That happened once to my oldest brother, Marcel, when he was only 8 years old, a time when he had to be the “little man” of the house because my father was out working long hours.  

He took his role seriously. 

This was also a time when we were living “in the shadows,” as an undocumented family, in one of several small houses owned by an unscrupulous landlord in the old part of Peoria. 

Those in our situation knew well to keep theirs noses to the grindstone, work hard and everything would be all right. 

The landlord had a son around my brother’s age who had discovered that he could bully his way around the neighborhood without much retribution. He had gamed the system and had even learned to say, “la migra,” as a way to satisfy his father. 

Marcel had to contend with the taunts and the punches, something my mom was unaware of, while my dad was away at work. Marcel didn’t let them know what was going on; he felt it was just part of his responsibility. My brother took instructions for not causing any waves that might jeopardize our situation seriously. La migra aside, we could be evicted at any time without notice. 

So, the landlord’s son thought it was fun to use my brother as a punching bag. 

Then one afternoon, it all changed. As my mom retells it, I like to play the scene in my mind as if it were a movie. 

At the end of an empty lot next to our house, Marcel, arms stretched out and gripping the chain link fence at his back, was taking his usual beating as an elderly couple watched helplessly from the other side of the fence. 

I picture my mom coming out of our small house carrying a metal tina filled with water she had rinsed dishes in and, as she begins to pour water on the ground to keep the dust from kicking up, she hears a commotion. As she looks up to see her son being attacked, her motherly instincts kick in, to hell with the consequences. 

“No te dejes!” 

She screams at the top her lungs, commanding her son to protect himself and to fight back. She tells me that before she even finished uttering the last word of her command, the bully was on the ground shielding himself from my brother. 

 He fought back. The elderly couple cheered and said, “Way to go, m’ijo!” 

The kid ran off, but he wasn’t done. The next day he parked himself on our small patch of a front yard. Marcel told him to leave and, when he wouldn’t, my brother approached him and said, “Oh, you’re back for more?” And, for the second time in two days, the kid ran for cover. 

Marcel and my mom didn’t discuss the incident much after that. They didn’t even tell my dad. We weren’t evicted and didn’t even have la migra called on us.  

But things did change. 

See this story in print here:

Click here for iPad and Android optimized versions

Sure, war references are freely used in football because they’re effective, and there are similarities. In football, one team tries to push another down the field in a battle for position. But it’s not really war. 

Not the kind that Daniel Rodriguez has fought and nearly died in. A star in high school, Rodriguez thought he’d be playing football after high school, not fighting in wars in Iraq, where he lost a dozen buddies and acquired a traumatic brain disorder, and in Afghanistan, where he was involved in one of the bloodiest battles of the war. 

The Virginia native dreamed of playing at Virginia Tech, a dream he deferred. Instead, he enlisted in the Army after his father passed away, days after graduation. Besides, at 5’6” and 140 pounds, he wasn’t getting a lot of attention from big schools. In the Army, he became best friends with Kevin Thompson, who had his own dream of becoming a butcher. They shared their goals with each other while stationed in a remote outpost in eastern Afghanistan.

Early one October morning in 2009, 300 Taliban fighters attacked Rodriguez, Thompson and 58 of their comrades. As he zigzagged to his post in a mortar pit, bullets whizzed past his ankles. He turned around to see his buddy get hit in the head by a bullet. He was dead before he hit the ground. Rodriguez kept fighting for 12 more hours. He and his men took out 150 Taliban, losing eight men and sustaining 22 injuries. 

 Rodriguez was awarded a Bronze Star for valor and a Purple Heart for shrapnel in his neck and legs, as well as for a bullet in his shoulder; the injuries he sustained while trying to drag Thompson, at 6’5” and almost 300 pounds, a couple of times off the battlefield. It didn’t seem right to him that his best friend was out there alone. 

Out of the Army, he began grueling workouts, a video of which caught the attention of Virginia Tech’s and Clemson’s highly touted football programs. Rodriguez found solace on the football field and it’s also how he deals with his PTSD. He has become 175 pounds of pure muscle and even grew a couple of inches. 

The interest came when he was just shy of his associate’s degree, something he needed to transfer. Clemson invited him to walk-on and fought for him to get an eligibility waiver, something his favorite team wasn’t willing to do.  

So, October 20 looms large in Rodriguez’ future. It will be his father’s birthday; he will be clad in Clemson orange and, along with his new “orange family,” he will play at Virginia Tech, a military academy, on Military Appreciation Day.  

When he marches down the field carrying the American flag, I’m sure both sides will cheer him on. It will be a good day, and he will keep his promise to his best friend. 

See this story in print here:

Click here for iPad optimized version

The moment of clarity came when a friend (a real one, actually) posted an article on Facebook, of all places, that suggested humans are becoming addicted to the Internet and all of its wonderful offerings, like YouTube, Gawker and, the granddaddy of them all, Facebook. 

How else do you explain the incessant postings of children (cute and not-so-cute),  or cats in memes (if you don’t know what that means, consider yourself lucky)? I call it the “post-and-wait syndrome,” when you post something and then, for the next few hours, constantly check in to see if anyone liked how cute your kid looks holding a spoon, or your rant against Joe Arpaio.

I have been guilty of doing the kid thing for sure, and I realize that I post these photos fully expecting a response. I might as well just go to the nearest mall, hold my kid up over my head and shout, “Hey! Who likes my kid? Isn’t he cute?”

What does this have to do with Latinos? Well, as with diabetes, we are more prone to become obsessed with Al Gore’s invention than non-Latinos. Our Internet usage rates are growing faster than that of the general population, and, according to Nielsen, Latinos watch 68 percent more online videos. 

Marketers are paying attention to this. On YouTube, you can learn how to filet fish on MiTú, a Latino lifestyle network that offers tips on health, beauty and food, as well as featuring stories about family, home and “pop cultura.” Yes, pop cultura, because nothing says pop culture to a hip Latino like “pop cultura.”

So, watch out! They’re coming after people who are already susceptible to Internet addiction. The Internet is like alcohol, something that could lead to an enjoyable experience, but also to an addiction and the problems associated with that. I came to this analogy (no analogy is ever a good one, but I like this one) when, after reading the aforementioned article, I decided to go “dark.” That’s a term my friend likes to use when he’s stays out of the public eye. 

The experience was easier than I thought and, when I did check my Facebook newsfeed a few days later, I could see the forest through the trees. It was like when you quit drinking for a month and realize how dumb your friends can be when they’re drunk. I was hopped up on notification alerts!

When I would meet someone and they would say they weren’t on Facebook, I would whisper under my breath, “Ay, que muy muy.” How could this person not want to be my friend some place other than right in front of me? I don’t think they’re trying to be holier-than-thou, maybe they just don’t see the worth in it. 

Lucky bastards.

See this story in print here:

Click here for iPad optimized version

Probably the worst thing about

Yes, they’ll need that, and a MacBook, as they prepare for college. And, they should get those, and other things, because that’s when the challenge of fitting in is of a different and more complex nature. The university experience, especially if outside of Arizona, can begin with culture shock. For many Latino students it’s also a realization that everyone there, for the most part, knows what they’re doing. They were prepped for this experience most of their lives. For students like me, it’s a battle royale just to survive.  

I remember riding my beach cruiser, a la Pee Wee Herman, around campus during my first few weeks at ASU. I was on a mission to find other Mexicans, or even Puerto Ricans, Cubans, Guatemalans, it didn’t matter; I needed some culture comfort.

One day I was beginning to crack, just like Pee Wee, when suddenly I saw three students walking ahead of me. The sun seemed to brighten and I swear I heard angels sing when I saw two females with long, beautiful hair and one male with short spiky hair just like mine walking ahead of me. Jackpot! 

I quickly caught up to them and, as I was about to say, “Hey there, brown people,” I realized that I had startled three Asian students. Disheartened, I said, “Hello,” and each one of them smiled at me enthusiastically and said “Hi! Hi! Hi!” I pedaled past them and looked back; we waved “bye” to each other. Maybe I wasn’t the only one feeling lonely that day. 

Eventually, I found my way to where the brown people were. I discovered lots of Latino student organizations and ended up having a great time in college. But the first couple of months were very hard on me. 

Sure, I struggled with difficult classes, but more than anything, it was the feeling that I didn’t belong that made me long for home. I would go home to Peoria nearly every weekend. On Sunday evenings, during the drive back when the sky would darken, so, too, would my spirit. 

As time passed, I started to make friends of all backgrounds, especially other Latinos, and I started to really enjoy my college experience, not just in the classroom, but during gaps between classes and in the evenings, too. 

Then, one Sunday, I noticed something different. As I left Peoria, I marveled at how beautiful the setting sun behind me was and how excited I was to see my friends on campus the next day. 

That’s when it dawned on me that I couldn’t wait to go home.

See this story in print here:

Click here for iPad optimized version

It’s graduation time again – always  

Who do you invite; who do you not invite? What do you get for the graduate? Why is it that the best way your fun-loving tío can think of to say “congratulations” is with a big goofy balloon and a blow horn? Come on, tío, how about a Hallmark card stuffed with veintes instead? 

Don’t forget the 18-piece banda and the limousine ride to and from graduation – and all this is for your niece graduating from the eighth grade! 

For seniors graduating from high school, the matter is altogether different. Sure, the celebrations may be similar in scope, and your tío is sure to be there – with a slightly larger paunch, a different girlfriend and a more powerful horn – but what lies ahead is no longer a straight path to high school. Unfortunately, the future can be clouded with uncertainty for the graduate. 

For many Latinos, going to college is still a bit of a trailblazing endeavor, almost like entering a forest not sure what it is filled with and what lies ahead. At least for now, most Latino students don’t have too many friends and family that are experienced campers, which can make exiting the forest an even less familiar experience.

Not knowing anything about college, I went because a few of my white friends went, and they always had great stories to tell when they came home. I wanted great stories to tell, too, so I started at Glendale Community College a year after high school. That was the first time I actually studied. 

A year later, I transferred to ASU thinking I’d be a graphic designer, because all I knew how to do was draw. Somehow, I became an architecture student instead, and, after a couple of intense years, I switched majors and eventually graduated with a marketing degree. 

Sure, it took me seven years, but somehow it didn’t always seem that the accomplishment was appreciated the way I imagined it would be by some people close to me. I still remember my primos in California, who worked in construction, saying, “I thought you were going to be an architect, ay.” I’m sure the “congratulations, cuz” was implied, but it still stung a bit to hear that. 

College life was great. I had the best times of my life while also having some of the worst times of my life, and I didn’t give up. I didn’t become an architect, but I drew up some pretty decent plans for my future. 

So, hug the graduates in your life tight and tell them you’ll always be there for them, even if you don’t exactly know where “there” is.

They’ll love you for it.

See this story in print here:

Click here for iPad optimized version

Marco Rubio

Now that Santorum is officially out of the way, it’s time to start seriously considering a running mate for Mitt Romney. 

I have to admit, when I first started writing this column, I had an intent to prove that the GOP would be making a terrible assumption in believing that the selection of Cuban American and Tea Party favorite, Marco Rubio, would help them garner the growing Latino vote. 

Romney advisors probably think that Rubio represents the everyday José, with a compelling immigrant story, even if it has a hole or two in it. 

And, what timing! Rubio is working on an alternative to the DREAM Act, sans the part about a pathway to citizenship because that would lead to “chain migration” and we can’t have that! A recent New York Times editorial even described it as a “A Dream Act without the Dream.” But, whatever, he looks good!

I also wanted to point out that most Latinos may not identify with this guy and his alternative reality of a dream, and how he was for Arizona’s SB1070 before saying that he was against it. 

I was going to challenge the large percentage of Cuban Americans who are Republican and support laws like SB1070. I was going to argue that attitudes toward illegal immigration might be different if there were no  Cuban Adjustment Act of 1966, or its revision in 1995, known as the “the wet foot, dry foot policy.” Land safely on U.S. shores and you’re in like Flynn.  

I was also going to make clear that Cuban Americans, while accounting for only three percent of the Latino population, have held significant political clout for some time now, and that some of those old-school views aren’t necessarily shared by younger, much more moderate, U.S.-born Cuban Americans. They may be more likely to resent a growing anti-Latino sentiment in America than resent American policies concerning Cuba. Heck, they probably like Juanes more than they hate Fidel.

I was going to delve into theories about how Cuban Americans ever even became Republicans when, at first, they were mostly Democrats. Was it the botched invasion of the Bay of Pigs that led to no mas JFK? Or, was it when Ronald Reagan promised to take a hard line with Castro, possibly even overthrowing him, and proclaimed “¡Cuba, sí, Castro, no!”

In a recent interview with Rubio, the “crown prince” of the Tea Party, Juan Williams asked him a poignant question, “Your family’s story is an amazing story, but as a Cuban-American Republican, the question becomes: Does it resonate with Puerto Ricans, with Mexicans, with Dominicans, or do they see you and Cuban Americans as a separate story?” 

Then I lit a cigar, put on some Buena Vista Social Club, and remembered how much I love the Cuban culture, even if I didn’t always agree with the politics of their U.S. brethren, and said “coño!”  

See this story in print here:

Click here for iPad optimized version

When I was in college, there was

As the story goes, GM once exported a car to Latin America called a Nova. It was a popular Chevy brand in the U.S., so why not take it down south? They must have thought they’d capture a large new market. I imagined them in the branding meetings: “We’ll just keep the name, Nova. The Mexicans and Brazilians will love it! They love America!”

OK, so maybe those weren’t their exact thoughts and sentiments, but GM surely didn’t have a bilingual person on their marketing staff to let them know that, perhaps, it wasn’t the best idea to give a car a name that means “no go” in Spanish. The car allegedly did so poorly they had to change its name.

The story went down in marketing history as an example of one of the biggest blunders ever. Or was it?

A little research online reveals that maybe the execs in Detroit had been aware all along of the potential pitfalls, but went with the name, Nova, anyway; and, the car did sell well in some Spanish-speaking countries. It was a gamble that apparently paid off, even if many wondered in retrospect what the heck they were thinking at the time.

Fast forward to now and you can find plenty of examples of products that make many Latinos scratch their heads and wonder.

In the aisles of Food City, you just might hear someone asking “como que tiene clamato already?” Or, in amazement, exclaiming “nunca tengo que comprar limones again!” They would, of course, be holding one of two Budweiser beers: one that comes with a hint of lime and the other with ingredients to make a michelada.

Go down another aisle and you’ll find Flaming Hot Cheetos and Spicy Nacho Cheese Doritos. Everyone knows we spice up our cheesy snacks, and that we might be lazy enough to buy something that is already prepared for us. Genius!

The other night, I was on a late night Taco Bell run and, just as I was about to order a Mexican Pizza (go figure), I found myself staring at a picture of the new Doritos Taco Loco. Yes, only a taco wrapped in a custom Doritos Nacho Cheese tortilla chip can be called a crazy taco.

I almost ordered it after staring at it in a daze, just to see what it tasted like.But, when I heard a voice repeatedly say, “sir, can I take your order?,” I came to my senses. Yes, I love to dip my Nacho Cheese-flavored tortilla chips in my beans and ground beef, but I want to do it with my own hands and in the privacy of my own home.

See this story in print here:

Not long ago, I read an article

Some of the habits I could relate to more than others, but what the article really did was get me to relive the scarcity in my life. It also made me wonder if I was going to be one of those parents who says things like, “… when I was a kid, we didn’t have toys. We had rocks and sticks and we were happy to have them!”

It also made me marvel at how naive I was as a young person about life in general. Not growing up with things can make you go “Whoa!” when you actually see those things in real life – things like your friends not only having their own beds, but their own rooms, too!

The first time that happened to me was in the fifth grade. I went to the house of my friend whose family owned a dairy. Their house was big, but I just assumed they kept cow-related things in there. When my friend asked if I wanted to see his “room,” I didn’t know how to react. “Sure,” I said. We left the kitchen and entered a gigantic room that sort of looked like our living room because it had a TV (a much bigger one) and some couches (as in plural).

My friend, Scott – or “Escot” as my mom called him – then headed up the stairs while I stayed frozen in my tracks, thinking about how we could actually play football inside this room. Stairs? I had never seen stairs in a house.

After checking out his room and his “things,” his own things – like his very own clothes, toys, underwear, posters – well, I freaked out a bit. Leaving his room, I saw a small kid poke his head out of another room down the hall. No way does this kid have his own room, too, and his own things! Yep, he did. These kids had won the lottery of life. I was freaking out on the inside, but on the outside I was like, “cool house, man.”

Then we had dinner – as a group – with place settings and matching glasses! Everyone got the same amount of everything. Not that we never had dinners like that, we just did it on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Growing up poor can hurt when you’re a kid and it can seem unfair, but, I also remember why we didn’t always eat dinner together. There were seven of us and my dad didn’t come home from work until after nine p.m., often bringing home food from the restaurant where he worked. My mom worked, too, and then she would make food that my friends would salivate over. It would all be in pots and, whenever we kids would get home separately from our games or from practice, we would load our plates and scarf down food that I long for today. Then, we’d run back out and play until around the time my dad would get home.

I didn’t feel poor, just different. I know now that we were, indeed, poor, and I know that my own kids won’t have those same experiences and routines I had growing up.

Pobrecitos.

See this story in print here:

The show $#*!, My Dad Says, may have

Naturally, Latinos of all stripes and backgrounds were sure to get the same treatment, so I decided to investigate exactly what was being posted about the stuff we say and what other groups are saying to us, like “Sh*t White Girls Say to Latinas.”

Some of it is funny, but there is definitely room for improvement, which means there is an opportunity for someone out there to become a YouTube sensation. 

All you really need to do is mine George Lopez and other Latino comedians for material — practice your lines and get your timing right, and, who knows, you might get your own TV show.  

Then you can explore other material, like the word “actually.” The trick is to pronounce it “ack-choo-lee,” and use it repeatedly. For example, you could say, “Actually, I like flour tortillas.” You can get a friend to reply, “Actually, corn tortillas are better.” And then, you could end the exchange by saying, “Actually, you are probably right.”  This could go on for a while — actually. 

Then you could move on to parody the things your dad says. A tip: check out my personal favorite,  Sh*t Asian Dads Say. It is done really well and it even has a hilarious accompanying blooper video. Plus, it is funny to see how similar Asian and Latino dads can be. For fun, you could have the character playing your dad say, “ahh-eee” at the end of every statement and it will sure be funny. 

There already is one about abuelas and it is pretty funny (with over 500,000 hits), but the overbearing nana is a wonderful cubana, which means there is still room for Puerto Rican, Mexican-American and other Latina abuelitas to get their moment in the sun. 

How about your brother? Just put on some Earth, Wind and Fire and say, “that’s my jam, that’s my jam!” Make sure everyone within 50 feet knows that’s his jam. 

The great thing about YouTube is that it doesn’t discriminate, or at least it discriminates evenly, because just about every ethnicity, gender and sexual orientation is parodied. All you need to do is type, “things (insert person or group) say.” 

The trend is really picking up steam and new videos are popping up every day and for good reason — we like to laugh at ourselves and at each other, especially from the safety of the glow of our computer screens. 

So, for those of you who complain that Latinos don’t get enough screen time in movies and television, here is a golden opportunity to make your own celebrity. Just be sure to be funny, please.

See this story in print here:

That would be Louis C.K., unless

He’s definitely white and even sees himself that way, so much so that he has a routine on the benefits of being a “white man.” Yet the large, red-haired and balding comedian is of Mexican descent, something that even some of his closest comedic confidantes didn’t know. 

Louis C.K.’s real name is Louis Szekely, which he pronounces as “see kay,” hence the moniker. His Hungarian-Jewish grandfather immigrated to Mexico and married a Catholic señorita. They had little Luis, Louis C.K.’s father, who must have been pretty smart because he went to Harvard (at least for a summer program anyway) where he met a coed with Irish-American roots. 

But this isn’t about the discovery of a successful Mexican so we can feel better about ourselves. Rather, it’s a look at how someone who doesn’t care much for racial identity can actually have an impact on how Americans view people of Latino descent. 

This point was illustrated recently on Conan when Louis recounted a story that happened in, uh, Arizona. His female driver, not realizing he was Mexican, complained about how offensive it was to have payment instructions in both English and Spanish in a parking garage. When Louis pointed out that the inclusion of Spanish seemed harmless enough, she told him he couldn’t understand what it was like to live amongst so many “Mexicans.” 

His story seemed a little awkward until he pointed out to Conan O’Brien that he himself is in fact one of those “Mexicans,” which was met by enthusiastic shouts and applause. Louis pointed out that his father was from Mexico, where he had lived until he was seven years old. “I came to America as a little Mexican boy,” he said, and then in a funny and high-pitched little Mexican boy voice he added, “¡America es muy bonito!”  

Funny stuff indeed, but he also continued on to say that, according to his Arizona driver, Mexicans are OK, but not if there are too many of them, as if she was trying to say, “Under a certain number they’re fine, above 2,000 they start to get smelly and bad.” 

This was on national television, and Louis’s fans, mostly white, are paying attention. Not that a George Lopez or Carlos Mencia don’t command that kind of attention, but you expect that from them; it’s part of their routine. They’re Latino comedians, whereas Louis C.K. is a comedian who happens to be Mexican. 

He has the ability to make people take notice of their own veiled prejudices and that they’re normal for having them—just don’t be a pendeja, like his taxi driver. 

As for the future for Louis C.K., his show is entering its third season to rave reviews, and GQ magazine recently awarded him the Comic Genius award, another indication that he’s on his way to become as iconic as his heroes George Carlin and Richard Pryor.

See this story in print here: