On the Merits of Guerismo: Just a Little Freckled, Red-Haired Meskin' Boy

My mother and I Ca. 1950

3-time Grammy Award winner, and Tex-Mex mogul, Little Joe has a song entitled "I'm Just a Lil' Ol' Red-Necked Meskin' Boy." The song encapsulates the outrageous conglomeration that makes up being Chicano in the U.S.

It became obvious to me early in life, growing up in a Mexican barrio in Central California, that color of skin would play a crucial role in successfully assimilating in the American culture.

The dark skinned Mexicans were called "prietos", or "morenos", referring to their complexion. My mother would often admonish me when I was playing out in the sun "Metete a la sombra, sino vas a parecer Indio" (get into the shade or you're going to look like an Indian").

And everyone knew that to be a dark-skinned Mexican Indian was bad.

On the other hand, to be a fair-skinned one, a "Guero", was a distinct advantage in the U.S. That meant we could "pass" for Gringo or White when it was convenient. Most of my friends were clearly Mexican looking, "prietos," and possessed an accent, to boot.

But by a stroke of fate's faceteous hand, I was born with a triple whammy: Guero, freckled, and with curly red hair! Of six siblings, three of us were born with red hair, and three with black hair. Where the red came from, we will never know since both my mom and dad had black hair. All of the red heads had freckles too.

No one had really ever heard of a red-haired, freckled Mexican.

When my kids became aware of the splatters of freckles on my face, arms and hands they would ask "Daddy, why do you have these spots all over you?" "Well, one day my mother was painting the ceiling, while I was in my crib underneath, and the paint spattered all over me", I would kid with them. They loved the story so they kept asking the question.

But all this had its negatives. My mother's comadre, Doña Margarita, who lived next door donned me "El Coloradito", referring to my red hair. "Como esta mi coloradito?" She would taunt. I hated it. It was like being called "carrot-top" or "matchstick." Other Mexicans often referred to me as Guero. "Como estas Guerito?"

There is no question there was a great amount of discrimination against dark-skinned Mexicans, at work and in school. They were singled out by the "Americanos", and prodded into fights, or put at the "back of room" with all the "slow learners" by teachers.

But I could slide. They never quite knew what I was, and I could hang with my Mexican friends one day, and with my Anglo buddies the next. Sometimes my Mexican pals resented me for running around with the Whites. Mostly, they stuck together out of necessity by a mostly white-skinned culture that feared dark skin.

In Mexico, the "Indians" (being dark-skinned), were relegated to secondary status as a by-product of the Spanish Conquest in the 1500's. While they were outcasts, Spanish men saw no hypocrisy in mating with Indian women, creating another caste of people labeled "Meztizo", one born of a Spanish father and an Indian mother, scorned by Europeans for having Indian blood, and equally by Indians for having European blood.

The "Peninsular", native of the Iberian Peninsula (Spain) believed that the Indians were less than human, "gente sin razon", people, but without logic, or reason. It made it easier to commit atrocities on them.  Ironically, it would be Meztizos who would lead the rebellion in 1810 which culminated in Mexico's Independence in 1821, after 300 years of Spanish colonization.

Compounding the irony, the term "Mexican", replaced the word Meztizo, after Mexico's independence in 1821, and a Mexican would now be redefined with a new sense of pride, as being one of both Indian and European bloods! How's that for a neat contradiction?

My own stereotype of what Mexicans were supposed to look like was shattered on my first trip to Mexico. I was amazed to see so many gueros, light-skinned, blond-haired and blue-eyed! Some were whiter than I was! "These are Mexicans?" I thought.

My suegro (father-in law) was fair-skinned and had the bluest eyes. My two sons are dark-skinned with black hair. No red-hair or freckles in sight among the rest of my family, brothers, nephews, cousins or grandkids. Maybe one will pop up some where down the line, who knows?

 Nonetheless, I have learned that Brown is Beautiful, that Bronze is Beautiful (and freckles too!). However, I no longer have red hair; alas, it is all white now.

Linguistics: Masculinity and Feminity in Language

I am conjuring some Latin scholar sitting in a darkly lit back room, centuries ago, deciding what the gender of nouns ought to be. In the Spanish language each noun is prefaced by El (masculine) and La (feminine).

In some cases it makes sense: El hombre (man) and La mujer (woman) or El niño (boy) and La niña (girl). El sol (sun) implies a strong, powerful male sun and La luna, a delicate, smaller mate.

Yet, as to why La cuchara (spoon) is feminine, and El tenedor (fork) is masculine, or El coche (car) is male, and La camioneta (pickup) is female, your guess is as good as mine.

In Spanish you never, ever say or use the noun without its accompanying gender. It is unthinkable. To this day, when speaking Spanish, I often pause in the middle of a sentence before using a noun, until I feel safe I have its correct gender.

And with the fluidity of language brought on by the internet and science, new gender prefaces must be made up and applied as in El celular (cell phone), La computadora (computer, El I-Pod, and El blog (I think!)

No such gender references exist in English, with the exception of colloquial terms like mailman or chairman, which were promptly changed to the gender neutral mailperson and chairperson to pacify critics of the Women's Movement back in the 70's, who charged these kinds of words were Chauvinistic, or something.

So we hispanics continually live with gender charged nouns. Thus, it's La cuchara (spoon) and El tenedor (fork). In our house all rooms, La cocina (kitchen) and La recamara, La sala are feminine, except for the bathroom, El baño. Explain that one to me!

Then there is La pala (shovel) and El asadon (hoe), El caballo (horse) and La mula (mule), La rosa (rose) and El clavel (carnation) El arbol (tree) and Las ojas (leaves), El ojo (eye) and La nariz (nose), El libro (book) and La oja (page), El telefono (telephone) and La computadora (computer), El chile and La naranja (orange), La noche (night) and El dia (day), El lapiz (pencil) and La pluma (pen).

Ironically, ugly is El Feo, and pretty, is La bella. Talk about reverse Chauvinism.

Women's Libbers would have a field day with Spanish! 

We often hear people making errors in ascribing the correct gender to the noun as in El casa or La caballo. Chicanos complicated the problem with spanglish adding the gender prefix to an English noun as in "Mira, La moon, esta muy purdy." 

But I have to admit the gender prefix makes the language prettier, more poetic, being able to see all objects as gender tied, not cold objects defined by a dictionary, without soul.

It's no wonder Cesar Chavez used to say "English is the language you do business with, but Spanish is the language of love."

Dad, What's A Peach?

Some time ago my wife and I and our two boys were returning from the Bay Area and decided to take the scenic route, Marsh Creek Road, which starts at Hwy 680 and passes through Walnut Creek, winding through the Mt Diablo foothills and connecting to Hwy 4, and the beautiful Delta waterways to Stockon.

At the foot of the pass, as it connects to the valley floor, there were many farms and orchards, and we loved to hit a few of the fruit stands on the way home and stock up on peaches and nectarines, during the summer.

On this one day, as we pulled into one of the first stands, a load of Japanese tourists had just unloaded from a small tour bus and were excitedly running among the trees, pointing and jabbering at the exquisite boughs of vermillion nectarines teeming on the branches.

At first, it stuck us as funny, odd. After all, this was just another old orchard giving its bounty for summer. I had seen hundreds growing up in the San Joaquin valley of California. I had even picked some of these fruits as a kid.

Years before, living in Modesto when my wife and I first married, we rented a small house in the barrio that once belonged to my uncles, The Mendozas. Two orange trees grew in the front yard, which we largely ignored.

One day, my old high school buddy, Phil came to visit us from Berkeley and brought his girlfriend and her friend, who both hailed from New York City. I had never met anybody from New York City and the barrio must have been an adventure for them. As they stepped from the car, his girlfriend's eyes immediately darted to the orange trees and she rushed towards one crying "Look, look, oh look oranges!!" She had never seen an orange growing on a tree.

My mom's house down the street stood in front of a small orchard. As kids, we took full advantage of this. Though only the size of about four square blocks, it held walnuts, figs, apricots, grapes, peaches and a few nectarine trees in it. We quickly learned when each would ripen and carried on clandestine raids into the orchard to taste its delicious delicacies, braving the ire of the rancher who chased us out many a time.

As a teen, I worked summers picking various crops in the valley. Unloading with the men from the back of a truck, it was still dark outside as we scurried to to our assigned sets of trees or rows of grapes. Sunrise in the fields was exquisite, the sparkle of dew drops as sun light hit them, the cool of summer mornings just before the heat began, nibbling on ripe apricots or peaches on a 12 foot ladder was intoxicating. You could smell the fruit being processed at the canneries in Modesto.

I had always enjoyed drives through the valley in spring and summer. Fields of almonds in bloom, and trees full of apricots and peaces were commonplace. When my wife, a native of Mexico first saw the orchards and fields, she was mesmerized.

I used to grill her on the names of fruit trees and it took her a few years to identify them just by their trunks and leaves. "What kind of tree is that?" "A Peach?" "No, it;s a cherry!" "What kind is that?" "A cherry?" "No, a peach!" I knew them all and took it for granted. Now, after 40+ years living in the valley, she knows them all, even without their leaves.

I left Modesto in 1957 when I went off to college in Oakland. After college, I enlisted in the U.S. Army and spent 3 more years from 1962-1965, away from the valley. One of the first things I noticed when I returned to Modesto was how many orchards had been torn down. In their place were parking lots, shopping centers and housing projects. To this day, I can recall exactly where a particular peach, walnut, or almond orchard or vineyard once stood.

On the drive from Modesto to Stockton where we now live, orchard after orchard has been leveled and I wonder what the fate of the remaining orchards is. Here in stockton, farmland has disappeared at an alarming rate. In what are now houses, Walmarts, and housing projects lie the remains of what were once tomato, cherry, almond or walnut fields plowed under. Tiny island orchards cling to life, but for how long?

Farmers' Markets still thrive locally and I love to frequent them to taste the rich familiar flavors of locally grown, fresh tomatoes, peaches, apricots, grapes, and pears in summer.

Yet, our appetite for farmland continues to grow. The fruit from backyard fruit trees feeds mostly the birds, or is left to fall to rot on the ground. According to Molly Penbreth from the California Department of Conservation, from 2002-2004 "More than 18,000 acres of farmland in several San Joaquin valley counties has become subdivisions, shopping malls and other developments."

The population of California is projected to double to 60 million by 2050, with much of that growth taking place in the central valley. Aside from the fact that for me the loss is mostly aesthetic, Califonia's agriculture  feeds a great chunk of the world, and is a multi-billion dollar business.

What will we do when our children ask, "Mom, what is a peach?" And all we can do is show them a picture? 

Monkey See, Monkey Do

The documentary film "Animals Are Beautiful People", has one clip which has just plain dumbfounded me since I saw it many years ago. It is a toast to the superb ingenuity of man; it is a testament to our brain, plain and simple, forever sealing all arguments about whether animals are as intelligent as men!

For an African Bushman, survival depends on, among other things, accessibility to water. One trick the Bushman employs is to find a termite mound and slowly begin to dig a narrow hole into its core, with a stick. He then hollows out a small chamber at the end, but larger than the diameter of the hole.

A monkey, being creature of curiosity, is attracted to the goings-on, and begins to watch. The man, makes sure the monkey sees every move. He then takes some fruit seeds from his pouch, pushes them through the hole in the mound, depositing them just inside the hollow he has dug, and retreats a short distance to wait.

The monkey, mad with curiosity approaches the mound and sticks his arm into the narrow opening, grabbing a fistful of seeds from the hollow inside. But when he tries to pull his arm out of the hole, he can't! The fistful of seeds is to large to now slip through the hole, and he is stuck. All he really has to do is to let go of the seeds and his arm will easily slide out of the mound, but his greed, and stupidity prevents him from doing so.

At this point, the man quickly pounces on the monkey, subdues him, slips a length of rope around his neck, and ties him to a nearby tree. He then reaches into a pouch, pulls out some rocks of salt which he has brought along just for this occasion, and scatters them around on the ground within the monkey's reach.

The monkey just cannot resist one of his favorite treats! He leaps on the salt and begins to eat it. Time passes and the monkey begins to tire. It is hot and he is getting mighty thirsty. But the Bushman bides his time until he  deems the monkey is mad with thirst.

At the precise moment, he cuts the monkey loose, and the monkey makes a bee line, right into an underground cave he knows contains the water, with the Bushman hot on his heels!

In the end, the two drink side by side, monkey and man, and the monkey does not even care.

Just What Do You Think You're Doing Dave... Dave? Stop Will You?

One of my absolute favorite scenes in any film is the one in "2001: A Space Odyssey", where Dave unplugs the spaceship's on board computer, HAL, who has lately turned into a nasty boy and threatens to take over.

It epitomizes the quintessential  battle between Man and Machine. When Dave begins unplug HAL, he simply does not want to die! We all cheer ol' Dave, "Do it Dave! Sock it to em', Dave! Kill the sucker!"

It was a popular theme explored on Rod Serling's "The Twilight Zone", and a favorite of Sci-Fi writers and films of the 50's. Don't mess with Mother Nature. If God would have wanted us to think more, He would have implanted CHIPS in our brains!

Well, it has come to pass, brothers and sisters. I read recently that an IBM computer has just defeated TWO of "Jeopardy(s)!" most successful human players!! Yes, you heard me right, two, count em' two humans defeated by a computer! Shameful, disgraceful, embarrassing, humiliating. Downright scary, if you ask me.

Perhaps, my friends, it is time to unplug this machine, too?

The King of Tex-Mex Rules: Little Joe Y La Familia

I rummage through my closet for something special to wear. Little to choose from. Then I see it: my Lowrider jacket the one I haven't worn for years, with the words Low and Rider, divided by the zipper and the little icons on the sleeves from Low Rider Magazine, of a vato with shades, moustached, and a little brimmed hat on the top. This is perfect. My compadres Julian and Mary arrive early, while my wife and I get ready.

We pull up to the house on Adams St. to meet up with my virtual pal, Linda Stockton, who I had only known solely through Facebook messages between us. She has arranged the whole thing through the Mexican radio station she works for. They have paid for the tickets and she has arranged a trade in services for the Limo.

We are greeted by her lanky, freshly-groomed white poodle, Blanca who sniffs us out thoroughly. She is especially interested in the snacks we have in a bag. Linda and Arlene are already there, sitting on the porch and sipping on a Corona. My compadre keeps pressing me to uncap the tequila we have in the bag, so we can have a couple of shots before the others and the Limo arrives. So we do.

It is a fine February evening, unusually warm for the season. Soon the others begin arriving, and then the Limo. It is a 36' white, stretch Cadillac. Class.There is an air of excitement as we introduce ourselves and board. It is tight inside like the belly of a whale with plush leather seats. Blacklights provide the ambiance and the letters on my jacket glow like neon.

The owner of the Limo, Jaime has decided to come with us but he is not driving today. He kicks on a CD of Little Joe, cranks it up, and we head out, pulling onto Hwy. 4, and through the winding waterways of the San Joaquin Delta, towards the small town of Antioch, California on the edges on San Francisco Bay, to the El Camanil Theater where the concert will be held. We break out the Tequila and offer shots, but only a few brave souls accept. Coronas are passed around as we prime ourselves to what we all already know will be a great concert.

About an hour passes, and the trip seems longer than expected. But it's more than just the anticipation. We are lost and have driving around in circles for 15 minutes! It's already 7:45 and the concert begins in 15 minutes. My comadre has to go. The driver assures "we'll be there in 10 minutes." But my comadre has to go, now, real bad.  "Driver, can you find a gas station?" She does and we all race out to relieve ourselves.

It is already late, 8:05, and we are all restless. Soon the bright marquis of the theater appears. At the entrance, we are short one ticket. The usher speaks to the lady at the box office. They confer. We are willing to pay for the extra ticket. But wait, that means my compadres, who are the only ones without tickets, may have to sit in different sections! Soon, the usher appears. "We have decided to give you a complimentary ticket but one of you will have to sit in a folding chair. My compadre gallantly volunteers.     

As we enter the lobby, Little joe is rocking the house. We are greeted by his classic "I'm Just a Lil' Ol' Redneck Meskin' Boy." We have arrived!!

The theater is a beautifully renovated gem from the 30's or 40's, seating about 700 people. We are in row 7, and can see Joe perfectly. No frills, no huge monitors, Just plain Joe Hernandez, clad in a sports coat and pants, and sneakers, a guitar player, keyboard player, two trumpets, bass and timbales. But it is plenty as the King of Tex-Mex, works his adoring audience.

I see familiar faces. Barrio faces. Old vatos and young ones, moms, grandmas and grandpas. White haired veteranos, still wearing their tidy brims, and still doing the walk. They interact comfortably with Joe, shouting acclaims and petitions from the audience. Occasional white faces are spreckled throughout the audience, brave souls. The white ushers, seated in folding chairs along the edges, tap their feet to the addicting beat of Joe's songs. I feel like Big Stuff in my Lowrider jacket. I am home. We are home.

My compadre, behind us in the folding chair is beside himself. He is working himself to frenzy. In a moment of fervor, he stands up, rushes to my comadre and asks her to dance. She is embarrassed. "Sit down, Julian!" She whispers loudly to him. But it's too late! Julian grabs his imaginary partner and begins to feign dance towards the stage! The audience goes wild. They are cheering him on. I expect security to charge him at any second. He will be arrested. Joe sees him and eggs him on! When the number ends, Joe asks for a round of applause for my compadre, and he proudly takes his seat again.

These are the songs we grew up with. Why is it they never grow old? How is it Joe can just keep singing them, these old Mexican classics over and over, and his audiences never tire of them? He belts out his classics: "Ella", Indita Mia", "Cartas Marcadas", "Prieta Linda", "Que Culpa Tengo?", and "Las Nubes", the audience sings along, and as I listen, I wonder what the old Mexican singers would think, Pedro Infante, Jorge Negrete, Jose Alfredo Jimenez, if they could hear this now, how Joe has taken their songs, added keyboards, timbales, and trumpets to them, and requintos done with electric guitar, a belts them out "a todo pelo", blasting from towers of amplifiers and speakers!?  He pushes the envelope.

He does a couple of Oldies, and he dedicates the beautiful classic "You Don't Know Me" to the Keyboard player's deceased mom. "This song was her favorite", Joe tells him. In a meddley he goes from "Wasted Days and Wasted Nights" right into "Por un Amor", in the same breath! Now, tell me, how many other musicians do you know who can do that? Maybe Freddy Fender.

This is the night before the 2011 Grammy's. We know he has been nominated for another Grammy, having netted 3 already. He says nothing about it until the concert ends, saying the nomination is for the album "Recuerdos" (Memories) he recorded awhile back and he forgot all about. It contains his favorite songs and was recorded simply with voice, guitar and bass and drums. He thanks the audience and excuses himself onstage (no encores) saying the band must pack up and head for the Grammy's in L.A.. The next day we will find out he is awarded his 4th Grammy for "Best Tejano Album".

We line up in the lobby. After a while, he hurries in and begins to sign autographs and pose for pictures with whoever asks him to do so. He is like a brother, a friend. No sass. When my compadre poses with him he reveals he was the frenzied dancer, boasting 'I'm from Textas, too." "Then, I forgive you", Joe quips. No superstar persona here. Just Joe. My wife says "Did you notice his haripiece?" I get up close and then I see it. "It matches real nice", I whisper to her and my comadre. Hell, he deserves it. He is 71 after all.

The trip back to Stockton is relatively uneventful. We are all like a family, after having eaten a BIG Thanksgiving dinner, filled, grateful and thankful to have seen the King of Tejano, Tex-Mex. My compadre and I have a final shot, a few more Coronas are passed around.

What a night it had been. When I thank Linda for the invitation and the complimentary tickets, she says:"I wanted to make sure only people who love Little Joe would be invited". She had made some excellent choices.

My Lucky Day: Anything Will Help

Phony as a two dollar bill?

There is one on each side of the crosswalk, at the stoplight waiting for the cars to stop so they can ply their faces of pity on the hapless, unwary drivers forced to stop for the red. Scraggly, beaten, weathered, wrinkled faces beyond their years, seasoned, soiled, wretched, their sparkling eyes the only sign of life, of humanity left in them.

The one on my side holds up a dirty, cardboard sign reading "Anything will help." I stop 3 or 4 cars back. Traffic is heavy. Maybe I'll slide through when the light changes. Maybe not. My luck the light will turn red again when I get to it. I begin to rehearse my litany of excuses, of rationales for being stingy, but I know I have some loose one-dollar bills in my wallet.

I begin to stress. The light changes to green and I edge closer to him. The light turns red again! I am right next to him. He catches my eyes and smiles at me. I decide. I reach into my wallet and without looking pull out a single bill, open the door slightly and hand it to him, slamming the door shut and locking it.

He stares at the bill, and an immense smile grips his face. He holds up the bill, excitedly pointing at it and mouthing "thank you's" to me. I look. Oh shit! I have mistakenly given him my lucky $2 bill, the one I have carried at the back of my wallet for years!!

I am torn between utter regret and sharing in the man's exhilaration. I choose the latter. We both cheer as I drive off.