Backyard remedies

On Sunday morning during breakfast, I started complaining about an earache.

“Which ear?” my mom asked.

“The right one. I don’t know why it just started hurting,” I told her.

She got up from the table and went to the backyard. A minute or two later she was back with a little green object between her fingers.

“The right one?” she asked to make sure.

I nodded, and she took the small rolled up green stuff (shown above) and stuck it in my ear.

“Es ruda,” she explained. “It’ll make you feel better. Just leave it in there like that for a little while.”

“You know, this reminds me of a conversation I had with Nancy last week,” I explained to my mom. “We were talking about the backyard home remedies our parents use, like sávila (aloe). My tío Pancho would slather it all over her sunburnt arms and back when she returned from a day-long concert. You know, like you would do when we returned from the beach.”

“Oh yeah, the best is when you cool it down in the refrigerator before rubbing it on. Then it’s nice and cool.”

“I thought it was weird when I was kid. It felt all sticky,” I admitted.

“Yeah, but it helps,” my mom replied.

“I know.”

Over the years, our backyard had provided all sorts of plants for home remedies. We have sávila (aloe) ready to provide some relief from a sunburn. If I have cramps or a sore throat, my mom or grandma will pick off orange (and lemon, I think) blossoms from the trees in the backyard to make té de siete azahares. We also have ruda which my mom has used for earaches for my siblings.

By the time I was done with my breakfast of huevos rancheros, frijoles y chorizo con papa (yum!) my earache was gone.

I love my mom’s (and grandma’s) home remedies.

Cultura, Los Angeles

A Chicana Outlook on Ruben Salazar

I discussed Ruben Salazar a few years ago while contributing to blogging.la. I was inspired by César/EMC’s post in which he summarized Salazar’s life.

The post and César’s blog no longer exist, but if I remember correctly César — an awesome writer himself — felt cheated as he watched a documentary on Salazar. César felt cheated, as I’m sure many of us have, when we learn of people and events like Salazar and the Chicano Moratorium in 1970. We wonder, why are we just learning about this now, more than 12 years in to our education?

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Comida, Cultura, Familia

Nopalitos

nopales

For a long time, I thought all Mexicans in the LA-area had nopales (cactus) in their backyard. Of course, my sample size was small. All my relatives had nopales growing in their backyard. We did too.

The nopales, spread out in a corner of the backyard against a brick wall, were a nuisance to us kids who had to be extra careful while playing. On the plus side, I’m sure they deterred a thief or two from climbing the wall and we were never burglarized.

For Mamá Toní, a native of Zacatecas where nopales grew on every cerro (hillside), nopales are meant to be eaten. They’re for ensaladas and guisos. They go excellent with tortas de camarón during Lent and are an excellent side dish with carne asada. (I won’t even get in to the tasty tunas, or cactus pears.)

Nopales are not only on our frentes, they’re in our tummies too.
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Cultura, Música

Lalo Guerrero (1916-2005)

“No Chicanos on TV” by Lalo Guerrero (1916-2005)

I know I saw Lalo Guerrero perform live, but I’m not quite sure when and where. I think it was eight years ago. Yeah, it had to be then because that’s when Ome and I first became roommates. Our sophomore year, we got stuck together in Hedrick Hall, room 676. The sixth floor was supposedly the “multicultural floor,” but there were only a handful of brown people.

At the performance (I think, it’s all kinda fuzzy 8 years later), Ome bought a CD of some of Guerrero’s hits. We got a kick out of hearing the respected musician — the father of Chicano music — sing a song like “Marihuana Boogie.”

Perhaps I never actually saw Lalo Guerrero perform live. I’m not old enough to start having fading memories of my late teens/early 20s. Maybe it was all just a dream. You ever have that feeling? Sandra Cisneros captures it perfectly in Caramelo, “Did I dream it or did someone tell me the story? I can’t remember where the truth ends and the talk begins” (p. 20).

If it was all just a dream, at least I got to make up for missing Lalo when he was alive by catching a performance of ¡Gaytino! by his eldest son, Dan Guerrero (review to come, I’m still trying to wrap my head around the show).

Cultura, Mexico

La Pocha

In August 2004, I took advantage of my break between work and returning to grad school by taking a trip to visit family in Mexico. It was the first time since I was 10 years old that I visited Guanajuato. I had a great time and grew closer to my father’s extended family, most of which still live in Salamanca, Guanajuato. Every day I met new relatives and reconnected with relatives I hadn’t seen in years. It was a bit overwhelming.

I found myself struggling to express myself, especially when I was hanging out with my cousins. I’d understand everything they said, but I would trip up when I tried to explain what I was going back to school for, how my family was doing or whether or not I had a boyfriend (everyone asked that question). I felt more ashamed of my pocha-ness around my peers than my elders, although nobody judged me. In fact, they complimented the skills I did have and asked if my siblings — who didn’t go on the trip with me — spoke Spanish as well as I did (they don’t).

The only time anyone judged my language skills was when I spoke in English.

While exploring the colonial city of Guanajuato, my cousin’s boyfriend, Chucho, asked me if I had a car. When I responded affirmatively, he asked what kind.

“Un Dodge Stratus,” I replied.

“¿Qué?” Chucho asked. He was lost.

“Es como un Neon, pero más grande. He visto muchos en Guanajuato.”

Chucho’s face lit up and he smiled. “¡Oooo, un Estratús!” he exclaimed as he finally figured it out. “No te entendí. ¿Cómo lo dices?”

I pronounced it again in English. Chucho got a kick out of it again and told Paola, my cousin, that my pronunciation was really weird.

Huh? But I was saying it right. I’d been struggling to find the right words to express myself since I arrived in Guanajuato. My family was patient as I tried to explain something like UPS, but they never teased me. Instead, I was teased about my pronunciation in English.

While Chucho and Paola continued laughing, I silently comforted myself. My Spanish was better than their English. Most of my cousins study English in high school and college, just like I studied Spanish. Of course, I did have the advantage of growing up in a bilingual household.

Four years later, I still struggle on annual trips to Guanajuato or when I sit down and have a conversation with my Spanish-dominant tías in East LA. When I read novels or listen to music from México and South America, I have to look up words like aturdido and acatar.

But it’s okay, I understand and am understood. That’s all that matters. I’m comfortable with my pocha-ness.

Lotería Chicana

Category Archives: Cultura