My brother likes Cal. A lot. Living in the city next to Stanford and going to private school chalk-full of young White republicans, it's not that popular of a place. He's constantly defending the school from people who hate it because someone like Michael Savage told them to.
After telling my brother that Cal only had 'waco' liberal professors and wretched politics...I gave in and decided to have a word with one of his friends.
Nap98: so your dissing my school?
Calhector: who is this?
Nap98: afraid you cant get in?
Nap98: or that you might get brainwashed?
Calhector: lol. no, im pretty sure im not gettin in
Calhector: brain wash does seem to fit berkely rather well
Calhector: good word choice
Nap98: yeah, being taught to think for yourself is sure being brain washed
Calhector: hardly
Nap98: cal is more liberal than stanford for sure, but its not extreme
Nap98: you gets lots of different viewpoints.
Calhector: yeah, cause some of the students are tuff enough to ignore the waco liberal faculty
Nap98: oh have you been to some lectures?
Calhector: no.
Nap98: so dont talk smack
Nap98: sure explains why Channel 2 uses my polysci prof as there political consultant
Calhector: Most of the protesters have never left california. doesnt stop them from complaing bout afganistan and iraq
Nap98: protesters and the faculty are different people
Nap98: and how do you know where theyre from?
Nap98: lots of the speakers ive heard walking by protests are international students
Nap98: i think theyve been outside of the state
Nap98: might have...a broader perspective youd think?
Nap98: you are only regurgitating what youve heard on the radio. think for yourself.
Nap98: no one cares what conclusions you come to, but dont write something or someone off until youve studied it yourself.
Previous message was not received by Calhector because of error: User Calhector is not available.
Hater.
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
My dad loves the ocean. He can just sit next to the shore and watch the waves crash in for hours. It seems to both calm and excite him at the same time. On every family trip to Monterey or Half Moon Bay, he parks the car next to the shoreline and goes out there and sits on a rocky bluff meditating on the waves. He'll try to get the rest of us out of the car, but my mom, brother, and I will usually say no, content with the view from our seats.
He has told me that it brings back old memories of being at the beach with his own dad; clamming and smelt fishing with extended family and other Portuguese-American people. It is also a timeless reminder of something larger than our problems and our lives, something that’s constant and ever changing at the same time. Looking out into the ocean, life seems to make a little more sense.
The sea calls to him…and with a lighter tug, it calls to me too. We both could not fathom living anywhere too far from the ocean. His grandparents were from small volcanic islands out in the Atlantic, the Azores and Madiera. Some left the Azores for Hawaii, and all eventually settled in California…but never did they go too far from the sea. They kept their heritage with them; they adapted it to new places and times, but never forgot where they came from. American Azoreans, I’ve heard, have very sad music that’s filled with a longing for the place they once called home.
My dad and I talked about this long before I read the passage from La Maravilla that is typed in the previous entry, that so accurately described the way we felt. That’s why to both of us being categorized as “White” feels awkward and untrue. “White” feels empty. It means nothing. It was created as term to distance one class from the other on the basis of skin tone. Portuguese means something; it’s a culture and heritage that is real. Mexican means something; it’s an ancient word that was here before the Spaniards ever were.
~~~~
I am a Perry and a Perriera. I am also a Sias. I have the blood of the Morenos,’ the Lardizabals,’ and Goies’ running through me. I am a mix of a mixture. You could say I’m half & half but when you dissect those halves you find more underneath. I look at the photos of my very dark “Mexican” grandpa’s grandparents and I see a white man with a red moustache and a brown woman with the physical features of one who has always lived here. My skin color and facial features are the product of Portuguese and Flemish blood from the Azores, light-skinned Spaniards, dark skinned Apache, and some other unknown indios, maybe Aztecs, from Mexico. Who knows what else? I am all those things and none of them at the same time.
What I know is that I am from here, a native son of California. But part of me came here from halfway across the world. Another part only recently came from the copper mines of New Mexico. And although it’s likely neither part wanted to leave the place they came from, I cannot look down upon those who are here from somewhere else…if they are here for the right reasons.
But nevertheless, some percentage of me has been here in the Americas for thousands of years. Maybe it is that part of me that grounds me… that makes me care so much for the place I was born. No matter where life takes me, although I doubt I'll ever let it take me too far, my heart will always be here.
~~~
On a trip to San Francisco earlier this summer...I found myself pulling a "dad." I forced my cousins and brother to park at the shore of the Golden Gate in the Presidio so I could take some pictures from the wharf. I didn't actually take any photos. I just went out to the shoreline and then on to the fishing pier, taking in the wind, the waves, and the fog rolling in from under that great bridge while my cousins and brother waited patiently near the car.
~~~
See them depart
the young and the old
in search of fortune
in other parts
in other breezes
among other peoples
the young and the old
See them depart
with moistened eyes
and saddened heart
pack on the back
hope in the hilt
and golden dreams
see them depart
with moistened eyes
They'll return some day
rich or not
telling stories
of far off lands
where sweat
was made bread
They'll return some day
Or not
(An Azorean Song by Manuel Freire)
(Translation by Adiaspora.com)
(a very long post, for the end of the first year of this blog)
He has told me that it brings back old memories of being at the beach with his own dad; clamming and smelt fishing with extended family and other Portuguese-American people. It is also a timeless reminder of something larger than our problems and our lives, something that’s constant and ever changing at the same time. Looking out into the ocean, life seems to make a little more sense.
The sea calls to him…and with a lighter tug, it calls to me too. We both could not fathom living anywhere too far from the ocean. His grandparents were from small volcanic islands out in the Atlantic, the Azores and Madiera. Some left the Azores for Hawaii, and all eventually settled in California…but never did they go too far from the sea. They kept their heritage with them; they adapted it to new places and times, but never forgot where they came from. American Azoreans, I’ve heard, have very sad music that’s filled with a longing for the place they once called home.
My dad and I talked about this long before I read the passage from La Maravilla that is typed in the previous entry, that so accurately described the way we felt. That’s why to both of us being categorized as “White” feels awkward and untrue. “White” feels empty. It means nothing. It was created as term to distance one class from the other on the basis of skin tone. Portuguese means something; it’s a culture and heritage that is real. Mexican means something; it’s an ancient word that was here before the Spaniards ever were.
~~~~
I am a Perry and a Perriera. I am also a Sias. I have the blood of the Morenos,’ the Lardizabals,’ and Goies’ running through me. I am a mix of a mixture. You could say I’m half & half but when you dissect those halves you find more underneath. I look at the photos of my very dark “Mexican” grandpa’s grandparents and I see a white man with a red moustache and a brown woman with the physical features of one who has always lived here. My skin color and facial features are the product of Portuguese and Flemish blood from the Azores, light-skinned Spaniards, dark skinned Apache, and some other unknown indios, maybe Aztecs, from Mexico. Who knows what else? I am all those things and none of them at the same time.
What I know is that I am from here, a native son of California. But part of me came here from halfway across the world. Another part only recently came from the copper mines of New Mexico. And although it’s likely neither part wanted to leave the place they came from, I cannot look down upon those who are here from somewhere else…if they are here for the right reasons.
But nevertheless, some percentage of me has been here in the Americas for thousands of years. Maybe it is that part of me that grounds me… that makes me care so much for the place I was born. No matter where life takes me, although I doubt I'll ever let it take me too far, my heart will always be here.
~~~
On a trip to San Francisco earlier this summer...I found myself pulling a "dad." I forced my cousins and brother to park at the shore of the Golden Gate in the Presidio so I could take some pictures from the wharf. I didn't actually take any photos. I just went out to the shoreline and then on to the fishing pier, taking in the wind, the waves, and the fog rolling in from under that great bridge while my cousins and brother waited patiently near the car.
~~~
See them depart
the young and the old
in search of fortune
in other parts
in other breezes
among other peoples
the young and the old
See them depart
with moistened eyes
and saddened heart
pack on the back
hope in the hilt
and golden dreams
see them depart
with moistened eyes
They'll return some day
rich or not
telling stories
of far off lands
where sweat
was made bread
They'll return some day
Or not
(An Azorean Song by Manuel Freire)
(Translation by Adiaspora.com)
(a very long post, for the end of the first year of this blog)
Monday, September 08, 2003
“Abuelo,” the boy interrupted, “is it true I am an American? Vernetta says I’m a Mexican but also an American.”
“Yes, you are American, but not in the gringo sense.”
“How do you become Mexican or American?”
This opened the old man’s eyes and the chair froze suddenly in midrock.
“You are Spanish and Yaqui, you are a mestizo from Aztlan, this land, right here where the Nahua people began.” He stamped his foot into the packed earth.
“This is what a Mexican is. But you were born here in America, tambien, and that’s what a Chicano is. You don’t become nothing. It’s only the gringos that become! They are Xipe,” he said, referring to the ancient god of new growth beneath the old, the god the Aztecs distorted into the God of the Flayed Skin. It was Manueal’s word for those people on earth who do not know where they belong.
“They become other religions like choosing a hat and become other names that have no connection to places they live. They become the things they own or the cars they drive. They say that they are one-third this and one-quarter that and their ancestors came from such and such, but they don’t know nothing about them. They have no stories. They have no tribe. Their camp fire is a goddamn television. You” – he pointed at the boy now – “you know where your blood has been for the last ten thousand years, mijo. There are words and songs, palabras y canciones, that tell you and explain to you.
“You do not become American, no, no. Shit, no. American becomes you, mijo.”
He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply through his nose, then pointed over his shoulder.
“Do you smell that, mijo? The tortillas and the frijoles and the chorizo? No matter where you go, to places I know I will never see, when you walk past a doorway or a window and one of those smells hits you, you will come back here to this place and this time. Always. And that is just smell. There are things far deeper than smell.”
“Are you American, Abuelo?”
“No. I am not American. I am not Mexican. In fact, I think I am no longer Yaqui. Shit, I can’t tell you nothin’ for real. I’m nowhere now.”
He leaned back, the anger in his leather face subsiding, and he exhaled slowly, a small hitch near the end of it caused by an old drawn-out affair with Chesterfield nonfilters. Like a ghost, his pain had come into the room. Josephina by the stove felt it and stopped her moving. She stood silently looking for an insect or a snake, on her face a mixture of distress and resignation.
“You see, boy, these people up here around us are so mixed up now that no one belongs, even though this is their country, our country. Do you see?”
“Leave him alone, Manuel,” Josephina said in a hissing voice.
“You can be in the wrong place,” he continued in spite of her warning.
“Your whole life, all of it, you can be in the wrong place and not know it because you’ve lost the power to know where is right. It’s a hard thing to say. I can’t explain.”
He sat back again, composing himself and considering, then nodding to himself. He leaned forward and spoke thoughtfully.
“Someone is in a bus that sways a little on its way up and down the street, and that person is pleased and gets comfort by the swaying.” He moved his dark hand slowly back forth. “It is so comforting that this person takes the bus even when he has nowhere to go. He just rides and rides. Sometimes he stands up and lets the bus roll underneath him.
“Entiendes, hijo? That person, if he had the power, would know that his ancestors were sailors, marineros, and that the sea is calling to him. The sea is trying its best. It’s not just ruts in the road or a bad shock absorber, the sea is calling. The sway of the boat is a small thread of blood, la sangre, that comes up and ties him even when the flesh has fallen away from his dead fathers.
“It’s una brujula en la sangre, a compass in the blood, and it’s a dim command in the blood. And in decades and generations the power to hear it is bargained away in small decisions and small concessions. So he leaves the bus on the street corner and sits at a desk and suffers from something he will never understand. The curanderos will tell him he is depressed or needs a special ceremony or a vacation or something like that, but that’s not it.
“He’ll drink from bottles and sometimes throw things and maybe hit his wife. But at night his spirit throws out a net, and in the morning it’s pulled back torn. And at night the sound of the highway makes him stay awake. It is not the loud rush of the highway.” He pointed the index fingers of both hands at the boy for emphasis. “It’s not the cars or the trucks…it’s the waves, the sound of the sea and the simple people on it. He has forsaken himself by forsaking the sea.”
From: La Maravilla, by Alfredo Vea, Jr.
(I wish I could write like this)
“Yes, you are American, but not in the gringo sense.”
“How do you become Mexican or American?”
This opened the old man’s eyes and the chair froze suddenly in midrock.
“You are Spanish and Yaqui, you are a mestizo from Aztlan, this land, right here where the Nahua people began.” He stamped his foot into the packed earth.
“This is what a Mexican is. But you were born here in America, tambien, and that’s what a Chicano is. You don’t become nothing. It’s only the gringos that become! They are Xipe,” he said, referring to the ancient god of new growth beneath the old, the god the Aztecs distorted into the God of the Flayed Skin. It was Manueal’s word for those people on earth who do not know where they belong.
“They become other religions like choosing a hat and become other names that have no connection to places they live. They become the things they own or the cars they drive. They say that they are one-third this and one-quarter that and their ancestors came from such and such, but they don’t know nothing about them. They have no stories. They have no tribe. Their camp fire is a goddamn television. You” – he pointed at the boy now – “you know where your blood has been for the last ten thousand years, mijo. There are words and songs, palabras y canciones, that tell you and explain to you.
“You do not become American, no, no. Shit, no. American becomes you, mijo.”
He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply through his nose, then pointed over his shoulder.
“Do you smell that, mijo? The tortillas and the frijoles and the chorizo? No matter where you go, to places I know I will never see, when you walk past a doorway or a window and one of those smells hits you, you will come back here to this place and this time. Always. And that is just smell. There are things far deeper than smell.”
“Are you American, Abuelo?”
“No. I am not American. I am not Mexican. In fact, I think I am no longer Yaqui. Shit, I can’t tell you nothin’ for real. I’m nowhere now.”
He leaned back, the anger in his leather face subsiding, and he exhaled slowly, a small hitch near the end of it caused by an old drawn-out affair with Chesterfield nonfilters. Like a ghost, his pain had come into the room. Josephina by the stove felt it and stopped her moving. She stood silently looking for an insect or a snake, on her face a mixture of distress and resignation.
“You see, boy, these people up here around us are so mixed up now that no one belongs, even though this is their country, our country. Do you see?”
“Leave him alone, Manuel,” Josephina said in a hissing voice.
“You can be in the wrong place,” he continued in spite of her warning.
“Your whole life, all of it, you can be in the wrong place and not know it because you’ve lost the power to know where is right. It’s a hard thing to say. I can’t explain.”
He sat back again, composing himself and considering, then nodding to himself. He leaned forward and spoke thoughtfully.
“Someone is in a bus that sways a little on its way up and down the street, and that person is pleased and gets comfort by the swaying.” He moved his dark hand slowly back forth. “It is so comforting that this person takes the bus even when he has nowhere to go. He just rides and rides. Sometimes he stands up and lets the bus roll underneath him.
“Entiendes, hijo? That person, if he had the power, would know that his ancestors were sailors, marineros, and that the sea is calling to him. The sea is trying its best. It’s not just ruts in the road or a bad shock absorber, the sea is calling. The sway of the boat is a small thread of blood, la sangre, that comes up and ties him even when the flesh has fallen away from his dead fathers.
“It’s una brujula en la sangre, a compass in the blood, and it’s a dim command in the blood. And in decades and generations the power to hear it is bargained away in small decisions and small concessions. So he leaves the bus on the street corner and sits at a desk and suffers from something he will never understand. The curanderos will tell him he is depressed or needs a special ceremony or a vacation or something like that, but that’s not it.
“He’ll drink from bottles and sometimes throw things and maybe hit his wife. But at night his spirit throws out a net, and in the morning it’s pulled back torn. And at night the sound of the highway makes him stay awake. It is not the loud rush of the highway.” He pointed the index fingers of both hands at the boy for emphasis. “It’s not the cars or the trucks…it’s the waves, the sound of the sea and the simple people on it. He has forsaken himself by forsaking the sea.”
From: La Maravilla, by Alfredo Vea, Jr.
(I wish I could write like this)
Monday, September 01, 2003
Tonight summer ended with a bang. After years of waiting, I tasted my first Parisian burger.
The Parisian burger is famous in Mountain View gastronomical lore. Once upon a time a burger joint named Linda's served up these burgers with a secret sauce that generations of my family and other Mountain View families greatly enjoyed.
Linda's closed in 85, but you'll still find true-blue (and gray) Mountain Viewers who have spent the past two decades perfecting their own version of the Parisian. One of those people, lucky me, is my uncle.
Word that the Parisian burger was being served at my Uncle Fred and Auntie Rosemary's Labor Day BBQ was enough to bring almost my entire extended family together within a days notice....quite a feat. (As well as some of my uncle and aunts friends from high school who also fondly remembered Linda's.)
The burgers were indeed quite good, as were the fried tater-tots (also a Linda's staple), chili beans, fresh cookies from my Auntie Becky, and watermelon. The company was even better. I'd say there were about 40 or so people there, with at least half being my family. We chilled until sunset, my cousins and I caught up on each others lives, the older generation talked about days gone by. The burgers brought out old memories and stories from those who were alive to eat the originals. Everyone by the end of the night was full and happy. And that was a great way to end a good weekend.
Hello September.
I don't care very much for this month. It's not a bad month...but there just isn't much to it except school starting. And who likes that?I think we should get rid of September and add 10 days to October, November, and December. With all those holidays we could use the extra time and gaps between them.
The last week of summer and the first week of school have come and gone since I last wrote. Lot's a good memories and little trips filled those last days of vacation. A visit from my cousin's Mikey and Vanessa resulted in a random trip to San Francisco. We made Chris drive....only a week after getting his liscense (and a few days after knocking down a part of the neighbor's fence while backing up) He went up and down those hills, including Lombard Street, pretty well. Went to the city again to visit the Asian Art Museum with some of my studio friends. Lot's and lot's of Budhas. And...spent one last evening with my high school friends before going back to Berkeley.
The first week of school has been pretty good. ...except that I signed up for 23 units. Dropping Econ...so down to 19. But that's still a heavy load. I'd like to drop more, but the problem is all my classes seem really interesting and am worried that with the state budget, they might not be offered again. Still gotta figure that out.
Went home after the football game on Saturday (go Bears!). Ended up going to Great America (for free!) with Lesley, Erik, and Dan yesterday. Had a fun time. Tonight there will be a family barbeque over in Roquero-ville (The three-house property where about 11 members of the Roquero branch of my family live) One last hurrah before summer really ends and I start hitting the books.
I don't care very much for this month. It's not a bad month...but there just isn't much to it except school starting. And who likes that?I think we should get rid of September and add 10 days to October, November, and December. With all those holidays we could use the extra time and gaps between them.
The last week of summer and the first week of school have come and gone since I last wrote. Lot's a good memories and little trips filled those last days of vacation. A visit from my cousin's Mikey and Vanessa resulted in a random trip to San Francisco. We made Chris drive....only a week after getting his liscense (and a few days after knocking down a part of the neighbor's fence while backing up) He went up and down those hills, including Lombard Street, pretty well. Went to the city again to visit the Asian Art Museum with some of my studio friends. Lot's and lot's of Budhas. And...spent one last evening with my high school friends before going back to Berkeley.
The first week of school has been pretty good. ...except that I signed up for 23 units. Dropping Econ...so down to 19. But that's still a heavy load. I'd like to drop more, but the problem is all my classes seem really interesting and am worried that with the state budget, they might not be offered again. Still gotta figure that out.
Went home after the football game on Saturday (go Bears!). Ended up going to Great America (for free!) with Lesley, Erik, and Dan yesterday. Had a fun time. Tonight there will be a family barbeque over in Roquero-ville (The three-house property where about 11 members of the Roquero branch of my family live) One last hurrah before summer really ends and I start hitting the books.