Soldados: Chicanos in Vietnam is a half-hour documentary based on the book of the same name by Charley Trujillo.
POCHO salutes all our veterans for their valor and sacrifice. Yes; we proudly share this video every year.
American children of immigrants are all the same when it comes to dealing with Thanksgiving.
Y digamos: “Amén.”
(See what I did there? )
The underlying assumption of Spanglish is that one language is not enough to capture the full experience of being immersed in two cultures.
The gente who use Spanglish are primarily first and second generation Latinos in the United States. I would say the phenomenon springs from the working classes and the sons and daughters of immigrants to the United States (not to exclude the immigrants themselves).
Yovany Diaz was brought to the U.S. without papers when he was only seven, and he grew up in Georgia, speaking English. When his mom’s health issues required him to move “back” to Mexico City, this all-American ice hockey loving pocho found himself in a strange new world, even though it was “home.” James Frederick of NPR’s Latino USA has the story.
Philosophy for Children in the Borderlands is an educational program in El Paso, TX and Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, designed to lead children in philosophical discussions related to the ethics and philosophy of the borderlands region. The El Paso Herald Post has the story:
In the first study of its kind, the American Jewish Committee has taken a comprehensive look at the Americans who claim both a Latino and Jewish identity – all 200,000 of them.
As a group, Jewish Latinos don’t get much attention — either from Jews or Latinos in the U.S.
Taco Truck and Taco Ship, a short commercial for happy, fun futuristic taco technology by students Sum, Quintin, and Samuel of the Blaine County School District in Idaho, proves Gustavo’s point. Also on sale at Amazon. 😉
Soldados: Chicanos in Vietnam is a half-hour documentary based on the book of the same name by Charley Trujillo. POCHO salutes all our veterans for their valor and sacrifice.
I say thanks and try to shrug it off, but I worry that letting them think that gives a mistaken impression.
I mean, yes. I can speak Spanish.
My parents taught me Spanish when I was growing up in California because it was the only language they had to give.
Like a lot of children of immigrants, I grew up in a Mexican immigrant bubble – my tias and tios spoke only Spanish. My baby primos spoke Spanish with me when we watched Plaza Sesamo and ate conchitas.
“The Zorro story, invented in 1919 by pulp fiction author Johnston McCulley, tells the tale of an aristocrat in Spanish California who dons a mask to fight against corrupt colonial officials on behalf of the oppressed,” writes Marlon Bishop of Latino USA.
(PNS reporting from ALTADENA) Javier “Flaco” Hernandez outraged his family Sunday night when he refused to eat his bowl of menudo.
“It’s yucky!” the 8-year-old shouted as he repeatedly banged his spoon on the dinner table and insisted on pizza instead.
Flaco’s refusal ticked off his mom, who had spent hours preparing the beef stomach broth in the kitchen of their tidy suburban Los Angeles County bungalow.
The BBC sent a reporter to the Southwest to find out what it means to be a Mexican-American. The answer? It’s complicated.
Los Cenzontles (The Mockingbirds) are México Americano. Y ustedes tambien? [Words and music by R. Fuentes.]
Mira the lyrics:
It’s an identity crisis
My parents are Mexican migrants, who stay busy all the time
Spanish is my first language, then almost losing it because of time
My TV only showed Mexicans involved in crime
The stereotypes didn’t represent me
My school peers didn’t believe me
I wasn’t Mexican or White
Being a gringo and Mehican left me asking,
Who am I? Where do I belong to?
Pinche White Boy
What do they look like? How can we tell? Is my new neighbor a Latino? Please tell me #whatlatinoslooklike.
PREVIOUSLY ON WHAT ARE YOU…
We’ve concluded that tacos are American as wontons, at least at Applebee’s, where this all-American appetizer costs $6.99.
Oh Em Gee, It’s Eddie G came up with 20 indicators of Mexican-Americanism. Sound familiar? Someone you know? You can follow Eddie on the Twitter.
South African standup comic Trevor Noah wasn’t sure what to expect the first time he ate at a taco truck in downtown Los Angeles. [NSFW language.]
It’s no secret that Americans love Mexican food — Gustavo ¡Ask A Mexican! Arellano’s book Taco USA celebrated that aspect of the Reconquista last year.
But not all of the United Estates is created equal, and in some areas of the country there is a shocking Mexican restaurant shortage!
There are more Mexican restaurants than Italian bistros, Chinese kitchens, chicken rotisseries, or seafood shacks in the US. We’re talking about no less than 38,000 Mexican restaurants dispersed all across the American landscape (as of 2011).
In the POCHO article, he says this: “One more time, what do we need to do? BUILD OUR OWN MARKETPLACE!”
Here’s my take: It won’t work. It simply will not work. Why? Because the so-called “Latino” experience cannot be compared to the African-American experience in the United States. The “Latino” experience is different for each of us.
Latinos are culturally diverse. Yawn. Haven’t we heard this a million times already? Yet, it probably hasn’t really sunk in. A Mexican-American story will be different from a Puerto-Rican story, a Dominican story, a Colombian story, etc. It will also be different from a Mexican immigrant story, a Nuyorican story, an Ecuadorian/Irish story. Assimilation changes who we are. Migration changes who we are.
“You can’t force me to learn a foreign language on American soil,” high school sophomore Kyle Johnson said. “Spanish sucks! I’m American and I speak American!” And he went to court to fight for his rights. (NSFW explicit language.)
I was living in Massachusetts for the first time. Adjusting. The first time I saw snow falling past my Somerville apartment window, I told a woman on the phone that a neighbor was on the roof shaking out a pillow. Not many snowstorms in my desertified homeland. The first time I saw ice on the sidewalk, I thought a prankster had smeared Vaseline on the bricks to watch businessmen fall down.
This old world was all new to me. I was manhandled by quotidian revelations, wrenched by the duende of Yankee cultural hoodoo. So when I realized I could walk over to Porter Square (where the porterhouse steak was first hacked out of some Bostonian cow) and catch a commuter train to Concord, to Walden freakin’ Pond, I was off and running.