Octomania: Messing With Mother Nature

The flap over the "Octomom" and her octuplets is just another ominous sign of where we have come to as a society. We Americans seem to think we have the right, morally or constitutionally to do anything we please. We will deal with the consequences later.

Nose too big, get a nose job.

Breasts too small, get implants.

Tummy sags? Get a tummy tuck.

Can't control your eating, get a stomach bypass.

Eyelids sag, get a Botox shot.

Bald? Get an implant.

Unwanted pregnancy? Get an abortion.

Can't concieve? Get an implant.

Too many wrinkles, get a face lift.

Eyes the wrong color? Get colored contacts.

Can't get it up? Viagra.

Can't get it down? Call your doctor immediately!!

Is there such a thing as a brain transplant?

Seven Samurai: A Black & White Masterpiece

I Watched Akira Kurosawa's (1954) masterpiece "Seven Samurai" recently on TCM channel. Wow, memories revisited! The black and white film takes patience to watch (200 Min.), and even had an old-fashioned "intermission" in the middle (run to the john or snack bar!). The English sub-titles can be tedious, but Kurosawa's images and brilliant actors almost tell the story without them! The characters' facial expressions, body language, and exaggerated motions remind one of the silent era films.

The tale of a village of helpless peasant farmers, in 16th century rural Japan, who hire 7 Samurai to protect them from a ruthless band of thieves who annually plunder their crops, abduct their women and murder them, is captivating. The task of hiring Samurai who view the farmers as socially inferior, is heightened by the fact they have no money to pay and can only offer room and board. "Find hungry Samurai!", the village elder instructs.

However, when the Samurai Kambei, masterfully played by Takeshi Shimura, hires on in sympathy for the plight of the farmers, he takes it upon himself to enlist the other six.

Last to join is Kikuchiyo, played by Toshiro Mifune, who steals the show. He is the orphaned son of a farmer, a wannabe who aspires for the respect and adultation the Samurai class will afford him. A clown, impassioned and crude, his character is tragically lovable. The dignity, humanity, courage and fears of each Samurai is powerfully conveyed.

When the Samurai arrive, the villagers, terrified of the mercenaries, rush to hide their daughters, and fail to greet their saviors, scattering like scared mice. One even shears his daughter's hair, and dresses her like a man to "protect" her from the Samurai!

In the months before the harvest, the Samurai transform a rag-tag band of farmers into defenders of their village and families. Kambei, is the military tactician. After studying the geography surrounding the village, he predicts the routes of attack and plans a defensive strategy, but warns "We cannot win by defense alone."

Kurosawa skillfully weaves sub-plots into his tale; most interesting is a love affair between one farmer's daughter and the "Kid", the youngest of the Samurai, that climaxes in a forbidden sexual encounter, disgracing her before the entire village. The night before the long-awaited battle, Kikuchiyo jokingly advises: "Men, love your wives well tonight!". When one of the Samurai finishes sewing a battle flag, he points out to Kicuchiyo, "Each circle on the banner represents one Samurai." "But there are only six circles", Kicuchiyo complains. "See here, the triangle? That is you!" Tragi-comedy abounds in the film.

Best, are the battle sequences as the relentless thieves mercilessly attack the villagers on horses, many with muskets. But the villagers are armed with bamboo spears, bows and arrows, barricades and bravado rallied by the Samurai. Because of the barracades,the thieves have been limited to only one entrance to the village. The villagers allow one or two horsemen in at a time, quickly closing ranks, while the others, including women, finish off each thieve. The action shots are superb and rank with any contemporary film. The final battle is fought in the rain. The streets are thick with mud. The viewer is dazzled by incredible camera work and editing which Kurosawa does himself.

During the battle which lasts several days, many villagers including four Samurai lose their lives, but the thieves are decimated. As the farmers return to their fields to plant rice, in the closing scene, Kambei, "The Kid", and another Samurai pay their respects to their fallen comrades before a makeshift cemetary on the outskirts of the village, Kambei turns to look at the farmers in the nearby fields: "The victory is theirs, not ours", he says sullenly.

Sorry, I gave away the ending! Yes, I know a Hollywood version "The Magnificent Seven" was released in 1960 starring Yul Brynner, Eli Wallach and Steve McQueen, roughly (very roughly) based on Kurosawa's story; now it is poor Mexcian villagers who hire seven Gringo gunslingers to defend them from thieves, but believe me, it doesn't hold a candle to the original Japanese version!

I Love You: Love X 6

We have all heard the old sayings: "It's a small world" "What goes around, comes around." A few nights ago I watched a PBS documentary on the Degree of Six. I had heard of it before, but the show floored me.

It turns out that science has proven these addages to be true, that if you select any six people at random, and tell them to select another six, and those six, six more ad infinitum, the number of people contacted will quickly circle the world and come right back to someone who knows you!

Scientists are amazed at how quickly this happens. Most interesting is how these finding are being applied to many disciplines, especially the field of medicine, to explain how viruses are spread.

To test the concept, I am telling each reader of this post: "I LOVE YOU". Now, I want you to E-Mail SIX more people, telling each one "I LOVE YOU", and instructing them to send the message to SIX more etc. etc. etc. Meanwhile, I am cracking me a Bud and waiting to see how long the message will take to come back to me. Today is 2/23/2009 A.D.

I bought a 12-pak today, just in case it takes a little longer than I think. Please don't take too long, because I don't know how much longer the Bud will be on sale! (Note that a 12-pak is 2x6, a 24-pak 4x6, and a case 6x6) Isn't that just remarkable?

Give 'Em An Inch And They'll Take a Mile: The Browning of America

For years we have heard that Mexicans and Latin Americans make poor candidates to become American citizens. They don't assimilate well. They stick to their own kind, insist on speaking Spanish, and watch only Spanish language TV.

But in truth we don't have to worry whether Mexicans become good Americans, but will Americans make good Mexicans! I am referring to the Browning of America. There will be no revolution, no taking back our own country by force, or any of that stuff. It will be silent, swift and final. There is no escape. Hasta La Vista, dude.

I mean look around you. When was the last time you heard someone say: "Hasta la vista, baby", "Ain't givin' you nada, zip!" "Better get going buster, and I mean pronto!" "You gone loco or what?" How about "Viva Viagra!" (Yeah!) One Texas Tornado song says: "Hey Baby que paso? I thought I was your only Vato?" How about a little Tex-Mex music? Little Joe Y La Familia croons: "I'm just a good ol' Redneck Mexican Boy!"

It's sneaking into your food too. Carne asada? Chile Verde, Chile Colorado, Taquitos? Guacamole? Tostadas? Quesadillas? Chipotle Hamburgers? Jalapenos on your Pizza? Give me a break.

We all know that Hispanics make up nearly 50% of the U.S. population, and more in some parts of the country (and those numbers are based on those who actually open the door when the Census workers knock!). "Mama, there is a Gringo knocking on the door! Don't open it Mijo, it might be an immigration officer or a tax man!" Soon they will be a majority.

Voice messages instruct you: "For English, press 1, for Spanish press 2." Soon it will be: "For English, please stay on the line and your call will be taken in the order it was received." In some states, voters pamphlets and ballots are translated in Spanish to the ire of many. We don't even read them in English!

They fill kitchens at the best hotels, Home Town Buffet, Pollo Loco, and El Torito. They change the linens of your beds at motels, pick your crops, roof your houses and grease your cars.

Infiltration is evident in our schools; Hispanics now teach U.S. History, Spanish, and even English courses! As a college English teacher I used to joke with my students: "Things are so bad, that now Mexicans have to teach you guys how to speak English, your own language!" I had Asian immigrants that spoke and wrote better English than my native speakers. Imagine that.

I remember when Gringo teachers taught Mexicans to speak Spanish in High School and the students got an "F" in it! How messed up is that. The time has come to take your own medicine. Cinco de Mayo, Day of The Dead, Ballet Folkloricos, Mariachis, are part of the curriculum. Are you ready for English as a second language for Native English speakers? Whoa.

Hey, how about a cerveza, a Corona, Tecate, or let's have a shot of Tequila or two while we wait? If we drink too much we'll just order up a bowl of Menudo.

Taco trucks have replaced hot dog stands. White dudes in ties line up for a super burrito at lunch.

Go back where you came from? Hardly, that'll have to be Europe, my friend. How can we fight it? We can't. Just kick back and take a little siesta and it will soon be over. After all, there are worse things. We could be taken over by Martians. The whole thing is really no problema.

Apolonio Is 96! Todavia Sopla!!

On Sunday, our friend Olga (pictured above) invited us to a 96th birthday party for her dad, Apolonio. He doesn't talk much anymore, but his eyes are bright and his mind alert. He sat on his favorite rocker staring straight ahead, in some world of his own making, seemingly unaware of his family, friends and grandkids that filled the house. He doesn't hear well, so you have to speak loudly and directly to address him. From time to time, he would break out into some song of yesteryear, and though off-key, and without a recognizable melody, he knew all the words to it. We all listened and clapped for him when he ended each song. There was a look of sheer contentment on his face. He knew we were all there for him.

The family had a huge strawberry and banana cake for him and the customary candles, a "9" and a "6", and he was able to blow them out after a couple of failed attempts: "Todavia Soplas! (You can still blow!), somebody chanted and we sang the traditional Mexican birthday song for him: "Las Mananitas" followed the English "Happy Birthday". There was ham, ribs, salad and yams. Afterwards, we began to sing old Mexican songs, with some of the old-timers in the room. One had a rich, powerful voice but insisted on singing the songs in his own private key. I kept herding him towards a key on my guitar that I felt best suited his voice, but it was a struggle. Others insisted on singing off key no matter what I did! Regardless, there were a few songs, which most of the people knew, which we actually sang on key and made it through the entire song. He must have loved it; it was written on his face.

When I was a kid, we were drilled on respecting your elders and I guess I have never lost that. This family is blessed to have their Dad still around and relatively healthy at 96. I myself am pushing 70, and many of my dearest friends and family are gone, especially some of my guitar playing and singing (and beer drinking!) buddies and I miss them. Perhaps that is what makes these old timers, "viejitos" so special to me. Would that we all loved and cherished our old ones so.

Ahi Viene La Migra!! Life FromThe Top Of A Ladder

One of my first jobs was to work in the fields during summer vacations from Junior and Senior High School. I went along with my best friend Robert and his dad, "Louie", our local "contratista" (contractor). Louie was a short, dark man with an Asian face, potmarked with scars, probably from childhood bouts with chicken pox. He would drive us to and from the fields in his 3/4 ton truck with a canvas tarp stretched over the back, and act as our supervisor during the day.

Once loaded, I would take a seat on a wooden bench in the back, alongside the other workers. We picked apricots, grapes and peaches throughout the valley. The work was hard and lazy as I was, I could still make enough money to buy nice school clothes in the fall.

I hated getting up at 5 AM. It was pitch dark outside and my mom would fix breakfast and pack me a lunch, usually some bean burritos with "papas" (potatoes), or scrambled eggs. It was still dark and cold when we arrived in the fields, but we knew we had to start picking early because it could reach 95 or 100 degrees by 1:00. The ladders, 12 feet long, were heavy and clumsy to handle for a skinny 95 pound kid. You had to find the balancing point, tuck your shoulder into the space between the rungs, lift and head out for your first "set" of trees without stumbling.

A set was a grouping of four trees and you hoped they were good ones because we were usually paid by-the-box, 25, 50 or 75 cents, so if they were sparse with fruit, you couldn't make much money. At dawn, we could barely see the fruit on the branches, and the leaves were still wet from the previous night's dew, but we needed a head start on the summer sun. Sunrises were glorious in the orchards and I would take a moment on the top rung of the ladder to soak it all in.

Full buckets or sacks of fruit were dumped into boxes, then stacked one on top one another, 5 or 6 high, and a number given each worker was visibly scribbled in chalk on the sides of each box. During the first pickings we had to pick only ripe fruit and any green ones were tossed from your boxes by the contractor or the ranchers. Sometimes we were give a plastic ring and if the fruit fell though, it was unacceptable in size. "I picked 100 boxes today; how many did you pick?" I would hear other workers boast with satisfaction. I was ashamed to say how many I had picked. The older workers who picked two boxes for every one I picked taunted: "Andale, Guerito, andale picale, picale!" (Come on Whitey, let's go, come on pick it up, pick it up!)

II

Many of the workers were illegal aliens ("Mojados") or "Braceros" ("Helping Hands", legally contracted to the U.S. during and after World War II). Desperate to send money to families in Mexico who depended on it, they picked as fast as they could, running from set to set with ladders in tow, stripping branches with deft efficiency and speed. As they finished up the last tree of their set, they would, not so conspicously, meander to the next corresponding set of trees up ahead. If it was sparse with fruit, they would return to their set, dilly dally around and let unsuspecting souls like me take it, then they would rush to to take the next one whose trees were hanging with fruit!

I had heard of immigration raids in the orchards and one day it happpened: "Ahi viene La Migra! Ahi viene La Migra! Ahi viene La Migra!!" The cry was passed from ladder to ladder and the illegals scattered like cucarachas (cockroaches) when a light is suddenly turned on in the kitchen, across fields, over fences, even jumping into canals. Then there were the stories of men who had drowned in rivers and canals, trying to escape these raids. The lucky ones were rounded up, and deported to Mexico, only to return a couple of weeks later to pick again.

I was filled with pity for these men, some not much older than I. They seemed more mature and wiser than me and I loved hearing their stories and about life in Mexico. Unlike these men who worked out of neccesity, I worked so I could look cool in the hallways of school in a Pendelton, khakis and a cashmere sweater, and my mother let me keep my entire check. For some of my buddies, their entire paychecks went to the help support the family.

Picking fruit was not just about muscle and manual labor; it required technique, a skill. The point was to not waste time moving the ladder when you didn't have to. You had to place it in a strategic part of a tree, one that allowed you to pick the most fruit, from the each side and the top of the ladder. It was not smart to pick as you ascended because the sack, made of canvas, and swung over your shoulder by a strap, was extremely heavy when full; it held a complete box of fruit! Tin buckets had a hook attached to the handle which could be fixed to a branch or to the sides of the ladder as it was filled with fruit. Smartest, was to climb to the top rung with an empty sack and fill it as you decended. You could top it off by walking around the tree picking fruit you could reach standing up.

The swinging leg was pushed forward until it safely supported the ladder; if it was positioned a little too far to the left or right of center, the ladder could topple. En La Madre! If the leg was positioned too far forward or not far enough, the ladder could collapse. Sometimes, when there was no entry place to the tree, we would totally collapse the leg and lean the ladder on a branch for support, but this was also dangerous since the branch could break or move with the weight of the person, and send you plunging through branches to the ground, with a full bucket or sack of fruit on your head! Many times my ladder collapsed, toppled, or slid out from under me, leaving me dangling from a branch!

Sometimes, nests of spiders, or wasps were hidden in the branches. My shins were scraped and bruised from slipping, falling or sliding down the rungs in a dash to save my life . The weight of the sacks filled of fruit wore a groove in my shoulder and it would be sore for days.

Picking in the morning hours was for me almost idyllic, and I would daydream at mid-ladder, or pause to enjoy the view from the top rung: the orchards, the valleys, and the Coast Range. I could hear my neighbors singing or gossiping loudly in Spanish on ladders next to mine. Other times, I would dally at the top rung and take in the warm morning sun, sucking on a choice peach or apricot. We took short water breaks and I would try to extend these as long as I could.

III

The highlight of the day for me was lunch. Often, Louie would start a fire in an open space in the orchard. When "Vamos a comer! Vamos a comer!" was called, the men would find a soft spot on the ground, around the pit, open their lunch boxes or paper sacks, fasten their burritos on branches to warm them over the fire. One rancher would bring us a gallon of wine for lunch and we would wipe the mouth of the jug on a dirty sleeve, sling it over your shoulder, take a swig, and pass it on to the next man. It didn't take more than a couple of swigs in those day to give me a buzz! I loved the feeling but it made me hate even more going back to work. Conversation was as warm as the fire, joking and ribbing one another helped pass the time. A short 15 minute snooze under a tree followed lunchtime, when Louies words "Vamonos a trabajar!" "Let's go back to work!" pierced our reveries.

After lunch, the work seemed grueling. By now it was so hot it hurt and your body began to complain after the first 6 hours of abuse. I dragged myself up the ladder. Sweat and dirt was pasted on my face and neck, and I tried to imagine the cold shower awaiting me when I returned home. We usually knocked off by 2:00 when it was too hot for any living thing. Picking peaches was the worst because the fuzz burned on your eyes and face, especially your neck. When we boarded the truck there were tired bodies and the smell or armpits and sweat. There wasn't much talk on the way home.

Back home, the washed off dirt turned the water brown as it swirled down the drain, but the cold shower revived me. A 2-hour snooze into deep space, was followed by dinner of frijoles, papas and my mom's flour tortillas. I understood then why people said: "Mijo, get an education so you can work in an air-conditioned office when you grow up and not have to work in the fields like us burros." But secretly it felt good to work hard like this. I felt worthy of things, like a man should.

When I got my teaching job years later, and I sat in my air conditioned office correcting papers, I would pause, from time to time, and remember those still working in the fields.

College Is Not For Mexicans

The first time I actually held my mother's hand was at a hospital bed where she lay dying of cancer at age 85. Why we never held hands before, I really don't know except that she was a typical Mexican mother of her time, strict, hardworking, and relatively non affectionate, no kissy-kissy, huggy-huggy stuff between her and her siblings. Yet, we knew she loved us, she didn't have to say it.

She always demanded that we be honest, forthright sons but she never particularly encouraged education. To her, "educacion" meant you respected your elders, sat up straight in a chair, had good manners, especially at the table, and "success" was to not wind up in jail or as an alchoholic, get a job, get married, buy a house and have kids. Despite all this I loved school, and I loved books. She never read bedtime stories to me or any of that stuff, but she did tell me stories of the Virgin of Guadalupe, the saints, and of La Llorona (see entry "Faith of A Mother" in my Blog for more on this), and other Mexican folk tales.

Under her bed, she kept a cardboard box full of books which my oldest brother, John, had found at the city dump, and among them were a couple of my favorites, a dictionary and an encylopedia filled with color plates of insects, plants, flowers, animals and birds which I loved sketching and drawing from. I was a top student in my classes and loved to read. Thus, much of my time was spent at the McHenry Library downtown, reading and checking out books.

I particulary like pirate stories and early American classics on the Old West, like Davy Crockett. I didn't find out until later that he really didn't like Mexicans! Imagine that. Later, In high school, I would discover books on artists like Ben Shahn, David Stone Martin and my greatest find, books on Mexian Art and the murals of Diego Rivera, David Alfaro Siqueiros, and Jose Clemente Orozco. I even wrote my first term paper on these Mexican Muralists, got an "A" on it (to my absolute amazement), and me English teacher read it in front of class: "Class, now this is an example of what a term paper should be." I turned bright red in the back row. Until, this I didn't know I could write.

However, I soon began to slide downhill in Junior High, and especially during the first couple of years of High School, running around with fools and acting like them. At the lowest point of this downward spiral, some of my buddies and I were caught ditching school and shoplifting some stuff from a pawnshop in downtown Modesto. A patrol car actually escorted us back to school with the officer warning: "You guys are lucky I don't haul your asses to jail." My mom would have been devastated.

After a proper scolding from the Dean, I began to settle down, but certainly there was no thought or suggestion from any counselor that I should go to college. In those days, Chicanos were herded into sports and/or the auto body shops and Chicanas (girls) into Home Economics. You can imagine the shock I felt when my Art teachers began to encourage me to consider going to art school after high school. They would help me secure scholarhips, contacts, a place to live and someone to help find me a job. Me? College? It had never even entered my mind!

When I hurried home to tell my mother she was stern and hardly enthusiastic: "How are you going to pay for college? How will you pay rent? Who will wash your "calsones" (underwear) and cook for you? Don't believe what those teachers are telling you. It's all just a big lie. College is not for Mexicans. The Americanos run this country and Mexicans are always at the bottom. Take it from me, I know." That pretty much ended the conversation but thank God I never listened to her, and hard-headed as I was, I became determined to prove her wrong, and I went off to college against her wishes. Perhaps some of this had to do with the fact that I was her "baby", the last of her brood, and she just wanted to shield me from disappointment and failure. And I was the last to leave home. She would be alone now.

As I loaded the final stuff in my '48 Plymouth, we avoided each others eyes and the awkward silence was broken by her words: "Never forget you are a Mexican." It was 1957. When I graduated from college with my Bachelor's Degree in Fine Art, I had been Student Body President that year, and was chosen to give the student address during the ceremony. My mom came with one of my brothers (she had never attended a single school function that I recall), and I knew she was proud of her Prodigal Son that day. Maybe college was for Mexicans after all? Two Master's Degrees later I would certainly prove her wrong.