Mememe

I’m not a kid, so don’t tell me I look like one

On the flight to Dallas, I took advantage of my free drink tickets and ordered a beer. The flight attendant, a young black woman, asked for my ID.

I had it ready. I’m carded so often, that it’s normal for me to show my ID whenever I order alcohol. She looked for the year. 1980. That puts me well over 21.

“You look like you’re 10 years old,” she exclaimed in a surprised yet fake tone.

I didn’t say anything and took my ID back.

I know I look young. I hear that all the time. However, most times people simply say “you look younger” and leave it at that. That’s fine. However telling me I look like a ten year old — even if you are exaggerating for effect — is simply rude. It’s like telling someone, “wow, you look really tired today.” Even if it’s true, the person on the other end of that comment is gonna think, “wow, I guess I look like shit today.”

Here’s my advice: next time you meet one of us deceptively young looking people, feel free to express that you’re surprised about our actual age. Do not tell us we look like we’ve yet to hit puberty. After all, some of us probably already have a complex about looking young, not being taken seriously at work or having our competence questioned due to our youthful visage.

Amigos, Cuentos

Funky Monkey

I can’t say I did it because of the two margaritas in me, because I decided even before we arrived at the karaoke bar that I was going to sing. Of course, this was all before the tiny Caffe Brass Monkey filled up and both good and bad singers took their shot at old standards and new pop hits.

I picked out an easy song, Selena’s “Como la flor” from small selection of Spanish-language songs over Linda Ronstadt’s version of “Y Andale.” My friends P and J — there for a mutual friend’s birthday celebration — were surprised I’d sing in front of other people. I didn’t think it was a big deal. I’ve been doing it since I was six years old.

“This is nothing. No one here even knows me, so it doesn’t matter if I make a fool of myself,” I explained to J. “Plus, they’re all drinking.”

He shook his head. “No, it still matters.”
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Blog/tech

Cindylu en Blogotitlán

I love blogging so much I’m contributing my words to other blogs as a guest blogger or regular contributor.

If you don’t already have these blogs on your blogroll or RSS feed reader (I recommend Google Reader), you should add them.

VivirLatino: my favorite go-to blogs for news on politics, culture and entertainment in the US and throughout Latin America. My first post at VL on undocumented immigrants and death.
The Unapologetic Mexican: Nezua, the main author at UAM invited several bloggers to post on the weekends. My first post at UAM is about broaching those sticky discussions on race with people who may not be allies.
LA Eastside: I don’t live on LA’s Eastside. I’m squarely on the Westside. If you’re confused, the Militant Angeleno has a great guide on LA’s regions. However, I’m on the Eastside culturally. It’s where my LA roots lie.

And don’t worry, I’ll still be regularly posting here.

Familia, Preguntas

Question of the week: Immigrant parents and sympathy

My mom’s an excellent story teller. She may embellish a bit (sound familiar?), but she has a way of drawing you in, making you laugh and making you beg for more tales of her “little life.”

I thought of one of those stories last week while having $1 beers with Sean. We shared stories of immigrant parents and their peculiar way of dealing with childhood injuries. It just didn’t match up with what the sitcoms depicted.

***

Luz (my mom, far left in the photo) was 11 or 12 at the time*. The family was living in Lincoln Heights at the time. For the most part, Luz was a good kid, but she was mischievous. She also liked apricots. One afternoon, Luz was walking around the neighborhood with a friend when she noticed ripe apricots hanging from a neighbor’s tree. She asked her friend to keep an eye out for cops while she climbed up the chain link fence to be able to reach the tree. As she was about to grab an apricot, Luz’s friend called out, “hurry up, someone’s coming!” Luz lost her footing and slipped. As she slipped the point part of the fence scratched against her thigh leaving a large, bloody gash. Obviously, she was hurt.

Luz went home and found her older sister, Socorro (quite the fitting name, since it means “help”; standing, second to the left in the photo). She desperately needed Socorro’s help to clean and bandage the cut, and hide it from Mamá Toni. If Mamá Toni found out, she’d be angry that Luz had (a) gone out with a friend when she was supposed to be at home doing chores and (b) tried to steal fruit from a neighbor’s tree. The painful gash on her leg was the least of her worries.

Luckily, Socorro was studying to be a nurse and came through. She cleaned up Luz’s cut and bandaged her up.

Mamá Toni never found out.

***

Sean and I agreed that in a sitcom, the white middle class kids would never be scared to go to a parent after an injury. Sure, Bobby Brady would learn a lesson, but he didn’t have to fear nalgadas (a spanking). Sean and I wondered if our experiences were similar because we were the children of immigrants.

That got us to this week’s question.

La Pregunta: Are immigrant parent’s less sympathetic (or harsher) than US born parents?

*I’ve heard the story a dozen times, but I’m sure I have some of the core details wrong. Sorry, mom! I know for sure apricots and a fence were involved.

Cuentos

The end of the affair

About three weeks had passed since I’d last spoken to Ojitos.

At this point, I didn’t even want to talk to him. I wouldn’t have called if not for my colorful book full of calacas and other Día de los Muertos imagery. I wanted that book back. I hate when you split up with someone and he keeps your stuff. Ojitos had my book and I had a mix CD he’d left at my apartment a few weeks earlier. A book for a CD. Fair exchange, right?

My message was rather curt. I didn’t ask how he was doing, didn’t say “hope you’re doing well” in a fake voice. I just wanted my book.

I figured once I got my book and gave him his CD, that’d be it. No more Ojitos.

I know what you’re thinking.

No, you didn’t miss anything.
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