Going On To Pink Slip Heaven: Save Our Schools

Went on a "Save Our Schools" protest march last night which ended up with a rally at my old Alma Mater, San Joaquin Delta Community College in Stockton. But I, being a senior citizen (70), had seriously underestimated the 2-plus mile distance of the march and was forced to rest a few moments on the bridge over the Calaveras River (aptly meaning "skeleton" in Spanish), alongside University of the Pacific, the oldest university in California. The muddy runoff below roughly raced to the west.

The orderly line had begun to split up, people struggled to keep up. Some dropped out or gave up. I was doing it for something. Myself? To maintain an image of old self? For others? Education? Still a mile to go!

Speaking of skeletons, the marchers had secured an old coffin and fixed an effigy of a  cadaver inside, signifying the "Death of Education", carrying it at the front by pall bearers, followed by the revelers. The hundreds who attended were mostly educators, administrators, board of trustee members, union members, teachers and students, from all over the county, Ripon, Manteca, Tracy, Lodi. Moms with children in strollers.

A lone helicopter circled overhead, its blades chopping loudly into the wind, signs and banners everywhere and cars honking in support. It was wild, reminiscent of the old days, the anti-war and Huelga (Farmworker) marches of the late 60's-70's. The media, here and there interviewed people and shot photos.

Roberto Radrigan, the consumate journalist, hoofed it all the way, darting back and forth from the front to the back of the line, shooting photos, once counting passersby with his fingers, and then passing out copies of his local paper, Bilingual Weekly.

As the marchers pulled away, and I joined in, my eyes welled with tears. I tried to understand why. Why was I crying? Me, a grown man? I tried to not let anyone see. My oldest son kept texting me with updates of what was going on in San Francisco, Los Medanos College, UC Berkeley, Oakland where protestors had closed down a freeway, UC Davis, of students being arrested. This was big.

Ours was a law abiding, peaceful march and we made sure to stop at all the red lights, crossing only on green. However, when we arrived at Delta College, I was completely overcome with tears. I felt so grateful that destiny had led me to become a teacher here for 33 years.

I thought of the hundreds of students I taught and how hard I had tried to instill in them the pearl, the gem of free thought.  Just as it had been instilled in me by the incredible teachers who crossed my path in high school, in college. For a moment, I was overcome by gratitude.

For a young Mexican to come out of a poor Mexican barrio in South Modesto, and go to college in the 1950's was nearly unheard of. My two Masters Degrees, one in art, one in English, stand guard on the wall, even as I write this, one to the left, one to the right. My prize possessions. Education changed my life.

Then, the tears dried when the speakers began, and it dawned on me that this, this gift, this pearl was on the brink of extinction in light of proposed cutbacks to California schools of 17 billion! Consequently, Stockton Unified School District has sent out 290 "pink slips". Other local districts follow. Class cuts. Fee hikes. Increased class sizes. Layoffs. The news, not new, was grim.

Afterwards, my wife and I went to Manny's on Pacific Avenue and ate an Avocado Burger on Genova French Bread with a side of chile beans. I felt guilty.  

People need to speak out on this! I think I will: Manny's makes great burgers!

Angel De La Guardia: Our Guardian Angel

As a child, I remember this image on a calendar my mom had pinned on a wall of our bedroom. It gave me a wonderful sense of peace to think that God had assigned each of us with a heavenly defender to keep us from stumbling.

"Pray to your Guardian Angel for protection", she would say.

The bridge which the two children cross in the image is old, and rickety, a board missing on the crosswalk, and could collapse at any moment sending the children tumbling into the cold waters below.

When I think of how many rickety bridges I have crossed in my life, some I might even have lost my life to, was it fate, luck or angelic or divine intervention that spared me?

Surely, to live, is to step out in faith. The boards beneath us are groaning, moaning and crackling; they bend with our weight.

In the middle of the bridge, we can risk going forward, or risk returning.

Angel de la Guardia, protect us.

The Real Cactus Society Meets Today

I saw an ad in our local paper that the Cactus Society has regular meetings and I wonder who they are and what they discuss at their meetings. Do they compare species? Talk or sing to the cacti? Whisper to them? Get into a circle and watch them grow?

As far as I am concerned, the real cactus society is the Mexicans. The history of the importance of cactus in Mexican culture has probably not been written but it might go something like this:

Not only do Mexicans eat many species of cactus, but the plant has many other amazing functions. The Aztecs, for example, used to pluck off a spine, making sure a long thin strand of skin peeled off with it, and then used it as a needle and thread, in one, to sew clothes with. The skin was also peeled off, dried and used as paper to draw and paint on.

They also discovered that a strong rope could be made from the dried skeleton or hemp of the cactus. The dried, cactus spears and trunks, also made for a long, hot burning fire to keep them warm or to cook on.

For Mexicans, eating the new shoots of cactus (my mother stressed they had to be cut before 10 am to preserve the tangy flavor), diced and cooked, and with onions, a clove of garlic, and then topped with freshly diced tomato and cilantro is a delicacy. Another special treat became the "tuna"- or cactus pears - that grow on many species. Carefully removed from spears full of notoriously vicious spines, they are peeled and the seedy crimson, yellow or white, pulpy meat inside tastes like jam!

But beware! It takes a masterful surgeon to avoid the harmless looking needles, like powdery puffs around the pear. While they don't ply their evil upon touching them, the nearly invisible spines tenaciously cling to your hands for days, hounding you each time your fingers brush up against anything, the price of your foolhardiness. It is worth the treat, though.

Throughout Mexico, in market places or along the highways, one can buy them from the Indians already peeled, and chilled over a block of ice! My favorites are the white pears; they are amazingly sweet. Don't sweat the over-sized seeds inside, just swallow them and your body will process them harmlessly and naturally.

The ancients also discovered peyote, a powerful hallucinogenic cactus reserved for the priests and religious ceremonies, still used by groups such as the Huicholes of central Mexico and native Americans in the Southwest.

Pulque, Tequila and Mezcal are alcholic beverages squeezed and fermented from the Maguey and other species of cactus. It must have taken inspired minds to figure this out.

Many say - and believe - that cactus is "la comida de los pobres" (a poor man's food), but I think that even if I was rich, I would still eat them!

So, the real cactus society meets today for lunch. Want to join? Cactus is on the 3-course menu: cactus salad, pears for dessert, with an aperitif of mezal or tequila. for Dues are affordable, but bring your gloves!!

Mexican Folk Art: For A Song and A Dance

As I helped hang the incredible tapestries of Leo De Los Angeles in a recent exhibit at the Mexican Heritage Center in Stockton, I was struck by the incredible journey this art form has taken from its ancient Oaxacan- Zapotecan roots, from grandfather, to father, to son, of being peddled in plazas and tourist sites to buyers from Los Angeles, Las Vegas to Copenhagen, to an insignificant cultural center showcasing Mexican heritage in Central California.

The prices for his pieces range from $700. to $5000. for a spectaluar blanket 8'x10' in size! A giveaway when you compare this to what a Navajo blanket or Persian rug demands! Peanuts. Yet, people around here raise their brows at the prices. They don't know. In San Francisco, people would not blink twice.

For too long, American and European tourists have flocked to Mexico purchasing exquisite art and folk art for a song and a dance. They thrive on the rush of haggling with the local artists and craftsmen and sadly, the artisans have bought into it too. They expect it. Especially from their compatriots who are relentless at the art of "repelar", of being able to strip down any poor vendor to pennies on the dollar. Besides, most Mexicans see little value in folk art. That is for the tourists.

"Pido S500 pesos, senor." "I'll give you $250" "No se puede, senor. Es mucho el trabajo... deme $350? "I'll pay you $300, no mas." "Andele pues, Senor... $300" And we slink off with our treasure to  brag about how we "stole it" to our friends back home. We're talking "pesos" here, say $12.50 for each American dollar! Cacahuates.

Meanwhile Mexican art galleries and high-end crafts outlets will sell the same piece for $300. "American", while the indian or indigenous artisans get peanuts again. Not only has the peso seen devaluation, but so has anything "Mexican".

In the popular imagination, genuine handcrafts are confused with tourist trinkets at "Tiajuana"  market places. The plaster donkeys, and stereotypical figurines of a lazy Mexican leaning up against a cactus abound.

It's a sin which began with the European invasion of Mexico in the 1500's, when the Spaniards demolished all things representing the indigenous peoples, books, art, sculpture, paintings, and architecture. Dazzing gold masterpieces of jewelry and art, where melted into gold bricks and shipped to Europe.

Fine art was stripped from throughout Mexico and shipped to Europe, eventually finding its way to the homes of the rich and museums world wide. The actual Quetzal head dress of Moctezuma, the last king of the Aztecs, a showpiece of gold and irredecent emerald plumes, found its way to a museum in Vienna, a copy of it was left for the Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City! 

It has since betwen returned.

Now the art of collecting has moved to e-Bay, and specialized cites plying Mexican Folk Art at exhorbitant prices. 

All but gone are exciting forays throughs deserts, mountains and jungles to villages and market places where the art is actually created.

And nearly extinct is the joy of buying it from the artisan himself, not from smug dealers or collectors.

In The Ancient Zapotec Tradition: A Ten.

I met Leo De Los Angeles some months back, at a Multi-cultural Fest that was held locally. He was wandering around with his little son who kept tugging his shirt, encouraging him to stop at our booth.

I was manning the booth for The Mexican Heritage Center in Stockton, and Leo introduced himself as a weaver. I told him about the center, explaining that central to our mission our was to exhibit local Latin0/Chicano artists, and to showcase the beauty and history and of Mexican culture . I invited him to visit us.

Not long after, Leo showed up at one of our meetings with a binder full of photos of his exquisite tapestries and carpets. We were stunned.

Thus, grew the concept for our latest exhibit titled "El Arte del Telar" (Art of the Loom). As we hung the show, I grilled Leo about his art, a craft handed down to him as a child from his grandfather and father in Oaxaca.

He referred to them and himself as "diestra" weavers. For a while, he seemed pressed to define the word, then smiled as he found the syonymn: "master weaver". His natural humility remained intact, even as he said this.

Yes, Leo is a master weaver in the tradition handed down to him by the ancient Zapotecs of his birthplace.

When I pointed to one of my favorites (pictured behind him in the photo), an 8' x 10' zinger hanging on the wall and asked "How long did it take you to make it?" He answered: "Three months", adding "on a scale of 1-10, this one is a 5."

"A five?!" I exclaimed. "Do you have any 10's in this show?" I strained to even imagine a 10.

"I have a couple of 7's, on that wall", he mused.

On Red and Red Lights

As I hit about six red lights in a row the other day, it occurred to me that I hit one about 85% of the time I drive up to an intersection. Why is it? One would think the odds would be 50-50.

Have you ever noticed that red lights seem last forever? That they are twice as long as green lights?

Red lights strike terror in us. Holy Frijoley, a $250 ticket! The camera on the light posts is forever vigilant.

Did you hear that California's illustrious Governor wants to attach a device to the camera that can also record the speed at which you cross the intersection? That means not just a possible ticket for crossing a red light, but another for speeding through an intersection! Got to make up that 80 billion dollar budget deficit somehow.

We race through yellow lights just to avoid one. Sometimes, during commute hours we have to endure two or three red lights in a row, just to get across an interersection!!

The color red seems to have a historical connotation to things of terror: war, blood (The red in the Mexican flag symbolizes the bloodshed of wars and revolutions), violence, passion, love and jealousy. We send a red rose to signify love. Mars is red. Commies were "reds." Then, there are the red-necks, people go "red-in-the-face". E-gads, I used to have red hair!!

Then there is the red of "red-light districts" of old, houses of ill-repute.

Have you ever noticed how when you drive up to an intersection and you see one of those "will-work-for-money" guys standing there, and no matter how much you speed up, the light always turns red? His sign looms in your window, rattling your self-importance. You fidget, toss and squirm knowing you have a wad in your wallet, or you just cashed your check.

Those red lights are far longer. Maybe it's Karma. You console yourself with the usual moral justifications for not giving of "well, the guy probably has a Mercedes parked around the corner", or "why don't they get a job, like me?"

I am just asking for justice, for equality. That some Cosmic-Power-That-Be see to it that we get equal time, a balanced amount of green vs. red lights. Would that asking too much?

Young Latinos: It's The Same Old Cancion

The latest Pew Hispanic Center study, based on a survey of 1200 Latinos, aged 16-25, found something new, and something old. Did you know, for example that young Latinos comprise 18% of all young people in the U.S.? And 42% of all youth in Califas? Orale, I mean wow. How will this affect the future culture, economy and politics of Californa and the U.S.? Qien sabe. More salsa maybe?

1/3 of young Latinos are immigrants, but the other 2/3 are born in the U.S. Many are children of parents who immigrated into the country since 1965. In contrast, lots of my amigos are U.S. born of parents who immigrated in the early 1900's, during and after the Mexican Revolution (1910-1920). Some of us still speak Spanish, imagine that.

One quarter of these "mocosos" will have (you guessed it) at least one more "mocosito" by age 19, more than Whites, Asians or Blacks. I just love kids, don't you?

More interesting findings are that 17% of these young Latinos will drop out of school, almost double the the rates of Blacks, while those Pochos born in the U.S will be less likely to drop out of high school. 23% will live in poverty, higher than Whites but lower than Blacks. But in the long run 2nd generation Latinos will gain more education.

I loved school. High school was a blast. My predecessors in the 40's and 50's dropped out of high school to get married or get a job. Some to help support the family. College for us was unheard of. Like Frank Zappa puts it from Ruben & The Jets, "I dropped out of high school to work on my car."

U.S. borns will be less likely to work in construction, food preparation or other low-skilled jobs, more proficient in "speeki di Inglich" and less likely to live in poverty. I always liked my buenas garras, tu sabes. When in America do as the Americans do, buy, buy, buy, and charge it on your Visa. In my day we had "layaway".

These will have less gang ties and less likely to visit the can, the Pinta or prison.

More than 50% will identify first with their family's native country, "puro Mexicano y que?" In contrast, 33 % of those born in the U.S. believe they are "Americans first"; ride on Joe, Sara, Sean and Briana! 41% will identify themselves by their parents' native land.

So, what does all of this mean? Don't ask me. All I know is that the Browning of America is at hand, and we'd better brush up on our manners, Spanish, and stock up on Chipotle and Guacamole, and "cheeps."