Ethnic Studies: May You Rest In Peace

                                                   I

I recall reading that until recently, there was no mention of the Holocaust, or the dropping of the Atom Bomb on Nagasaki or Hiroshima during World War II, in German and Japanese history books, respectively.

Imagine if our U.S. History books selectively omitted mention of Black Slavery, The Mexican-American War, or the brutality visited on Native Americans in the Winning of the West? Yet, history is mostly told by the hunter, but what would the lion have to say?

The buzz about Arizona's new get-tough immigration laws aimed at illegal Mexicans is taking on a more sinister twist: SB1108 that seeks to ban the teaching of Ethnic Studies courses in the state's public schools because they promote (get this) the overthrow of the government, foment resentment towards a specific race or class of people, and are designed for students of a specific race!

I wonder if teaching of the Holocaust promotes resentment towards Germans, the bombing of Pearl Harbor promote dislike of Japanese, or of the war between Mexico and the U.S. in 1846 promote resentment towards Americans? Resentment or not the truth ought to be told from both the hunter and the lion's point of view, shouldn't it?

I was one of these Ethnic Studies teachers. Before 1965, the only view of the world we learned about was a Western European one. No questions were asked. Gospel was gospel. Ethnic Studies was born out of labor pains, epitomized by confrontation, demands, threats and student walkouts. The massive East L.A. student walkouts in 1968 were the poster child.  Latino students, a majority in many L.A. schools, felt alienated, noting the lack of Hispanic teachers, discrimination, and absence of a curriculum which reflected the contributions of minority groups to the building of the U.S.

The Chicano Movement was inspired by the black struggle for equality, Cesar Chavez and the farm worker struggle, and community activists like "Corky" Gonzalez and his epic poem "I Am Joaquin." Mexican Americans with a college degree were rare. Brown faces as lawyer's, writers, doctors, teachers, artists, school principals, were conspicuously absent from American society.

In Stockton, students, educators and community activists demanded the inception of Ethnic Studies courses. Our own community college finally relented, and as our offerings grew and we expanded, we were granted a division with our very own Division Chair, with classes in Chicano/Mexican, Black, Filipino, and Asian studies. And yes, the courses were primarily designed for students of each specific ethnic group. No bones here, but any brave soul wanting an alternative view of the world was welcome and there were a few. I'll speak to this later.

In 1962, against all odds, I had acquired a Master's Degree in Fine Arts from a private and prominent art school in Oakland. Soon after, I enlisted for three years in the U.S. Army, and spent most of it in Germany, which allowed me to travel though Europe and see museums and works of art I had only read about and seen in slides. Unable to find a job after my discharge in 1965, I married and settled in my old barrio in South Modesto. In desperation, I set my sights on teaching art, but after dozens of rejections reading "despite your impressive qualifications we do not currently have a position for you", I gave up, became a dropout, and took a job as a florist, a secondary trade I had picked up as a student.

In 1972, I received a phone call to my place of work. "Is this Richard Rios, The Richard Rios?". The voice introduced itself as that of a Chicano Studies teacher from Delta Community College in Stockton. "You come highly recommended. My old college buddies, Jose Montoya and Esteban Villa had apparently heaped lofty accolades on me.  "How would you like to teach a courses in Chicano Studies?" "What's Chicano Studies?"  "Don't worry, I'll send you some books; read them", he said. It was about October and classes for Spring Semester would start in January! He walked me through the application process and I was hired.

I trusted that having grown up in a Mexican family, in a barrio, with parents who immigrated from Mexico would tide me over. Meanwhile, I scoured books on Mexican History, traveled to Mexico during summer breaks, visited art and history museums, historical sites both modern and Precolumbian, and took hundreds of slides.
                                                                                 
At the time, there was no curriculum, no course of study, in any institution of higher learning where we could have gone to learn this. We had to teach ourselves, and I survived by keeping "a chapter ahead of the students." Worse, there were few books available by ethnic authors. Publishing companies were completely ignorant of an ethnic market. Later, our prodigies would have the courses, the curriculum and even majors in Minority and Ethnic Studies.

 But who was this skinny, freckled, light-complected, red-haired teacher claiming to be Chicano? Was it true?
 A Mexican college teacher? In my lectures, I through in some Spanish, some spanglish, some barrio slang. I played my guitar and sang Mexican songs for them,, the ones my family had sung at family get-togethers,  and we analyzed the traditions, the texts, the themes. We discussed art, history, literature, poverty, discrimination and education. We analyzed folk tales like La Llorona (The Weeping Woman), ones my mom had told me as a kid.  I had them write papers and research traditions in their own families. And they loved it.

But authenticity and credibility was vital to our mission. Students wanted the real McCoy, no substitutes, no facsimiles. In fact, before being hired I was summoned to a meeting with the campus M.E.Ch. A. club, presumably to determine if I was the real deal.  I must have answered their questions right. They were tired of interlopers, Anglos teaching Spanish etc. That was to be the key.

But it would be an uphill battle. Resentment and outright hostility brewed since the inception of our courses, from staff, from peers, from administrators who were probably hoping we would fail. We heard disparaging remarks about our competence as teachers.  Rumors had it that we had low student expectations, useless curricula that duplicated what students could learn in mainstream courses. That our students already knew about their history and their culture . That we passed students just because they were from our own ethnic group. That we excluded Whites. That units earned from our courses would never transfer to four-year colleges, and they were partly right about this. Students confessed to me that counselors would sometimes advise them not to take my course.

To boot, the term Chicano was suspect. I will not go into etymology here, but suffice to say that it carried a host of negative connotations. Mexicans argued that derived from the word "Chingado" (F.....r) and wondered who in their right mind would choose to call themselves that. Moreover, the term was in competition with terms like Mexican-American, which to many seemed less offensive. We argued that we wanted a term than sounded like us, who were neither completely American, nor Mexican, but part of each. Worse the term "Chicka-no" became a household name, associated to radicals, and Marijuana smoking "greniudos" (long haired), seen on the 6 O'clock news. Many would-be students avoid our classes because of the term.

Another problem was enrollment. If our courses did not reach the magical number 25 by the end of the first week, our courses would be cancelled.  In the first years, courses were packed. In later years, enrollments waned and in desperation, I even offered Richard, my shill, $5 bucks for every student he brought me!
                                                                             II
My students, were composed of old timers who never finished high school, young dropouts, vatos from the barrio, entire families, mom, dad and daughters. I started by telling them that they were part of an incredible culture, but that most of it had been suppressed by Spanish Conquest of Mexico in 1500. That Mexicans were "Meztizo", a product of Spanish father and Indian mother, an object of shame during Mexico's 300 years of colonization, but an object of pride after the War of Independence in 1810, offspring of two great cultures, European and Native American. That they were children of the great Maya, Toltec and Aztec cultures.

The pedagogy at the time was to attract minority students to the classroom with a curriculum they could identify with, entice them to read, to write papers, to ponder questions they had never dared ask. Appeal to cultural pride was the hook. The pitch. Once hooked, we would send them off with enough skills and self- esteem to enter into the mainstream courses, armed with the belief that they mattered and were just as smart as any Anglo. And for the most part, it worked, and many of my ex-students went on to get Bachelor's, Master's and Ph.D. degrees at some of our best universities. They became college deans, administrators, artists,  professors, professionals, lawyers, social workers.

While the rhetoric in my class was often heated, at no time did I ever advocate the overthrow of the country, or foment dislike of any ethnic group, though we got close with the Spaniards. While some students might have wanted to "take the country back", their notion of how to it, was pretty damned fuzzy. I mean no one in the Barrio that I knew had and tanks, bombs, or airplanes (with the exception of the Royal Chicano Air Force in Sacramento). The overthrow, if it came would be more subtle, a gradual infiltration of American culture through sheer numbers. The return to "Aztlan", a mythical birthplace of the Aztecs, became the symbol of the disenchanted, and the new society many of us fantasized about.

But getting an education would be the first step to liberation I told them. Some resisted. They had problems getting to class, turning in assignments, passing exams. For these, the classroom was a obstacle to the real business of revolution. They were dropped, or dropped out.

Some stormed out of the classroom to beat war drums that were quickly quenched by apathy and ironically, the very limitations posed by their lack of education. In fact, I often served as mediator, quenching discontent between radical groups and individuals. I was a pacifist born of the 50's and 60's. I would have made a poor General in this Revolution. I believed we could walk the narrow rope between cultural pride and outright assimilation without an overthrow. Forget your language and culture was the nativist's mantra. Be like us. We had heard that one for decades. But we could be American without sacrificing our language and our culture. And we would be the better for it, becoming bi-lingual and bi-cultural. 

Moreover, at no time did we ever discourage students of other races or cultural stripes to take our courses. I was in fact, flattered when a brave White or Black soul wandered into one of  my courses. I made extra effort to welcome them, make them comfortable and my students obliged. However, few stayed to finish the semester. Those who did, often offered a hearty handshake, and thanked me "for how much I've learned in this class." Chicanos and Mexicans (from Mexico) shook hands, and thanked me for enlightening them about their common, yet different cultures, because in spite of the myth that they already "knew" it, most were completely ignorant of their past and the role their people played in American and world history.

One brave soul I will never forget, was a Jewish student, one of the most articulate and well-read individuals I ever had. I smelled trouble the first day he arrived. After one heated discussion about the unjust treatment of Mexicans and Chicanos by White Europeans, he exploded: "All you guys do is bitch and moan about how you have been mistreated by other people! Your'e not the only ones! We Jews have also experienced it!" We were in for a hot one now. I let the students respond, as I often did. This was their baby. Hands shot up! "Ok, but we didn't say we were the only ones, did we?!" They clarified. I was the referee. And he took on the whole class by himself, becoming increasingly hot as the debate roared on.

A couple of days later, the student came to my office: "Mr. Rios, I feel very uncomfortable in your class. I feel I am being attacked. I have decided to drop it." I started by thanking him for having the courage to speak out in class. "You pointed out something that we all need to hear. If you feel alienated in my class, welcome to the club. This is what it feels like for us to be the only brown face in a roomful of White faces. It's scary, huh?"  In the end, I succeeded in convincing him to stay and encouraged him to continue to speak up, to challenge us. He did. At the end of that semester he left without even a backward glance or a "thank you." I was used to it.

Life went on and some years later, a friend of mine who was attending CSU, Stanisluas in Turlock, told me "I have a friend at college who says he was one of your ex-students and speaks very highly of you." When she told me his name, I realized it was the Jewish fellow. "Oh?"  I had concluded that his semester in my Chicano Literature course had been as complete disaster, a waste of his time. Some days later she brought me a letter penned by him. I opened it expecting him to chastise me for my course. It read "Mr. Rios how are you? Well, I hope. I just wanted to tell you that of all the classes, and the teachers I have ever had in my life, you are the best and yours was the most meaningful to me. Thanks."

That fear, misinformation, and prejudice might have resulted in non-Hispanic students never having taken one of our Ethnic Studies courses is a tragedy. We fought in vain to add our courses as requirement for any majors aimed at public service, but the best we could do is to be included as one of the many General Education transfer requirements students could choose from. I was satisfied with this.
                                                                           III
As the years passed, some of our courses thrived, while others languished with low enrollments. In time, our Ethnic Studies division was dissolved and each Ethnic Studies instructor transplanted to his/her respective department or division, according to discipline. Since I taught Mexican/Chicano Art I now belonged to the Art Department , since I taught Chicano Theater I joined the Drama Department, and since I taught Chicano Literature, the English Department. Strange bedfellows, huh?. Though we fought the dissolution, most of us were grateful we still had a job. Unbeknown to me, this would open new opportunities for my future at the college.

I continued to teach Chicano Literature now in the English Department, and when the time came for me to be evaluated by our Division Chair, I received a glowing report: "Rich, you're a fantastic teacher, and I would love to have you in my department, but you need to go back to school to get a Master's Degree in English." My head spun. English? Me? Go back to school? Without a second thought my wife said "hazlo. I will be there to help you."  While I worked on my degree, I was allowed to teach my first English courses, English 1A and 1B. I cherished being a student again. With an M.A. in English, I was finally legitimized, no longer a bastard-child, as an "Ethnic Studies teacher".

I would tell my English students in jest "Just look at how bad things have become. You now have Mexicans teaching English!' The tables had turned. In truth I will always be grateful to this college, and all those who gave me a chance, and opportunity for my slice of the pie. I became a good teacher I think, and gave my students, who were in sore need of positive role models, the best I had to offer.

A couple of years ago, I was contacted via email by one of my ex-students, Enrique Sepulveda, inviting me to his graduation ceremony at U.C. Davis. For the life of me, I could not remember who he was or when he might have been in one of my courses. It was early June, the temperature already over 100 degrees, and the thought of me sitting through another 2-plus hour ceremony, and the 1 hour drive to Davis, gave me chills, so I decided not to go. He would not even notice my absence in the sea of faces. When I told my wife, she looked at me in dismay and commanded: "Nonsense, you are going to attend!" I reluctantly obeyed.

When I told Enrique I would attend, he was ecstatic. "I have tickets for you and your wife. Just go to the box office when you arrive to pick them up." I was not even sure what the kid looked like. Regardless, I soon discovered the tickets were for two reserved seats, in the auditorium, center section, about three rows back from the front! We sat down and waited. As we read over the program I scanned it to find Enrique's name. He was receiving his PH.D. and would be the student speaker! When the VIP's settled into their folding chairs on stage, I saw a short, brown-faced young man take his place. "That must be Enrique", I whispered, nudging my wife.

"At least it's air-conditioned in here", I thought. When Enrique rose to the podium, he told of his challenging journey, of being raised in a poor Mexican family, of not caring about school, od being ignored and dismissed by his teachers. "It all changed when I met my professor at Delta College in 1984. He showed me that I mattered, that my culture mattered, that I could go to college, and I can honestly say that I am here today because of that teacher, Mr. Richard Rios." He pointed at me and I briefly stood and waved.

The applause flooded me with tears and shame to think that I might have missed out on this special moment because of my complacency and self-indulgence. Evidently, teachers can make a difference in a student's life.

 The rest is history. I continued to teach Chicano Literature to my last day, 33 years later when I retired, convinced more than ever of the validity of Ethnic Studies. May history some day reflect it. We made a difference.

Ethnic Studies: May you Rest In Peace.

We don't need no stinking badges!

Arizona: We Don't Need No Stinkin' Badges!

Alfredo Bedoya, famous Mexican actor said it best when he confronts Humphrey Bogart, gringo fortune hunter in the classic film, "Treasure of the Sierra Madre" who asks the quintessential (and stereotypical) Mexican Bandido, swarthy, greasy, sweaty in a dirty sombrero with a knick in it: "Who are you?"

"We are the Federales."
"Well, if you're the Federales where's your badges?"
"Badges? Badges? We ain't got no badges! We don't need no stinkin' badges!!"

A recent Arizona legislation gives police the right to demand proof that any person stopped (Betcha' they'll only be Mexicans) for "reasonable suspicion" of having committed a crime must present a document proving they're in the country legally!

But we were staunchly reassured by Arizona's Governor that all of this can be "reasonably" done without racial profiling. Oh, yeah?

Dios Mio, geev me a brake!

Worse, even if the person (Mexican) is here legally but cannot produce proof, he can be detained until it is all cleared up! Oh, no problema just tell your boss you missed last week because you were "detained".

Where in the hell are the Tea Party people when you need them? They, of course will be first on the lines to protest this dismal law since they heartily stand against any intrusion by government against the rights of individuals. Oh, I guess they only do this when the rights of (Americanos) have been violated, right?  But they are mad. Mad as hell.

For most Republicans, Immigration Reform means "round em' up, and ship em' out." All 12 million of them. And of course, Secure the Border which really means hiring more immigration officers and building more and higher fences.

But even the Great Wall of China was breached by marauding armies.

For most Democrats, Immigration Reform means, having the 12 million "get in line" for eventual legalization which opponents "reasonably" call Amnesty. And then tax the hell out of em'!

Maybe, if we curbed our appetite for illegal drugs, sales of guns, and cheap labor it would help.

Meanwhile all the mess is cleared up, we are mad. Mad as Hell. And we don't need no stinkin' badges either!

Up In Smoke: Cho & Lo In A Cultural Misadventure

(Two Vatos pull up on Acacia St. get out of their ranfla and look nervously around. They hold a crumpled up, soiled business card in one hand)

Lo: Ese Cho, are you sure dis' is da right place? Looks purdy spooky to me.
Cho: Pos claro que si. I wrote down da' address on the back of my hand but I think it washed off when I shaved dis' morning! (Laughs at his own joke).  But calmate Homie, it's right here on dis' lil' ol' card check it out: "Pathroads Natural Supplements", see?
Lo: You got the subscription, loco?
Cho: Este Vato. You mean the prescription! Simon, it's right here, mira. (They go inside the building). This shure beats the hell outta' having to buy the stuff from that creepy old Vato down on the corner of Main St. que no?
Lo: (hesitant) Hey Vato, I don't don't hink this is da' right place, look at all the weird pictures they have hangin' on da' walls.
Cho: Looks like the vato who painted this one was on a tripiazo, que no?
Lo: Yeah, look at this one with a piece of cheese hanging out of the vatos' head! And this one, hijola with this woman and a baby lookin' out at da' moon. Man, I cud' just feel this Jefita's love for life and her baby.
Cho: (Excited) And this one with the cactus. Orale, my jefita used to grow cactus in our backyard! We used to eat them!
Lo: This is a cool one too with a Mexican flag draped over a barbed wire fence. And a padlock on the gate.
Cho: Reminds me of all the pedo going on with the illegal aliens, verdad?
Lo: Hey homes, check out how all of the artistas are Chicano names: Gonzalez, Mora, Garcia, Rios, Lua. Are Mexicans the only ones smokin' this stuff?
Cho: Hey Lo, check this out they got all this stuff from Mexico on sale in dis' other room! Check out dis' pot from Michoacan. That's where my Jefitos came from. Orale. You'd never know this was a dispensary, verdad?!
 Lo: Yeah, my Tio used to have one of these posters of Cesar Chavez in his living room.
Cho: But there's nobody here.
Lo: Yeah, the place looks empty.
Cho: (In a loud voice): "Hey, anybody home???"
Lo: "Can we get some service here?"
Girl: (A young girl comes from a back room): "Hi, I'm Maria. How do you like our center?"
Lo: Looks purdy' firme to me, esa.
Cho: Yeah, me too. Kinda makes us feel good to see all this stuff by La Raza, sabes?.
Girl: Yeah, we have art exhibits all year round, and community groups use our space for meetings and different dance groups use it to rehearse. We have Mexican Folklore, Aztec, Salsa and even Haitian.
Cho: Haitian?? Orale, iz dat the girls with da' lil' ol' teensy-weency grass skirts??
Lo: You better chill it, ese. Show a little respeto.
Maria: (Ignores Lo) We also have other cultural events going on, music, poetry, speakers and workshops throughout for young and old during the year.
Cho & Lo: (Together) Orale!! Viva La Raza! You'd never guess this is a dispensary!
Girl: Here's a poster of our upcoming events. You guys can also become members.
Cho & Lo: (Together): Members?? Orale!!
Lo: (Getting Nervous): Give her da' prescription, dude!
Cho: Oh yeah, we're here to pick up some Mota, esa. Here's the prescription.
Girl: (Puzzled & Shocked) Prescription?? Oh my God! You guys got us mixed up with the place next door! They are the ones dispensing Medical Marijuana. This is the Mexican Cultural Center!
Lo: I told you, this wasn't da' right place, didn't I, Loco??
Cho: (Embarrased) Dispensa! It wuz nice to meet you anyway, Maria.
Lo: Yeah, lookin' at all dis' stuff was like a natural high, you know? Maybe you guyz oughta' the ones selling Mota, you'd get more people in here?
Maria: Good Idea!! Anyways, it was nice to meet you guyz. Stop by again!
(As Cho & Lo Exit): We'll be back, Esa!!

On Achieving Farthood: See You at Your Next Colonoscopy!

"Como te veo, me vi; como me ves te veras" is and old Mexican proverb that addresses the idea that we all must grow old, saying to the impudent young: "Go ahead and laugh at me, because how I see you I once was, but how you see me, you will one day be!"

It seems that lately all my friends and I talk about is pain, prescription meds, cataracts, enlarged prostrates, and yes my friend Colonoscopies! We gossip about CT scans, MRI's, Sleep Apnea, Hemorroids, and side-effects.

In between, we share the medicinal secrets of fish oil, daily vitamins and the curative properties of Marijuana, tortillas, Fish Oil, Ginger, Garlic and Meditation.

Go ahead and laugh but where I presently am, you will one day be too.

Dr. Oz and Opra mouth their daily mantras against snoring, obesity, fat, and lack of exercise, and we pay little attention to warnings signs until it is too late. There is something frightening about lab work, x-rays, mammograms, and gloved doctors shoving greased index fingers in our rectums to see if our prostrate has grown since last time!

But a colonoscopy? Oh Lord. Luckily, they put you out. As you sit in the tense lobby full of a dozen other patients you wonder "Are they all here for the same thing? Even that good looking young lady over there?"

We watch in horror as previous patients leave, searching in desperation for some sign on their face suggesting it will be horrible. "It's a breeze", one lady says to us, and chuckles, as she is led out of the office.

In truth, the worst part of the whole thing is Prep Day, 24 hours before the procedure and being restricted to a diet of liquid foods, jello! But even that pales against what awaits you at 4 and 6 o'clock that day: having to ingest two (2) 10 oz. bottles of that crap "Sodium Nitrate", and the boweled Vesuvius that follows! Not even my trusted Preparation H was any help!

Anyway, it's all over now and I'm home-free for another 5 years. "Can I get a picture of my hemorroids?" One lady in the adjacent cubicle asked. "Sorry", said the nurse, "but I can give you a picture of mine if you want", she quipped. No thanks.

I was given a photocopy of the inside of my colon; I have absolutely no idea why. Would anybody like to see it? So go right ahead and laugh, but I just attended a funeral for a young female friend who died of colon cancer just days before her 48th birthday. It's really not funny at all.

See you at my next colonoscopy.

San Patricio Battalion: A Mexican St. Patrick's Day

Few history books will tell the incredible story of The San Patricio Batallion, one that seems appropriate to recall during this season of St. Patrick's Day in the U.S. As a kid, the only thing I knew about the day was that if I didn't wear something green to school I would get pinched!

Before 1835, a big chunk of Southwestern U.S. was Mexican Territory, including California and Texas. As the U.S. began its westward expansion, Texas became prime realty for the Americanos who at first sought to live in peace with the Mexicans (Catholics) there. But when American ambition grew, a war broke out between Mexico and the U.S., the so-called Mexican War, or Mexican-American War. President James Polk declared war against Mexico in 1846.

To fill its ranks, the U.S. solicited enlistees from the mass of new immigrants, many of them Irish, seeking to escape The Great Hunger of 1845. These were promised land and wages for fighting on the American side, but the strong anti-Catholic sentiments of their new found country became quickly evident. The "Potato Heads", were a prime target for this discrimination.

The war was not a popular one in the U.S. The Mexican army was no match against one better trained with superior weapons. Moreover, the greed behind Manifest Destiny and westward expansion prompted many soldiers to defect and dessertion rates were high. The Irish soldiers embraced the notion that this was a war attacking ordinary farmers for their land.

But when these soldiers witnessed atrocities, rape, plunder and desecration of Catholic churches in Texas, some (including German Catholics) deserted, joining the Mexican forces to fight against their own country. Mexico, of course, took advantage of the situation encouraging the would-be defectors not to fight against their own religion and stop the U.S. from destroying Catholicism. For foreigners to fight in Mexican Wars was not uncommon and dated back to Mexico's War of Independence in 1810.

Mexican General Antonio Lopez de Santa Ana decreed that two infantry companies of about 100 men each, be formed, calling them "El Batallon de San Patricio (St. Patrick's Batallion)", each with its own captains, leiutenants, and sergeants. They were even permitted to fly their own banner, depicting St. Patrick, a Mexican coat of arms, reading "Libertad Por La Republica" on one side, and the Irish motto "Erin go Braugh" on the other.

The San Patricios fought and distinguished themselves in two important battles, the Battle of Buena Vista (near Saltillo) on February 23-24 of 1847, and in the final battles against the U.S. Marines at the convent of Churubusco on the outskirts of Mexico City on August 19-20, that same year.

Following Mexico's devastating defeat at Churubusco, the U.S. captured and tried some of the remaining San Patricios, found them guilty of desertion, and hung more than 50 soldiers. A few were pardoned, while others were flogged, beaten and branded with the letter "D" (deserter). After the final battle at Chapultepec Castle, the condemned soldiers were hung facing an American flag, raised in triumph over the castle.

The Mexican population rioted in protest over the inhumane treatment of the San Patricio's, threatening 

 to kill American prisoners in retalliation.

When the war ended, the U.S. sought to extradite the remaining San Patricios to the U.S. but Mexico prevailed, spelling out in the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo (1848), which formally ended the conflict, that they would remain in Mexico. Incidentally, Mexico lost about 40% of its territory as a result of the war.

Mexicans showed their gratitude to the San Patricios by erecting a monument in Mexico City honoring the "Martires Irlandeses" (Irish Martyrs), and by establishing September 12, the day of their executions, as a national day of remembrance with a plaque at Churubusco. The street in front of the convent is also called Martires Irlandeses.

They are also remembered on St. Patrick's Day, March 17 each year. Maybe the color green on Mexico's flag is not incidental?

Needless to say, the story was not a popular one in the U.S. media or history books and not until 1915, did the U.S. War Department even acknowledge existence of the San Patricio Batallion and the U.S.' treatment of them, after that devastating war.

Surviving members continued to function as a military unit in Mexico after the war, and some later returned to Ireland.

Lest we forget: Que Vivan Los San Patricio's!!

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!