The Cultural Chica

Failure in those male lives

2009-11-02T16:57:00.010-06:00

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...

2009-10-28T14:14:00.001-05:00

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...

2009-10-28T10:09:00.001-05:00

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...

2009-10-22T14:16:00.008-05:00

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...

2009-10-12T15:48:00.001-05:00

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

2009-10-10T22:59:00.000-05:00

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

2009-10-10T22:13:00.005-05:00

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...

2009-10-08T19:14:00.003-05:00

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...

2009-10-04T20:34:00.004-05:00

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!

Growing up Mexican continued...

2009-09-28T17:31:00.003-05:00

El Guapo remembers...

The catholic school we went to was about six blocks away. I had to walk of course. It was a mostly white kids school.

The few Mexican kids were from "Little Mexico" as our neighborhood was called. It was a tough neighborhood I suppose, no kids from school would ever come over to play. They were afraid. There were really tough guys on the block. Guys with names like Chico, Rocky, Spike, Goyo, Chowie, Wacko, Cutt, Snipper, and Tiny. The gangs had names like The Alley Cats and Young Savages.

When I started going to school I was terrified. It turned out the other kids were afraid of me. My older brother was one of the tough, cool guys so I had little to fear. I wanted to be cool too.

My parents couldn't afford to pay for lunch so I had to bring my own. Opening my lunch bag one day, I was horrified to find two tortillas with beans wrapped in foil. All the other kids had sandwiches. I was so embarrassed. Every one stared at me as I tried to hide my tacos. Later , I begged my mother to please buy bread. I would eat the beans but please hide them in bread instead of tortillas.

The school later started a free lunch program for us poor kids. That was even more embarrassing. There was no hiding it. We had to ask for the "free ticket" every day from the lunch lady at the entrance to the lunch room. Once past the table there were two lines; one for the hot lunch and one for the kids who still brown bagged it. My older brother, ever so cool, started to bring a bag with papers stuffed into it. He would show the "lunch bag" to the ladies then slip into the hot lunch line.

The school did provide great programs for the parish kids though. They opened the gym for roller skating on Friday night for older kids and Sundays for all ages. The Scouts Program was also very popular. They had Cub, Boy, and Explorers for the boys and Brownie, Girl, Cadet, and Explorers for the girls. These programs kept lots of kids out of trouble.

Since the Vietnam war was raging, the scout leaders were returning vets who maintained a paramilitary posture for the boys. They used marching and discipline as well as outdoor skills like maps, compass reading, and marksmanship to train many of us future soldiers to survive. Most did.

Not many Boy Scout units had an Honor Guard for funerals. We did.

Growing up Mexican continued...

2009-09-27T18:36:00.003-05:00

El Guapo remembers...

The apartment we lived in was small. Well, maybe for a regular family it may have been average but for the eight boys and three girls that made up our family, it was tiny.

My parents had their own room. My sisters had a room but only one bed. The boys, we had to sleep in bunk beds, the living room couch, and the floor.

Sleeping in the same bed with two brothers there were no secrets and nothing was sacred. I always believed my brother knew what I was thinking because we shared a pillow. There was always teasing. I was given the "business" for sleep talking about "Elaine caught all the fishes." There was also a lot of fighting, laughing , and most of all caring. We knew each others worries, hopes, and of course dreams.

Every one helped in the kitchen, my mom patted out the tortillas and I worked the "comal" There was an art to cooking the tortillas just right. They had to puff up perfectly so we could put butter or beans into the pocket. On saturdays I was in charge of cutting the sheet of menudo into small squares for the delicious soup we had on sundays. I could also cook my own scrambled eggs if I was hungry. We all were expected to know how to cook and clean up after ourselves.

Having a house full of high spirited kids meant lots of joking and laughter. My older brother figured out how to make the phone ring by dialing a certain code. My poor teen age sisters bore the brunt of "it's some boy, for you" gags. Yet they fell for it every time. They also pulled stuff on each other. One sister would take the clothes the other had ironed and set out for school. We older kids all had to iron our own clothes.

There was always some way to keep ourselves entertained. One night three of my brothers were laying on the bunk bed watching out the window. They were still there ten minutes later. Curious, I joined them. There was a perfect view down into the neighbors window. The next door neighbor was buck naked and playing with her husband at the kitchen sink. After several more minutes my sister noticed and took a look. With five kids watching, our neighbors were putting on quite a show. My sister shrieked when she saw what we were looking at. The noise must have alerted the neighbors. The woman looked up and quickly closed the curtains.

The following day the lady was in front of the house speaking with my mother. "Uh oh," I thought, as I approached. The lady, blushed and greeted me as if nothing had happened. I smiled at her and continued out to the Boy's Club, one of the few places we were allowed to go.

The neighbors moved out a few weeks later. Rats!

Growing up Mexican continued...

2009-09-25T17:46:00.004-05:00

El Guapo remembers.

Growing up Mexican meant growing up catholic.

The Mexican child learns how to bless himself at an early age. "Persinate" my mother would say. A simple sign of the cross wasn't ever used. A nine point sign of the cross was oh so popular. First, a small cross on the forehead, then down to the lips and cheek area for another, then the third one over the heart. If the child was too young, my mother or one of us had to do it for him. This was usually before bed.

Sunday was for church. In the early days we had to travel all the way to the church that had a spanish mass. It meant, a two bus ride to St. Francis of Assisi parish, a long mass, and plenty of singing. (Nuestro Senor Senor is a tune that won't go away.) My parents usually made a day of it since the"Garra" was only a block away. (Several streets were lined with vendors of every kind. There were even old black men playing guitars and singing the "blues.")

As soon as I was old enough, I joined the altar boys. I thought this was neat until I had to learn the mass in latin (Dominus Vobiscum..... Oremus....) and get up early enough for the 6 a.m. mass twice a week. At least it was at the parish church where my siblings and I attended school. It was only a six block walk. The church was fire bombed one morning and we altar boys were mentioned by the newsman for helping get the old ladies and the holy stuff out of the building.

My mother was an old fashioned catholic. Whenever the occasion called for it, all the ladies would gather at our apartment for a novena. A novena is a ritual where certain prayers are repeated over and over again. This seemed to last for hours. We had to kneel on the bare floor. No pillows were allowed. No leaning back on your heels, either. A novena lasted nine days in a row and could be used for both celebrating or mourning. My father and the other men never stayed past the greetings. I guess it was a women and children thing.

Apparently, the parish noticed my potential, by sixth grade, I was doing the "reading of the epistle of blessed Paul the apostle, brethren...." during Sunday mass. My mother was so proud.

She was proud of me. She was proud of being Catholic. She was proud of being Mexican.

So am I.

The One Drop Rule

2009-09-25T00:05:00.001-05:00

Tamale Chica here on the One Drop Rule. I was having a discussion with a Caucasian friend of mine, who was curious as to whether most U.S. minorities really like to segregate them selves from the general population. This is an incredible question because it opens the door to looking at what it is that makes us a nation of hyphens, especially collective hypens in terms of race. For one thing, the racial grouping was done for US Census purposes. I'll cover some of that issue later on in another post. It was a governmental classification, and there have been plenty of issues in how those classifications were determined over time.

Perhaps more importantly, and at the crux of the matter, is that for most of our great country's history, we had many unbelievably racist laws, passed and put into place to keep "non whites" in their place, which was outside of the mainstream of society. It is a testament to our nation that today, I can write about these as "racist laws of the past." As I share these, you, dear reader, may find them incredulous. That, too, will be a good thing, because as a nation we have evolved.

Looking back, we had something here called the "One Drop Rule." The one drop rule, or hypodescent, is a US tradition that has distant roots in the anti Roman traditions of northwestern Europe. Most male colonists came to North America with their wives or found wives among their own segregated ethnic communities once they arrived in the English and Dutch colonies. This meant that there was little chance that significant numbers of persons of mixed race descent would even occur. Over time, other types of inter-ethnic liaisons increased among the European nationalities and with non Europeans.

During this time the identity American was used to refer to these multiethnic people and their communities, in contrast to what later developed to Anglo exclusiveness. Prejudice was somewhat less in regards to intermarriage between Europeans, but remained where non-Europeans were involved. During this time, the two numerically significant non-European groups were Native Americans and Africans. Because Native Americans were considered internal nations without the rights of citizenship, this discouraged intermarriage.

After the end of the Civil War, as the federal troops left the South and the Reconstruction ended, notorious Jim Crow laws appeared, including anti miscegenation laws. Anti-miscegenation laws were directed toward mixed bloods. By making interracial liaisons illegal, the offspring of these unions would be illegal, and therefore unable to inherit property, which is an important basis for capital accumulation and power. During this same time in history was the emergence of various racial theories that lent claim to Anglo or Nordic claims of superiority, including the idea that racial mixture resulted in debilitation and regression. This then lent itself to the notion that the races should remain segregated in the interest of racial purity.

The one-drop rule was used to prove that any nonwhite ancestry, no matter how small, was proof of nonwhite status. The one-drop rule originally designated any individual with any African lineage as black. This has served not only to expand the number of slaves born from conjugal relationships with white slave owners, but served to preserve what sociologists now look at as "white privilege." Any person of mixed European blood was then to be the race with lesser status and civil rights.

Ironically, the one drop rule was lawfully upheld in the legal context of a civil rights case. Homer Plessy was denied the right to sit in a "Whites Only" train section because he had one black great grandparent. In 1896, in Plessy v. Ferguson, the US Supreme Court rules that state imposed racial segregation of railroad cars is constitutional, this establishing a legal precedent that legitimized the One Drop Rule.

In modern times, the one-drop rule has been used as political aresenal. "Today, ironically, the one-drop rule has been embraced by Black folks because we want more Black folks. After all, greater numbers translate into greater political and social clout. So it's a big deal for racial and ethnic groups when the federal government decides which races are to be measured, which boxes are to be checked on the census form," said Clarence Page, a journalist from the Chicago Tribune during a prophetic 1997 interview with the PBS News Hour with Jim Lehrer.

After the release of Census 2000, newspaper headlines across the country announced that the number of Latinos had surpassed those of African Americans as the nations largest minority group. Using one-drop mathematics, and counting everyone who checked "Black" plus any number of other races, then these numbers may very well have been different.

The Vincent Chin Case

2009-09-23T00:05:00.002-05:00

Tamale Chica here with more on the Asian American experience (condensed).

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 early 1980's. That is because after centuries of anti Asian American laws and racism, the Vietnam war was finally ended and most Asian Americans finally felt a sense of relief, that for once our country wasn't fighting people who looked like them.

That sense of relief was short lived, and turned into a flashpoint for joining together and fighting racist injustices that again showed up in the court system. 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 located 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.

The Highland Park (Michigan) 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. The Wayne County prosecutor opted for second-degree murder-homicide with no premeditation. In a later plea bargain, Ebens pleaded guilty to the lesser charge of manslaughter and Nitz did not contest his charge. Despite the fact that in Michigan a manslaughter conviction carries a maximum sentence of fifteen years in prison, Wayne County Judge Charles Kaufman imposed no prison time on Ebens and Nitz, instead giving them both three years' probation and fined each a mere $3,000.

In explaining his lenient sentence, Judge Kaufman cited the defendants' stable working backgrounds and lack of criminal records: "You don't make the punishment fit the crime; you make the punishment fit the criminal." Detroit's Asian American community did not immediately respond to the killing since they had expected the court to punish the killers. A shocked, outraged and disbelieving community quickly formed American Citizens for Justice (ACJ) to seek prosecution of Chin's killers.

Kaufman's lenient sentence also outraged Asian Americans across the country, and letters of protest streamed into Kaufman's office from as far away as New York and San Francisco. Kaufman's decision also received extensive and bitter media coverage, receiving scathing headlines. One year after Chin's death, Kaufman announced that he would not reverse his sentence.

Initially the ACJ’s focus of protest was Kaufman’s lenient sentence. However, as ACJ’s members reconstructed the events of that evening, they became convinced that the slaying had been racially motivated: three eyewitnesses stated that Ebens directed racial slurs at Chin. One witness recalled hearing, "Because of you... we're out of work" (U.S. Court of Appeals, Sixth Circuit 1986). It was this testimony that gripped the nation. It implied that Chin's killers mistook him for Japanese and blamed him for the layoffs in the automobile industry.

A recent film documentary on the Chin case showed Detroit in deep recession with long unemployment lines and closed car plants. At the United Auto Workers headquarters, a red and white sign summed up anti-Japanese sentiments: "300,000 laid-off UAW members don't like your import. Please park it in Tokyo." Numerous video-casts showed auto workers and others in Detroit attacking Japanese-made automobiles with sledgehammers (U.S. Court of Appeals, Sixth Circuit 1986: 1439). Calling for a new U.S. industrial policy that would limit imports, a Michigan congressman labeled Japanese trade practices "an economic Pearl Harbor" and another referred to Japanese workers as "little yellow people."

So although we were finally no longer at war with people across the oceans who looked Asian, obviously own own citizens here were being attacked and denigrated purely on the basis of ancestry.). As a result of the Chin case, Asian Americans today are much more willing to speak out on the issue of anti-Asianism; they are also much better organized than they were at the time of Chin's death. Across the country, Asian Americans have formed new organizations to monitor, report, and protest anti-Asian incidents. Besides combating anti-Asian violence, these pan-Asian organizations provide a social setting for building pan-Asian American unity.

You're a dirty Indian

2009-09-23T00:05:00.000-05:00

After WWII ended, the US Government had a work program designed to train Native Americans but rather than create jobs for them with their new skills on Reservations, they relocated them to major metro areas. Chicago was but one of them. As a result, I grew up with a lot of Native Americans, none of which called themselves that. All my friends just said they were Indian, and they'd tell me their tribe.

This is similar to someone saying they are Ukrainian, Polish, Czechoslovakian rather than identifying their national origins as "Eastern European." The Indians, after all, were not one big hodge podge, but many sovereign nations that already existed before anyone else showed up on the shores of either North or South America.

And of course my Indian friends all lived in the same neighborhood as I, which meant we all lived on the wrong side of Broadway. There were not a lot of Asian Americans where I lived, since the bulk of them lived on the street north of where I lived, and thus they all went to another grade school, so in some ways it is understandable that an ignorant child could assume that anyone who wasn't white could be Indian.

So there I was one day, waiting in line for the bell to ring so I could go in with all the other kids on our first day of school, after the summer break. A girl I had never seen before turned around, saw me standing in line behind her, and with all the spite, venom and hate her little brain could muster, told me to move away from her, because, "You're a dirty Indian." Given the demographics of my neighborhood, I actually would have fit in better being called a Mexican or Puerto Rican, although I am Asian American.

Not long after, two of my grade school friends arrived in line. Judy, whose family hailed from West Virginia's coal country, and Linda, who actually was Santee Souix. Children being children, what bothered me the most at the time was that she said I was dirty.

Hollywood does it again

2009-09-22T20:44:00.004-05:00

I sat down to watch the first episode of NCIS Los Angeles, a spin off of the very good NCIS program. I have no issue with the acting, the writing, the action and storyline presented in the first episode. Amid a backdrop that is supposed to be in Los Angeles, I felt like I stepped through the 1940's time warp in casting, with a twist.

The main characters are White and African American. I saw one Latino, who was cast as a gardener and a regular is a woman of Portuguese descent was also cast, so she counts as "Hispanic."

Hello, this is supposed to be in the city of Los Angeles???

Los Angeles has one of the nation's largest populations of Asian Americans. According to Census 2000, 10.6% of the city's population is Asian American and yet nary an Asian face was to be seen, not even as background. If you've ever been to Los Angeles, you would see a lot of Asian Americans and Latinos.

The City of Los Angeles in 2000 boasted a 48.5% Hispanic population and 29.3% non-Hispanic Whites. African Americans comprise 9.9% of the city's population. While I don't expect television shows to have a quid pro quo on ethnic representation, I also expect them to not ignore the large numbers of minority populations that have built that city. The series Charmed did that to pathetic proportions, where nary an Asian primary character was ever to be seen in the city with over an 18% Asian American population.

It's time Hollywood stepped up. This is 2009, not 1960!

Asian American challenges in a racist environment

2009-09-22T18:33:00.005-05:00

Tamale Chica here. This is the first part of a muti-part share on the history of the major minority subcultures here in the USA. Read any one of them and you will see situations similiar to the other groups.

One reason anti-Asian violence and racism concerns all Asian Americans is that the general public does not discern between different subgroups. As a result, anti-Asian violence requires being addressed at the pan-Asian or group identity level. What this does is creates a sense of group cohesion because they face a threatened destruction, which creates a common interest where none may have existed before.

Anti-Asian activities in the United States can be traced back to the middle of the 1800's when the dominant culture employed sanctions against Asians via the political and legal systems. From the late 1800's to the early part of the 1900's, 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 residents and citizens 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.

It wasn't until the end of World War II, that the US Congress began to change the restrictive legislative barriers to Asian immigration and citizenship. It was only during the early 1970s that Asian Americans were finally accorded the civil rights long guaranteed to other residents and citizens.

Unfortunately, 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 (1984) 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. 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 until recently. 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 in California. 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% 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.

The Perpetual Foreigner Syndrome

2009-09-21T00:05:00.002-05:00

When I was an undergraduate, I was sitting in the cafeteria, reviewing some of my class notes when I woman came over, ignored me and went for the man of African descent, to ask for his signature which required a person to be a registered voter. Even though I said hello to her, she continued to ignore me. She wanted registered voters to sign her petition. She asssumed this man was an American.

After she left, he turned to me and commented that obviously I was born here. I confirmed this and told him, 'and yes, I am a registered voter but she wouldn't know that because she was too busy assuming that either I didn't speak English or that I was a foreigner." He shook his head and we had an interesting discussion of race relations. And by the way, this man was a foreign student from Africa.

Asian Americans have long suffered from what Dr. Frank Yu, Ph.D coined, "the perpetual foreigner's syndrome." My family came here just toward the end of the 1800's and were farmers and restaurant owners. Asian Americans have had to deal with what author Frank Yu referred to as the perpetual foreigner syndrome, that being the fact that much of the general population assumes Asian Americans are all recent immigrants and foreigners. This ignores the fact that Asian Americans built this nation's railroads and the fertile farmlands of California.

This also ignores the fact that Asian Americans have been here for up to four and even five generations. Despite this, it is a common experience for Asian Americans to be told: "You speak good English." I do? As what, as a Chicagoan? As a college graduate? As someone who grew up in a tough neighborhood? Nooooo, they mean because they ASSUME that I am a foreigner.Now when I meet a person of Anglo ancestry, I do not immediately launch into saying, "You speak such good English." I'm sure that if I said that to any of my friends, they would think I had lost my mind. Unless I hear an accent, I never assume that the person is a recent immigrant.

And then there is the attitude that Asians and Asian Americans are all the same thing. Years ago I was having a conversation with an aspiring artist and DJ in Miami. I commented that there were hardly any actors of Asian American descent who had become as well known as Lucy Liu. He said he could think of a lot of Asian actors: Jackie Chan, Michelle Yeoh, Chow Yun Fat. I pointed out that he just named three Asian but not Asian American actors.

What's the difference, he asked? Oy vey! Recent immigrants do not have the social experiences of growing up here, they have not been immersed in our society in the same manner, and they certainly have not experienced the racism that has been beaten into many of our heads that existed in full force up through the 1980s. Recent immigrants have a cultural heritage tied to their land of birth, and generally have grown up as part of the majority group.

Most Asian Americans, Latinos, Native Americans and African Americans have experienced a very different history here, and for over a century these subcultures have dealt with being marginalized. And lest anyone who knows their history forget, Americans of Japanese ancestry lost everything they owned when it Executive Order 9066 decided that it was okay to take people's civil liberties away based not facts, but on race and economic gain by those who profited by their loss of freedom.

And sadly, just as Pink is the New Black, it seems that many Mexicans are now also the "new Asians."

What the Cultural Chica is about...

2009-09-20T13:28:00.003-05:00

Vicente, Thank you for your heartfelt words. I began to respond as a comment, and then realized the response is better shared as a blog post. Also, this may answer some questions by readers who wondered if The Cultural Chica was going to look just like The Tamale Chica Chronicles. The answer to that is yes and no...

The Cultural Chica blog is a little like The Tamale Chica Chronicles, except it goes beyond Chicago, and with more of a focus on culture. This would be popular culture (like the soda pop story), as well as the culture of non-western European Americans here. In short, it's about what it's like to grow up non-white in Chicago.

El Guapo gave me the idea about that last item, and he is contributing his experiences growing up as an American of Mexican descent in Chicago.

Kokeshi Doll will tell stories of growing up non white, and Asian American during a time when we had strong anti Asian and anti-Asian American racism, no doubt the by product of having over 30 years of war with Asian nations. Her experience will also be a Chicago perspective.

And hopefully interspersed in a way that won't interfere with these voices, I will bring in the laws, histories and social moires of what was going on in pre Millennium America in the USA, to act as a backdrop. We can see how the history of these changes set the foundation for the racism we had at one time, which was "legal." If we think about this, it is easier to then understand how there has always been such an undercurrent of racism here, versus in other nations. And again, the fact that we've had changes is also testament that this social experiment called the United States of America has shown more dynamics for change than any other large nation of this size.

We want to keep it positive, but we also don't want to gloss over the blood of all those who were a part of changing the way we look at race in the US, from the non-white standpoint.

Similarly, and hopefully in a post in the future, I hope to acknowledge the many Americans of white ancestry, who fought against discrimination and helped give all who had no voice a voice, who with their greater numbers and social activism, helped removed legalized racism (i.e, the laws of our nation that clearly discriminated against those of non white ethnic backgrounds).

Many of our fellow Americans were also ostracized, suffered great discrimination themselves and often lost their lives, so that others who made this nation their home for generations could also call themselves Americans. It is also because of these people that the protection of the laws we now know would be extended to all in our Constitution and Bill of Rights unites us all, as one people. I want to also honor the memories of these great human beings as well.

Growing up Mexican: A classic immigrant tale.

2009-09-19T11:27:00.005-05:00

This is a classic immigrant story that can be recognized by many Mexican families who came to ("El Norte") America during the 1950's and 1960's.

My parents grew up in the mountains of northern Chihuahua, Mexico. Their parents were subsistence farmers, barely growing enough corn to eat. To escape the crushing poverty, they left the "rancho" and went north to the border.

My father joined the "Bracero" program in the early 1950's that allowed him to enter the United States at El Paso, Texas. My mother and two sisters joined him there.

They were migrant farm workers, going wherever there were crops to be harvested. They worked along the Rio Grande valley in west Texas and New Mexico, where my older brother and I were born. They worked their way north, picking cotton in areas like Canutillo, or Mule Shoe, Texas and other regions.

In 1956 they found their way to Chicago, where a man could find work and raise his family.

My father found work. It was hard, back breaking labor, in a factory. They lived in the area, known as "Jew Town" that had been the port of entry for many generations of earlier immigrants

The family was growing too. The next brother in line was born in a small four room apartment. The midwife placing him on the oven door to keep him warm. My two brothers and I shared a bed, my two sisters had their own bed.

Many years of hard work and struggle later, My father was able to buy a small two flat building and move the family, now numbering eight , into a decent neighborhood. The boys still had to share beds and my sisters shared a room but life was decent. The family eventually became eleven, eight brothers and three sisters. My mother, besides a short stint as an Avon Lady, never worked outside of the home.

My older brother moved out on his own. I entered the military (the first time I had a bed of my own). My sisters married. One moved in downstairs. The younger siblings still had to share beds.

It was in the military that I discovered that I was Mexican; that we were poor. I began to think back on my life. My pride swelled as I realized the pain and sacrifices my parents went through to give us the life we had enjoyed. I began to correct the sergeants pronounciation, when my name was called for duty. I began to look up family whenever I had opportunities to visit the border areas. More and stories were told to me of my family's struggles.

The stories I will try to tell, will be stories of a family, my family, growing up Mexican while still trying to keep the old ways.

Maki Sushi Isn't Authentic?

2009-09-17T19:31:00.006-05:00

[This is a repost from my old blog, dated October 2, 2008]

My dad is gone, and I miss him. WGN in Chicago was his favorite radio station, and as corny as it sounds, having that station on reminds me of him and it's almost like I can see him in his diningroom, eating lunch and listening to whomever was on. So that's how I started to listen to WGN. When we had the great flood on Montrose, my favorite WBEZ station provided a dearth of information about an area I needed to go to that week. So that's how I ended up as a regular listener on 'GN.
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This morning I'm making my breakfast when Phil Vettel was a guest with Spike O'Dell. They were talking about sushi. Oh no, I thought as I waited to hear the latest round of misinformation propagated by the fact that it has become as popular as salsa and ubiquitous in our diets, at least in major urban areas. Then I heard it, "maki sushi isn't authentic."

The photo to the left is from The Sushi Index, which has great photos and excellent information.

Now THAT caught my attention, because my grandmother who never make pseudo Japanese food or any modified versions of it, made some great maki sushi, and she was from the old country. Maki sushi has been present at New Year's Day celebrations, which is a big deal for people of Japanese ancestry and a real kicker when you are out celebrating New Year's Eve too long. Sushi refers to vinegared rice. I grew up with many types of sushi, including some that were served from a bowl as their ingredients were mixed in and you used a rice scoop to put them on your plate. There were also molded sushi's which usually meant a form of sashimi (raw fish) would be placed on top, or in some cases a picked fish. My mother also used to make maki sushi. We grew up on futomaki sushi, which is a complex and time consuming as well as tedious sushi to make because of all the ingredients.

She would also make a tamago-maki, where instead of using nori (seaweed sheets) she would use an extraordinarily thin piece of scrambled eggs that were slightly seasoned. She even had a special squarish pan for the task. I've never seen anyone else do that and unfortunately I was too young to catch the finer aspects of how she was able to achieve this.At some point Phil Vettel clarified his maki comment, saying that the maki with cream cheese and avocados, etc. are not traditional sushi. Okay, THAT I can say is definitely correct.

I do have to admit I like California Maki because of the avocados, but my favorite all time maki is the Futo-Maki, which is a traditional Japanese Maki and in Chicago, there are few restaurants except for one that makes an excellent one. On that note, I am going to figure out an order for lunch!

A hero you should know.

2009-09-16T15:29:00.007-05:00

Most people born in the U.S., to immigrant parents, call themselves Mexican-Americans, Irish-Americans, Polish-Americans, etc. You get the general idea. They take pride in their ethnic background. They take pride in their people.

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Today, I am an American of Mexican descent!
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While I was standing in front of a downtown hotel, a distinguished looking Latino gentleman walked up and introduced himself. He was smartly dressed in slacks and a blue blazer. What stood out though, was the light blue ribbon covered with white stars that held a five pointed medal around his neck. "I'm Jay Vargas," he said and shook my hand. He asked me about my job, thanked me, then said he was pleased to see a fellow latino taking pride in his work.

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I was stunned, I was there, proudly, to honor the members of the "Medal of Honor" Society. Jay R. Vargas is one of the few living latino recipients of the Congressional Medal of Honor. The nations highest award for extraordinary heroism above and beyond the call of duty during combat action.

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He was born in Winslow, Arizona. Like many Mexican boys in the southwest, his two older brothers had fought at Iwo Jima and Okinawa. another brother fought in Korea. Jay Vargas was an athlete. He played minor league baseball before joining the Marine Corps.

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In 1968 he was in command of a company of Marines in Vietnam. Over the course of a fierce three day battle, Captain Vargas, wounded during a mortar attack, inspired his men to advance. Directing the defense their position, he was wounded twice more. refusing medical aid he braved intense fire to rescue a seriously injured comrade.

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For his actions that day, Captain Jay R. Vargas, USMC, received the Medal of Honor from President Nixon on May 14, 1970.

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Jay R. Vargas, a humble unassuming American of Mexican descent, who insisted I call him "Jay," is a true hero.

I am proud to have met him.

Mixed Race, Antimiscegenation laws and Loving v Virginia

2009-09-15T20:38:00.001-05:00

When discussing mixed race issues, two laws that may seem incomprehensible in 2009 were the foundation for creating the concepts of race that are still exist today. These were the one drop rule and anti-miscegenation laws. While mixed race individuals have existed in this country for decades, it wasn’t until 1967 that laws forbidding mixed race marriages were declared unconstitutional. The first anti-miscegenation law baring marriages between whites and blacks was passed in Maryland in 1661. By the 19th century these laws were enacted in most states, and in 1880, California passed a law prohibiting the marriage between any white person and a “Negro, mulatto, or Mongolian.”

In June 1958, Mildred Jeter, an African American, and Richard Loving, a white man, were married in the District of Columbia. Shortly after their marriage the Lovings returned to Virginia to establish their marital abode. In October 1958 the Lovings were indicted by a grand jury with violating Virginia’s ban on interracial marriages. The judge, in his opinion, stated, "Almighty God created the races white, black, yellow, malay and red, and he placed them on separate continents. And but for the interference with his arrangement there would be no cause for such marriages. The fact that he separated the races shows that he did not intend for the races to mix." With a suspended sentence, the Lovings moved to DC and in November of 1963 filed a motion to vacate the judgment and set aside the sentence on the ground that the statutes had violated the Fourteenth amendment.

People of mixed race have existed in the United States for hundreds of years, despite anti-miscegenation laws. Some have created their own distinct ‘mixed reality’ of culture, history and tradition, notably the Creoles of Color and the Black Seminoles. Increased mixed race marriages and the increase of minority populations have been giving rise to Generation M, whose numbers on the 2000 US Census quickly attracting the attention of demographers.

Persons of mixed race are not only a growing demographic, but also one that is beginning to develop its own group identity. This movement runs counter to assumptions that the offspring of increasing mixed marriages will lessen the importance of race and ethnicity through assimilation. For most of the history of the United States, the concept of hypodescent has been the rule, resulting in increased numbers of mixed race children being assumed and considered as the product of non-white racial groups.

Related to this has been the concept of ‘passing’ for white, where mixed race persons who could, would often pass as white to avoid discrimination or to be able to advance in a society that would prevent them from doing so based on color. This has resulted in numbers of people who would also claim white on the US Census forms, resulting in an increased white population and a decreased minority population. One of the results of the civil rights movements and resulting changes of discriminatory laws has been the profound changes social attitudes of and for all people of color in the United States, which has in turn affected the way the dominant society views it’s minority populations.

All mixed up!

2009-09-14T22:19:00.000-05:00

In May of 1997, Chicago Tribune columnist Clarence Page was a guest on the Jim Lehrer News Hour. Clarence Page said it all, “With his explosive swing, his dead-on accuracy, and his irrepressible smile, Tiger Woods doesn’t just play golf; he upsets the game. He upsets a lot of games; like the color game, an ancient American game, Tiger is a person of colors, all colors. His mother’s ancestry is Asian. His father’s ancestry is African, European, and Native American.”

When Tiger Woods declared that he was neither African American nor Asian American, but multiracial, Page recognized that Tiger Woods was freeing himself from calling himself anything else than how he saw himself. In Page’s words, ‘If people cannot call themselves what they want to call themselves, they cannot call themselves truly free…He also shows us Americans how much we have been prisoners of our past, even as our future is overtaking us. He’s a credit to his races--every one of them.”

Almost ten years ago, Census 2000 was the first time the category “mixed race” could be chosen. For monoracials, this may not seem like a big deal, but for the 6.8 million persons who checked these boxes, it was the first time that a U.S. Census provided acknowledgement that people of mixed race existed. This “sudden increase” of mixed race persons was not only Census inspired. Its undertakings have been in process for the past forty years.

Prior to the 1960’s, Asian, African, and Latino/Hispanic American men were viewed as threats to white racial purity, and in certain states they were forbidden to marry white women. It wasn’t until 1967, in “Loving v. Virginia,” that laws forbidding mixed race marriages were declared unconstitutional. Subsequent to the passage of the Civil Rights Act in 1964, the United States began to undergo major changes in social perceptions. These changes evolved as an ethnic consciousness also began to take root, from African American identity consciousness, to similar identity awakenings for Asian Americans, Chicanos and American Indians. As ethnic minorities began to see themselves differently, many people in the dominant society also began to change the way they viewed race and ethnicity.

Marshall Field's is still alive

2009-09-14T18:55:00.000-05:00

On September 11 there was a Chicago Tribune article by Sandra Jones about a group of Marshall Field's loyalists who planned to gather outside Macy's Midwest flagship on State Street at 1 p.m. Sunday to protest the New York-based Macy's September 2006 takeover of the Chicago shopping institution. "It is the fourth year that the group, called Field's Fans Chicago, has held a rally outside the giant store, calling for the return of the Marshall Field's name..."We plan on persisting in this," said James McKay, the group's founder. "We're maintaining interest in the brand and keeping enthusiasm up for the day when it does come back."

Some of you may wonder, 'who cares?' and 'why is this noteworthy?' It is still noteworthy because of the emotive element still held by Marshall Field's loyalists. Many companies invest enormous amounts of money so that they can have an emotional connection between their brand identity and their consumers.

What is an emotional connection to a brand and why is it important? For one, if you are crazy about a company or a brand, you will generally be a loyal customer. You will be a repeat purchaser. You will talk about your brand, and not just to one or two people. If you blog, you will blog about your brand, and again, not to just one or two people. In short, you will have an enthusiasm that will turn your friends, family and acquaintances onto your brand. You will have customer evangelists talking about and talking up your brand, your company and your products. Think of your diehard Trader Joe's or Whole Foods customers -- if you know any, you'll know that they are often walking advertisements. They are your unpaid public relations agents.

So back to Marshall Field's. While the new owners were perfectly within their rights as new owners to do whatever they wanted to the brand, "Marshall Field's," from a business and marketing strategy perspective, they threw away a good part of the Goodwill (that big number on the balance sheets that many famous brands have) and tossed it in the garbage. They did not understand that Marshall Field's also was considered a part of Chicago. It was part of the Chicago family of "brands" that Chicagoans, and visitors and tourists, associate the city with. And hey, it's better than thinking of Chicago and parking meters.

That three years later, there are still voices that publicly mourn the loss of the Marshall Field Brand, well, that says a lot.

Culture, race and our issues about it in the USA

2009-09-13T13:49:00.000-05:00

Because my area of specialty is online consumer behavior, as it applies to cultural marketing, it is important to understand the "how and why" of "how and why "people think the way they do so that one can better understand consumer behavior decisions that they make. Several years ago, a group of inter-related research works were done, mostly with the director of my graduate school's MSIMC (marketing masters) program, and also with a professor who specializes in racial and gender issues in the business world.

One of the reasons Cultural Chica was launched was to provide another venue to explore race issues in America, but with a view that is not from that of the general market. There will be several, if not many articles based on much of the research that came about. While some of what will be written may not be pretty, sadly "pretty" hasn't always been the history of how ethnic subcultures have experienced life here, particularly from the time that colonialism became our modus operandi. Looking at laws and issues that will be explored but from 2009 will reveal an incredible evolvement of a nation based on freedom, yet at the expense and near decimation of nations that existed here before. So we are here now, with an African American President. Stay with us and learn about why exactly this is so momentous. We all know it is, just from the race issue, but do we really understand just how extraordinary this is given all that has been the history here in these United States?

This series will be interspersed with some of this Chica's other types of posts, but we thought it important, especially with Census 2010 looming around the corner, to explore some of our history. As always, comments will be welcome but moderated. Any comments that are hateful or denigrate another racial group, or resemble personal attacks on any of the contributors will be promptly deleted. If you need to hate, don't do it here.

A Chicago Sojourn

2009-09-12T16:35:00.001-05:00

I was on the Uptown Update Blog when I found an article and link to A Chicago Sojourn Blog about Jewel Foodstores art deco storefronts. I'm a lifelong Chicagoan and had never known or heard about this. Okay, so I'm not like 100 years old so that might be why. Check it out -- it's great if you like architecture and Chicago history.

The Importance of Good Storytelling: 9-11 Remembered

2009-09-11T12:37:00.000-05:00

Many years ago, the wife of one of my business school friends invited me to attend an event hosted by Northwestern University's MSIMC program. There were two reasons why I was interested in attending. One of them was that Dr. Irving J. Rein, Ph.D, author of the iconic Rudy's Red Wagon which I read in an undergrad communications course. My friend, who took a course from him, introduced me to him and he immediately proceeded to say "Nice to meet you" while clearly providing the body language of "I'd rather be washing my car."

My friend, Sharon, was a bit flummoxed by his odd behavior, as was I, especially coming from a celebrity of the communications experts strata. At the time I was somewhat offended, but over time I laugh about it, knowing full well that whatever else may be going on with a person when they behave in an unexpected manner is not really our business to judge, as we do not know what a person may be going through or what memories may be triggered by meeting a person who may remind someone of someone else. Or heck, maybe he had just eaten a bad burrito.

In hindsight, that first event provided an much needed comic backdrop for what was to follow. The topic was September 11 and the panel was comprised of three Northwestern Graduates. One was a political marketing strategist. The other two had more direct ground zero experience. All three were excellent story tellers.

My apologies for completely forgetting all of their names, but anyone who has a record of the speaker panel programs at the Chicago location would be able to find these (this would not be me). The first speaker was a woman who worked for one of the many investment firms hit hard by the attacks on the World Trade Center. She recounted how, in her capacity as a Public Relations Director, how real all the theory she had learned in grad school rapidly translated to action.

So what does marketing have to do with 9-11? Professional marketing consultants from most MSIMC programs learn a variety of theoretical models, and usually we need to put these into play during the course of plansbooks creations or other project work. These classes usually are a phenomenal amount of work, the load can almost seem torturous. The purpose of this is to imbed it into our subconcious so we can actually use the stuff we learned in school.

The speaker at Northwestern put a great deal of what she learned, of what was pounded into her from her studies, into actions that led to much needed communications with the families of their many employees who wanted to know what happened to their loved ones, or if they perished, how would the families survive without their sole bread winner, etc. She attributed her ability to act quickly and effectively from her professional training she received in grad school. Like martial artists, reflexes are the decisive actions needed, when time is of the essence and we do not have time to think.

She acted upon her reflexes, while her heart was heavy with the loss of her many fellow coworkers. Equally as difficult was when she had to speak to their offices in England. The trading floors were connected, so traders on either floor could hear what went on in either location. She recounted how the people in their offices in England told them how earth shattering it was to hear the loud crash, the screams, and then nothing. On that day and the days following, the crisis management learned in grad schools across the nation becomes more relevant than we can ever imagine. During crisis management, lives are touched and the communications person is the one to coordinate how, what, where, why and when this will happen. It is almost like EMS communications for the corporate structure, that part that touches the human part of us no matter how cold the corporate world can seem at times. It is, after all, a world composed of human beings.

The second speaker was the Public Relations Director for the Red Cross out of Pennsylvania. His riveting account had the audience visibly shaken. He shared his experiences of driving along the highway, seeing the plane crash, and then seeing the billowing plumes of smoke. He shared how he oddly chose to run home first, which in hindsight would be a completely normal course of action given the amount of emotional shock he was in. Later he shared with us how all that he learned "kicked in" and there he was, in the middle of the most horrendous real life situation he had ever been in, coordinating what needed to be done.

It was the first, and hopefully last, marketing communications event I attended where attendees were all left in tears, where reality and storytelling brought us there, to the trading floors of the World Trade Center when the towers went down, and to Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

CPD Officer Densey Cole at Craig's Hospital in Colorado

2009-09-10T22:03:00.002-05:00

A friend of mine sent me this video from Denver, CO's FOX 31 News. Apparently the video and the originating author's comments have been making the rounds via email.
http://www.kdvr.com/videobeta/watch/?watch=6bfb668c-ee71-4fac-9c8d-71e598fbe838&src=front

For those of you in Chicago who don't recall who Densey Cole is, or for those of you outside of Chicago, according the MyFox Chicago, on "May 27 Cole was driving solo to a call of a robbery-in-progress, when he says a car crossed the median at South Halsted and 98th Street and T-boned his police SUV. The force of the collision subsequently threw his ride head-on into a pole... "I hit my head on the roof of the Tahoe. And that's what I believe broke my neck," said Cole, in a voice hushed by the trauma of the accident, and the breathing tube now coming out of his trachea. Although critically injured, Cole never lost consciousness after the accident. In vivid detail, he says he remembers everything, especially what happened next. "Some kid from the gas station across the street ran across," Cole said. "Pushed me over and stole my gun. My wallet. Then kinda stayed in the vehicle and told me, you can't move. I'm gonna shoot you. I'm gonna kill you." ... "He pushed me over. And moved me. He kept moving my head. So, in my mind there's a possibility he may have worsened my spinal cord injury."

The support that the Denver Police have provided to Densey Cole II and other Officers who have graced Craig Hospital is unprecedented. Cole received an in person visit from the police chief of Denver. The Englewood, CO Police Department has provided an organized outreach. When I first began so see blog coverage of Officer Cole, I wondered how he ended up in Colorado. It turns out that Craig Hospital is considered one rehabiliative hospitals for patients with spinal cord and brain injuries. According to an article in today's Chicago Tribune, "Chicago police also have rallied around, with some surprising Cole over the weekend with a visit." ... "They call this the thin blue line, but it's obviously a wide blue line," said Tim O'Brien, a homicide detective who was among six officers -- part of the American Lawmen Motorcycle Club -- who rode in from Chicago. They joined dozens of Denver-area officers also on motorcycles..."It's the brotherhood taking care of the brothers, no matter where they're from or where they are," said O'Brien...

Also according to the Trib:

"When Cole first arrived at Craig, he had no movement in his extremities. Today, he is able to move his digits. He can also lift his left hand with the help of a special support band, he said, almost all the way up to his face..."

"Over time, Cole has been able to leave the hospital on day passes. Denver-area officers have given him tickets to Colorado Rockies games, even the Broncos-Bears preseason game. On Saturday, police blocked off a block of a suburban street near the hospital for a benefit for him and a Minnesota officer being treated at Craig... "It's been unbelievable from day one," said Mary Cole. "They've picked up family members at the airport ... arranged for transportation. So many things I can't even tell you: money, meals, just being there."

Thanks to Positive LEO for the address to send Police Officer Cole a card or note:

Craig Hospital
c/o Densey Cole
3425 S Clarkson St,
Englewood, CO 80113

For donations to help the family (thanks to Jeff Goldblatt of WFLD):

Densey Cole II Benefit Fund
Chicago Patrolmen’s Federal Credit Union
http://www.patrolmensfcu.org/
312-726-8814

For other coverage:
http://www.myfoxchicago.com/dpp/news/metro/chicago_cop_quadriplegic
http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/local/chi-densey-cole-city-zonesep09,0,850078.story

Mary Cole's Blog:
http://dcoleii.blogspot.com/

Richard M. Francis Way

2009-09-07T18:22:00.003-05:00

On July 2, 2008, Police Officer Richard M. Francis was killed in the line of duty, when a deranged woman on a CTA bus grabbed his service revolver and murdered him with it. Until I read my Alderman's newsletter, I did not know that he was a life-long resident of the north side of Chicago.

According to Alderman Schulter's newsletter: "He grew up around the Chase Park area and attended grammer shool at Our Lady of Lourdes School. Officer Francis served in the 19th Police District. "

Earlier last week, Alderman Schulter and Chicago Police Department Superintendent Jody Weis presented the family of Police Officer Richard M. Francis with an honorary street dedication at the interesection of Ashland and Leland.

An Angel in our Midst

2009-09-05T23:00:00.002-05:00

As a fan of "The Shield" I really enjoyed watching actor Kenneth Johnson. This year I rented the DVD's from "Saving Grace," in which he is a regular character. I was struck by the metaphoric messages of having an Angel assigned to help us work through our deepest traumas and life crisises.

I believe that God is there for all of us, however, we should not expect God to do all the legwork. A wise woman, a mystic, named Lao Russell wrote a book to that topic. She called it, "God Will Work With You But Not For You." In it, she shares her philosophy of how man needs to be an active participant in enabling God to work through us as well as our responsibilities to being in our Higher Truth, and our Service to God and Mankind.

I believe in Heavenly Angels. I also believe that karmically (karma can be good as well as 'bad') we can receive the help of human "Angels" of whom God and His Angels work through, to show us the way, to show us our truth, our gifts, our Light, our Mission in life, and to help us open our hearts to God and Love. In that, some may say that these persons can change the world, one soul at a time.

Senator Arlen Specter Said To Hold a Cell Phone Hearing

2009-09-04T09:49:00.000-05:00

I love tech gadgets, and have as long as I can recall. Anyone that knows a little about electronics knows that all electronic gadgets emit EMF's or Electro Magnetic Fields. Previously thought to be non-ionizing (non tissue heating) and therefore benign, since the research conducted by Wertheimer and Leeper, back in 1979, concious minded researchers and consumer advocates alike have had concerns over what these EMFs are actually doing.

So now, only 30 years later, there will be a hearing on the topic of cell phones. Better late than never. Senator Arlen Specter (D-PA) will hold a hearing on cell phones and health on September 14, according to Devra Davis, an activist scientist at the University of Pittsburgh. "If Specter follows through, it would be the centerpiece of a conference she is organizing that week in Washington, as well as a triumph for Davis herself. She is on a mission to make cell phones a more visible public health issue in the U.S. and to secure funding for a major research program. It would be the first time in more than 30 years that the U.S. Senate has addressed RF/microwave health risks...

"I have spoken and met with Senator Specter and his senior staffers," Davis told Microwave News. "They are planning to hold a hearing on this important topic." Among those who will be invited to testify, she said, are Frank Barnes of the University of Colorado, Boulder, Margaret Hamburg, the commissioner of the FDA, Dariusz Leszczynski of Finland's radiation protection agency (STUK), Israeli epidemiologist Siegal Sadetzki, a member of the Interphone group, as well as Davis herself. Barnes served as the chairman of the committee that prepared the 2008 National Academy of Sciences-National Research Council report on research needs on potential impacts of wireless radiation. Leszczynski is helping to organize the conference and Sadetzki is on its steering committee."

For anyone who believes there has never been any research to indicate the hazards of EMF's, check out "Cross Currents: the promise of electromedicine, the perils of electropollution," by Robert O. Becker, MD or go to the Microwave News Website. Microwave News, which has been around since 1981, reporting all that is current on the topic.

Can we return to civility?

2009-09-04T05:30:00.002-05:00

I'm often taken aback when I read other people's comments. These can be articles in the newspaper, blog posts, as well as comments that I've received on my "sister" blog, The Tamale Chica Chronicles. What I've noticed is a disturbing increase in exceedingly judgemental, rude, comments that also attempt to personally attack the writer. Often I've seen people outrightly called "stupid" or conjecture as to their intellectual status.

Often I've seen vitriolic comments directed to the author of a post or newspaper article that only serves to show the world that the commenter was the ignorant one, or was in such a hurry to rip someone's face off that they really didn't read the article or post very well. A case in point was when I made a comment on a person's blog which quoted a friend of mine who referred to Mexicans as a race. I was quoting what the person said, yet some one just couldn't wait to try to spew their anger and venom onto me for quoting someone else's error in definition.

My primary observations (I am in consumer behavior so this is what I do) are that there has been an increase online behavior that almost harkens a sense that there is an end of civility. So why all the anger? Is there a huge portion of the population that wakes up pissed off, looking to duke it out, looking to vent their judgementalness onto others, often based on their own conjecture? I don't believe there is anything wrong with disagreeing with a writer or a person, but why not do it with civility and respect?

Granted there are many blog comments that are done within my own circle of blog friends, and often they aren't earthshattering intellectual pieces of work simply because we are there to visit, say "hello" and to acknowledge an interesting post or article.

While not everyone has the same level of insights as others, or the same perspectives, some part of us decides to respond either on the high side or take the low side. Responses that add perspective and awareness, which are not done out of anger, hatred, or needing to be right and in many cases, just needing to make the writer wrong by attacking them are not taking the high side. Thoughtful, insightful, conscious comments add breadth and depth to an article or blog posting when a topic is controversial and the commenter is new to the blog.

One of my friends said that she thinks people are rude because they are doing their nasty commenting online, in a faceless forum. To a large extent, I have to agree with her. As a result, I've decided to disallow Anonymous comments, as well as to simply delete angry, negative, and disrespectful comments that add nothing to the content but serve to enflame emotions. That is a blogger's option, and it is my option to no longer enable negative, angry people a voice. They can write their own blog to do that.

A Fishy Situation: Enter the Salmon

2009-09-03T15:21:00.002-05:00

What does a girl do when the love of her life isn't into the all of same foods that she is likes? Well, rather than be grumpy about it, I just enjoy those foods when I'm solo, or I go to restaurants with a friend of family member. When it comes to fish, I usually prefer to make it at home. Enter the Salmon.

No, no, it's not Bruce Lee look alike dressed as a giant wildcaught fresh salmon. It turns out that one of my two favorite fish is one of my boyfriend's least favorite fish. Well, this weekend we aren't able to see each other, so now I have absolutely no excuses to not clean out my office and the shredder basket. The basket is so full that my shredder makes moaning sounds, and they aren't happy ones.

My office has organized piles of paperwork, language books, shoes (hey, they have to go somewhere!), unhung art (another reason to clean my office out), and stuff that needs to be put away in my closet. It looks like a two day event. To reward myself for finally tackling my office pile I will be having salmon. Okay, so I'm marinading some now for tonight's dinner to tease my motivation. I'll have a teriyaki salmon burger tomorrow, another marinaded salmon on Saturday and then pan fried whitefish on Sunday.

And then next Saturday, we will have Chilean Seabass. Total yums. All of the fish I buy is purchased at an MSC reseller. That means that the suppliers abide by bylaws that govern their organization's charter, which is to not over fish and depopulate the area. The existence of poachers probably is the major source of over fishing, and they will no doubt continue to poach and sell their fish at far lower prices irregardless of what anyone else does, but that is their karma. Buying fish from an MSC reseller often seems exhorbitantly high, yet the true cost of depletion bears yet a much higher impact.

Now to decide on organic green beans versus organic asparagus...

Old Time Soda Pop with Old Time good ingredients

2009-08-31T11:42:00.001-05:00

If you love soda pop the way it used to taste, before plastic bottles and corn syrups, when reusable bottles were considered the norm, you'll wish we had a Galco's in your hometown.

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Once upon a time in America, people bought soda in sturdy glass bottles. When they were done, they'd rinse them out, put them back in the cardboard carrying carton they purchased it in, and bring them back to the grocery store. What was the incentive? Stores charged a bottle fee per bottle, and customers received bottle fee refunds when they brought the bottles back to a store. The soda bottling companies would then pick up the bottles as part of their distribution services, have them washed and sanitized and reused. Yes, not RECYCLED, but REUSED. So there was no additional breaking up of the glass and melting it down. It was simply put back into consumer use, the ultimate Green movement before "Green" became a fashion statement for some companies.

A friend of mine sent me a link for a video done by Galco's (Spicer's Deli). The charm of the store is all because of the owner, John Nese, who is ran his father's grocery store. Upon taking charge of it, he made the store into a niche soda pop store extraordinaire. It is truly a destination shopping stop for soda pop purists, who escew the corn syrup ingredients and plastic bottles that large manufacturers use for packaging. With over 500 types of bottled soda from around the world, this must be a sight to behold. The only time I've seen a decent selection of non-additive laden sodas were in Whole Foods.

Also sold on their website are old fashioned candies.

Galco's Soda Pop Stop

Soda Pop Stop, Inc.

5702 York Boulevard

Los Angeles, CA 90042

(323) 255-7115

The Big Tuna

2009-08-30T15:18:00.000-05:00

My Tio Franco brought me a "tuna," but not the kind of tuna you'd normally think of. "Tuna" is also word for the fruit of the cactus. Here's what it looks like from the market, which is sort of like a small, burgandy football.

Sliced in half, the fruit is a bright red and very sweet. Like pomegrants, you need a place to spit out the seeds.

Chowhound has a nice discussion of it here: http://chowhound.chow.com/topics/563694

Hat Pins - Little works of art by Dottie

2009-08-28T06:04:00.008-05:00

As I was rummaging through some things that belonged to my mother, I found some lovely hatpins. I couldn't help but notice that they each looked like little pieces of art.

The hatpin was originally invented to hold veils in place and has its history in Britain, France and the US. In 1832 a hatpin making machine was invented, which made them more affordable. I thought it was interesting that in 1908, laws were passed to limit the length of hatpins because of a concern that suffragettes would use them as weapons. I remember that when my mother showed me her little collection, she said that women would use these as weapons against ungentlemenly men. Of course at the time I was too young to get her drift.

I became fascinated with these due to the art at the end of the pins. I found several vintage pins on Ebay, and then much to my surprise I found new hat pins there as well, by a company called Dottie-Hatpins.

Dottie carries a lovely collection of new pieces, including some in Murano Glass (which are the ones I purchased). As I enjoy wearing hats, I have to admit that I went a little nutso with my purchases, and now I have stylish hatpins to go with any outfit and all of my hats.

with these due to the arty nature of the end of the pins.

Speaking of hats, there is actually an organization called
the Red Hat Society! Amazingly I own neither a red nor purple hat so it might be awhile before I can join and show off my Dottie-Hatpins which I understand would be recognized among some of their members. But back to Dottie.

Dottie-Hatpins is a labor of love by Dotty and her husband, Alain. Noticing that many hatpin collector stores offered beautiful hatpins with unfortunately very high prices, she began shopping on E-Bay. After purchasing a few that fell apart, her husband encouraged her to sell her own. Armed with a great deal of research, art degrees and work experience in the visual arts, they launched Dottie-Hatpins on Ebay. They have been selling on Ebay for over 10 years, and have had their own Ebay Store for many years now.

Dottie and her husband are able to sell their hatpins at a lower price because they aren't supporting a brick and mortar store. As one who has sold products in the past as a business, I can say first hand that while that is a huge expense to not have to deal with, it is not the only expense that a business selling products has to deal with.

Even as an Ebay seller, when I sold several cameras one of the things I noticed was that while it was great to have a marketplace to sell from, Ebay and PayPal fees take a good chunk of the profits for each item listed. And of course, if you list an item but don't sell it, then you've lost money on that item. Still, for a dedicated business, it is a unique marketplace to sell goods and perhaps a safer and less costly venue than a full blown e-commerce website with SSL, a gateway and all that good stuff. Either way, it is a reminder that online businesses still have their fair share of 'cost of sales' expenses.

All the hatpins in these photos are from Dottie's. The one at the left is perhaps my favorite piece that I came across as I looked for photos of Dottie's Hatpins to include in this postings. Aren't they all beautiful and lovely to look at?
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You can find Dottie-Hatpins and all her lovely items here: http://stores.shop.ebay.com/DOTTY-HATPINS__W0QQ_armrsZ1.

Learn how to make gyoza

2009-08-27T17:52:00.000-05:00

I am so going to sign up for this class!! The Japanese American Service Committee on north Clark street will be having three cooking classes that I am interested in.

I have always loved gyoza. Gyoza is the Japanese version of the Chinese dumpling. I've always preferred a dough that is lighter and thinner, and here's a great way to insure that -- by making it myself.

Gyoza can be deep-fried, boiled, steamed, or pan-fried but my preference has always been steamed or pan-fried. The most common filling is made with ground pork, cabbage, and chives.

This class will also teach people how to make Korokke, which comes from the French word croquette. It is made with chopped meat, seafood or vegetables, combined with mashed potatoes, and formed into a patty. It is then breaded and deep-fried.

Gyoza is the Japanese version of the Chinese dumpling. It can be deep-fried, boiled, steamed, or pan-fried and has a variety of fillings, the most popular being ground pork, cabbage, and chives. Korokke comes from the French word croquette. It is made with chopped meat, seafood or vegetables, combined with mashed potatoes, and formed into a patty. It is then breaded and deep-fried.

JASC
Japanese American Service Committe
4427 N. Clark Street
Saturday, September 26, 2009
$50 for non members

For more information, email them at:
jascinfo**@jasc-chicago.org. (Take the ** out, done to prevent spam bots).

Have some food with your MSG?

2009-08-22T12:17:00.000-05:00

Two weeks ago one of my uncles passed away on my mother's side of the family. Our last remaining uncle invited us all for a memorial dinner, which he is paying for. As a child, he was one of two favorite uncles. He has never been able to understand much about my autoimmune and complicated medical issues, nor really grasp the magnitude of medical problems that got triggered after an accident (congenital conditions that got triggered due to physical trauma).

In fact, no doubt due to age and mental clarity, he often rewrites the accident injuries down to a simple version which normally would be maddening. Still, he is a beloved uncle and I am forgiving of his age related lack of comprehension. And why shouldn't I be, since people half his age usually can't grasp the intricacies, either.

Normally this is not a problem, but he has chosen a Chinese restaurant for us to all go to. He's a very stubborn man, and once he has it in his head that this is where we are all going, that is it, that's where we will all go. This is despite both my cousin and myself talking to him in advance that normally I can't eat in Chinese restaurants that use any MSG.

Not wanting to get there and be ravenous and unable to eat anything, I called ahead. Fortunately for me, one of their sons answered, and I explained my situation. He told me that they add MSG to about half of their food offerings. He then suggested that maybe they could just cook something for me special. I told the son that I am extremely allergic to MSG so transference is an issue, but would they be able to use a freshly washed pan?

Food transference also occurs with foods that one might be allergic to that someone else has had prepared prior, using the same cooking pans. When I'd go to Flat Top Grill, they always flagged my food items to be prepared in a separate pan so there would be no transfer of food traces into my meal.

The son was great, he was really trying to work with me here, and he did understand the importance of it. The owner, his mother, yelled back that I would not be able to eat anything there because all of their premade soy sauces and seasonings contained MSG. She wasn't too open to just stir frying something specifically for me.

So bleh! I'll be making my lunch and then getting picked up by family members so I can go to a family gathering to watch everyone else eat. Fortunately my cousin has to get up really early to go to work so dinner won't last long.

Growing your hair out with the help of your stylist

2009-08-21T15:12:00.002-05:00

For over 10 years I used to go to a tony day spa for my hair cuts. When I started out with them, they were small salon in East Lakeview. With stellar customer service, the business grew and the couple that owned it moved into a large space and with that move it became a day spa. It was lovely inside, upscale yet friendly and their focus was on giving their customers what they wanted while making sure they also looked fabulous.

I did a consumer behavior observational with them, for practice and for a grade (I received an "A" by the way), when I was in grad school. I sent a copy of my paper to my cousin, who is an anthropologist and who also taught (Ph.D) at UCLA, so when she gave me kudos, I felt like I had nailed the work. Consumer Behavior studies basically look at how, and why, people buy.

The crux of why this salon had become successful was that they listened to their customers.  When I did the study, back in 2000 or so, it was a requirement for the stylist to sit with each client to assess what worked for them and what didn't and then to make the appropriate changes. This included, to the extent that made sense, in giving the customer what they want. (Where it wouldn't work would be, say, if a client wanted a cut like one a celebrity wore but had the completely incorrect facial structure and hair type to support it.)

At some point my old salon changed, and the stylist I had gone to for over 10 years (I switched to one of their employees) must have stuffed cotton in her ears. In the summer, my place gets hot. I don't mean warm. I mean HOT and so I need to tie my hair back.  The stylist, however, would return from classes and shows in NYC and understandably was anxious to show off her new skills. I'm all for having current skills, but they also need to be tailored to the client's needs and lifestyle. I began to wonder about what part of: "I need to let my hair get longer to tie it back" was she unable to comprehend.

The last three years I was still their customer, there was this need to constantly emphasize I wanted to grow the hair out. Inevitably once a year I'd end up with a much shorter cut than I wanted. Once I didn't return for 7 months because needed her work to grow out so there would be something to cut off and still retain some length I wanted. And yes, I made it clear that I hadn't come back because I needed to get my hair length longer and I was just there to clean up the ends.

In February of 2006, I waited for 4 months to get more length to my hair so that I could tie it back, since summer was rapidly approaching. In June, I thought, great, I'll get a trim and I'll be able to pony tail it for the summer.  Wrong.

The next time I went to my old salon was the last time. I pointed at a place on my arm and said I wanted to let my hair get to this length so I could be able to put it in a ponytail and get it off my neck. She verbally was in agreement. Before you could say "Rapunzel" she had cut the back so short that I knew I ended up with a short haircut. The front, however, she left alone.

So there I was with short hair in the back and on the front of my face, two very long sections of hair that suddenly dropped several inches longer.  It was so weird looking that I had no choice but to agree she should cut the front to balance the lines.  Oddly she thought this was great, mostly due to the admittedly nice precision cutting, as she said, "You can still pull it back with clips." Clips? I held the Scrunchie that I had worn there, now a useless vestige of when I had longer hair.

I've never been back.

Once my hair got long enough to have anything to trim, and thanks in part to the Brown Line reconstruction (the station near where I lived was closed for over a year), I decided to go local. I found a nice salon where the owner had long hair, and not only did she do a great job of cleaning up the ends so that my hair could get longer, but styling it in creative and flattering ways. What was it that Marshall Field used to say? "Give the Lady what she wants."