What's In A Name?

Latino. Hispanic. Chicano. Spanish.




When people ask me what I am I typically say American. It usually begs a follow-up or clarifying question as to my background or ethnicity and I’ll let them know that my family hails from Mexico. Though it’s not a terribly important debate in political philosophy I think hyphens are a little silly and are very misleading. After all exactly what would make someone Mexican-American? Could someone be termed American-Mexican? And how Mexican does one have to be in order to be called both Mexican and American? And how far back to we go with ethnicity or cultural background? Mexico has plenty of people descending from natives to the land. The people were invaded or mixed with nearly every country in Western Europe, most notably the Spanish whose land was at different times dominated by Jewish people, the Romans, and the Moors. Does that also make me part African-American? The hyphens are silly and do little to accurately represent ones cultural background.



Getting away from the hyphens we have all of these other names with which to designate ourselves. Spanish seems like an odd one. Here in New York it’s the one I hear most often. “What’s his background,” someone may ask when referring to me or someone with a similar family history. “He’s Spanish,” is often the reply. I’m about as Spanish as Gary Busey is sane- it’s a place I’ve visited and perhaps share some ancient connection to it but it does little to accurately describe anything about me. Around these parts Puerto Ricans, Dominicans, Cubans, they’ll all be referred to as Spanish. That would be correct if the question was about which language they speak but not about their background. Not really, anyway. I would hardly refer to George Clooney as “that English guy.” Bill Gates isn’t considered British. And Fernando Valenzuela is not Spanish. Javier Bardem, that guy is Spanish. Julio Iglesias, also Spanish. Antonio Banderas, that guy is Spanish as well. Me? Not so much. Obviously it’s easier to say Spanish than go through the litany of possible countries from which a Spanish speaker could hail, but we do have other words which we have agreed upon for such designations.



There is Chicano. I’ve found several stories detailing the etymology of the term but the one that appears the most is that it is a shorthand way of saying Mexicano and specifically refers to people of Mexican descent. The way I hear it, “Mexicano” was shortened to “Xicano” and since no one really knows what sound the letter X is supposed to make (is it a Z? An H? does it sound like KS), people agreed upon the CH sound. Some say it was primarily used as a derogatory term but I think it was used more out of naiveté or ignorance. This was around the time words like “negro” and “colored” were being used and while it would be terribly insensitive to use these words today political correctness and cultural sensitivity were not what they are today. Calling someone Chicano was the label for the children of Mexican immigrants and it was chosen and it became a way to label someone in the simplest of terms. In any event the term took on a negative connotation but eventually came to be embraced and used for a political movement. The Chicano Movement has its roots in the mid 1800s but didn’t really gain traction until the 1950s and 60s. It’s a fascinating time and I will address it in a future post but for now we’ll have to move on. Having grown up in the 80s and 90s, just a little bit after a great era of political and cultural awareness, I personally never associated the label of Chicano with a political movement. It was just another way people referred to people like me.



The terms Hispanic and Latino are often used interchangeably but don’t always mean the same thing. “Hispanic” as a word has its history going back to both the Greek and Roman Empires where the root word was used to describe the Iberian Peninsula, the area that comprises Spain, Portugal, Andorra and part of France. It eventually became the Latin word for Spain. As such, groups that have a primarily Spanish ancestry or influence are Hispanic but aren’t Latino unless they are also part of Latin America. It is thought that Latino was originally intended to refer to someone of Latin American ancestry. Thus it is accurate to consider a Mexican either Hispanic or Latino but someone from Spain can only be Hispanic. Either way I don’t see the need to split hairs as neither term is considered descriptive of race or specific ethnicity or background. When it comes to filling out that census information, in the eyes of the government I think I’m considered white. And let me tell you, I have some cousins who look anything but white.



So is there a term that is more correct than others? Do I have a preference? Not really. I’ve heard all of the derogatory terms thrown around, too. I’ve been called a beaner and spic (though I had no idea what a spic was at the time- I’m still a little fuzzy about it). I’ve been called a wet-back. It’s extremely rare that I have heard those terms and when I do it does not make the person saying them any more powerful or vicious; if anything it makes them sound outdated or anachronistic. Those words carry very little weight because I think that mine is a culture that gives very little power to terms for which we have no use. It isn’t a matter of reclaiming pejoratives and making them our own because we don’t want or need those words. They’re silly and to use them, trying to give new meaning to them, would be a waste of effort because it would only give attention to the intended insult. But getting back to the terms like Spanish, Hispanic, Latino, or Chicano… As I stated above I think Spanish is really inaccurate. As for the others, I guess any of them will do if a label is necessary. Personally I prefer to go by Eric.

Why Do You Thound Different?

Growing up in Southern California, not far from Los Angeles, most everyone who spoke Spanish sounded the same as members of my family who spoke Spanish. The same inflection in the same places, same cadence, the same pronunciation… There were very little discrepancies in this social agreement of how the language sounds. Even the few accents that stood out, the few Puerto Ricans or Salvadorians that I knew, were not far off from what was familiar. The vagaries of encountering an unfamiliar accent were easily explained away by associating that particular accent only with that person. As a child it made sense that everyone spoke Spanish the same way and those who did not were completely unique in their pronunciation. When I heard Ricky Ricardo and the relatively direct and forward nature of the way his Cuban Spanish I assumed that was because he was always on the verge of slapping his wife. Outside of Ricky and a couple of others, everyone spoke the same way as far as I could tell.

The first time I heard a completely different system of pronunciation was when I was eleven years old and we took a family trip across Europe with stops in Spain. Their Spanish sounded different from what I’d heard my whole life to that point. It had a certain lilt to it. The emphasis came on different syllables than from what I was used to hearing. And of course there was the lisp. As a small child and I had quite the lisp. I was taunted and I was self conscious about it and I distinctly remember spending hours standing in front of the bathroom mirror staring at my mouth and forcing my tongue to stay in place when pronouncing those “s” versus “th” sounds. Then years later here was that lisp all around me! I realized the problem wasn’t that I had had a lisp as a child but that I was speaking Castillian Spanish! This was also my first encounter with a true class system which was really weird. There has always been the stereotype that Europeans are rude and see Americans as loud and obnoxious. Over the course of our trip those stereotypes had mostly gone unfounded. The Germans were stern and efficient but polite and straightforward. The Swiss and Italians were nothing if not welcoming. But Spain was a little different. For the most part we were treated kindly but on the edges of society, the café at the train station or the clerk at the local store, we were met with disdain. It was enough that we were American but we also spoke the language like Mexicans! Sin upon sin! Weird. Like I said, most everyone was nice but there were a few punks with bad attitudes.

FYI, people who are supposed to be Spanish have often claimed that the aforementioned lisp is in emulation of the adored King Ferdinand. There is absolutely no evidence to support this. Just wanted to let you know.

Once I got to New York there was an entirely new world of Spanish to hear. Mexicans are not the majority Hispanic culture as they are in Southern California. In New York there are Spanish speakers from the Dominican Republic, Cuba, Puerto Rico, and many other places off the mainland, places that we think of when we say “Caribbean.” As such the Spanish language has been influenced by so many other cultures including the natives of those areas, the other invading nations like the Dutch, French, and British, the slave traders and the slaves themselves. Everyone brought with them their own culture which influenced how the dominating language, Spanish, is now spoken. To my ears the Spanish spoken here in New York has a completely different rhythm. It seems more sing-songy to me, with the inflection continually ascending rather than descending. Mexican Spanish seems to share the same mode of pronunciation as American English in that as we speak we typically put the heaviest emphasis on the final syllable of the sentence unless we are specifically trying to make a point or draw attention somewhere else. The Spanish I hear around the Big Apple tends to have the heaviest emphasis at the beginning with the weight placed on the words tends to rise as the sentence continues. The slang is different too. They don’t even know what a “cholo” is around here (lucky bastards). Of course neither cited nor done any of my own scientific research, I’m merely going what I’ve heard around the water cooler.

I guess the root of it all is that whenever you have a language spoken by disparate groups of people they are going to develop their own ways and rules for how to speak that language. That’s why Latin became French, Spanish, and Italian. That’s why I could barely understand what anyone was saying when I visited Ireland, though remarkably the more I drank the easier it was to comprehend. And that’s why I have something to write about today.

Also, for those of you visiting from Brazil, stop asking if I speak Spanish only to start speaking Portuguese because I have no idea what you are saying. IT’S A DIFFERENT LANGUAGE.

The Tortilla

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, a flour tortilla with butter is probably the best snack ever. I have held this opinion for as long as I can remember. Sure I’ve had grilled cheese sandwiches and milk and cookies, I’ve indulged in cheese and crackers or apple slices, but for me nothing tops a flour tortilla with butter. It’s simple and delicious and amazing. All it takes is a few moments on the burner until you get just the right amount of crispy, flakey, texture- you can use a microwave in a pinch but it isn’t as good, smear some butter across that round, heavenly circle of flatbread that I can only liken to the manna of the Old Testament, roll it up and be sure to fold up the bottom end so the butter doesn’t drip on to the floor. There it is. A few moments of sublime satisfaction.

Tortillas and Mexican food are inextricable. Like rice with Japanese food, bread with American cuisine, and debt with President Obama, some things are always going to go hand in hand. These delectable disks of delicious dough derived from the kitchens of heaven have a long and stories history which can be found at the Mission Tortilla Factory at Disney’s California Adventure (sponsored by Mission Foods!) but if you haven’t got an extra hundred bucks for Disneyland and you don’t live in California you can get all of this rich and wonderful history for free here at ImSupposedToBeMexican.com because I love you so much. Tell your friends!

Growing up I always had flower tortillas more often than corn tortillas. Corn tortillas were around and they seemed to be preferred by my grandfather. The more durable texture of the corn tortilla seems to be more suitable for scooping up pinto beans and smearing with sour cream or guacamole whereas flour tortillas are better for wrapping up larger quantities of food as in a burrito or enchiladas. Of course these are anything but hard and fast rules. Though I have a penchant for the flour variety I prefer corn tortillas for tacos, the tortilla lightly toasted with a touch of oil or even fried up in to a crispy shell (I do not, however, like those store bought taco shells that seem to be made to arrive at the store already stale). There are other members of the tortilla family which include gorditas, tostadas, and the gordita’s Salvadorian cousin, the pupusa. I mentioned earlier about heating up a tortilla on the range or, if all else fails, in the microwave. But the best way is by using what you will find in most any Mexican household: the comal. The comal is a flat, cast iron piece of cookware sort of like a skillet that is often handed down from generation to generation. It has to be oiled just so, it never leaves it’s spot on the stovetop, and only gets better and cooks more evenly as time goes on. When my parents got the chance to redo their kitchen they specifically sought a stovetop with a fifth burner where the comal would have a permanent home. FYI, though I am a fan of Chipotle and find their chicken burritos as one of the best anglicized examples of how to bring Mexican food to the palates of Des Moines and Wichita, that device they use to heat up their tortillas is sadly inadequate.

So where in when did people’s love affair with the tortilla begin? For the answer to that question we take a look back through the annals of history long before El Pollo Loco was founded in 1975, or even Taco Bell in ’62. No for the whole story we need go back a little further. According to an a passage in Wikipedia which lacks any form of citation the tortilla dates back at least 10,000 years along with a Mayan legend about a peasant making the first tortilla from ground corn for his hungry king. Given their history of farming corn of course it would be the Mayans or the Aztecs who came up with a million different ways to eat corn including using ground corn to make cornmeal and then said cornmeal into cakes and breads which would eventually find their form as a tortilla. This is not far off from the discovery of other tasty treats like popcorn. Anyway, the great and ancient civilizations who pioneered the foundations of our modern systems of mathematics, astronomy, and art, also loved their vittles which is why so many wonderful foods come from the region. Many of these foods were discovered by the conquistador Cortes who brought them back to Spain. These little flatbreads/cakes, called tlaxcalli by the natives, were given the name “tortillas” by the Spanish, their word for “little cakes.” Weird side note: the Spanish have also given the name tortilla to a potato omelet.

With that long and storied history of the corn tortilla I kept searching for some solid data about the origin of the flour tortilla but kept coming up empty handed. While the ancient civilizations of Mexico and Central America were no strangers to wheat flour, corn was the food staple upon which their lives were based. It makes sense now when I find that flour tortillas are more popular in the northern states of Mexico than they are in the southern states. With all of those wheat fields here in the America it’s logical to assume that as the old empires made their way north some suitable substitutions had to be made when it came to dietary preferences. My mother coming from a region just north of central Mexico told me that as a girl corn tortillas were more popular and easy to come by than their flour counterparts. My dad on the other hand, coming from the northern states bordering America, always had flour tortillas around.

As for state of tortillas today, they’re everywhere. In my lifetime alone they’ve gone from being found in the Ethnic Foods aisle to being found in 7-11. They’ve gone mainstream. Head to old town San Diego or Olvera street in Los Angeles and you will still hear the clapping hands of ladies in the kitchen forming round balls of masa into torillas. By the way, if an elderly woman sarcastically asks you if you are making tortillas it’s probably because you are chewing loudly.

So there is your history of the tortilla. Unlike the Disney attraction I can't give you a free tortilla now that we’re through- quick tip, if you’re visiting the theme park on a budget there is no limit to how many times you can go through the little attraction and there usually is no wait time either. Walk through a few times and you’ve got enough tortillas to keep you satisfied and happy for an afternoon!

Some of the other tortilla related foods I mentioned earlier are gorditas, which are smaller, fatter tortillas that can be stuffed or used as a foundation to pile on meat and beans and cheese and stuff. Tostadas are crispy, fried tortillas often used to pile on other food as well. Think of them as tortilla chips that haven’t been cut apart yet. By the way, anyone in my family will tell you my dad invented colored tortilla chips back in the early 80s. True story. But it will have to wait for another time. Until then, my supposed Mexicans, I am heading to my stovetop to make one of the greatest snacks of all time. Adios!

King Taco

I don’t have the same tolerance for spicy foods that my father does. When he wants salsa he wants it so hot he is sweating by the time he gets through his meal. And then he wants a little bit more. I don’t like to need a towel to wipe my brow at the end of a meal but I like a little bit of kick and when I ask for something I want it spicy for real, not white-people spicy. Not Cheesecake Factory we-added-some-extra-black-pepper-and-a-touch-of-cayanne-pepper-spicy but something that is going to burn a little bit and will be made worse if you try to wash it away with water. You can get this at King Taco. You can get the spiciness my dad prefers but if you don’t want the burning depth of hell raging in your mouth you can get a decent kick as well. A good salsa makes all the difference in Mexican food. You could have the sweetest corn cakes, the most savory tamales, or the crispiest chips, but if you don’t have a spicy salsa then you are eating at El Torito or, if they’re still around, Alcapulco’s.

King Taco is on my list of musts every time I get back to Los Angeles, which is a few times per year. My family has been a loyal customer since my childhood. After visiting cousins or extended family, friends, after YMCA youth softball games or sometimes after an early Dodger game, stopping by King Taco- the one on Cypress or maybe the one on Third, depending on where we were coming from, was on the itinerary. Over the years as the brand expanded it got easier and easier to find one, much to my delight. Now they even have a spot in Dodger stadium and that pretty much rocks.

King Taco got its start back in 1969. Raul Martinez and his wife, Maria, lit the barbeque at the park (I’m guessing Leg Lake but that information wasn’t available), a bunch of guys playing soccer nearby finished up and passed by to see what smelled so good. They bought a bunch of tacos and BOOM! A legend was created. Five years later Raul and Maria bought an old ice-cream truck and converted it into a taco truck, an innovation that I think we all take for granted these days. Knowing their audience, Raul, Maria, and Raul father, parked the taco truck outside of a bar one night and had about $70 worth of sales. The next night they doubled that. Six months later the first King Taco restaurant with a permanent address opened at 1118 Cypress Ave. in Los Angeles. The rest is history and with just 21 locations from Commerce to Ontario everyone knows if you want a good taco you go to King Taco.

Part of the appeal is the value. Tacos are just a $1.25 and there is quite a variety to choose from. You can go with the simplicity and ease of carne asada, carnitas, or pollo, but for the real Mexicans, the ones who aren’t just supposed to be Mexican but actually know the Mexican National Anthem (I still have to learn that one), they offer lengua, cabeza, buche, and mollejo. I’d love to just tell those of you who don’t speak Spanish exactly what those are but part of the fun is figuring that out if it’s your first visit. I couldn’t in good conscience, ruin for you but I will say it might seem kind of rowdy if you aren’t terribly familiar with Mexican cuisine.

I may be confusing King Taco with Olvera street from my youth but I thought they used to feature Fanta and/or Orange Bang (along with Piña and Lemon Ole!) but they don’t seem to be on the menu anymore. They do, however, still serve aguas frescas which sounds very good during these summer months. Other menu items include tameles, sopes, and chicken but you go for the tacos. Just like even though Lawry’s Prime Rib has lobster, it’s not what you go there for. With King Taco you go for the tacos.

I won’t be making my way to Southern California for at least another couple of months but already my mouth is watering for some of those delicious tacos. So many nights heading back from Hollywood or wherever and taking an exit off the 60 freeway to pull up to the brightly lit sign with shaved heads and Dickies in front of low-riders on one side and LAPD or LA County Sheriffs on the other side. It’s a good mix. Oh, and if you are heading east on the 60, make sure you hit the right exit because if you can see it from the freeway then you’ve gone too far and you’ll have to back track.

Olvera Street

Before the traffic and highways, before the movie studios and fancy shops and restaurants, before anything that would really identify the city as what it is today, Los Angeles was a small village known to its inhabitants as El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Angeles del Rio de Porciuncula (The Village of Our Lady, Queen of the Angels of the River Porciuncula). It was a tiny settlement of Spanish settlers founded in the area not far from where the 60, 5, 101, and 710 freeways converge. The area remained under Spanish rule until Mexico’s independence (not May 5th) and became part of these United States in 1848. Los Angeles was a sleepy little town with some farm land and cattle ranches, but was not a commercial center. The city lacks a natural port, mineral or fuel reserves, steady rain or irrigation, or anything that makes a major city like New York, San Francisco or Chicago. The city was mostly built on advertising hype and promises of sunshine- for a great look at how Los Angeles was “made” read Carey McWilliams’ Southern California: An Island on the Land. But before the great influx of so many diverse peoples and cultures, before the railroads and the cars brought people from all over, it was a small gathering of adobe buildings, a church, and a red brick plaza. Remnants of this land before America still exist in the heart Downtown Los Angeles at Olvera Street, the oldest street in the city.

As the city grew into the 20th century and the focus was on modernization and growth, Olvera Street, originally known as Wine Street (or Vine Street), fell into disrepair and became, at best, a dirt alley the hidden and neglected in the towering shadows of progress. During this time thousands of people were running towards the American Dream from all over the world and for most Mexicans the destination was Los Angeles.

There would be no Olvera Street today if not for the efforts of Christine Sterling, a wealthy socialite from San Francisco who was residing in the Chavez Ravine area. There were plans for the area to be razed when she took notice of the area in 1926. The place was dark and dirty and home to the element of society that seeks out dark and dirty places. But beneath the dank and din she noticed the Plaza Church that had been built in 1822. She also must have realized that the ancient adobe structure in the center was the home of Francisco Avila, a wealthy ranchero and one-time mayor of Los Angeles. His home was built in 1818 making that particular building the oldest residence within the city limits. Miss Sterling recognized what the street would have been in its heyday realized what a shame it would be to have the oldest and possibly most culturally significant part of the city torn down. Having the money and connections to get real results one can say that she single handedly saved Olvera Street from Los Angeles. She got word to Harry Chandler, who ran the LA Times, got up in front of the City Council, and even managed to get prison inmates to assist with the project. Sterling envisioned a thriving marketplace that would be a romantic cultural center for Mexican and Los Angeleno history. And she was right.

In the end the entire marketplace was rebuilt into a thriving Mexican American marketplace. She even lived in the Francisco Avila Adobe house up until her death in 1963. Today it is designated as a Historic Landmark. Some of my fondest childhood memories come from when my parents would take my brother and I along to a particular restaurant called La Luz del Dia where we would climb the staircase along side the kitchen where we would peer over the railing to watch the women clap balls of masa between their palms to make the delicious tortillas that accompany every dish. Olvera Street has some of the best taquitos, champurrado, tamales, menudo… you name it, you’ll find it- and it will be pretty tasty. There are shops of all kinds from candles and cheap toys to leather goods and candy stores. There are frequent tours, shows, lectures, and events being held all the time.

When I was in grade school I remember our class went on a field trip to Olvera Street by train. We took the train from the Fullerton Train Station to Union Station just across the street from Olvera. It was fun at the time but now that I’m older I realize that my school is much closer to Los Angeles than it is to Fullerton but I guess it was just part of the experience. A couple of other fantastic places to visit near the antique alley are Philippe’s, the home of the French Dip Sandwich (watch out for the hot mustard), the aforementioned Union Train Station, The Museum of Contemporary Art is nearby, as are numerous theaters and concert halls like the Disney Concert Hall. Amid all the hustle and bustle, the offices and cars and museums and everything else going on at such a fast pace all around Los Angeles, everyone should make at least one pilgrimage to see where it all started.

Zoot Suit Riot

The Zoot Suit should probably fall under the category of “I was supposed to be Mexican” rather than “I am supposed to be Mexican” but it carries a certain relevance because it is a huge part of Mexican-American history that I have alluded to in other posts. Zoot suits are basically just like any other suit, characterized by a jacket, trousers, sometimes a vest, and often worn with a nice woven shirt and topped off with a hat, often a felt hat or a fedora, and finished off with a gold chain and pointy leather shoes. There is the play, Zoot Suit, which was turned into a film starring Edward James Olmos (see: American Me; see: Stand and Deliver) about the Zoot Suit Riots that took place in Los Angeles during World War II.

The zoot suit, or traje pachuco, was co-opted by Mexican youths from the black community. Black celebrities like Cab Calloway and various jazz musicians during the Harlem Renaissance wore the suits, which they called “drapes,” were aptly characterized by a young Malcom X: “a killer-diller coat with a drape shape, reet pleats, and and shoulders padded like a lunatic’s cell.” A variation of the suit was also worn in 1930s England by teenagers who called themselves “Teddy boys”. Their zoot suits were often brightly colored and had velvet lapels to which all I can say is… well, just leave it to the British to do something like that.

Pachuco’s adopted the style and to this day maintains an influence in Mexican culture in America, particularly in Southern California. Those who “lean like a cholo” do so because the original pachucos leaned back to maintain those pleats in their slacks. The late 90s saw a brief mainstream revival of the style and attitude, again centered in Los Angeles, during what has been called the swing revival/cocktail movement when big bands and swing music were again en vogue; Swingers is a great example of the era. The origin of the name “Zoot Suit” is probably from the hard “s” sound that native Spanish speakers might use when pronouncing the word “suit” in English and thus is simply the same word repeated twice, once with a heavy Spanish accent and once without.

Dodger Stadium sits on Chavez Ravine where many Mexican immigrants used to reside. During the Great Depression there was already a great deal of racial tension as many Americans felt that these immigrants were taking jobs away from them. I’m glad to see that we’ve come so far since then. Outside of Mexico, Los Angeles had the highest concentration of Mexicans, and most of them were relegated to the poorest areas and because of discrimination and propaganda were seen as invading outsiders and were forced to work for very low wages. Just like every oppressed culture before and since, these Mexicans created and preserved their own culture- style, dance, language, and dress, which for the youths was all about the zoot suit. Beyond that there were a couple of events that brought Los Angeles to the boiling point.

In 1942 nine men were accused of murdering Jose Diaz at Sleepy Lagoon. This is the story that is the focus of the play, Zoot Suit. During the trial, in order to prevent the defendants from “misleading the witnesses,” none of them were permitted to wash or cut their hair or change their clothes. The nine were convicted and sentenced to long prison sentences though eventually each conviction was overturned. Of course this is the very short version of the case and I highly recommend everyone to take a deeper look into this very interesting case.

The second incident occurred on May 30, 1943. Many military personnel were stationed in Southern California, most of them on their way to the war in the Pacific. No one knows who threw the first punch but there was an altercation between some sailors and some pachucos that led to the start of the riots four days later. June 3, 1943 a group of sailors again got into a fracas with a group of pachucos, this time the sailors claimed they had been jumped, and with this last straw the LAPD jumped into the fray. Hundreds of servicemen and both on and off-duty police officers jumped into pick-ups and taxi cabs and went around beating up and arresting anyone and everyone who looked Mexican or was wearing a zoot suit. Zoot suits were torn off of whoever was wearing them and burned in the street. At this, the Zoot Suits decided to fight back and for the next several days were the Zoot Suit Riots.

More than 150 people were injured and 500 “latinos” were arrested, charged with everything from vagrancy to rioting. The local press extolled the attacks by the servicemen for the cleansing effect of their attacks. Zoot suits were banned by a city ordinance. The press called it a suppression of criminal acts by the Mexican community. When First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt called them what they were, race-riots resulting from long term discrimination against Mexican-Americans, the Los Angeles Times wrote a scathing editorial, accusing Mrs. Roosevelt of having communist ties and stirring up race discord.

Eventually, like powdered wigs and cravats, zoot suits simply fell out of fashion. They are still worn from time to time by pachucos and vatos who want to dress up. And shops like El Pachuco in Fullerton provide a wide array of colors and accessories. But clearly the zoot suit was more than just a mode of fashion, at least for a time. Zoot suits were a marker of rebellion to some, and an indicator of identity to others. Whether it was worn to provoke or inspire is regardless of the fact that they are some sharp looking suits.

If a bunch of guys from the city want to be hoodlums or thugs, join a gang or cause trouble, or just be part of a scene, there really isn’t much I can do affect that. But I’ve got to tell you, I would much rather see a bunch of guys hanging around in suits, even if they are ill-fitting suits, than pants that could house several animals, and prints in which a clown would feel silly. At least you can respect someone who takes pride in how they dress.

El Cholo

If you’ve lived in, visited, or even just driven through East LA, you’ve probably seen a cholo. Cholo culture has many aspects and variations on the style. Sometimes a cholo will have a shaved head. Or he might have a long black mane pulled back in a tight ponytail. A mustache is not uncommon. Various tattoos may adorn the cholo’s body, usually in tribute to Nuestra Senora, the Raiders, his own last name, or a picture of his heina. Baggy clothes are also the norm but the style of loose fitting clothing is quite different from the urban hip-hop scene. When a vato wants to look good, he doesn’t look for baggier clothing and shiny, plastic bling. No, the vato is more likely to use some extra Tres Flores in his hair, make sure his mustache is trimmed, and while the clothes may still be oversized, he’ll want to look sharp which means pressed trousers, clean shoes, a starched shirt with suspenders, and a small gold chain that is visible when the vato leans back and looks out at the world before him. Casual wear consists of khaki chinos or very long shorts, Dickies that reach to or below the mid-calf, a white t-shirt or tank top, and on top of that maybe a long sleeve shirt that is only buttoned at the top. You can find him in a low-rider Chevy or Cadillac, on a low-rider bicycle, or kicking rocks. A bandana over the forehead, low to the eyes is typical as well, as is a hairnet, but of course not both at the same time. Plaid flannel jackets come out when the weather gets cold. Oh yeah, and knee-high white tube socks. Can’t forget the socks.

Cholo style is heavily associated with gang culture and this association is not unfounded. I’ve got a few primos who got into their fair share of trouble coming up in East LA. Luckily my parents had the drive and ability to see to it that their progeny did not grow up calling one another “ese”. Despite the bad seeds who might ruin a party, these are the guys with tear-drop tattoos and a big black 13 on their chest, there is some overlap with legitimate styles and cultures like the low-rider scene, various styles of art including graffiti art like Chaka and the tattoo art of the Mister Cartoon. A great example of how these characteristics merge with various aspects of black culture and Caucasian “style” would be to take a look at the Long Beach Dub scene that was enormously popular in the west coast during the late 1990s. But for a good, hard look at how the Mexican street gang culture has pervaded a segment of society, watch the 1993 film Blood In, Blood Out (Bound By Honor) or American Me from 1992.

The etymology of the term “cholo” is somewhat ambiguous and the way I am defining it is exclusive to the southwest, Southern California in particular. Anywhere else the term is used it is generally meant to refer to indigenous peoples, those of mixed race, and in its first written usage going back to the early 1600s was synonymous with “mulatto”. During the ethnic power movements of the 1960s the term was used as a point of pride but in general the title has negative connotations. Prior to that, the cholo scene seems to have evolved out of the pachuco fashion from the 1940s. I’ll spend some time on the Zoot Suit in the future, but this appears to be the starting point for what would become cholos. This is why the fancier cholos will wear the creased pants and may go for the fedora over the bandana from time to time.

Cholos like to drink and smoke (it’s not all Cheech and Chong but that is the ideal). If they are in a gang or rely on the streets to survive then it isn’t likely that they have finished high school- these are of course generalizations and not hard and fast rules. As such they will have their own localized method of speech, a spanglish all its own. This isn’t the typical spanglish where one might say carro instead of coche, or always answer with “que” when “mande usted” would be more appropriate. No, this is more like saying “watcha,” or “trucha”. They’ve also got a penchant for mariachi music though everyone has always got their own taste, from hip-hop to reggae and rock. And of course, there are the women, the cholas.

Oh, the cholas. A cholo likes a girl whose hair looks wet but when you touch it, it’s crunchy. Dark lipstick, eyebrows that were drawn in with pencil (or a Sharpie marker), and clothing not terribly dissimilar to their male counterparts; these styles have actually found their way into the mainstream as they have at times been picked up by pop stars like Gwen Stefani, Fergie, and Kat Von D. Typically the cholas are girlfriends or sisters of cholos but they have been known to be some pretty rough and tumble chicas in their own right.

So what do you do if you run on to a cholo or group of cholos? For the most part, just like anyone else you pass by on the street if you ignore them they will ignore you. But if by chance they want to engage in scintillating conversation they are likely to ask you where you are from. They are not planning a trip soon, nor are they eager to exchange pleasantries about the subtle differences from one sociological sample to the next. If a cholo asks you where you’re from your reply should always be “Nowhere. I’m from nowhere”. Just wanted to give you a heads up on that one. In the event you believe you will be deep in cholo territory for any extended period of time you may want to have some Raiders gear on or near you at all times so that a) they may take you for one of them, or b) you can give it as a peace offering or use it to distract them while you pull the knife out of your leg.

Also, don’t let their love of all things Raiders fool you into thinking you can have a chat with them about the NFL. You must never talk to them about football in any greater depth than by simply saying you love the Raiders. This is for two reasons: the Raiders suck and haven’t had a winning season in nearly a decade, and despite their professed adoration for them, cholos don’t know shit about the Raiders other than the colors and the logos.

Also, do not confuse the cholos I've described here with the Los Angeles and La Habra restuarant, El Cholo, which serves a delightful deep fried ice-cream.

CHAKA!!!

Did you ever ride in a car on or near a freeway in Los Angeles? It could be the 101, 605, 60, 405… You name it. Did you ever glance over at an overpass or an on-ramp? If you have been near a wall of concrete within the limits of Los Angeles County over the last 30 years you have probably seen his name. More than likely you’ve seen his name so many times it has blended in with the landscape like Golden Arches or yellow shells that reach high above the highway down every stretch. His art is not quite the street inspired art of Basquiat. He isn’t a “clever” one-liner like Banksy. His art is what it is. In most cases it’s simply his name in various stylized fonts and representations. His name is his expression. His name is his reaction. His name is Chaka.

It’s impossible to say exactly when graffiti art goes from vandalism to collectible. When it comes to something as subjective as art, coming from a place like the streets of Los Angeles, it usually takes a nod from the likes of Ashton Kutcher or Christina Aguilara. On one hand it truly is a form expression by an impoverished or frustrated segment of society that is reacting to a number of factors from lack of opportunity to racism and prejudice or maybe even out of boredom and lack of supervision or the presence of one or both parental figures. Graffiti by definition is an act of vandalism where one person deliberately places their own message over an intended message. A person has to have the belief that their own personal message, be it their tagger name or an elaborate painting or simply a coded message for someone else to see, is more important that the intentions of the person who had that particular wall built or that particular set of concrete erected. Outside of the legality of tagging or graffiti there is the moral and ethical standpoint: if a community is composed almost entirely of one particular group of people and an outsider, an interloper, an invader (as they might be seen) from another group and another place decides to build something at the expense of the native group, who has the greater right to the visual representation of said location? It can be seen as petulant and juvenile, clinging to a sense of angst that one generally outgrows. You never hear of someone in their 40s getting caught for tagging.

There are varying degrees of graffiti. There is much that is associated with gang culture and that type of graffiti requires little explanation. It is usually ugly and very simple in style with little to offer and is usually intended as a means of communication indicating a territorial marking or used to pass a message. On the other side there is a sense that the artist behind it is looking to create rather than destroy. In all honesty most graffiti art is not what I would call art at all. It is often very boring and predicated upon nothing. It has no style or sense of history, rather it is stylized but fails to really build on anything that has been done before. It becomes a cycle of different people doing the same thing over and over again. This is not an unfamiliar concept to the art world. Andy Warhol took familiar images and silk screened them over and over and over until they became art. This is not unlike what Chaka did but rather than using an established image he made his own and put it everywhere until it became meaningless and meaningful at the same time. It became more than a senseless and isolated act of vandalism and became something of a brand not entirely unlike the swoosh on your shoes, the horse on the hood of a fast car, the bunny profile on your dad’s magazine, or those four little window panes on the bottom left corner of your screen for 90% of you.

Chaka is thought to have committed over 20,000 acts of vandalism with everything from a Sharpie to a can of paint. In 90s he was finally caught and Daniel “Chaka” Ramos was tried and convicted and did some jail time. When he emerged he was the new cause célèbre of the art world as were so many graffiti artists of the time. As an interesting side note it is rumored he tagged the courthouse elevator during the course of his trial. Now people pay him to paint their walls or, short of that, canvases to hang on their walls. He’s had gallery shows and I’m sure he’s got something up in a museum somewhere. His art still doesn’t do much for me but I think it’s a splendid example of self publicity of an anonymous persona.

Keep an eye out next time you’re headed down that stretch of the 605 freeway, just south of the 60 as you’re heading through Pico Rivera. Next time you watch the video for Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit, take a gander at Dave Grohl's bass drum. I think you might spot a familiar name.

Mexican Food in America

It used to be very rare that I would get a craving for Mexican food. Nights out at the bars and clubs, when others wanted to hit up King Taco (On Cypress in East LA- or the one in Pasadena), I was more partial to grabbing a burger or one of those hot dogs wrapped in bacon from the street vendor at the corner. When meeting with a group of friends and trying to decide what to do for dinner I rarely supported the option of going out for Mexican. That’s not to say I didn’t like Mexican food; I frequently got a delicious burrito from Boca Del Rio or tacos from Mexico Taco in La Habra. The whole family would get together for certain birthdays or holidays at the El Cholo or El Torrito Grill. I was never disappointed. Enchiladas, tamales at Christmas, carne asada… it’s all good. I think the reason I never wanted to go out of my way to get is because it was always around growing up.

My dad used to make bean burritos for me to take to lunch when I was a kid. (Just a little side note- I know that burritos aren’t exactly Mexican food but more like tex-mex, but that’s a topic for another post). Staying with grandma in the evenings she was always making chile rellenos or albondigas or chilaquiles (which remarkably has no chile) or something to that effect. So it was all readily available and, if not that, there were plenty of wonderful Mexican restaurants all over the place.

Then I left Los Angeles.

San Francisco, for all its wonderful cuisine and gastronomic tantalization really has second rate Mexican food. You can find some a palatable burrito here and there but they truly are few and far between. This was confusing to me as San Francisco has the Mission District which is a hub of Latin-Americans. In my naiveté I presumed that would mean there are lots of Mexicans. There are many but what I came to find out is that there is an even greater concentration of peoples from El Salvador. This really puts a damper on the Mexican food for me because it never tastes quite right. Don’t get me wrong, if you want a good pupusa this is the place to go but as for their Mexican food… Well, it’s like kissing your stepsister. It’s better than nothing but it certainly is not ideal.

Then I left San Francisco.

New York also has a wealth of restaurants of every possible cuisine from Ethiopian to Thai to Scottish to Argentine… unfortunately their Mexican food is absolutely bland and tired. Every place I’ve gone has been a disappointment. I’ve only been here a year and tried just a handful of places but each one has given me less of a reason to try another. There is supposed to be a wonderful street vendor in SoHo called Calexico but I’ve yet to get to it. I’ve been told that there are a couple of great places out in the Bronx or in Brooklyn but that’s a trek and I don’t see myself heading out that way for what may just amount to be a Taco Bell is disguise. When it comes to my food, absence does make the heart grow fonder. Now, every time I get back to LA I hit up my favorite Mexican food places. If I’m headed through downtown I may even make a stop at Olvera Street to the place at the end where you can still find the ladies making the tortillas by hand. Standing in line as a child, my brother and I would always head up the steps that looked over the kitchen where we could peer over and watch their hands clap-clap-clap as they formed the tortillas.

My experience with Mexican food in America is limited to California and New York. I’ve been through Arizona and New Mexico (that’s right, there’s a New Mexico!) but I don’t remember my reaction to their Mexican food well enough to comment on it. I’m sure it’s great though. It seems to me the closer you get to the border the more likely you are to find something delicioso y sabroso. Next week I’ll get into some specifics about how crazy Mexican food can get, like eating tongue and brains, roasting up a goat head or the process of making carnitas from scratch. Good times.

The Dodgers

I have many fond childhood memories of Dodger games. I was never a big baseball fan growing up. Even now I have trouble calling it a sport where the only two options for a player are to be either an overweight, overpaid lump that parks himself in some corner of the field, or to be some roided out, overpaid mutant. Either way, going Dodger games was never about the game.

It was about the food.

You go for the Dodger Dog (grilled, not steamed), peanuts, Carnation Ice-milk, sneaking a taste of dad’s beer etc… This was years ago when the menu was much more concise. Last time I went to a game there were personal pizzas, King Taco, Krispy Kreme, and now there’s probably sushi and rack of lamb. In any event, the game was always incidental to the occasion. Dodgers games are an inexpensive and local opportunity for Mexicans to get the family and friends together without having to entertain one another. No one needs to kill a pig or spend the entire night prior making tamales. Clean up is handled by a third party and because of the price of beer it’s rare that your dad and your tio will get too drunk and end up getting in a fight.

Mexicans have a complicated relationship with the Dodgers. Dodger Stadium stands in Chavez Ravine, which years ago was a community of Mexican immigrants. For decades the city and developers wanted the land and were willing to do just about anything to get it short of paying the tenants anything close to what the land was worth. There is plenty of literature about the Battle of Chavez Ravine but for a great comprehensive history of Southern California I would look to a book by Carey McWilliams called Southern California: An Island on the Land. Chavez Ravine is also a significant locale that is associated with the Zoot Suit Riots. In the end the Mexican community was forced to relocate and Dodger Stadium was erected.

Not the type of people to hold a grudge, plenty of Mexicans make it out to Dodger games and help make every home opener a sell-out. Much of that capacity crowd is found in the Pavilion.

The Pavilion makes up the seating behind the outfield and since these tickets have always been relatively inexpensive (currently $13) they attract a crowd looking for a value. If you’ve got five kids and ten nieces and nephews fresh out of catechism, this probably applies to you. As such, the patrons of this seating area tend to get a little rambunctious which is why they stopped selling beer there for quite some time. Now, on certain game days, you can get a ticket for $30 that comes with all you can eat hot dogs, nachos, cokes, water and peanuts. You still have to buy the beer. In my personal opinion I think it’s great that you can still get into a ballgame anywhere for just $9- that’s for a seat in the nosebleeds purchased at least a day ahead of time, and this is at the third oldest ballpark in the Major League.

I also do not want to fail to mention the incredible contribution of famed Mexican Dodger pitcher Fernando Valenzuela. He was known for his wicked screw-ball and is the only pitcher to have won both Rookie of the Year and the Cy Young award ushering in an era of Fernandomania. He helped the Dodgers clinch the 1981 World Series and went on to set a number of records. Fernando "El Toro" Valenzuela went on to play for other teams in other ballparks but he became a legend playing at Dodger Stadium.

After the game everyone piles into the car, maybe you fill up at the 76 station in back of the parking lot and ride the slow wave of traffic back onto the 101 freeway. If you were smart you hit up Phillipe’s for a French dip sandwich before the game. And if you’re brave you’ll stop by the Original Tommy’s on W Beverly on the way home.