Chale with the Confused Democratas…

screw you 1

Thanks to the Creator the legislative is now over. It was a tough one for so many of our community groups and organizations who dedicate their time up there amidst the madness of the session.

In many of our platicas about these long, hard political battles someone would always end up making the comment about la Susana and the rest of her Republican crew. As soon as the comment was made, my body would react and out of my mouth would spew – “But it’s our own fault gente!” “Why are those fregad@s in their positions to begin with?” “Yeah that’s right, because many of our gente didn’t care enough to vote!” My short tirade would end with “It’s our own damned fault!”

Complete silence and discomfort until someone would carefully and cautiously move on to the next topic.

Before any of you go off, the other part of me also understands why many people flee from the political scene and why so many have become disengaged. Hard question: Have our Democrats proven to be any better? The answer I realize is not so straightforward.

Take our own battle with water rights as a prime example of why many people end up decepcionados and eventually disengage (except for the handful of locos that continue because of their own die-hard commitment, personality type, or their own political agendas). During this session we tried to pass a memorial that called for a temporary moratorium on large developments due to the uncertainties we continue to face because of severe drought conditions in our state and region. We managed to get it out of its first committee thanks to the support of our ally Democrats and the fact that a couple Republicans were awesome-ingly missing that day. During the second committee it was expected that all of the Republicans would vote in opposition of our memorial so we were counting on our Democrats to see us through. They are more rational right? They would understand our fight to preserve precious water rights and agricultural traditions right?

Well [NO] thanks to a Democrat from el Norte our memorial died a cruel death there in committee. Yes thanks to a Democrat and not any ole Democrat but one that looks and sounds like those of us who were present to support the memorial. Even more painful was knowing that this particular Democrat should have readily understood how this battle relates to the preservation of las acequias. Chale!

So our group can rightfully say that thanks to a Democrat, our legislation did not make it to the Senate floor. Repeat: a Democrat. Highlight: a Raza Democrat.

Yes I know not all of them are cut from the same cloth and I do want to honor los Democratas who did stand in firm support of the people. But all it takes is one to overturn the power of the others. Talk about the Republican wolf hiding in the Democratic sheep’s clothing, uh.

So I understand why my own mother hasn’t voted. Last time I was bugging her about it she said in a sharp tone signaling for me to drop it or else: “Pa que voy a votar? Que me gano? Todos son iguales!”

After our own let down last week I made sure to relay the story to la madre and for the first time in years she seemed to listen, understand, and not automatically react. She didn’t even say anything back when I said that next time I would take her to the polls even if it was by force.

So Mr. Democrat from el Norte check your mail because soon you will be receiving una notita from my soon to launch line of greeting cards called SCREW YOU Cards.

#lablogadora #chicana #confuseddemocrats #screwyoucards

Do lobbyists have souls?

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I can’t help to ponder this question especially after seeing the same faces at every hearing that we’ve gone into battle over the issue of our limited water resources. You would think that scientific reports, real climatic change, and major headlines would be enough to wake them up from their money-riddled stupor, but apparently not.

I can still visualize and hear that brown-faced tonto stand up to speak against the realities of the drought – business first, humanity later. If his abuelita only knew what he was really doing she’d probably head up to Santa Fe and give it to him good in front of everyone.

The other day I forced myself to spend some time carefully observing the opposition. I wanted to see if I could spot any sign of ‘remordimiento’ (remorse) or of ‘conciencia’ (conscience) but none was noted. I kept thinking to myself – do they hear any of our words? Do they hear any of the seriousness behind the points we are making? Do they understand that for us it is not about the sheer victory or the dollar bill? For us it is about our community and especially our children.

I mentioned this thought out loud to the small group of dedicated souls that have helped me to get through this battle.

“Do you think the lobbyists and developers care? Do you think they ever really think about anything that we say?”

To which one of my mentors quickly and sharply responded – “NO!!”

She then related the following story which surely set her on the path she currently walks as a defender of water.

She recounted how at the young age of 7 she had witnessed the developer’s bulldozers trample the beautiful orange orchard down below her family’s property. She painfully recalled how they didn’t even bother to save the fruit from the trees. Something so symbolic and profound to a person who understands the hard work and sacrifice of producing even a small crop from the land. The bulldozers trampled the trees… bleeding, damaged fruit covering the ground. The story unfortunately did not end there for her childhood home and precious lemon trees suffered the same fate.

As a human being I have always wanted to give others the benefit of the doubt but now I can answer my own question – lobbyists, developers, agents, and turned lawmakers DO NOT HAVE SOULS.

They sleep easy at night dreaming of their next big check at the expense of our communities and our children. They don’t care about the realities of drought. They don’t care about the long-term consequences. They don’t think about what stewardship to the land we walk on entails. All they care about is the quantity of bills in their greedy grubby hands.

Those cabrones sold their souls to el capitalistic diablo a long time ago.

But one day when the shit really hits the fan and water is no more they will be faced with the severity of what they did.

Esta noche reposamos porque manana sigue la batalla.
(Tonight we will rest because the battle continues tomorrow.)

#lablogadora #contrasantolina #contralobbyists #waterwars

Sometimes we win…

[Written after a committed group of community members were able to get a “Do Pass” on SM 80 – calling for discussion of a temporary moratorium on large development because of water uncertainties in our state.]

el agua

All of those hard-working activistas and organizers know exactly what I’m talking about and know the feeling.

Most of our work is a continuous uphill battle and too many times we have to endure defeat. Too many times we have to pass by their gloating distorted faces but never with our heads hung low.

How can we even begin to compare our $500 raised with so much effort to their limitless accounts? They get paid muchos elotes while many of us don’t even make a single centavo.

But the bucks are not what make us tick, it’s never what keeps us in the game. It is the love we have for our gente that guides us throughout and our obligations to los abuelitos that keep us in check. Some of us never forget who we are and where we came from because our roots run deep and will remain firmly grounded.

So today the universe aligned itself and we witnessed a victory despite the registered lobbyists who came out of the woodwork with the shiny $ branded on their foreheads.

Today was our turn to feel the rush the other side is so used to feeling.

Tonight we will savor the moment for tomorrow we return to the never ending battle against the system and all of its players.

#lablogadora #contrasantolina #chicana #contralobbyists

Whole Foods as a Symbol of White Supremacy

[My tribute to our gente that continue to face the harsh reality of food injustices across our state; today is Food & Farms Day at the legislature]

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First off, don’t start hating right away you Chicano-lites out there who have the privilege, yes privilege, of shopping at Whole Foods. Please at least read my educational rant in its entirety before you do. Second, Highspanics stop shaking your head and rolling your eyes because you too have the luxury of buying your limones and hippie tortillas there instead of at the fruteria down the street.

I won’t even hesitate to state that I (and I’m sure there are others who agree) believe that this market stands as a clear example of a white supremacist system that remains strong in society. And no white supremacist doesn’t refer to the diablos wearing the white hoods. It actually refers to a system that favors whites and most of those who consciously or unconsciously work to uphold a white system claim innocence or become defensive at its mere mention.

[I can almost hear the naysayer in the background heckling “well what about President Obama?” and “I ain’t got no privilege, I just worked hard!” as they drive to their segregated neighborhood in the North East Whites. Ugh.]

Here’s what happened before you make the assumption that I shop there too:

During the Christmas break (btw I didn’t have a break) I was up in Santa Fe trying to churn out the last chapters of my dissertation. I had made the tough decision to detach myself for a few days so that I could focus on finally finishing this soul-consuming degree. I needed to buy some leche for my chocolate abuelita and saw the Whole Foods sign and decided to quickly stop by to get what I needed. Man what a mistake.

It’s as if the world changed when I crossed the threshold into their food heaven. I was in awe staring at the beautiful displays of fresh bread, pastries, stacks of fresh ripe fruit, the deli, the wine, the variety, the decor, the salad bar, todo. As I was walking down the aisles I couldn’t help but to suddenly feel out of place because I realized I was one of maybe 3 other brown faces among the white mass. I continued to observe the surroundings and noticed the looks of glee and heard the laughter emanating from the pink mouths on the happy white faces. I kept thinking – “well who wouldn’t be happy having the privilege of buying their food at such an amazing market?” Of course these people are going to be ecstatic about all of the variety and the quality available within their reach.

I couldn’t help but to simultaneously feel a sickness in the pit of my pansa that began to spread until my whole body felt nauseous and my face became flushed. No I didn’t have a bad case of chorro, I was pissed! I was so mad at the fact that most of the people in my neighborhood would never ever be able to shop at Whole Foods or even pinche Sprouts or Trader Joe’s. They would never see these beautiful displays and would never be able to purchase a $15 meal from the “hot bar” that equaled the size of the typical $2 Banquet TV dinner. I kept thinking about the food we had available on a daily basis. We have what my dad calls ‘rastrojo,’ the word he used to describe all of the third or fourth-rate food that is usually given as feed.

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Last time I went to the Smith’s down the street from my house I noticed the berries were covered in mold and they were still selling at $3.99. A lot of the fruit and vegetables available to los pobres el el valle del sur are bruised, overripe, or straight out low quality. The ironic part of it all is that a lot of the food at our store sells for a heck of a lot more than at ‘nicer’ markets such as Whole Foods and especially Sprouts. How is it possible or even okay for an economically struggling family to pay double or triple the price per pound for low-quality fruit than the ricos on the other side? How is it justifiable to know that a struggling mom can’t afford to buy her kids those damned (moldy) berries even if she wanted to?

I know what some of you are thinking – “it’s about class, not race.” Well there is truth to the fact that part of this continued food injustice and food disparity is connected to class, but there is absolutely no denying that it is fundamentally racialized. In almost every instance in the game, race trumps class.

No I don’t believe that the white corporate owner is saying out loud to the rest of his board and staff – “okay well let’s send this third-rate food to the market on the south side to those poor Mexicans who just didn’t work hard and who just don’t care about what they eat and feed their children,” but the fact is that he doesn’t have to even say it or even think it because the system is already set up to function in this unfavorable manner.

So to those who can afford to shop at el Whole Foods, just remember that for every one of you, there are thousands (or more) of those on the other side who can’t and won’t ever have that privilege. And as you eat the food that you bought with all of your spare change maybe a few of you will recognize that you are working to uphold an unjust system that doles out its resources ever so unfairly and cruelly.

#lablogadora #foodandfarmsday #foodinjustice


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After how many years (or months or days) can we say with certainty that we truly know someone? Is there a specific time range when this magically happens, when we can say without a doubt that we know that person inside and out? Or, is it most rational to state that we can never really know someone completely? Not even after 5 years, 10, 20, or 100…

Does that fact also apply to us as well? Do we ever really know ourselves completely? Can we ever accurately predict our behaviors, our responses, and our emotions? Or, will there always be that part of us (even if it is miniscule), that Mrs. Jekyll within, that we continuously strive to hide from others and even from ourselves?

I say all of this because I find myself at probably what will signify the biggest and scariest crossroads of my life. Throughout our lives we will encounter many minor bumps, some major, and then the grand master of them all.

It is at that moment that I think we realize that much of our lives are dictated by fear. Not fear that is innate to human life but the fear we have been conditioned with by society and all of its gendered and racialized tricks it plays on us. It is that fear of change, of the unknown, and of uncertainty that stops us in our tracks and inhibits and prohibits us from even trying to pull off the blinders that have given us such a myopic field of view.

During these trying times we should not ask for strength but instead for clarity so that we might make maybe not the best decision, but at least one that will grant us some peace and will point us in the right direction.

#lablogadora #chicana #crossroads

The Sunshine Portal – don’t let the name fool you.

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[Warning: read with caution, coming from an angry place]

Late last night I made the mistake of browsing through the pinche Sunshine Portal, even the name is a mockery. I didn’t feel so ‘sunshiney’ after finding out what some of the gente make at the institution. After seeing the figures I was so riled up that I couldn’t even sleep… 1 am… (very mad) … 2 am (mad) … 3 am (still mad)…

I’m at a loss and don’t want to hate but damn I’m still infuriated and slightly down. It makes me realize that the ugly sensation inside is possibly a reflection that I’ve bought into the system as well. I shouldn’t feel this bad but maybe I do because a part of me wants a slice of the institutional pie. [Hell no!]

Now I’m beginning to understand how the institutional beast works. I’m starting to see a pattern after looking at so many slap-in-the-face salaries. It’s what I had touched on before, the equation. The more vendido, the greater the pay. The more complicit, the greater the rewards. The more connected to the VIP club, the greater the benefits.

So now it’s making sense…. so that’s why there’s usually silence about troubling the waters at the institutional paradise, right? That’s why people, except for a few out there professors, will truly put themselves on the line. Material comfort is our greatest enemy, it’s the most effective placater. Once you’re in the system, very few will cause trouble for those who guarantee their pay and who allowed them in the club to begin with, right? Now I see why they tell us – to calm down, to sit still, to not disrupt, to be grateful, etc.

How do we justify all of this? How do they justify this? Is the justification made on their supposed skills? On their pedigrees? On their charisma and know-how? “I deserve this because I worked hard enough.” “We’re here representing all of you, you should be grateful to see our brown faces among the rotten milk.”

Oh really? Well the rest of us know that meritocratic shit don’t fly. Some of us are figuring out how the tokenistic, nepotistic, and cronyistic system works.

My mom made about $14K last year working her tail off. I think I made about $20K. How much did you make again? Starting at $70K? The other one at $82K? Don’t even ask about los otros.

The system is seriously off-kilter people.

[BTW… check it out for yourself:]

#angyblogadora #lablogadora #elsistema

The dilemma of a recovering Catholic

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I have categorized myself as “recovering Catholic” for almost two decades now and haven’t spent too much time contemplating this self-identification. Mostly because I haven’t found the need to do so and nothing or no one has challenged my view.

But yesterday as I made my way to the Santa Fe plaza for a walk I realized my body was on autopilot heading straight towards St. Francis Cathedral. I had not felt the urge or desire to go to a church in several years and as I entered I couldn’t help but feel overcome with mild emotion. I chose a secluded spot towards the back and sat there for a moment and was tripping out at this strong inner desire to kneel. Maybe I’m not as “recovered” as I’d like to think? Maybe my Chicana soul has actually missed church over these years? Wow did I just say that? Have you heard that idea that the older you get the more one seeks out religion? And here I thought that it wouldn’t ever apply to me.

I mean let me explain. I, like many other first generation Chicanillas, grew up in different times from the super faithful abuelitos back in Mexico and was only forced to attend the obligatory Palm Sunday, Easter, Christmas, and Virgen de Guadalupe mass. Other than that, we just didn’t go to church. But that in no way meant that my Mexicana mom was not spiritually faithful. At the time she had been going through her own struggles with what the Catholic church had told her – that she was a pecadora for not having married my dad in church and was banned from receiving communion.

When I was in my 20s I fell in love with going to mass but not because I had suddenly become a devout Catholic. During one of my walks around the Inner Sunset I so happened to pass by St. Anne’s during a mass and heard the faint sounds of music. Having grown up as a band nerd I couldn’t help but to peer inside and was lured in by the beautiful voices. I began attending Sunday mass just to hear the choir. I never verified it but I think the lead voice had been a professional opera singer. I would get goose bumps just listening to their sounds.

But of course all of this came to an abrupt end after I learned more of the dreadful history of the conquest and colonization through my Latin American history class from this amazing Latino professor who looking back I’m sure was a self-professed atheist. How could I attend a place that had at some point condoned the killing of innocent people erroneously considered savages? How could I be part of something that whether intentionally or not, oppressed others? I couldn’t reconcile with the historic fact that the true savages were really the ones who had worn the sign of the cross.

So I don’t know what’s going on with me. Maybe it’s because I’m at a crossroads in life, maybe because I’m getting older, maybe because I just missed connecting with some essence housed in what are considered sacred spaces. Maybe because no matter how much I have distanced myself from any organized religion, deep down there still reside those old Catholic traditions. Almost every Lenten season I still find myself making tortitas de camarón con nopales and capirotada.  It’s not because I’m Católica but because it’s a way of honoring mis abuelitos que en paz descansen. It’s just so intertwined with our Mexicano-ness.

So as I sat there in my rinconcito I kept wanting to cry, mostly because the familiar sights brought back so many fond memories of mis abuelitos, especially because the last time I saw them was in church, laying peacefully in their caskets ready to become one with the Earth again.

Maybe I’m not so “recovered” after all. Maybe recovered isn’t the right word anymore. Maybe the better word is consciente. No se. But what I do know for sure is somehow I didn’t feel so alone sitting there as I contemplated all the problems in my life. I also realized that when I left (bolted out the doors before the 5:30 pm mass started to the strong disapproval of the señora passing out the programs), I felt better, even if slightly, than when I had first arrived.

#lablogadora #recoveringcatholic #chicana #consciente

Artwork: “Chicana Birth” by Irene Jor, ’13