I missed it.  

14. “El Preso” - Fruko y sus Tesos

Listen to full playlist here:

Daniela Serrano is a Colombian editor and translator currently based in Boston.

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A Mix of Home and Away

By Oscar Mancinas

…didn’t know [music] would be what would begin to tell her what she remembers.

-Ofelia Zepeda

        I have the (mis)fortune of belonging to a diaspora. My parents left their homeland and have yet to return—and probably won’t. Meanwhile, ever since I had a say, I’ve done very little to return to any homeland, imagined or otherwise; in fact, I’ve done the opposite and taken almost every opportunity I can to travel, to move, to resist calling anyplace “home.” However, I’m about to return, for a long-term stay, to the land that birthed and raised me, and, this return—the first time I’ll be back home for an extended stay in roughly a decade—brings with it a reflective mood. Channeling this mood into recollection, I decided, would be the best way to go about things. To that end, I’ve compiled my own “mixtape for diaspora,” made up of songs that have followed me—songs that evoke sharp, unmistakable moments but also transcend and take shape in new contexts.

        Choosing music as the backdrop felt obvious. Music is memory. It’s personal yet communal; it connects and divides us, makes us feel when we’re numb, tells things about ourselves we don’t know, or don’t want to know, and, most of all, music tells us where we’ve been and what we’ve done. I divided my selections—or tried, at least—roughly into eras. To be clear, though, by no means do these songs fall along a clean chronology because: a) that’s boring, and b) if you’re part of a diaspora, you know time, history, and memory are anything but linear; rather, these three beats ebb and explode, seemingly at random, as though triggered by something said or left unsaid.

I. Early Fragile Nights

        In my family, there are many of us, and when I was a kid, we took any excuse we could to gather at someone’s house, grill carne asada, and play the night away. The kids would chase each other around until we were too tired to do little else but sit and watch our parents dance and sway to music from their home. Always, the music opening the night was upbeat, a celebration of life and family. Those of us present were to bounce and cheer—nothing’s promised when you leave home, especially when you do so for another country, so vamos a bailar!

1.“El Noa Noa” - Juan Gabriel

(Note: Of course we start with El Divo de Juárez)

        As the night went on, though, the songs slowed and became melancholic. My parents, aunts, and uncles—all firmly entrenched in their respective marriages—swayed and crooned to lyrics of intense heartbreak and loss, like they were the protagonists in each song. Night blended with tender futility, and every grown up moved in their own space like only they knew, truly, the depth of the singer’s yearning. Separated from those nights by more than a few thousand miles and two decades—maybe this says more about me than them, but—I’m tempted to say, for the adults moving slowly through the summer night, the missing beloved in each song was their lost homeland. The pain, I imagine, came from how the land of their birth—present in music, food, and family, nonetheless—was utterly irretrievable.

2. “Como te voy olvidar” – Ángeles Azules

3. “Golpes en el corazón” – Los Tigres del Norte

(Note: A lyric from this song inspired the first poem I ever published in print, which you can also read here)

II. Boppin’ Around the Barrio

        When we were old enough to realize we were different from our parents—but still too young to appreciate what those differences meant—we were restless. The songs of lost love or describing the beauty of another land didn’t always resonate. What, after all, did those singers know about the hood? What could they tell us about being brown but speaking a mixed Spanish? These kinds of questions stirred within us, and we ran around hoping to find answers. Worse still, as we got older, and teachers took notice of me and didn’t take notice of many of my peers—at least not for positive reasons—it became clear that soon I’d have other questions to answer on my own. If I sound melodramatic or nostalgic, it’s probably because I am. Aside from the comradery of shared struggle, little is to be missed from adolescence in the ghetto—and, yet, it’s still home.

        So, before we get too far ahead, we need to stop and appreciate what it was to be on the West Coast(ish), as hip hop from Los Angeles and Oakland became the soundtrack to every scene on a sun-drenched day on the streets. Kickin’ it in the park, cruisin’ down the street, or just chillin’ on somebody’s porch, when Chicano and Mexican artists got their hands on hip hop, it finally felt like somebody knew who we were and what we were going through.

4. “On a Sunday Afternoon” – A Lighter Shade of Brown

(Note: A Lighter Shade of Brown introduced me to the phrase “Brown and Proud”)

5. “Comprendes Mendes” – Control Machete

(Note: ¡El Cerro de la Silla presente!)

        Still, try as we might to shake off some of the old country’s cultura, we couldn’t deny its power. Being a Southwestern Latinx, especially, means also being tuned into Norteño Latinx flavor—that border can’t do anything to stop culture from crossing both ways. Tejas, then, and Tejano music was never more than a track or two away, and even though we didn’t know her for very long Selena made all of us dance like we belonged. 

6. “Bidi Bidi Bom Bom” – Selena

(Note: I won’t fault any reader for pausing the article to go down any number of youtube/spotify rabbit holes, but I especially can’t discourage anyone from watching every single Selena video out there. She’s majestically singular.)

III. Foreigner in a Familiar Land

        Then I went away. In a very white place, in a very white school, I was severed from everything I knew. Never was I more distant, yet hyperaware, of my Latinidad than when I went to college. I tried, nonetheless, to make do. Like a lot of my classmates, who also felt their own brands of disaffection, I relied on emotionally-drenched indie folk and pop music to try to work out where I fit in this suddenly-isolating world, and it helped, a little. 

        At times, though, the new music on which I depended for survival and guidance felt like using a blunt instrument to self-examine almost microscopic wounds. I could relate to artists and bands singing in English, but they couldn’t always relate to me, not all of me, at least. Uncared for went the parts of me that speak almost exclusively in Spanish whenever I’m on the phone with my folks, or shares a joke with complete strangers in a bodega, barbershop, or bus stop, or sits somewhere and reads Reinaldo Arenas or Guillermo Rosales or Elena Poniatowska or Federico García Lorca, or…you get it. Anyway, I craved something and didn’t realize it until it smacked me upside the head and said: “¡O’e we’on, ya p’e, deja de joder!”

        In the colonial capital of Lima, Perú, I had my horribly-belated introduction to Rock Latino. I met, and fell in love with what it meant to be young, Latinx, and frustrated. Thanks to the friends and family I made in Perú, I found the sounds of resistance and desire in my mother tongue. These artists sang of longing, alienation, and primal anger with how, still, the world was not better for us or our people. Intoxicated by it all, I became, momentarily, a howl—freed from a mouth normally forced shut. Time bent and compressed as though I’d snapped back into an existence I was meant to be leading all along, and suddenly it felt like loved ones I’d lost or left behind could join the loved ones who’d found me, and we could have it all. Nights in bars, friends’ houses, clubs, cafes, and parks crashed into and caressed us like the Pacific does Lima’s coast, and I swore I never wanted it to end.

7. “Las Torres” – Los Nosequién y Los Nosecuantos

8. “De música ligera” – Soda Stereo

9. “Lamento Boliviano” – Los Enanitos Verdes

       I imagine, or I hope, everyone feels something like this in this in their early 20s. For me these songs, and the memories of that momentary liberation—or belonging—still bring me a small, quiet peace. For once, diaspora and I could dance, almost, in harmony.

10. “Bicicleta” – Kanaku & El Tigre

(Note: On Kanaku & El Tigre: I saw them open for Andrew Bird in a bar in Lima at 2 am, so don’t ever try to step to me or my indie cred, fool.)

11. “Cinema Pasión” – Turbopótamos

IV. Bring It All Home

      Back in the country of my birth, I’ve learned to carry these songs, and the feelings they conjure, wherever I go. Being, once again, back in an overwhelmingly white space—as many grad schoolers can relate—I have a newfound sense of belonging and focus. Doubt inevitably creeps in, but I know for whom I do the work I do. I know I have a pueblo—several, in fact—out there who hunger like I hunger, and I delight in our chances to connect and give each other a knowing nod when our colors are flourishing in full force.

12. “Latinoamérica” – Calle 13

      As I said before, I’m preparing to end my self-imposed exile and get back to the land from whence I came. A mixture of angst and relief accompanies me, so I’ll resist trying to tie this all together because, honestly, I’m all over place. This is all so personal—as music should be, I think—and I want to believe my journey is nowhere near finished. Instead, then, I’ll encourage whoever reads this to reflect on, recover, and share the music that’s propelled them. I’m always down to learn about the songs people hold close, and how they push and protect you, especially when it seems like loneliness and pain are around the next corner. What keeps us going? Maybe the answer will find us in the next song.

13. “Pick Up Folks” – Los Vikingos del Norte

(¡Viva Chihuahua!)

14. “Leña de pirul” -  La Santa Cecilia

If you want the mix in its entirety, you can find it here. Hasta pronto.

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Nos/Otr@s—Our Others

By Oscar Mancinas

As time drags us to the next presidency, and resistance to the same, I think of words James Baldwin said to himself while visiting the Honorable Elijah Muhammad in Chicago. In The Fire Next Time, when asked about his relationship to white people Baldwin thinks, but doesn’t say out loud: “I love a few people and they love me and some of them are white, and isn’t love more important than color?”

Publication after publication has been trying to cobble together some kind of palatable explanation for the results of November’s presidential election. Unsurprisingly, several writers have tagged intra-communal fracturing as the culprit. Basically, they say, those of us who were anti-Trump failed to unify. Those who did unify were victorious. Though it seems like (mostly) white liberals are wagging a paternalistic finger, muttering “identity politics” like it’s some new-fangled slang their kids—who consume other cultures—are throwing around, recently I saw an opinion piece at Latino Rebels arguing fracturing and internal disagreement was uniquely bad among Latinxs.

In fact, I’d argue the opposite and say the progress made toward coalition-building across age, nationality, class, ability, religion, sexuality, region, gender, and race has been nothing short of amazing. One need not look further than the term “Latinx” and it’s breakthrough into mainstream consciousness. We have our differences, of course, but that’s because we are different. We shouldn’t try to front like we aren’t; to manufacture such an essential identity doesn’t unify, it silences.

I understand disagreement feels like it’s the absolute cause to the worse-case-scenario-now-turned-reality. Never mind the many, many, many other issues at work in the election. Let’s self-flagellate. Somehow, it hurts less this way; pain can feel empowering if we rationalize it as self-inflicted and, maybe, preventable.

During the most recent holidays, I was in México, in a city near the US Border, listening to family members attempt to rationalize Trump, to try to give themselves a little more agency moving forward. When you live outside the empire’s walls, especially directly outside of them, like most Latin Americans, you are at the mercy of the superpower neighbor. Yet, I can’t front like my family and I agree in our critiques of social, political, and economic ills. We diverge on where the solution begins, but we know from where the troubles come and know, deep down, we can’t do a whole lot to change it on our own.

To that end, I’m grateful for the people and publications, which, rather than spill ink over newly perceived divisions instead seek to complicate and to discern past complicit behavior that telegraphed the terrifying present. Indeed, we’re here for more reasons than I can explain—I suspect such a task will take years and unbelievable energy to put into adequate perspective.

A starting point, because that’s all we have at the moment, is self-reflection. Acknowledging shortcomings and complicity might mean constant recognition that individual ascension comes at the expense of community—both physical and cultural. This, however, is how we’ve typically measured progress and success. But for those of us whose home communities are multitudinal and fractured—you know, like the country itself—we carry them with us when as we ascend and our lives change.

(I had to try to make y’all laugh a little)

Still, we do nothing alone, despite intense feeling and mythos to the contrary. Nor, I should stress, do we do things on behalf of entire populations, societies, and chronicles. As time drags us inevitably to the confrontation between the powerful and the many, I think, we need keep close those “few people” we love who love us back. Our intimate others, whom we must join in the struggle to regain voter enfranchisement, healthcare, and even the most basic recognition of humanity. All of this through uncivil means, if need be. Uncivil, often messy, sometimes painful, imperfect, ever-revaluating means. I believe we do this not because History calls upon us, but because, as Baldwin later defends those few he loves who love him back: “Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.”

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Latin@s Be Like piece featured in La Galeria Magazine

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“Make Up Sex” - Vitale

Gerardo Vitale is a Venezuelan audio/visual artist based in Brooklyn, New York. His rock band, Vitale, recently released their first single, "Make Up Sex," a catchy, high energy track from their upcoming EP, "Welcome To The Multiverse." The debut video features a Venezuelan folkloric dance called Joropo, and serves as a cultural bridge for Latin America and the US. Peruvian drummer David Cornejo and Costa Rican multi-instrumentalist Andres Marin joined Vitale when they met in Brooklyn. Follow the band's music and live shows at the main site www.vitalemusic.com YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/vitalemusic Instagram: @gerardovitale81 Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/gerardovitalemusic

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OFF TOO

By Mario Castro

No more crawling in wombs, video games, or cartoon skin because of my anxiety. Weight, what just came out of me? Drugs on a daily bass, Speakers vibrating in an empty case, Distorted sound waves from Bent string theory on the origins of massive black assholes in storage space. No more. Please, no more.

Whores in my eyes, looking in the mirror of my humanity, I beg you not to charge me Top-dollar to pay for cable TV because of my anxiety. Mario. Mario! Where are you crawling off too 

Off too off too off too off too off too off too

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(Mario Castro Experiment)

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Como Se Dice?

By Nicole Ryan

Growing up I had a Granny Vera and a Doña Chuy. Both incredible for their intelligence, perseverance, and for just being badass women. My Granny and I shared weekends playing cards and, when I was old enough, we’d shoot the shit with tequila in hand. My Doña Chuy and I shared the love of dancing and singing.

I

Vera grew up in a small rural town in New Mexico. In school, she had to follow the rule that you were only allowed to speak Spanish during certain times of the day. While in the middle of a Spanish conversation with a friend, the bell rung, indicating it was time to switch. Vera was wrapping up her thought and sentence in Spanish when a teacher overheard her. She was beaten and given detention.

Doña Chuy moved her family from San Juan De los Lagos, Jalisco, México to Castroville, CA in the sixties. She had six kids and fit them and herself into a two bedroom home down the street from the strawberry fields where she found work. The area was home to John Steinbeck and rich soil that gifted us delicious fruits and vegetables. It was also home to many Spanish speakers.

“Yea, but you’re not a real Mexican.” A sentence that has followed me through my adult life. Technically, I wasn’t born in Mexico but I was raised with the culture. It was said by a peer in college, a fellow Latina. I was one of 20 students chosen to present their capstone during our department ceremony of 150 graduates. She was hosting the event and wanted to pronounce my name with a nasally ending like “Mar-kes” instead of a seductive roll off the tongue pronunciation of the “r”, Marquez. She argued that I didn’t speak the language so it shouldn’t matter. I argued that I may not speak the language but the people who gave me that name do and they would be sitting in the audience.

II

Vera travelled with her husband, my “grumpa”, Dave, and they made their way to California after they got married. While visiting friends in Watsonville they both found work. I’ve asked many times but it’s still unclear whether they enjoyed the work or the work just became a habit in their life but they decided to stay. It was there that my mom, aunts, and uncle were born and raised. Vera decided she didn’t want her children to suffer the same discrimination she did as a child and did not teach them Spanish. It would be one less indicator of a culture unwanted.

Doña Chuy started as a worker in the fields but slowly rose to the top in the business. Before she passed away, she owned acres of land and managed the strawberry fields on them. She had two homes- one in California and one in Mexico, and balanced her time between her children, grandchildren, and friends. I once heard that she never spoke English because she didn’t want to lose her culture. She was content just understanding the language and what she didn’t know could be translated by the many bilingual speakers around her.

In my adult life I’ve lived in countless different places,and my parents like to join me and help with the move . My favorite thing to experience is watching my dad find another Spanish speaker and have a conversation with them. He’ll bond with this person like they’re old friends from down the street, tell them that I’ve just moved to this area, and will usually end with him asking them to look out for me. Of course, I never see that person again but I think for him, it’s like leaving me in good hands. In an unfamiliar place, he found comfort and this made it easier for him to say bye to me, again.

III

In college I would visit Vera and do my laundry. We’d sit around the table and catch up on our weeks. I’d tell her about my classes and about the stories I was writing. She’d tell me about her breakfast and how Dave was bugging her.  One day I suggested we try having these conversations in Spanish. It lasted a weekend. She’d laugh at my accent or when I’d forget how to say the word. Our conversations were mostly, “Como se dice...?” “Como se dice...?”

Doña Chuy was visiting us when I was in junior high. My parents and brothers were gone for the evening so it was just the two of us in the house. I suggested we play “Go Fish”. Our conversations were light but it was one of the first times in my life where it was just us. I put on music and our language became dance. I remember listening to Maná, Celia Cruz, and Britney Spears. I get my facial features from my mom’s side, but that night I discovered I got my rhythmic hips from Chuy.

I recently moved to Denver. It’s a nice area filled with Latino culture and history. It’s also a place where I feel little connection to other Latinos. I asked my dad, “why don’t I speak Spanish?” For the first time he didn’t just say “because you were too stubborn to learn it.” He explained that while I was growing up it was important to him that he work hard and that meant he wasn’t home a lot. My mom chimed in to say that when he was home, he wanted to be present with his kids so he spoke their language for an immediate connection.

I still call Vera occasionally, but her hearing is shot, so our conversations still consist of “What did you say?” or Dave will affectionately yell to her what I said. When I visit the town where my Doña Chuy lays to rest, I’ll kneel beside the stone that bears her name and ask, “quieres bailar?” I may never get to experience a fluent conversation in Spanish with them, but it’s time to start speaking.

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The First Kiss

By Cynia Barnwell

I think I had my first kiss.

I must admit, my lips have been touched by others.

Touches that tasted like lust, tongues wagging wet and hungry.

Aggressive hands that run, poke, and prod.

Besos that tease the body but ignore the mind.

Makeouts that left me thirsty but never fulfilled.

I never knew a kiss could quench me;

Make my heart beat hard and fast while the world around me slowed. 

In the midst of our words, you grabbed my face as if not another moment could be wasted without you knowing my taste.

You hovered over me, floating closely above until I could not see.

Your image became blurred by the proximity but permeated my spirit.

And there I carry that feeling.

And that night we conceived. Conceived of words, possibilities, and dreams.

You summoned your courage and slayed my guard.

And there we met each other in the middle.

Your kiss didn’t feel effortless, or bold, no nervous energy to consume me. 

Your kiss was not an action, it was a resource.

Your kiss was home.

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Sueño Americano

By Cynthia Nayeli Carvajal 

“Did you ever think I would be doing this, moving to New York City for my Masters? Was this what you imagined for your sueño americano when we immigrated to this country?”

I asked my dad this question in the parking lot of an In-n-Out. I eagerly waited for an insightful response. He always has a spare one in his pocket in moments like these; ready at the turn of a phrase.  But he stayed silent. Contemplating. ‘This is going to be a really good one,’ I thought to myself. ‘Must be if it’s taking this long to answer.’ I wanted to quickly find a notebook to write it down but didn’t dare to make any sudden movements incase it derailed his train of thought. I always wanted to mark down his insightful idioms and make a book out of them but I never had pen and paper at the ready. And I always felt it would seem so disingenuous. Shouldn’t it be savored in the moment and not saved for an arbitrary future?  Anyway, I’m not much of a writer so what’s the point of —

“¿Cómo podría haber imaginar me algo que ni siquiera sabía que existía?”

“How could I have imagined something that I didn’t even know existed?” was his response.

And there it was, but this sabiduría struck a different cord in me than his previous ones. Mostly, it reminded me of just how naïve my question had been. Mi papá, sitting next to me lost in thought had always found himself at odds with his country and this home. A country and culture he abandoned and forced his family to abandon, in order to start a new life in another home.

A home that took his blood, sweat, and tears in exchange for an American dream he had promised his family. Hiding from el hielo, while his daughters studied the American dream in school, watched it on the TV, and sang to it on the radio. But while he worked and toiled, I had developed my own dream. A dream that went beyond the boundaries of his sueño americano. A dream that knew that if it was left in the borderlines of Los Ángeles and Califas it would suffocate under it’s own ambition.

This dream seemed so ingrained to me that I hadn’t realized I was leaving my father’s sueño behind. Un sueño he had worked and sacrificed everything to gift to me; and I had forgotten it even existed.

I could feel tears swell up behind my eyes, and took a bite from my hamburger to distract myself. My father laughed to lightened the mood.

“I just wanted you to graduate high school, because that’s all I knew. Then you went to UCLA and I wanted you to graduate college. Y ahora, Columbia University. I didn’t even know that existed.”  He continued to laugh, “Pero tú sabes que yo te apoyo, lo que sea, yo te apoyo”

I kept eating, a knot in my throat stealing from me any heartfelt response I could come up with. 

“Lo sé, papi” was all I could muster.

On the drive home I changed the subject and talked about all the food I would miss while in New York and everything I was excited about in the big apple. There was a lot more I wanted to say to him, something sentimental, but it’s never been in my nature.

The next morning I boarded a plane to NYC leaving behind everything I knew. But his words followed me and reminded me that my American Dream would be nothing without his sueño americano.

____________________________________________________

Cynthia Nayeli Carvajal is originally from Guadalajara, Mexico. She grew up in Boyle Heights, East Los Angeles from the age of 5 until she moved to New York City for her Masters program where she resided for two years. She is currently living in Tucson, AZ where she is pursuing her PhD and working with students on issues of undocumented student college access in the Arizona area. 

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Amongst the Strawberries

By Linda Dianne

There are several moments where my patience is tested as a queer-identifying Latina in media. Some days it’s a micro-aggression the floats across the hall into my lap. It curls itself up beside me; hoping to distract me from my routine. But then there are other days where a direct comment slips between another’s lips and scald me from within; a numb pain that continues to haunt for days, weeks, and even months after the initial burn.

While I have trained myself to create an invisible barrier to the most common annoyances—to put it kindly—there are extraordinary circumstances that consume me. One such case happened not too far in the distant past where one person’s childhood anecdote really underlined the problems in the way Latinos are treated in many parts of the country.

It started off innocently enough­—with rumbling stomachs and a desire for fresh fruit. My friend Rosie* and I were looking forward to a weekend full of farmers markets where the fruit and veggies around you practically call you forward, dollars in hand, to take them home with you. We laughed at the thought of the juiciest strawberries crying out our names, looking forward to their own demise. That’s when it happened–a story so tone-deaf that my friend Rosie & I, the only Latinas in the vicinity, were left speechless.

Ally* walked over to where we were holding our sides in pain and began, “I have a funny story about strawberries that still makes me laugh to this day.” She chortled. Hard. Her pink skin turned red as she tried gasping for air at her incoming punch line. “When I was little, my mother struggled for months to get my brother to school” she continued awkwardly. “So one day, my mother drove him to the closest strawberry fields and pointed.” I held my breath. Without hearing how this story concluded, I knew I wouldn’t like it. I start walking myself towards my desk now–hoping to find refuge in the distance.

“If you won’t go to school, pick up a shovel and join them,” Ally performed in a WASP-y accent I could only assume was an imitation of her mother; bursting into laughter as she completed her thought. The room fell silent and my mouth was agape. I was embarrassed, furious and confused. After what seemed like hours, Rosie responded with a curt and monotone, “Huh. Interesting story”–giving Ally the final nod of approval for her to leave the scene.

Rosie and I turned our swivel chairs to face each other without saying a word. Our humanity was nothing but a worst-case scenario. While my family history isn’t connected to the California strawberry fields, I have many friends whose parents and grandparents worked or remain working amongst these berries. And yet, to this young, white, privileged woman, they (and in effect, we) were a completely foreign concept to her/her family­.

While I’ve experience racism in the workplace across the span of my career, there has never been a clearer moment in my life where I was a bright, neon sign of othering. In the age of political candidate Donald Trump, micro-aggressions have become commonplace, it seems.  More and more people are seeing Latin@s as a problem rather than an integral part of this society—even in our everyday lives!

So more than ever, I urge my fellow Latin@s to take up your metaphorical swords and fight back. Work for people who care about your stories and your humanity. Support your fellow Latin@s and lend your voice to the discourse. Let’s stop these inane and racist thoughts from proliferating. Now.

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On Being Daddy's Little Feminist

By Elizabeth B.

I wonder if my father ever curses the day he came to the United States with my mother, and conceived a raging future feminist.

He got way more than what he bargained for, let me tell you.

Growing up, my father and I clashed over everything and anything, which pretty much comes with the territory of being an only child, and a very sassy one at that. However, when you throw internal conflicts over traditional Latin gender roles into the mix, that's where things tend to get a little more interesting.    

On one hand, my dad wanted me to be top of my class. He always told me school was my greatest priority and I should value my education over everything, including men. On Friday nights, he would come home from work, Bacardi bottle in hand, pull me in close, and give me the lowdown (basically, drunken wisdom).  

"I don't ever want you to end up stuck with any man. The day you get married, you need to have a career, so that if he messes up or treats you badly, you can show him the door, no problem."

On the other hand, my father blew a gasket every time I didn't properly sweep the house or wash the dishes or scrub a pot hard enough.

"If you don't know how to wash dishes or prepare a meal or clean a bathroom, you are good for nothing! You need to learn how to do these things!"

The day I told my parents I was going away to college (eight hours away), my father stopped speaking to me for a few months. In his eyes, I had no business, as an 18 year old girl, going away and living by myself. There were plenty of great colleges I could easily commute to while still living at home. Also, this is just not how it's done in Colombia. You stay at home, you help out around the house, you go to school and/or work, and you wait patiently until the man of your dreams shows up, and asks you to marry him. Eventually, my father forgave this transgression... until I came home from college, decided NYC was not the place for me, and moved to California. He still hasn't forgiven me for that one.

These prescribed gender roles are so deeply entrenched in his brain, we still have a hard time getting along. He doesn't understand why I'm so blunt, so outspoken, so unwilling to fit any mold. However, despite all his complaints, I often hear through the grapevine how proud of me he is because I'm super independent and super determined to be successful on my own. I can also thrown down in the kitchen, and play susie homemaker with the best of them. Just saying.

I know deep down he admires the woman I have become, even if he can't tell me that himself.

It's our little secret, Dad.  

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The Revolution Will be Televised

By Linda Dianne 

It took twenty-eight years for me to relate to a family on Primetime television. Twenty-eight. And while many average television viewers may find that statement ludicrous, I am not what one considers average.

 I am a first generation American; the first to complete their Master’s degree—not to mention the only one to attend college.  I work for a media company and am actively working towards the very things my parents and grandparents only hoped to achieve in their wildest dreams. This life, or something like it, was never once written about in positive light. It was mocked or veiled. It was a storyline reserved for tertiary characters whose life needed saving.  That was until Cristela Alonzo brought us Cristela on ABC.

 Cristela was like the first snowfall of the season in New York: refreshing yet delicate, familiar yet unique. This groundbreaking program allowed me to truly see myself, and my family, on television. For the first time, I saw frank discussions onscreen that would discuss conversations and family strife that I had witnessed first-hand. Would Cristela put aside her career to help her family in time of need? Would Daniela really pretend that her sister was her maid in order to fit in with the other mothers in school? It was these plotlines that I had missed for nearly three decades and it was these stories that would keep me tuned in week after week.

 But much like a first snowfall, Cristela was over far too soon. On May 7th, after poor ratings and only a “small” following, the show was ceremoniously cancelled. And while many television critics might not have paid Cristela any mind, it created an environmental shift that will be felt for years to come. For with this show, we have witnessed a milestone: the first primetime sitcom created, written and produced by a Latina, Cristela Alonzo.

 Alonzo has told the world that Latinas and Latin@ stories matter. Alonzo has exposed the “typical television viewer” that #NotAllLatinos are cholos, maids, or gardeners. We have nuance. So thank you, Cristela,porque con tu guía podemos.

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Estudia La Revolución

By Oscar Mancinas 

          If you’ve spent any amount of time on social media, you, for sure, have noticed two trends. The first involves people (specifically those in their 20s) reminding you of some pop culture/political/social moment or event that occurred [x] years ago. Usually a post like this is accompanied by the caption “OMG! When did we a get so old? Time is just flying by! #washed” or something to that degree.

           The second trend, seemingly more serious but as easily dismissible, nonetheless, is the side-by-side—sometimes just a single image—showing a person or a group promoting or defending inequality or injustice: think of photos of people protesting interracial marriage or same-sex marriage or women’s rights or rights for black people or any other civil rights movement. These photos are usually accompanied by a caption like “How does it feel to know you’re on the wrong side of history?”

           Again, both trends are equally dismissible, and that’s a problem. Quarter-life crises are the things rom-coms are made of, but relating our contemporary struggles for equality to those of the past, that’s something worth exploring. So why, then, is it so dismissible? The answer is both simple and complex: there is no such thing as the wrong side of history.

           I’ll say it again: There. Is. No. Such. Thing. As. The. Wrong. Side. Of. History.

           History is something we make up, and remake up. Like movies or memories, history changes depending on who the viewers are and when they’re viewing it. Was September 11, 2001 a day when the US united in the face of horrible violence and terrorism? Or was September 11, 2001 a day where the US continued its trend of singling out and systematically perpetuating violence on those who don’t “fit the profile” of being “real Americans?” History should be exactly that: paradoxical questions that complicate us as much as we complicate it.

           I can remember an instance when I was in the 8th grade and my history teacher chastised me and a fellow student for speaking Spanish to one another in class. Such behavior drew the ire of several educators and policy-makers alike in Arizona because it was—and still is—seen as “un-American.” Our teacher told us to knock it off, and I, being the smart-ass that I am, responded with something like “Ah, come on. What’s the big deal? Technically Arizona used to be part of Mexico.” (A week or so earlier, we’d wrapped up a unit about Manifest Destiny and the territory the US “acquired” throughout the 19th Century).

           Teacher was not amused. His face tightened a bit and, in a volume that wasn’t quite yelling but also wasn’t just speaking, he said something to the degree of “Well, it’s not anymore, is it? You lost the war, and so now this is the US, and in the US we speak English. That’s history.” I went completely silent and felt my face burn.

           More than ten years later—oh wow, has it really been over a decade?—I reflect on this incident, and I don’t even know where to begin. “You lost,” not they, not The Mexican Army: you. You lost; you were wrong; you are on the wrong side of history. This is not to single him out; in fact, I think that’s too often the problem with conflicts: people seek a scapegoat, a bad egg, a glitch in the system—as though the system itself weren’t designed to foster some glitches, or, at least, one prominent glitch repeating itself in different forms.

           As I close out this piece, I want to remind the reader—as well as myself—of several, seemingly, paradoxical traits about history:

1)      Just because something has never happened before doesn’t mean it’s impossible, and just because something happens all the time doesn’t mean it’s unstoppable.

2)      Women’s suffrage, civil rights, voting rights for 18 year olds, the abolition of slavery: none of these acts were approved by popular vote, but, rather, they were products of collaboration between social groups and the government.

3)      Slavery, Jim Crow, land rights exclusively for men, the Defense of Marriage Act: these also were not approved by popular vote, but, rather, were products of collaboration between groups and the government.

 I’ll leave you now with this article from NPR about the MOVE Bombing in Philadelphia in 1985, written by Gene Demby. What was the MOVE Bombing? Great question! Read the piece and find not only what it is but also why you may’ve not known about it. One line, in particular, that stuck with me was when Demby writes “History gets commodified and redistributed much more quickly today.” History is something we make and remake and judge, it doesn’t make us nor does it judge us.

[latinosbelike]

El Trivio (Game)

Created by Perla Gomez

What does it mean to be Latino? Is it a matter of language, geography, culture, self identity, all of the above, none of them?

This game is not looking to answer questions, but on the contrary, to raise them. To make us question ourselves and others, to pay attention at things we haven’t notice before. Analyze our own relationship with the above concepts and their relationship with others.

Media maker Perla Gomez created this game as a final project for two classes: “Race, ethnicity and class in media” and “Design principles”. The content is based on the former and the form on the latter. Two very different sources of knowledge coming together.

Click on the link to start playing!

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A One Woman Revolution

By Elizabeth B.

At the beginning of the school year, I insisted that Frida Khalo be added to the school artist of the month curriculum. Then, April rolled around and I realized that Frida Khalo, her art and her story, might be considered pretty heavy stuff for a group of 10 year olds.

As teachers, we wield a special power in the lives of special, little people – I often feel it is our responsibility to ensure students are exposed to people, to ideas, and concepts that will make those wheels turn.

Who better at making those wheels turn than the Mexican treasure that is Frida Khalo?

A few months ago, while visiting Mexico City, I had the opportunity to visit La Casa Azul. We waited on line for over two hours, and made it in just before closing time. 

While standing on that line, I thought about the first time I saw her work. Many years ago, I stumbled across Me and My Parrots, one of her most famous and well-known self-portraits.  

The courtyard of La Casa Azul, Frida’s house, which is now a museum.

I was immediately struck by the intensity of the woman’s gaze, the confidence in the way she sat, the warmth emanating from her beautiful brown skin. Her hair was dark and thick like rope. My eyes lingered on that unapologetic monobrow.

She even had a faint trace of a mustache, just like some of my aunts. And just like some of the aunts, and my mother, the woman in the painting exuded the silent but fierce strength many Latin@ women possess.

Frida loved Mexico, lindo y querido. She loved, cared and worried for her pueblo greatly. Although many people celebrate her feminism, and the homage she pays to indigenous Mexican culture in her artwork, they tend to overlook the political aspect found in her work, in which she strongly criticizes notions of capitalism and democracy.  

She once said, “I must fight with all my strength so that the little positive things that my health allows me to do might be pointed toward helping the revolution. The only real reason for living.”

We are now living in times of racial and political turmoil. Some say we are well over due for a revolution. I say, the revolution has already begun. Every day that I step into the classroom at my predominately white school, I step in not only as a teacher, but also a proud Latin@ woman, hungry for change and ready to empower a new generation with a strong sense of humanity and justice, sprinkled with a dash of love and interest for all things Latin@.

Thanks, Frida. The kids loved you.

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Richmond Terrace

By Gloria Clemente

The van that we drive can fit up to eight people, but nine of us squeeze inside the car. That’s Big Eva and Ma in the front. Then Little Eva, my five sisters, and me.  The adults are laughing in this gigantic way that has me and the girls all excited. The radio is playing a song that Big Eva just loves. She’s the type of woman who can sing “Turn the Beat Around” just like Gloria Estefan.           The woman who does choir at St. Paul’s always gives Big and Little Eva the best parts. Personally, I think I have a good voice, too. But when I try to reach the high notes, it’s like climbing too many stairs and then feeling your knees give out.           “That’s because you are an alto,” Little Eva says, because she thinks being a soprano is the best thing in the world.           But I can reach some low notes she won’t ever be able to touch.           Ma and Big Eva do almost everything together. They cook, and they watch novelas, and they go to the Caldor’s on Sunday, and on the weekends during lunch they talk about the woman who lives next door and doesn’t take care of her kids: “Letting the thirteen-year-old walk out the house like that.” They throw joint birthday parties for us, take turns babysitting, and in 1993 they both got dressed up and went to my elementary school to vote for Clinton. They speak Spanish very, very fast, and they both drive ugly yellow cars. (Though, personally, I believe Big Eva’s car is uglier than ours.)

          We’re heading down the street singing, and I’m pulling my little sister’s hair, till she starts yelling, “Ma, tell Vicky to stop.”           And I try not to laugh when Ma turns around with both hands still on the steering wheel and says, “Touch her hair again, and I’ll beat the living shit out of you.”           “Big baby,” I whisper to the back of my sister’s head, which is curly and matted. I look outside the window, at some tall grass pushing against the chain linked fence of a closed off lot.           “Sigue,” Ma says. “Wait till we get back to the house.”           Little Eva laughs because she enjoys when I get in trouble. We’re always fighting because we’re both the oldest and a little bit bossy. But she’s older than me, and weighs about forty pounds more than I do. In the past, she’s used those extra pounds to knock me down during fights, and once she tackled me and punched me hard in the leg five times, in the basement where we used to dress up and push a VHS of Madonna music videos into the VCR and dance.             I hated her for that.           I wanted to peel her droopy cheeks away from her chin, but instead I resorted to sneakier methods – such as slapping Little Eva in the back of the head when she least expected it, then running away, fast, as she yelled, “You freaking punk.”           Once, I can no longer pull my sister’s hair, the car ride quickly becomes boring. I look out the window and dream about the constellation of lives denied to me. It is true, maybe, that secretly I was adopted and that really I’m from Australia or Japan. And maybe if I stare at the jeep in front of us long enough, I’ll be able to lift it with my eyes, then make it land on Little Eva. Or maybe if Big Eva gets out the car, and if I ask Ma alone, so that I don’t “embarrass her in front of other people,” or act like I’m “starving,” just maybe she will buy us ice cream for dinner tonight.           Richmond Terrace is so long and gray and ugly that it reminds me of all of these other boring things, such as, for example, how my favorite TV show is going to be a repeat tonight. We drive past a high school and stop at a red light next to a circle of teenagers, all girls, whose excited mouths are both smiling and snarled at the same time. One girl is jumping and grinning like a jack-in-the-box. The girls’ arms are pumping up and down as if they are hammering a nail, as if their elbows are being pulled by an invisible string. Somebody is screaming from the center of their fists.           I see the strangest thing. Two girls move to the side, and in front of the school building, against its black gates is this girl whose shirt is lifted over her head, so that I can see her fully grown breasts flop out of her bra, reddening inside the cold. I think of my own breasts, which have not grown, yet, and then say, “Mom!”           She looks outside, too, brakes the car beside the curb, then shouts, “Open the door, Vicky.”           I slide it open, and then me and my sisters and Little Eva stare at the crowd of teenagers. The girl who had her breasts out has pulled her shirt down and is getting pushed back and forth with in the circle. Every time, she reaches out for someone’s neck, another hand pulls her back into the center, beneath the crowd’s fists. She has a skinny friend, too, who’s wearing glasses and trying to fight the circle of kids.           “Get in,” Ma yells through the open door at the girl who’s getting jumped.           The skinny one grabs her friend from the middle of the circle, and the two of them leap in to the van, so that now there’s eleven of us sitting on top of each other. The beaten up girl is sitting right next to me, thin lines of blood forming on her face where they’ve scratched her. And all I can think of is the strangeness of her body almost on top of mine and bleeding.           “Where am I taking you?” Ma asks the girls.           “I don’t know,” says the one next to me and then to the skinny one, “I told my mom that I didn’t want to go to that fucking school.” Now, me and my sisters aren’t allowed to curse, at all, and once Ma smacked me hard for calling  Little Eva stupid. So, I look at the girl and then I look at my mom, who’s just sitting there. “Where do you want me to take you?”           The skinny girl with the glasses asks the girl beside me, “What do you think, Toya?”           But Toya is bent into her lap, crying.           “I’ll take you to the precinct, so you can report it?” Ma says.           “They took my shirt off. I told her that school was fucked up.”           “Take us to the precinct,” says the skinny girl, lifting her wet glasses away from her cheek, which is dotted with acne.           Ma pulls up next to the ferry, and both of the girls step awkwardly out of the car, in front of the tall dark precinct. Before sliding the door shut, the skinny girl says to my mother quietly, “Thank you, very much.”

          This is a story I like to remember about my mother, in spite of anything that has happened to us, in spite of anything that will happen to us: Ma yelling at me to open the door and that skinny girl whispering to my mother through her broken lips, “Thank you.”