Failure in those male lives

Tamale Chica here...

This post is in response to a question by Vicente Duque. Click on this link to read his question.

Not knowing what the social moires were at the time or the Austrian culture, I can only give my opinion regarding your question as I view things in our current times, with the life experiences and perspective that I have. That being said:

I suppose that how one treats and engages with a member of the opposite sex depends upon several factors. One of those is how they view themselves. If a person cannot truly respect themselves at the deepest levels of their being, then they cannot respect others. We often choose partners that mirror who we are deep down. In doing so, we can then have our epiphanies, realize the things we like and don't like about these people, and grow from it, and move on when the time is right. We cannot do this when we treat others as chattel, because in essence the person who does so is acknowledging that they, themselves, lack the belief that they deserve more and that they deserve an equal partner.

Those who treat another as temporary pleasure and who cannot develop relationships of an emotional, mental, spiritual and physical nature are doing so because they are incapable of higher and more complex relationships. One can be a great artist but be bankrupt in other areas of their being.

As for the members of the opposite sex who would agree to be treated as chattel, they too are mirroring their deepest beliefs about who they are. These beliefs are telegraphed, in essence, in such a way that they attract their partner who is their mirror. There is an interesting book on love and relationships, and the patterns that we humans have, called, "Prince Charming Lives," by Dr. Phyllis Light, Ph.D. Dr. Light is a psychologist. If you can get a copy of this, and look at issues with those you know, and even yourself, you'll find that she's spot on with her assessments.

In essence, we often get what we want, even if what we want, subconsciously, is not what we think we want consciously. Such is the power of the subconscious mind. That being said, we still are quite capable of acting consciously, so those who abuse the trust of another are acting out of ego, disrespect for themselves, and certainly disrespect for the sense of what women represent: life, birth, love, compassion and nurturing.

The real joy in life is finding our soul mates and doing life with them. That life encompasses all of what is of gives us joy, happiness, love, compassion, nurturing, and the ability to evolve together. By treating ourselves not just to the passions of our love, but to share that love, heart to heart and soul to soul is an experience that only those who have given respect to themselves first can experience with another. One needs to truly believe that they are worthy of receiving this kind of love before they can find it, and experience it.

So yes, Vicente, as you astutely commented, "I see failure in those male lives," the failure is in disrespecting themselves and not truly believing that they are capable of receiving, or giving, true love from the heart. By not doing so, they have failed themselves.

Growing up Mexican continued...

El Guapo remembers......

Every one was dying. My father, two aunts, and two uncles. My mother, feeling her age, wanted to go see her sisters that had stayed behind in Mexico before every one was gone.

We flew to the border at El Paso, Texas. There we met my Tia Chita. She knew the way into the Sierra, the mountainous region of northern Chihuahua, where the family lived.

The Greyhound bus took us into Juarez, Mexico, just across the border but a whole world away from anything familiar. The Estrella Blanca bus to Chihuahua was a four hour ride arriving at six pm. The bus into the mountains, to the town of Creel, wasn't scheduled until six the next morning.

Sitting in a small Mexican bus station for twelve hours was exhausting. The few tacos we had brought for the trip went fast. A few other travelers like us sat on the hard wooden benches. The night staff of the station worked around us. The toilets were primitive. The seats were missing. Toilet tissue was sold by an old woman. One peso per sheet. Our small group huddled together like fearful tourists stranded on the wrong side of town. Only my Tia Chita was calm. This was her country after all. We were the outsiders.

Finally, morning arrives. The bus line hasn't posted the scheduled run to Creel yet. The clerk says they are waiting to see how many tickets are sold before they commit a specific bus and driver. The clerk finally announces the bus will board at gate 11. We pass many full size air conditioned buses before we find a small rickety looking bus at the gate. It looked like the chicken and goat bus one sees full of peasants and indios in the movies.

Two young backpackers and our group boarded the bus. The driver waited another twenty minutes in case any other riders showed up. Once the bus got rolling and made it out of the city the ride got better. Then the driver began to pick up passengers along the road. There wasn't a need for a bus stop sign either. Any one standing on the road with his hand up got a ride. I thought "El Arroyo Grande" was the name of a town along the route. Apparently, it is exactly what it means. The bus stopped at a large gully that passed under the road and two indios jumped off and walked off along the arroyo grande.

The road narrowed as it entered the mountains. One vehicle could barely travel in either direction. A steep drop off with a fabulous view made the trip a real white-knuckler. Several hours later, a large valley came into view. We had survived the treacherous road trip. The bus pulled into a small town square with a train station alongside. We happily stepped off the bus, stretched our legs, and breathed a sigh of relief.

We had barely retrieved our bags before we were beset by "tour guides" offering to take us into the mountains. The area is famous for the "Barranca de Cobre." or "Copper Canyon" Mexico's largest canyon. It boasted a large 19th century copper mine. The famous Pancho Villa hid his entire army from Gen. "Black Jack" Pershing's Expeditionary force in these mountains. It is also the traditional home of the indigenous Tarahumara and Yaqui peoples. The Tarahumara are one of the few true indigenous peoples remaining in North America. Their isolation allowed them to avoid inter marrying with the European invaders. The native dialect is without any spanish or french influence. It is a pure indigenous language that is only spoken and understood by the people of these valleys.

One particular "tour guide" was impressing his knowledge of the "fascinating sights, amigos" to us when he suddenly stopped and exclaimed, "Tia Concha." He had recognized my mother. He was a young man when she had last visited. We had arrived!

Growing up Mexican continued...

El Guapo remembers.....

The man was a cousin Luis, I had never met. He grabbed our bags and loaded them into the old Suburban SUV he was driving. Luis drove us to his mother's restaurant. My mother's sisters and cousins wept with joy. We had not told anyone we were coming. It wouldn't have helped. They didn't have a telephone. The family restaurant was a small one room store front with some rooms to rent in the back building. My Mother's cousin Estella ran the restaurant. The clientele were workmen from the local jobs. There wasn't a menu. Whatever Estella cooked that day was the meal of the day.

Estella gave us a couple of the rooms to rest for a while before dinner. At dinner we told her of our plan to go up into the mountains to visit the rest of the family. She offered to find a cousin with a pick up truck to take us the following day.

As luck would have it, we had arrived on the 16th of September. It was Mexico's Independence Day. A big celebration was scheduled for that evening in the town square. What an opportunity! We were going to celebrate Independence Day in small town Mexico.

It was a short walk to the zocalo. There was a brass band setting up near the fountain. The local people were gathered. The National Anthem was played as a small group of uniformed federales marched up with the national flag. The men all saluted. "Mexicanos al grito de guerra..." was sung loudly by those gathered. At the end of the song, fireworks were fired from the roof of the Town Hall. An errant skyrocket started a small fire on the thatched roof of a small shack near the square. It was quickly put out by a group of men. The band played for an hour or so as people danced and mingled.

The celebration ended all too soon. I still wanted to enjoy the evening so I looked for a cantina. There wasn't any in town. The whole town seemed to shut down at 9 p.m. including the only hotel.

I noticed a couple of white people in the square and walked over to them. They were very surprised to hear the English language being spoken to them by an apparent local. I told them I was also a visitor. They were a man and woman from Canada. I asked them if they knew of a bar nearby. They said the house they were staying at had beer in the refrigerator. Just then, their host came up. The young Mexican man invited me to join them. He led us through the town and down some back streets. We arrived a a small house. The Canadian couple had rented a room in the young man's home.

We sat in the kitchen and shared the only bottle of beer to be found that night. The conversation flowed freely. The man was curious at my ability to switch back and forth between english and spanish as I engaged all at the table in conversation. He asked me how I came to be in Creel that night. I told him about visiting the family. He asked where I was staying. When I told him at Estella's he quickly said "My Tia Estella has a restaurant." We looked at each other. He says "Primo?" I exclaimed, "Primo!" I had stumbled onto another cousin I had never met.

Growing up Mexican continued...

El Guapo remembers....

The following afternoon a cousin with a pickup truck agreed to take us into the upper valleys. We climbed into the truck and stopped at a market for provisions. We purchased a large sack of rice, another of beans, a smaller sack of coffee, some meat, some eggs and some bacon. The truck fully loaded, we headed to what appeared to be a truck stop. My cousin entered the shop. A mustachioed man wearing a large cowboy hat came out of the door. He looked in our direction, nodded, and spoke to my cousin. He then watched as we pulled onto a dirt road and headed up the hill.

The road was no more than a rutted trail. It wound upwards, switching back, between boulders, and along dangerous looking ravines. It was dark when we finally came to a valley where a small group of houses stood. An eerie orange light glowed from an open doorway. An old man and a teenage girl stood waiting by the door. The old man called out "quien es?" My cousin answered as we climbed down from the truck. They had been watching us approach for the past half hour, wondering who would be traveling at night.

We entered the house. The eerie orange glow came from the only source of light. A pot belly stove glowed brightly in the corner of the room. An ancient looking woman stood up from her seat near the stove and greeted my mother. It was my Tia Chu (Jesusita) my mother's oldest sister. My eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light. I could see more people in the room. Three dark indios and a middle aged woman were sitting along the wall. The indios were travelers passing through and the woman was a cousin of mine. We sat around the stove and talked till my uncle announced it was time to rest. We were shown up the stairs to a loft like room that had an old bed with hard springs sticking through the thin mattress. I didn't realize how cold it could get in the mountains. The stove pipe, stuck through the floor, glowed red and provided some heat but the thick wool blanket was necessary to stay warm.

We woke up to the sounds of a farm. Chickens, a rooster, and a horse calling for breakfast. I guessed. I noticed the meat and eggs we had brought with us was tied up in a bundle and hanging from a tree. No electricity meant no refrigerator and the wild animals of the mountains would have feasted on the food had my uncle not elevated it off the ground. It had to stay outdoors in the cold night air to stay fresh longer. Breakfast was a treat. All the fresh food we had brought with us had to be cooked that day. We all ate well. The indios packed their burros and went on their way after eating.

The horse trough had a small spigot that allowed water, from the artesian spring higher up the ridge, to flow for bathing and cooking. A hose was rigged to bring the water from the spring to the horse trough by gravity. The water was always boiled for coffee or herbal tea as well as for soup so it was purified for drinking. The sight of every one washing up at a horse trough was humbling. Having to use an outhouse also brought every one down to earth.

I wandered around the "rancho" that day. One horse, a few chickens, and a pig were all my relatives had. A small cornfield and twelve apple trees supplemented their subsistence diet. They were feeding us the best they had. I began to realize the magnitude of how my parents had grown up and why they fled to a strange new land to make a better life for themselves. My parents had spoken of living on the "rancho." I had visions of the Ponderosa or a grand Texas style ranch and wondered why they had left such good living to end up poor in the north. My father had spoken of going to work and returning months later. My parents had only a basic education. The one room schoolhouse at the far end of the valley told me why. My naive young mind could never have imagined what I was learning on this trip. I was overwhelmed, embarrassed, and humbled.

The scenery was majestic. The Sierra Nevada mountains are unbelievable to behold from the high valley, called Choriachi, we were in. A small stream ran down the middle of the valley. I could imagine panning for gold in that stream. In fact, I tried it with no luck. That night was almost a full moon. The view left me breathless. The "silvery moon" of song described it perfectly. I could see everything clearly with only the moon and the millions of stars that were out. The whole valley was lit up by the night sky.

That night we stayed up later talking with the younger cousins and relatives who had come over from the far ridge of Choriachi valley. Later as I tried to sleep, the dog began to bark loudly. It lasted for almost an hour. In the morning, I asked my uncle if there had been coyotes or other animals near the compound last night. He looked at me and denied hearing any noise at all.

Curious, I asked a teen age cousin about the noise. She laughed and told me about the men who pass through the valley every few days and stop to rest near the mouth of the valley. "Tio Jesus is afraid of them," she said.

I began to realize what area we were in. The mustachioed man my cousin spoke to before we came up the trail made me think of the narco-traficantes. Was the beautiful valley of my ancestors a stop in the narcotics railroad? Did my cousins have to ask for permission to bring us up into the upper valleys? The friend, my cousin brought by that day, had a pistol on his belt. I had not been surprised. These were ranchers, right? I began to wonder when I remembered handguns were illegal in Mexico.

We stayed another day. I did my best to lose some money playing "barrajas" (poker) with my uncle and cousins. I was ashamed at having plenty while they lived day to day. They would have been insulted if they knew I was losing on purpose.

The cousin with the truck came back for us the next morning. He again had a friend with him, armed, of course. I began to feel uneasy and worried about my family still up in the hills so I didn't ask any more questions.

Back in Creel, we got on a small bus that was going directly to the border. It seemed like every few kilometers there was another checkpoint. There's is something about young teenage kids dressed as soldiers and carrying automatic rifles that made me nervous. We were questioned and our bags were opened at one such stop. I was getting anxious to get back to the border.

Finally, we arrive in Juarez, the town at the border. We switch to another bus bound for El Paso. We had just arrived from the mountains and now we had to get through US Customs. I thought of the search we would have to go through. Two US Customs agents boarded the bus and asked for identification. We all held up ID's. The agent glanced at them, exited the back of the bus and said "welcome to the United States."

I felt like kissing the ground. The trip to see my ancestral land was truly enlightening but also scary. I gained a new found respect and love for my parents for the tremendous sacrifice they made to give us the life we now enjoy.

growing up Mexican continued...

El Guapo remembers

Many years ago, during the southeast asian war, I was a young soldier stationed in Thailand not far from the Cambodian border.
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Being of Mexican descent, my dark hair, eyes, and skin tone separated me from the typical U.S. soldier. My spanish language skills enabled me to easily pick up the local dialects. I also was fascinated by the local customs and culture.The Thai Military Police I was assigned to work with treated me as one of their own. They were all older and hardened veterans of some vicious fighting prior to being assigned to police duties.
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My experience there was not the same as most Americans. My Thai friends took me under their protection. They invited me into their world. I learned not only their language but their religious and spiritual beliefs. They were devout Buddhists.
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Thai Buddhism requires that all male children spend two years as a monk. It is a rite of passage. Many spend several years in the faith before going out into the world.
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One of my Thai counterparts was a man named Chatchai. We worked side by side for months. He invited me to travel with him and other friends to Krun Thep (Bangkok) for the new year's celebration of 2517 (by the Buddhist calender). He showed me his world from a local's point of view. When I saw anything unique or different his favorite saying was "Welcome to my world, Nongchai" (little brother)
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When my tour of duty was nearing its end. Chatchai asked me to travel with him to his family home in the mountains near Chang Mai. His sisters daughter was to be wed. It was an honor to be invited. After securing a five day pass, Chatchai, Prayune, and I headed first to Bangkok then boarded a bus from there up to the mountains.


The bus ride was long. The seats were small and uncomfortable. At every stop, the bus was boarded by food and drink sellers. Roasted meats on skewers, Fanta or Coke sodas served in plastic baggies with a straw, or folded banana leaves filled with rice were haggled over and bought by hungry passengers. People got on and off at every village. The bus never moved until all the seats were taken and the aisles filled. The heat, smells, and the jostling bumpy ride made for a few bouts of sickness for some of the children riders. The traveling became easier as the route went further from the populated areas. The fields of rice paddies gradually blended into bamboo and teak forested jungle. The rain forested hills became steeper as we traveled deeper into the mountains. The air was cooler and the ride more comfortable as the local passengers reached their stops leaving only a few riders going on to the top. Night had fallen as we arrived in Chiang Mai. We took rooms in a small hotel near the bus station to rest before continuing on in the morning.


Chiang Mai was shrouded. Green peaks protruded from the white blanket of clouds that covered the town. The clouds dissipated as the sun grew warmer. By mid morning a beautiful scenic town appeared to us. There was a park alongside a slowly moving river. Along the riverbanks were sampans and floating barges. A colorful market filled the town square. Beautiful orchids seemed to be growing everywhere. The local people wore bright colored clothes. The girls were light skinned and beautiful. This was a big difference from the plain drab clothes and sunburned skin of the lowland peasantry I was accustomed to seeing. We spent the day taking in the sights and sounds of this magical city. After experiencing an adventure or two in the town we continued on our journey further into the mountains. Chatchai's family compound was located a few klicks (kilometers) outside the city.


We arrived at the family compound late that evening. I was treated as an honored guest with a seat at the family table. My grasp of the Thai language had improved considerably over the year so I was able to communicate without a lot of difficulty. The wedding was to commence the following morning but the feast had already begun. The food was tasty and the home made rice wine eased the aches of the long road trip.


Just before nightfall, Chatchai asked me to join him and several other young men and boys in one of the main buildings of the compound. Inside the large, softly lit room was a platform containing a large Buddha. Candles and incense sticks lined the altar like area. In front of the statue, on a lower level, sat an elderly man wearing the white robes of a high ranking monk. Chatchai whispered to follow and sit with him. I squatted down and sort of duck walked across to where the men were all kneeling or sitting. (It is insulting to keep your person above the head of an elder). There was a hushed reverence in the room. I could feel the seriousness of the situation as I quietly took my place next to my friend.


One by one the men were called before the old monk. He spoke with each of them. He started with the younger boys. They were spoken to for only a few minutes. They chanted and prayed together then each boy returned to his place.


Chatchai was the first of the men to be called up. He knelt below the old monk The monk spoke softly for a few minutes then began to chant. As he chanted he began to draw designs on the top of Chatchai's head with a wooden wand like instrument. He blew a puff of air onto Chatchai's head several times as he continued to chant and swirl the wand through his hair. He grabbed Chatchai's head near the temples and behind the ears with both hands. He chanted louder. Suddenly my friend Chatchai began to tremble and shake. His eyes rolled back into his head and began to thrash uncontrollably, flopping about like a fish out of water. The monk held onto his head until the shaking slowed then finally stopped.


I sat mesmerized, During the year I had witnessed many unusual things. I had long ago opened my mind to the different culture I had found myself immersed in. This was the most fascinating thing I had ever seen. I felt honored to be a witness to whatever it was I was observing.


Several minutes later, Chatchai came back to his place next to me. With a glazed look in his eyes, he said softly "My uncle would like to speak to you, now." I nodded and slowly made my way to the spot in front of the monk. He said his nephew spoke highly of me and was happy to have me as a guest in his home. He then asked me to close my eyes and open my heart. I felt his hands touching my hair. The wand was drawing swirls and lines on my head. I couldn't really understand the chants but I just relaxed and listened to the soothing sounds. He grabbed me by my head as he had done to Chatchai. I began to feel incredibly light headed, faint almost. His arms and shoulders began to shake violently. There was no pain. I saw light. I felt dizzy. I had never felt anything like this before. He stopped trembling and released my head. It took me a few moments to regain my balance. When I was able to focus my eyes, I saw he was watching me intently. He reached into a small clay jar and gave me a small stone object coated in some waxy substance. "Wear this always and your spirit will never die." I thanked him. I used the traditional Buddhist "Wai" gesture of the palms pressed together in front of the face as if praying, then backed away to my place with the others.


The rest of the ceremony was a blur. As we filed out of the temple, Chatchai turned to me. I wondered if I looked as dazzled as he did. He smiled and said "we'll talk tomorrow."


My life changed that night. I felt a clearness in my mind I didn't know existed. My thoughts became powerful. I could feel my energy and knew that others could feel it also. I learned that next day from Chatchai the significance of what I had experienced.


Chatchai had been a monk since childhood and left only when he was called to the war. Every year after, when he was able to, he returned to the family temple to ask forgiveness and to be cleansed of the demons the war and the outside world had inflicted upon him. The ceremony I had been blessed with was that cleansing of the demons. With the demons released from my soul, the spirit within me grew to a level of strength known usually only to those squarely on the path to spiritual enlightenment. The small object given me was a small stone figure of the Buddha carried by monks to help ward off evil demons. The old monk had granted me a gift very few outsiders ever get to enjoy. Spiritual enhancement and a glimpse of the inner peace that can be enjoyed by those who seek the light.


My tour of duty ended a few weeks later and I had to return to "the world." Because of the loyalty and friendship of a few hardened but enlightened soldiers, I gained a new life. I enjoyed a sense of clarity and purpose. I enjoyed the power of the light. I reveled in doing the right thing. No, I didn't preach or bible thump. I just lived honestly and treated others as I knew I should. It has paid off many times over.


Maintaining that level of spirituality and light has been a long struggle. Fortunately those who know of the light tend to seek and find each other. With the help and guidance of my spiritual helpers, I have been able to regain some of that sense of purpose and clarity I felt in that mountain temple so many years ago.


Seek the light if you can. I'm glad I did.

Becoming Asian American

Before 1940s, the Asian population in the United States was primarily an immigrant population, and immigrant Asians faced practical barriers to unity since they lacked a common language. Old national animosities also contributed to continued hatred toward other Asians in the United States who were immigrants from different homelands. Before World War II, Asian immigrant communities were quite distinct entities, isolated from one another and from the larger society. Because of language difficulties, prejudice, and lack of busi­ness opportunities elsewhere, there was little chance for Asians in the United States to live outside their ethnic enclaves. Shut out of the mainstream of American society, the various immigrant groups struggled separately in their respective China-towns, Little Tokyos, or Manilatowns. The early Chinese and Japanese communities in the western states had little to do with one another-either socially or politically.


During the postwar period, due to immigration restrictions and the growing dominance of the second and third generations, American-born Asians outnumbered immigrants. The demographic changes of the 1940s were pronounced. For the first time, the largest five-year cohort of Chinese Americans was under five years of age. By 1960, approximately two-thirds of the Asian population in California had been born in the U.S. With the Asian population becoming a native-born community, dynamics between this generation of Asians began to change.


While most of this generation attended Asian-language schools, most American-born Asians possessed only a limited knowledge of their ethnic language. By 1960, English was the language primarily used by persons from different Asian backgrounds, and as such they were not only able to communicate with one another but to create a common identity associated with the United States. One factor allowing for these changes is that native-born and American-educated Asians did not hold historical antagonisms of their parent’s generation.


Another factor that connected native born Asian Americans was that they had similar generational experiences. American-born Asians considered themselves to have more in common with other American-born Asians than they did with foreign-born Asians of the same ancestry. Thus, they had the commonality of being both generational cohorts and growing up with an Asian face in America during the Civil Rights era. This gave them far more in common that they would have had with another Japanese from Japan, or a Chinese from China.


Asian American consciousness became strongest on college campuses because inter-Asian contact among native-born Asians was the strongest there. It was here that many Asian Americans began to realize that their immigrant parents and grandparents had been treated fundamentally with far more racism and discrimination than white immigrants. Exposure to one another and to the mainstream society led some young Asian Americans to recognize that they were fundamen­tally different from whites.


Disillusioned with the white society and alienated from their traditional communities, many Asian Ameri­can student activists turned to the alternative strategy of pan-Asian unification. To define their own image as Americans of Asian heritage, college students coined the term Asian American to represent all Americans of Asian descent. The creation of a new name is a significant symbolic move in constructing an ethnic identity.


The most important legacy of the Asian American movement was the institutionalization of Asian American studies. Beginning in 1968, based upon a sense of self-determination, Asian American and other minority student groups fought for a more relevant education. In 1968, after the most prolonged and violent campus struggles in this country's history, Asian American studies programs were established at San Francisco State College (now University) and at the University of California at Berkeley. These campus struggles emboldened students at other col­leges to fight for ethnic studies courses, programs, and departments and forced college administrations to heed such demands.


Asian American Studies pro­grams were subsequently established on major campuses throughout the US, and since 1968 these have progressed from experimental courses to degree programs. The primary value of these studies, for Asian Americans or any other ethnic group (Chicano Studies, Native American Studies, and African Studies) is that it built an ethnic heritage. In the process, ethnic studies programs put courses and reading selections together and expound similarities (as well as differences) in the experiences of Asian peoples in the United States.


A good part of this shared heritage of Asian Ameri­cans is the shared history of racial discrimination. Many courses stress an Asian American identity and experience, yielding highly emotional discussions on subjects dealing with discrimination, alienation, and racism. Asian American scholars also began to reinterpret Asian American history in the United States and to bring out shared historical experiences around records of violence against Asians, who were denied the rights of citizenship, forbidden to own land, interned in relocation camps, and forced to live in poverty-stricken enclaves.


For example, in discuss­ing discriminatory laws and informal acts perpetrated against Chi­nese, Korean, Filipino, and Japanese immigrants, Lowell Chun-Hoon concluded that "what is significant [about this exploitation] is that all of these varied Asian groups, each representing a separate country and unique culture, encountered a similar or iden­tical pattern of racial oppression and economic exploitation." Asian Americans were treated increasingly as a single unit of analy­sis in academic studies. A survey of studies on Asian groups in the United States indicates that works dealing with "Asians" increased dramatically during the 1970s and 1980s.


Along the same time, Asian American writers began to publish works that focused on the collective experiences and identities of Asians in America. These writings served to redefine and articulate what it means to be an Asian American. It is from studying and experiencing a shared history of legalized racism and discrimnation, and the violence that many Asian immigrants had experienced here that helped to formulate an identity that is not connected to their parent's homelands but of their own, as Americans with Asian faces and cultures who have for most, lived their entire lives here in the United States. It is this group who experienced hearing people tell them "go back where you came from" when this is the only country that they have known, since birth.

Asian Americans: surviving a history of legalized racism and violence

Tamale Chica here. This and the next post share part of our history here as non-white minorities in the USA. Anyone familiar with Chicano / Latino history in the USA can easily see the parallels.

Anti-Asian violence concerns all Asian groups because the general public does not discern between different subgroups. In the Asian American case, group members can suffer sanctions for no behavior of their own, but for the activities of others who resemble them. Anti-Asian activities in the United States can be traced back to the middle of the nineteenth century, when the dominant culture employed sanctions against Asians via the political and legal systems.
From the late 19th to the early 20th century, more than 600 pieces of anti-Asian legislation were enacted, either limiting or excluding persons of Asian ancestry from citizenship, intermarriage, land ownership, employment, and other forms of participation in American life.

The gravest government mistreatment of Asians oc­curred when Japanese Americans and residents were placed in relocation camps at the beginning of World War II. Anti-Asian hostility was also violent: in the mid-nineteenth century whites where were stoning the Chinese in the streets, cutting off their queues, and wrecking their shops and laundries. The Rock Springs Massacre in Wyoming in 1885 led to brutal killings, and for the most part these atrocities were legally sanctioned. In 1854 the California Supreme Court ruled that Chinese could not testify against whites, so if no white person was available to witness on their behalf, any crime perpetrated against the Chinese went unpunished.

At the end of World War II, the United States Congress began to change the restrictive legislative barriers to Asian immigration and citizenship, and not until the early 1970s were Asian Americans were finally accorded the civil rights long guaranteed to other residents and citizens. However, with a rise in new Asian immigration after another war with an Asian country (Vietnam War) reports of rising anti-Asian activities also began to occur. A congressional hearing on the impact of the new Asian immigration reported a resurgence of anti-Asian sentiment manifest by increased vandalism, physical attack, and on occasion murder.

Statements submitted to the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights by U.S. Representative Robert Matsui warned of dangers relating to anti-Asianism, and in 1988 the found­ing president of the Asian/Pacific Bar of California sent a similar warning and concern about the revitalization of anti-Asian hostility (Asian Pacific American Coalition 1989a). By 1984, twenty-two people testified about the increase in anti-Asian vandalism and violence in Los Angeles County and in other parts of the country" (Los Angeles County Commission on Human Relations 1984). As in many cases of racial conflicts, factors that contribute to anti-Asian activities include class as well as ideational elements.

Resource competition theory posits that self-interest ex­plains public animosity toward immigrants. Especially during eco­nomic downturns, the native-born blame immigrants for the nation's problems and regard them as unwanted competitors. Historically, Asians in the United States have borne most of the blame for economic woes. Recent anti-Asian activities coincided with the deteriorating economic conditions that began after 1975. In a context of high unemployment, climbing inflation, and skyrocketing interest rates, competition between Asians and non-Asians often escalated into intergroup conflicts. A 1980 poll conducted in nine cities indicated that 47% of respondents believed that "Indochinese refugees take jobs away from others in my area". According to a 1989 Los Angeles Times poll, a quarter of the respondents believed that Asian Americans were gaining too much economic power; no other group was similarly de­scribed by more than 7 percent. In addition, Asian Americans have been resented for the United States' international trade imbalances.

A period of economic recession in the United States coincided with a rise of Pacific Rim economies, not only that of Japan but also those of Taiwan, South Korea, Hong Kong, and Singa­pore. Unable to keep pace with Asian competition, traditional indus­tries such as steel and automobiles experienced severe downturns. American businesses and labor unions, as well as elected officials, blamed the ills of American industry on business competition with Asian countries. A prime example is automobile manufacturing: many Americans attributed the unemployment among American automo­bile workers to the large Japanese share of automobiles sold in the United States). A 1982 national poll indicated that 44 percent of the public blamed U.S. eco­nomic problems "almost completely" or "very much" on Japanese business competition. Unfortunately, anger against Asian nations is often transferred to Americans of Asian ancestry, who have suffered from a long history of anti-Asian attitudes and behav­iors.

Reactive solidarity from a marginalization
While the concept of Asian American solidarity reigned strongest on university campuses during the 1960s and early 1970s, for all intensive purposes the concept of Asian American identity appeared to develop a lull in most non-West Coast areas of the country until the murder of Vincent Chin provided a flash point and turning point. In the case of anti-Asian American violence, the most notorious case of “lumping” and mistaken identity was the 1982 kill­ing of Vincent Chin. Vincent Chin was a twenty-seven year old Chinese American who was beaten to death by two white men who allegedly mistook him for Japanese.

On the night of June 19, 1982, Vincent Chin, a twenty-seven-year- old Chinese American draftsman, stopped in a Detroit bar with three friends to celebrate Chin's upcoming wedding. While in the bar, Chin became involved in a fist fight with Ronald Ebens, a white Chrysler factory foreman, and this dispute continued into the parking lot. For the next half-hour, Ebens and his stepson, Michael Nitz, allegedly stalked Chin, eventually locating him in front of a fast food restaurant and beat Vincent Chin to death using a baseball bat, striking him at least four times in the head (Espiritu, 1997). The Highland Park police arrested Ebens and Nitz at the scene. Chin died four days later from severe head injuries. Instead of celebrating Chin's wedding, his guests attended his funeral (American Citizens for Justice 1983a; Beer 1983; Weingarten 1983).

Growing up Mexican continued...

El Guapo remembers.....

My father worked in a factory. It was hard physical work. He always came home clean but once a week he brought home a large bag of work clothes. The clothes were so filthy that my mother wouldn't wash them at home. Every Saturday, I had to walk to the laundromat to wash my dad's work clothes. I was new at this. One day, all his underclothes came out pink. He never complained.

My mother was a typical Mexican housewife. She cooked ,cleaned , and raised us kids. To discipline any of us , all she had to say was "wait till your father gets home" (in spanish of course). We straightened up quick.

Lots of kids meant everything had to be shared. We had hand me down clothes, shoes, and toys. Most of us have nasty looking toes from years of wearing shoes that never fit correctly. I had one good pair of pants and dress shirt. One day, I heard a kid say at church "doesn't he have any other clothes?" I began to realize we were poor.

When any of us got old enough, we went to work. I got my first job at thirteen years old. All of us had to give half of what we earned to our parents. I learned to be frugal and eventually bought my own bicycle at fifteen years old. It got stolen. I was pissed! I worked a long time to pay for that bike. I bought another at 17, with a chain this time.

By age 17 I was working a full time job at night and going to school in the day. Buying my own things while still giving half to my parents was very satisfying. It also raised my stock in the family as well. I was called cheap by my siblings but they also knew I was good for a few dollars when they REALLY needed it. Once, I told my brother to write a list of ten reasons why I should lend him some money. He backed off.

My biggest thrill was the day my mother asked me if I had any money saved. Of course, I showed her. She then asked me to help my father with it. I was never more proud in my young life. I happily gave her all of it. My father thanked me. He insisted in paying it back a small amount per week. I was treated like a man after that. (I was 17) I was allowed a beer after dinner on weekends. You know Mexicans and their beer. Having one with my father was an honor. He said the same about having one with his son!

Growing up Mexican continued...

El Guapo remembers...

My parents dream of a better life in America was shared by many others in the valleys of "The Sierra" region of northern Chihuahua. Following the trail north was my mother's sister and her husband, my aunt and uncle. They lived close by and endured similar struggles as my parents.

Sharing the challenges of immigration to a strange land strengthened the bond the two families already shared by blood and marriage. Heck, they couldn't even leave the old crop picking days behind. They would take us "tomato picking" at harvest time. I guess they wanted my brothers and I to experience being field hands at a young age. The bushels of peppers and other vegetables we "purchased" were shared with other families on our return from the "rancho".

Every weekend, every birthday, every special occasion was an opportunity to get together and celebrate. When the family gathered for a party, the men drank beer and the women cooked chicken and mole with rice and beans. It was rare to have any other kind of food at any party. Chicken and mole was and still is a party favorite for our family.

My aunt,(God rest her soul) had a peculiar ritual at our parties. Maybe it was after a couple of drinks, quien sabe, but she lined up all us boys and checked our "pajaritos". The adults all laughed as we dutifully lined up for my Tia. She inspected us closely and clucked in approval. What a crazy Tia! Us boys always giggled and didn't mind showing her our "little birds". The ritual ended as we got older of course.

My aunt, uncle and cousins were able to move out of the neighborhood and then out of the city. They bought a nice house in a town forty miles away. The visits became less frequent as both our families grew up and life moved on.

She eventually became a Jehovah's Witness. Imagine that!