Cinco de Mayo

It’s Cinco de Mayo and if you’re of Mexican descent, you know at least one thing about it: the pseudo-holiday is just another reason for the masses (i.e. gringos) to go out and get wasted on copious amounts of cheap Mexican beer and shudder-inducing Jose Cuervo margaritas. Not that the masses need a “historical” excuse to drink and party. There are plenty of reasons to get plastered, what with the sluggish economy and depressing unemployment rate, which still stands at 8 percent. For better or worse, Cinco de Mayo is largely considered by many in this country as an opportunity to crash a fiesta (i.e. happy hour), eat a couple of tacos, listen to mariachi music, and gulp down some Coronas. It’s also obvious the drink specials in honor of Cinco de Mayo are a tacky and heavily commercialized ruse to persuade people to carelessly waste money on booze. How did Cinco de Mayo, which literally means fifth of May, become such a mockery? 


I’m a Chicana who identifies strongly with her Mexican roots, and I find it bothersome that the people consuming cheap tequila on Cinco de Mayo are blissfully unaware of its origins and apathetic of its cultural significance. And I’m not the only Chicana who feels this way. Many of my friends, who also have Mexican roots, deride the “holiday” and avoid participating in any of the festivities. But I’m not here to rain on your Cinco de Mayo parade. You can sip on the discounted Mexican alcohol (who drinks Cuervo anyway?) and eat greasy nachos but not before reading a little history lesson on the origins and significance of Cinco de Mayo (SPOILER: it’s not just another beer-drinking holiday, like St. Patrick’s Day).

How many people reading this blog entry believe Cinco de Mayo is a major holiday in México? Or that it represents México’s independence? It seems there are many misconceptions about such a popular holiday in the United States. Even people of Mexican descent get Cinco de Mayo all wrong.

First, Cinco de Mayo does not commemorate the independence of México. September 16^th is México’s Independence Day, which is the day in 1810 when Miguel Hidalgo (a priest and one of the greatest revolutionary figures in México) issued a proclamation known as “El Grito de Dolores.” On the morning of the 16^th, Padre Hidalgo called mass and in front of a crowd of 300 Mexicans and Spaniards, he urged his parishioners to abandon their homes and join him in a struggle for freedom against the Mexican royal government. México eventually achieved its independence from Spain in 1821.  

Second, Cinco de Mayo celebrates the victory of 4,000 Mexican soldiers against 8,000 French forces at the Battle of Puebla on the morning of May 5, 1862 in Puebla, México. On July 17, 1861, President Benito Juárez issued a moratorium and stated all foreign debt payments would be suspended for two years. México had never experienced financially stable times and the country underwent a severe economic crisis during the 1850s. The Mexican Treasury was nearly bankrupt after several consecutive wars and México owed hefty sums to France, Britain and Spain. They were demanding repayment and México, as they say in Spanish, “no tenía donde caerse muerto.” In other words, México couldn’t even afford to dig its own grave, let alone repay substantial foreign debts. Needless to say, the three European nations of France, Britain and Spain greeted the moratorium with hostility and armed forces. They sent naval forces to Veracruz in order to demand reimbursement. Britain and Spain negotiated with México and eventually withdrew. But France saw this as an opportunity to expand its empire and seize territory in México. At the time, the French Army of Napoleon III was considered the premier army in the world. So if the French ruler went around issuing military threats, you best believe he meant invasion business. Late in 1861, a well-armed French fleet stormed Veracruz. They expected to march from the port city to México City without encountering much resistance. Indeed, President Juárez and his government were forced to retreat. But they eventually sent troops, under the command of General Ignacio Zaragosa, to Puebla to confront the French. The Mexican troops consisted almost entirely of indigenous soldiers. General Zaragosa's troops were outnumbered and also severely under-equipped. La Batalla de Puebla raged on for two hours, after which time the French were forced to retreat to Orizaba. The Mexican military prevailed under the leadership of General Ignacio Zaragoza and overcame overwhelming odds to defeat a much larger, better-trained and equipped French army.

Third, Cinco de Mayo is mostly observed in this country. Cinco de Mayo is a regional holiday, limited primarily to the state of Puebla. Although other parts of the country commemorate the event with a parade or festival, it isn’t widely celebrated in Mexico like it is in the United States. In fact, it's virtually ignored. September 16^th (Mexican Independence Day) gets top honors as the largest national patriotic holiday in Mexico.  

Fourth, Mexicans and Latinos living in California during the American Civil War were the first to celebrate Cinco de Mayo in the United States. Then, during the rise of the Chicano movement in the 1940s, Cinco de Mayo started to become a fashionable holiday to celebrate. But while the holiday crossed over into the United States in the 1950s and 1960s, it didn't gain popularity until the 1980s when marketers, especially beer companies, capitalized on the celebratory nature of the day and began to promote it.

Fifth, there isn’t a fifth. Lists just always look more legitimate and well rounded with a number 5 or a fifth in a series.

And there you have my fine historical lesson. Now you know a little bit more about Cinco de Mayo than you did 10 minutes ago. But will that stop you from knocking back a Tecate or Dos XX this evening? Probably not. Just remember: while there might be many people (i.e. Gringos and Mexican-Americans) looking for any excuse to party on Cinco de Mayo, there are others, like me, who care about its origins and cultural significance. Although La Batalla de Puebla on Cinco de Mayo appears militarily insignificant in light of France's subsequent invasion, it did inject Mexicanos with pride and patriotism. Since its independence from Spain in 1821, México had suffered one tragedy after another. But for one brief moment in history, Mexicanos could look upon the rubble of a battle in triumph instead of defeat.

It’s important for me to reflect on an event like La Batalla de Puebla and remember fighting is in my blood. Mexicanos never give up the fight or lay down their arms in the face of impending doom. Even after the odds look incredibly grim and victory is nowhere in sight, a Mexicano always stands tall, proud and fearless. They say the guerreros come from Guerrero but if you look back in time, there are guerreros in every Mexicano. So while I don’t care for Cinco de Mayo and its commercialization, it hasn’t lost its real meaning for me, despite the advertisement industry.

On a different note, there’s a supermoon (when the full moon is closest to the Earth) rising this Saturday on Cinco de Mayo. If you’re going to toast to something this Cinco de Mayo, toast to the lunar spectacle. At least it’s a more fitting toast to give on a day that shouldn't even be celebrated here, assuming you're not holding a Cuervo margarita in your hand (shudders).    

Every Single Night

The wait is officially over. After 7 long years without producing new angst-filled material, Fiona Apple finally released the first single off her forthcoming album, The Idler Wheel (full title: The Idler Wheel Is Wiser Than The Driver of The Screw And Whipping Cords Will Serve You More Than Ropes Will Ever Do). If “Every Single Night” is any indication of the musical goods Fiona has crafted for her highly anticipated album, then fans will not be disappointed--Fiona is back stronger and more tortured than ever. In typical tormented fashion, Fiona sings about an endless and agonizing battle with (surprise) herself. Her expressive voice starts off serene and soothing but quickly reveals the pain, anger and torture she struggles with every night. She can’t shut her brain off—her ideas saturate more than her restless mind. The lyrics vacillate between intensities throughout the duration of the song, from cycles of calming, whispered utterances to sullen and frenzied orders and observations (“If what I am is what I am, cause what I does is what I does, then brother get back cause my breast’s gonna bust open”). Fiona’s unrestrained words serve to reinforce the interchangeable layers of her erratic mind during the unrelenting internal battle. Her ceaseless questioning and ruminations aim to drive her mad and keep her up. “Every single night’s a fight with my brain,” she bellows in the second verse. And we understand her conflict and predicament. We’ve all waged war at one point or another with our own ideas, fears and insecurities during the darkest hours in bed when peace and solace elude us. But in the last verse, a part of Fiona’s tortured psyche realizes she must renounce the battle: "So I'm gonna try to be still now, Gonna renounce the mill a little while." She needs to relax and the refrain “I just want to be everything” shows her vulnerability, as well as a simple desire to be free of confinement and a part of something more than the battle. The arrangement of the song is as sprightly as it is multi-layered. From the opening lullaby-like notes, to the percussion driven chorus, nothing about this song is simple or neatly arranged. The Idler Wheel will be released June 19 on Epic, and I think I speak for everyone when I say, "It’s about damn time."

Pedro Infante: El Idolo de la Gente

Jose Pedro Infante Cruz, better known as Pedro Infante, is undoubtedly one of the best singers and actors Mexico has ever produced. He died in a tragic plane crash in Mérida, Yucatan 55 years ago on the 15^th of April but remains the “idol of the people” to Mexicanos and Latin Americans as well. A national day of mourning was declared in Mexico when news of his death reached the radio stations. Not surprisingly, all the radio and television stations of Mexico gave programs in homage to their idolo, playing Infante's songs all day long. When his coffin arrived in Mexico City, a multitude of mourners descended on the airport. Mexicanos paid their respects to Pedro at the National Association of Actors and Composers in the Jorge Negrete Theater where his body was placed. Mariachis bid farewell with "Amorcito Corazon," the bolero he immortalized.

I never met Pedro, nor did I grow up during the Golden Age of Mexican cinema. He was one of the leading men of this golden era along with Jorge Negrete. However, I grew up watching old Pedro Infante films like, “¡¿Qué Te Ha Dado Esa Mujer?!" There was little else to view on a Sunday afternoon after all the cartoons were over. Besides, my uncles were territorial when it came to the TV. As a child of 6, Pedro was the most beautiful man I had ever set eyes upon. Charismatic and comical on-screen (and off screen), he commanded your undivided attention and unswerving devotion. You could not help but follow his every bold move and hold on to his every sharp word. But Pedro's majestic voice was the icing on the cake. His elegant and cavernous voice possessed the power to quiet every voice in a room. It channeled such raw emotions and transmitted them to you in a way you could not comprehend but only feel. I know my need for music and the importance of music in my life sprung from those moments when I would sit in front of the television in a semi-comatose state, listening intently to Pedro’s powerful voice and songs. He took me away, if only for a moment, from the constant misery and sadness of my childhood. 

Pedro sang waltzes, cha-cha-chas, rancheras and boleros. In fact, he is among the most popular singers of mariachi and ranchera music. He is recognized, along with Javier Solis and Jorge Negrete, as one of the Tres Gallos Mexicanos (Three Mexican Roosters). His film career began in 1939 and he appeared in more than 60 films until his untimely death. Starting in 1943, he recorded about 350 songs. His natural talent for acting resulted in a Silver Bear for Best Actor award at the 7^th Berlin International Film Festival in 1957 for the film "Tizoc."

Every year, Pedro Infante attracts a large number of fans of all ages to his shrine in the Panteón Jardín of Mexico City. His fans honor him with a mass, honor guards, music and the songs he made famous. There are four statues erected in his honor: one in Mexico City made out of thousands of bronze keys, the second in Mérida, a third in his birthplace of Mazatlán, Sinaloa, and the fourth statue is in the town square of Guamúchil, his adopted home town. 

Pedro’s enduring legacy is a result of the urban hero status he earned from the working class. Sure he excelled at playing the fun-loving charro in many of his films, but it was his “common man” character that won him the love and admiration of the public in Mexico and other countries, such as Venezuela and Guatemala. Pedro worked as a carpenter in Guamúchil from a young age before his musical talents led him to pursue his dreams in Mexico City. He became a huge star, but he always represented the common poor carpenter to his fans. The public could relate to Pedro because he came from humble origins, yet he worked himself up from nothing to become one of greatest figures in Mexican history. He is an “orgullo Mexicano” and to this day, singers of the ranchera and mariachi genres pay him countless tributes. Pedro is immortal and time will never erase his musical magic or influence. 

5 Steps for Surviving a Breakup

Breakups are a pain. Literally. Research published in the “Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences and the United States” confirms what most dumpees have always known: getting dumped feels like physical pain. The authors of the study assembled people who had been dumped six months before and placed them in a brain scanner. High heat was applied to the subject’s forearms and later they were instructed to look at a photo of the person who dumped them. The scans demonstrated that emotional pain activates the same area of the brain that processes physical pain. Apparently the brain can’t differentiate between the two.

So yes. Love hurts. And all dumpees have the right to heal their broken hearts. But how much time does it take to recover from a breakup? It can take anywhere from six to 18 months to mend a broken heart, according to Rachel Sussman of “The Breakup Bible.” I’m approaching month number two of my recovery, so the thought of dealing with heartache for another four to 16 months feels daunting and distressing. But this too shall pass. And until we’re fully over our exes (18 months? really??), there are at least five steps we can take to help ease the process of a rough breakup. 

1) Avoid your ex, which really means, “Cut off all contact, dammit!”—Look, in the beginning it’s hard to let go because you’re still in love and desperately clinging on to the memories. But how can you move on and start healing if you’re texting, emailing or “Facebooking” your ex? A clean and total break is the most essential part of getting over someone. This isn't negotiable, heartbroken people. Trust me. I stopped emailing my ex several weeks ago and recently unfriended him on Facebook. Maintaining occasional contact with him was not helping me confront the daily reality of being without him. Plus, it stung to see how much he’s enjoying himself in a new country and meeting all types of interesting people (including beautiful women). What sane dumpee wants to see that after a breakup? You might think I'm resentful, which is the furthest thing from the truth. I'm just abnormally plagued with an immense amount of pride, dignity and self-respect. We all possess these traits (in normal doses). So use any means necessary for closure. If that means erasing her phone number, unfriending your ex from Facebook, and deleting his email address from your contact list, then so be it. You have to do whatever it takes to move on, including dismissing your ex from your life.      

2) Wallow in self-pity—This doesn’t necessarily mean you should throw a pity party for yourself every single day for the entire breakup period (18 months??). But you do have to mourn. There is no shame in being devastated over a breakup. After all, you love(d) this person, right? And you miss this person, yes? So accept these truths and mourn! Don’t put off the lengthy grieving process, which will surely backfire on you. Take a couple of weeks to cry, reflect and work through those painful emotions. Analyze the positives and negatives of your most recent relationship while listening to some pitiful music. There are happy memories to consider along with the realization that you’re growing and learning something valuable from this breakup, which you will carry into the next relationship. Then, after you’ve suffered enough, find motivation and get back into the thick of life. How?

3) Exercise!—We’ve all heard of endorphins. Well, exercise is an excellent way to improve your mood and get in shape. In fact, many studies indicate that people who exercise regularly benefit with a positive boost in mood and lower rates of depression. How does this happen? When you exercise, your body decreases stress hormones, such as cortisol, and releases natural, feel good chemicals called endorphins. Exercise also releases adrenaline, serotonin, and dopamine (Depression is related to low levels of certain neurotransmitters like serotonin and norepinephrine.) These chemicals work together to make you feel good. Endorphins interact with the receptors in your brain that reduce your perception of pain, both physical and mental (I bet those people in the study I referenced earlier weren’t exercising). Not only do endorphins act as analgesics, but they also work like sedatives. The neuron receptors endorphins bind to are the same ones that bind some pain medicines. So sign up for yoga classes. Take long, scenic walks along a lake or river. Run! I’m a runner and running has been a blessing these past two months. Running is physically demanding, but the feeling I experience immediately after a grueling run (the so-called “runner’s high”) always gives me a more positive and energizing outlook on life. Not only have I lost weight (which means I’m bikini ready!), but I’m also being proactive by managing the stress of losing someone who meant a great deal to me.   

4) Pamper yourself!—Watch TV marathons (I’m partial to All in the Family, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Three’s Company reruns), get mani-pedis, buy new clothes or underwear (the cheap kind!), get a facial or massage, sign up for dance classes (I’m getting back to my Flamenco roots!), try a new haircut (bangs?) or take a mini vacation. The point is to put yourself first once again and take care of your needs (it’s easy to put yourself second when you’re in a relationship). Do what makes you feel good. Enlist your friends for these pampering sessions if you don’t want to go solo. Before you know it, those six to 18 months will have passed and you’ll be a pro at the Flamenco (or Tango)!   

5) Wait before dating again—This is about as hard as breaking off all contact with your ex but just as necessary. It’s tempting to get back out there again after a breakup. You may want to distract yourself from the heartache by dating. Or your friends and acquaintances may pressure you to pursue new romantic interests. But don’t! You have to wait until YOU are completely ready to face the dating world once again. I learned this lesson the hard way several years ago after a difficult breakup. Barely a month had transpired before I was dating again. I wasn’t over my ex, but I hated feeling so lonely and miserable, so I jumped into a new “relationship.” Big mistake. After the initial excitement of a fresh body, I only ended up feeling more upset and conflicted. Rebounds rarely go anywhere but down (unless you get pregnant!). Besides, it's essential to be alone after a breakup in order to gain a fresh perspective and clear vision for the future. Being alone is not the same thing as isolating yourself from your friends and family. For you need moral support to get through a breakup. But you should embrace your new status as a singleton and be free of romantic entanglements. Remember: this is an important phase of self-rediscovery and independence, a time to reassess or redefine the meaning of happiness and fulfillment. As Sussman says, “You need to be happy again first and then you can find a new, healthy relationship.”

Duly noted. I’ll be running, writing, reading, dancing, working and socializing until I’m completely over my ex (18 months?) and feeling like my old self again. Then, I’ll re-enter the dating world with a renewed and sanguine outlook (I mean, those OkCupid and Chemistry inboxes are getting out of control).


If you're going through a breakup, what are some steps you're taking to cope with the process? Please share in the comment section!      

A Nation of Trayvons

I don’t often write about my son. I’ve only mentioned him a few times on this blog. I consciously refrain from referring to my son on public forums for several reasons, but for the most part, I’m fiercely protective of him. As any committed and involved parent will attest, my focus as a mother is ensuring my son’s safety and happiness. I’d hate for any harm to inadvertently come his way as a result of my written words. It might sound a tad paranoid and unwarranted, but it’s hard enough keeping him out of harm’s way in the real world without adding the cyber world to my long list of worries. I realize this might be a futile or difficult task as he gets older and becomes more actively engaged with the cyber world and starts to communicate with his peers and friends more often on social media sites. I’m hoping my deliberate attempts to keep some things “private” on public forums sets an example for him and influences his online behavior. But I must write about my son today, especially in light of what happened to Trayvon Martin. I echo every parent’s sentiment when I say that could be my son.

Vic is a striking presence of skin and bones. Literally. I affectionately call him “flaco,” or “flaquito,” which is apt considering some of my closest friends also call me “flaca.” Flaco/a means thin or skinny in Spanish. He has a sinewy frame with refined and delicate features. Vic inherited my lush lips, benevolent smile, piercing eyes, and elegant bone structure. He has his father’s lanky build, stubborn nose, dark coloring and long, thick lashes. Almost 11, Vic stands to my ears and promises to surpass my height some time this year. Every summer, his smooth, unblemished skin darkens to a deep, caramel shade. No matter how much sunscreen I apply to his tawny flesh, it inevitably changes color. I jokingly call him “moreno” when his skin adopts this chocolate-brown hue. He doesn’t take after me in this regard. At best, I burn and then tan lightly. I’m a camel tone or sandy brown to his bronzed richness. I become acutely aware of his darker skin when he plays basketball at the courtyard in our neighborhood park. Boys and young men of all ages and shades congregate to shoot some hoops and play “21.” Some are pale. Others are as dark or darker than Vic. Most of them are in their teens or late teenage years. They are the ones the cops slow down to observe after they’ve finished a game and headed for the streets. Children run around on the playlot and squeal in delight during their games of tag. They are the ones the cops pull over and pat down more frequently than their lighter-skinned counterparts. You can see the anger and frustration on their deep-hued faces as the officers frisk them and question them with unabashed authority and roughness. As Vic and I were leaving the basketball court a couple of days ago, we witnessed a similar incident. I tried not to stare at the tall, young Latino in baggy jeans, with his arms splayed out over the hood of a squad car. Vic, on the other hand, gawked and swiveled his head from side to side to get a better view. He wanted to know what was happening. I looked at my tanned, athletic, long-legged, flaco and told him the young man was being interrogated. A group of boys headed out, their light hair glistening with sweat in the early evening light. Vic raised his eyebrows and appeared to understand without understanding how the young man’s color triggered suspicion and an immediate pat down. I swung my arm over his bony shoulders and gently steered him home. He glanced back at the young Latino who shared his coloring and basketball skills.

As my son gets older and stretches out past my slight stature, I realize he is going to come across confrontational and potentially violent situations. This weighs on my mind heavily. We live in a big city. We share our space with people from all walks of life. Danger is alive and present for a young boy in Chicago when teen violence leads to children dying or being wounded on the streets in senseless numbers every year. Gun and gang violence are just two visible examples of the physical threats children must contend with from other peers determined to injure them by any means possible. The threats are boundless and especially insidious for minority youths.   

Most of us know by now that Trayvon Martin was killed more than a month ago in a Florida suburb by a self-appointed neighborhood watch captain, George Zimmerman. Trayvon was unarmed and heading home after buying snacks at a convenience store when Zimmerman pursued, confronted and fatally shot him. The shooting has generated nationwide outrage due to the racial elements of the case and Florida’s controversial 'Stand Your Ground' law, which enables those in Florida “to meet force with force, including deadly force” when attacked. Trayvon was an unarmed, 17-year-old black, high school student. Zimmerman is a Latino described as “White” in the police report of the incident. Zimmerman told the police he acted in self-defense. There are too many issues and questions to bring up in such a short entry, but there are three topics that have completely captured me: skin color, clothing and Florida’s misguided law.

Trayvon was black. Zimmerman is half Latino. A minority killed another minority. Born and raised on the north side of Chicago, I witnessed Latinos and other minorities ruthlessly attacking each other with their fists or weapons. It happened frequently in my own home, where men seemed to delight in brutalizing women and children. Fights were a common sight on the streets between enemies, so-called friends and the cops tasked with apprehending these savage animals. Melees even erupted in school between classmates and bitter rivals. You could not escape the violence, as it was a part of your everyday existence. What struck me even at such a young age was the undeniable issue of color. The few white residents in my neighborhood didn’t seem to have the same problems with violence that we (the “minorities”) were battling. The police never appeared at their front doors due to domestic disturbances. The white and Asian kids rarely got pulled over by the cops while walking to and from school (unless they were walking with a group of Latinos or Blacks). I lost track the number of times a squad car would shadow my brother (whom Vic resembles in frame and coloring) and his friends as they walked down Lawrence avenue. My brother was a skinny, tough teen who despised all vestiges of authority. The cops regarded him with equal feelings of reverence. They stopped and frisked him with impunity and if the situation called for it, they’d resort to necessary or gratuitous violence. I remember one time my mom and I had to pick up my brother at the Belmont station when he was 16-years-old because he had been arrested for trespassing. I didn’t recognize his bloody and swollen face. It wouldn’t be the last time he was brutalized by the police. Worst of all, the gang violence was out of control in our part of Ravenswood (near Uptown) with young Latino and Black boys shooting or brawling other Latino and Black boys. It dawned on me that as teenagers, we didn’t have to worry about our relatives or the white cops killing us. We were successfully destroying and killing each other on the streets. When will the continuing trend of minorities killing each other end? Zimmerman is a minority. Why did he shoot a black boy? Why did the color of Trayvon’s skin arouse suspicion? Had Zimmerman never been in a situation where the color of his own skin provoked suspicion from others? Perhaps Zimmerman never encountered racism and prejudice in his entire life. Good for him. But now we have another dead black boy as a result of skin color.

When Trayvon was shot, he was wearing a hoodie. Zimmerman stated Trayvon looked like he was up to “no good.” Hoodies, or hooded sweatshirts, have been around since the 1930’s. They are a popular clothing item with young kids. Hell, they are a popular clothing item with people in general. Vic owns several hoodies and wears them when the weather is cool enough. I used to wear oversized hoodies all the time when I was a teenager because they were fashionable. But what is it about a minority youth wearing a hooded sweatshirt that automatically generates a negative reaction? A young minority decked out in “hoodlum” gear WILL inevitably inspire feelings of scorn or fear. This is an undeniable and unfair reality for minority youths, whether they’re walking around in their hood or outside of it. Again, I recall all the times my male friends would get stopped and searched by the police. I lived in a Latino barrio. Our parents emigrated from different Latin American countries. Therefore, no two Latinos looked the same in our neighborhood. However, most of the boys singled out and interrogated by the cops were dark-skinned and wore loose, baggy jeans with hoodies. Unless you have been stopped and frisked by the police for no other reason than being “dark” and “looking suspicious” for wearing certain clothing items, then you probably won’t be able to fully understand the outrage sparked by Trayvon’s shooting. Your choice of clothing somehow influences how you’re going to be treated by others. Trayvon was wearing a hoodie in a gated community, so of course he was up to "no good." Your choice of clothing coupled with the color of your skin determines how suspicious you’re going to come across to a stranger. Why do we need another dead black boy to show us how these two factors combined are nothing more than a recipe for tragedy?                                 

What role did Florida's controversial 'Stand Your Ground' law play in Trayvon’s death? It’s hard to say when so much information is still missing. Plus, it’s easy to debate the matter when your key witness is dead. Stand Your Ground laws empower citizens to defend themselves–using deadly force–if they reasonably believe their life or the lives of others are in danger, or to prevent a forcible felony. Zimmerman called 911 to report Trayvon looked suspicious as he walked down the street of a gated community. Against the dispatcher's instruction, Zimmerman pursued him. The two of them apparently got into some kind of fight–Zimmerman had grass stains on his back, a bloody nose and blood on the back of his head. At some point Zimmerman shot Trayvon, killing him. Zimmerman may have muttered "fucking coons" into the phone to a 911 dispatcher while pursuing Trayvon. What does stand your ground mean in the ‘Stand Your Ground Law’? As former Florida Governor Jeb Bush said: “Stand your ground means stand your ground. It doesn’t mean chase after somebody who’s turned their back.” The Sanford police accepted Zimmerman’s assertions that he shot Trayvon in self-defense, which is why no murder charges were filed against him. But the 911 tapes reveal that when Zimmerman decided to pursue Trayvon, it was based only on the fact that he looked "suspicious" and had something in his hand (a can of iced tea). So did Zimmerman stand his own ground when he pursued and shot Trayvon (a fucking coon if those tapes are accurate) for looking suspicious? Only a jury in a courtroom can decide. But one thing is crystal clear: giving citizens unregulated power and prudence to use deadly physical force when they fear for their lives with little or zero accountability is more than just deadly: it's tragic. And heartbreaking.

My uncle glanced over at Vic a couple of days ago as we were eating dinner and remarked how dark his skin looked. I replied it was perfectly natural due to the unexpected hot weather in late March. We’ve been spending most of our free time outdoors in the sun. Later on, I sat down on my futon to read but could only think of Trayvon. Did he play basketball before he was killed? If he did, what was his favorite position? He was 6-foot-3 and weighed 140 pounds. Vic wants to try out for his school’s basketball team this fall. I told him to work on his jump shot and ball handling skills over the summer. We’ll spend many afternoons at the basketball court with the other boys who look like him. I cried for Trayvon instead of reading. And I also cried because I live in a world where the color of my child’s skin can kill him.      

A Figment of My Imagination?

I recently joined a site called Figment, which allows you to upload your writing and share it with friends as you go. I’m still a newbie and slowly working my way through the site in an attempt to discover new reading material and in return, get my creative material read. In addition, there’s nothing like a change of scenery to jump start creative ideas. If you’re a poet, writer, reader or just a fan of interesting sites, please check out Figment. Below is a short story I uploaded. It might be included in the memoir I hope to publish some day.  

I don’t know what compelled Rafa to tell me he’d break down in trains. I never asked him. He was more disposed to hurling spiteful comments about the hypocrisy of everyone around him on any given night. But for reasons I might never be privy to, he entrusted me with a glimpse into his life that irrevocably altered the way I reacted to his crude charms.

Rafa often cried late in the evening on his way home from school- long after we had parted ways and kept everything that we shouldn’t have to ourselves. He’d sit with his knees hugged close to his thin chest, tug viciously at his long, black, coiled hair and wail gravely for long periods while passengers looked away, seemingly unconcerned with the spectacle he was putting on for them. It was real. He could feel himself dying and playing his role quite magnificently until the train reached its last stop, but those solitary travelers in a night so calm were also muttering out loud and dying along with him. I’d sympathize from a distance as he described the frightening scene where he’d briefly meet the vacant stares of strangers and smoke his psychoactive cigarette, mesmerized at once by the pain on their faces and the pain in his chest. Blinding flashes of dizzying lights disturbed their hazy field of mania as the train headed south to Pilsen, disrupting the quietness of a quiet that was only vaguely present. Eventually, all would dismount and act like nothing had happened. Like the night had merely begun but a moment ago and the pain was just a midway point between the beginning of one line and its end. This amused Rafa and he knew they’d perform the same act with the same interludes in the same car with the same fear and doubt the following night. I could sense what he was going through. Or rather, I could sense myself working through the senses filtering out through his frantic discourse. Only I didn’t howl in train cars or profess that the dread wasn’t all around me.

Why does it happen so often to us in such a desultory manner? I never know when the fear will suddenly crash into me while walking down the lustrous streets of my quiet neighborhood. By now, I should feign stoicism upon its chilly and disconcerting arrival. But it manages to grip my belly with a cold, tight, unrelenting fist, delighting in my instinctive and blundering reactions. My soul becomes agitated. I start to chant soothing jargon, and then I feel that familiar burning sting in the back of my eyes. I pinch my nose quickly before they land on my cheeks, but this only encourages the process. I look anxiously around me. My neighbor is pulling out the weeds in her garden. She doesn’t notice me. I’m gasping for air. Can she pull out this fear that is suffocating me? I run to my apartment before the tears gush forward like a swift, torrential, summer downpour.

I can fight most corporeal impulses with relative ease, but not the tears lately. I suppose it’s because I’m unaccustomed to crying spells in public spaces. Who isn’t? Crying in front of others is a major faux pas- it’s undignified. And there is no mercy for those who cry in public. There is open disdain and hostility for public weepers. Weepers are unfairly condemned and crucified. It’s better to cry in private. You can get away with crying in the comfort of your own home, especially growing up the way I did in a home masquerading as a home. Everywhere you turned, there were reasons to cry, but in the end nothing changed, so you became adept at noticing the warning signs of a violent crying spell and you stopped the onslaught of generous tears before it was too late. You could cry because you were angry and tired of the struggle and the trauma and the violence, but you muffled your choking sounds or learned to sob without making noise. You could cry, but then you couldn’t anymore because nothing ever changed. Nothing ever changes.

Rafa didn’t hide it. His crying bouts rivaled the best and worst of mine. He could see through the liquid and absurdity in his eyes as he cradled his unkempt mane in his chiseled, bronzed hands. The detached passengers couldn’t be saved because they were indifferent to the tears that flowed on a journey that exposed nights full of missed connections, but Rafa was equally condemned because he couldn’t decide what to believe in the moment the tears rolled down his sunken cheeks. His thoughts were unfettered- at once at odds with the hate he felt in his heart for them and the need that pulsed with equal force for them to say something. Anything. Nothing. I felt hollow on those solitary summer nights. I should’ve held him, but instead, we kept each other at a distance. Now, I’m crying with more frequency because I’m finally becoming aware of the all-encompassing hollowness that follows me around everywhere I go. After I found out he couldn’t hold it together in a steel box laden with scribbled messages of God and mercy, I stopped responding to the burning effects his image would have on my traitorous body. In an instant, it became clear that matters of the flesh were the least of my concerns when it came to dealing with Rafa. Besides, Gula was on his mind day and night; the shadows great loves leave behind can rarely be overcome. He guided me through those harrowing hours when I couldn’t get anything out, when my creative juices were as dried up as the blazing leaves that inspire me once the hot season cools down and regenerates my spirit. We both suffered from insomnia and an inability to let the moment carry us through to the next phase in our chapter. Now like him, I’m unable to halt the tears from flowing in the most public of places.

But do I know what not to believe in the moment the tears fall? What do I believe in as I sit on the floor like a limp rag doll, with my back pressed against the metal bed frame and your imperial face hovering nearby? You’re gone for good, and I can’t yank out this overriding fear like a troublesome weed. I believe it’s ludicrous to wrestle with my body’s strong and natural desire to cry due to the emotional stresses in my life. The tears are real, but they are only for me. I wouldn’t even share them with you, whom I love like no other. To put on a spectacle for an audience while I weep is to deny the tears and pain enduring grace and significance. An audience is immaterial and while they might perceive my grief as part of some itinerant show, I realize I’m ultimately at odds with my fear. I think that’s what Rafa never had the chance to tell me. I couldn’t hear it over the din of his weeping.       

(Non) Confessions of A Cheap Pantie Addict

Hi,

My name is Maria, and I’m addicted to cheap panties. No. Not the kind you buy on sale at Victoria’s Secret (five pairs of cotton undies for $26? nice try. I know how to divide, and you’re not that slick (or cheap) Victoria’s Secret). I’m hopelessly obsessed with the frilly and colorful, yet affordable, panties that beckon me inside stores like Discovery, Marshalls, Nordstrom Rack and T.J. Maxx. You’ve probably already concluded several things about me since I dropped the word “Discovery.” And some of those conclusions might be unfair, extreme, or perfectly legitimate. Fair enough. But before your hasty opinions completely mar your perceptions of my color-coded pantie drawer, at least consider the typical price I pay for a sexy bikini or racy thong at these large-scale establishments: $2-4. I can’t believe it either! The most I’ve ever paid for a pair of lacy knickers is $5 and that was largely due to a blind error. I’ve been buying cheap panties for almost a decade now and unless I marry into the Masotti family of the oh-so-couture La Perla lingerie line, you’ll never catch me skipping around in expensive underwear.      

Most people would call me a cheapskate. Or thrifty. And I would insist on being referred to as the former because it’s an accurate description of my fondness for bargain underpants. Why do I refuse to shell out more than a couple of dollars on a garment that will eventually get thrown out? Because it will eventually get thrown out. There are 7 days in a week, and 12 months and 365 days (366 this year) in a year. The average human being, especially the female of the species, will need a sizable number of underwear to last through the year and some of those cute panties won’t survive the normal wear and tear process. What do I mean by sizable? It depends. Check your undergarments drawer. Or wherever you toss your underthings. I’m sure you own more than twelve pairs of skivvies. If you don’t, please get thee to the nearest Marshalls as soon as possible!

According to an informal survey I conducted on the underwear buying trends of consumers in the Chicago area (my mom, two sisters and cousin), the vast majority presently own at least 19 pairs of drawers (my cousin tossed out three last week. see? my mom doesn’t keep track of her “calsones” because she claims it’s “bad luck”). They spent anywhere from $7 (whoa!) to $10 (gasp!) per pair to cover their curvy bottoms. Now I ask: why would any sane person buy expensive panties? Before you start assaulting me with several compelling reasons for dropping serious money on undies (expensive lingerie makes me feel SEXY! I may need these really pricy panties some day! buying cheap underwear is CHEAP and TACKY Maria!), please answer this question: how often do you shop for knickers? Once a month? Twice a year? Whenever you run out of clean underwear? If an average of 25 percent of consumers purchase underwear each month and the average number of panties in your (the consumer) drawer is approximately 19 if you’re a woman and 17 if you’re a man (boxers or briefs I’m assuming), then a reasonable amount of cash is being forked over to cover your nether regions. We all love a good deal, so why wouldn’t the same frugal philosophy apply to underwear?

Lest you picture me lounging around in poorly crafted panties, allow me to emphatically proclaim that I don’t wear shoddy or shapeless underwear. When I said cheap, I was speaking in terms of price, not quality. My severe aversion to “high-end” panties stems from the obscene cost attached to the two pieces of flimsy material that hold this vital garment in place (one delicate piece if it’s a thong). I (and many other bargain-minded women) shop for “luxurious” underwear in large-scale retailers like T.J. Maxx for two main reasons: low cost and designer-worthy styles/brands. As a matter of fact, Marshalls states on its website you should “never pay full price for fabulous” goods like panties. Sounds like shrewd advice to me. You’ll find brands like DKNY, Calvin Klein, Hanky Panky, and Honeydew for less than half the price compared to department stores. Therefore, if you, the average (or non-average) consumer, are in possession of 19 (or 17) pairs of underwear and you didn’t shop at Discovery or Nordstrom Rack, your priorities need to be reevaluated. We’re all trying to make our money work for us during these shaky economic times. Don’t overspend on a necessary item like underwear when steals and savings are in abundance at all the right stores. Put away your pride!  

Now that I’m single again, every Friday night I tidy up and rearrange my alphabetized panty drawer, which boasts an impressive array of cheap, multi-colored and high-quality undies. Knowing I shopped (and paid) wisely for lacy skivvies gives me a sense of control in an ever-chaotic world. Remember, with great underwear hygiene comes great responsibility. Don’t just change your knickers daily and toss out any tattered pair. Be a savvy consumer and also shop for the lowest underwear price possible. And don’t disclose your real panty number: it’s bad luck!