Que Barrio?

So, there I was in San Dimas, California, enjoying a few brews (not with Bill & Ted) and practicing my Spanish with Ricardo Mares (an illegal immigrant dishwasher) from Arizpe, Mexico. We had just finished our shifts (I was the cook and he was the new dishwasher) at the Old West Steakhouse, a stone's throw away from Zendejas' restaurant.

(player card image from insidesocal.com)

We were drinking a 6 pack of Beck's Dark in the parking lot, like all good working-class peons do after an evening of toil.

One of the first questions he asks me is "Que Barrio?" I laugh. "La Loma," I tell him. La Loma? He has no idea...I then tell him about my life in El Paso, and he says El Chuco? Oddly, I had never heard the term outside of El Paso, and here was this young kid, telling me how his uncles had all emigrated to El Chuco, or to Los Angeles via Tijuana and Juarez.

Mares told me how they would struggle to get into the USA and infiltrate the restaurant industry.


(photo from worth 1000)
They'd become cooks, waiters and dishwashers, and skirt La Migra as best they could; constantly saving their money to bring yet another cousin or brother in. They avoided the coyote traders, and did it all themselves to save money and avoid being ripped off. He mentioned that some coyotes would take their money and then turn them in to the officials.

(photo from www.internationalist.org)

After years and years of working in the U.S., and saving what they could after sending money home, they might try to bring in their female family members: wives, girlfriends, mothers, and sisters.

I asked him about his traditional name, which I knew had to include at least 5 surnames, and he delivered a very long and rhythmic identity that I cannot possibly recall with about a dozen surnames attached. He commented on how far his family was from an ocean or sea, to be given the name Mares and living so far from water was too ironic even for him, the bearer of that name.

I liked this kid, and the vibrance in his actions and manner of speaking. There was a spark about him which I found to be very intriguing. He was just there struggling to survive with his on-again, off-again 6th grade education, a huge amount of humorous street-sense, and a determination to make a better life for himself and his extended family. His strongest wish was to bring his girlfriend to California and make her his wife; to settle down and have a family. I was curious as to why he wanted to marry at such a young age. Amor! He missed his girlfriend of 3 years, she was pregnant, and they had been planning their matrimony for a year before his uncles secreted him across the border.

Was he worried about being caught? No. He knew from experience that it was a simple matter to come back. He laughed about this. I felt a bit betrayed, knowing that our lack of enforcing illegal immigrant laws provided this freedom for those who were willing to abuse them. I could not fault the boy for his actions, though I did ask him about going through legal channels. He told me it wasn't needed, all that paperwork and waiting years when he could just pay some guy for his counterfeit papers. He showed me his California Driver's License.


(photo at photobucket)
Okay that is not it, but his id looked legit to my untrained eye, although it showed him to be 5 years older than his 17 years, so he could get into the bars. I admit, I sympathized with him, even as I became angry at his mocking tone. Que onda cabrón?

I have thought often about Ricky Mares over the years. I always wondered if he got married, brought his mother across, or got caught. I worked with Ricky near 17 years ago. Did he bring his girlfriend across quickly enough to have an anchor baby? One more kid to drain our system?

Our immigration laws need to be enforced. I have written to President Obama. I will continue to write to him and I will continue to write to Silvestre Reyes. Our country is dying in the most agonizing way, and allowing illegal immigration to continue in the manner it has does not behoove us. Putting up that atrocious fence is not the solution. Amnesty is not the solution. Enforcing the law is the only viable way towards reformation, and harsh penalties for those who hire illegals is a must.

Please write to your President and to your State Representatives.
They are your voice, and they need to hear you, loud and clear.

(presidential seal found at idea champions)

Opinions are like

...you know the rest.

Common phraseology that speaks ill of our ideas as well as our posteriors.

I certainly don't see a literal correlation between opinions and a-holes. But I've thought upon this popular saying many a time since it makes no sense to me. Not a hell of a lot in life makes sense to me.

While we all have many varying opinions, and many of us expound upon our own virtue, there are few of us who can claim more than one A-hole. Who would actually want to admit to it? All that spouting from the mouth, or from a keyboard. Spouting...damn visuals. This is not a great topic. It's just rambling. Back to the scatalogical ramblings. Damn, I've got a problem.

Why does this always happen? Gut, gas, bowels, brains...I think too much, and the detritus gotta come out somewhere.

BURP!

Gets out the cobwebs.

Today I've been trying to cheer myself up. Earlier I was having difficulty thinking. Functioning. Speaking. I can't stop worrying about my friend. So I'm trying to laugh. Nothing really works. Until very early this morning. I'm free.

For many years I've played an odd role on a bookseller forum...played at being an old Southren man whut's got an overwhelmin' innerest in sheep an othah strickly ass-backards thangs. What started as a fun an generally harmless game, ended up making me feel impotent. Who the hell am I, that I can switch from one persona to the other and be compelled to act upon it in a public forum? It all began to weigh heavy and I'd lay off the posting for long stretches, even as I found joy in the laughter I was able to arouse in others. Nothin' bettah in life than a good ol' belly laugh 'bout sumpin' stupid. Sho' nuf cain't hep mesef on 'at.

Now I've given up the ruse. They knew ol' fried weren't fo' real, but they egged him on, made him real, and I couldn't find a way to keep it up indefinitely. I mourn for the loss of my alter-ego. He ain't a comin' back no mo' but I keep feeling sweet relief that I can stop hiding behind that codger. He's prolly gwine remain out back moonin' ovah a ewe or 2. Laws if'n dis doan beat all. He don't wanna go way!

Separation of Church and Self

Faith.
What is it?



This past week has been difficult for me. We learned that a good friend in California was attacked on the 4th of July and is in critical condition. My head and my heart ache for him. I need for him to be better, to pull through, to fight for his life...though I fear he doesn't yet know what has happened to him. I don't want to cry, because that seems defeatist, but the tears come. He's got a brilliant mind, and I fear he won't be the same. Sadness pervades my very core just thinking about this. What can I do?

Praying is not an option for me. Who would I pray to? Possessing belief in a higher being just is not in the cards for me, and that may prove to be my undoing. I'm very conflicted, with rampant thoughts of who to call out to. I don't believe in God. I find the concept of a higher being to be completely irrational. I've been calling out to Chris...be well my brother...you are loved, please, be well.

In the past, when my grandmother was still alive, she would tell me to pray to Jesus whenever she knew I was troubled. Each time I would tell her that I don't pray, and that I don't believe. She always thought I was joking. One day she realized I was sincere, and she was truly shocked that my Catholic upbringing was that easily brushed aside. No grandma, it was not easily brushed aside, but slowly and deliberately negated by my own rational thought processes. Grandma would always tell me that she prayed for me. That gave me comfort, and I thanked her for that each time she mentioned it. Could the strength of her faith actually help me? Somehow, I was able to hold my own semblance of faith in that.

When an individual accepts that faith in God, it seems to comfort them. For me, faith in God makes me feel extremely uncomfortable. I've had uncountable discussions about this with many people over the years. Many of these friends and family members pray for me, and it is indescribable how that makes me feel. The strength in their faith is powerful, and I don't see it as a waste of time because they do actually own their faith. It's a tangible thing to them. I don't begrudge or belittle a person for having religion in their lives, as I see how it enriches them. That's a good thing, right?

I suppose this blog is a request to those who do pray.

Please say a prayer for my friend Chris Bowd.



We need this ornery cuss in our lives.
Be well my friend.