The Mission

Like any well mannered young person moving to a new city to attend college, my priorities in my new home in San Francisco were as such: find a place to live, find a place to get food, and most importantly, find a place for cheap beer. Within the city limits of San Francisco that last requirement is found by so many dedicated students in the Mission District. Nestled pretty close to the center of the city, the Mission sits surrounded by SoMa to the west, Bernal Heights to the south, and the Castro to the east. For such a small city it has always been incredible to me how it can sustain so many distinct neighborhoods with their unique characteristics. Even the most aloof resident of the city (and there are many) can tell what part of the city they are in by the architecture, the shops and restaurants, the bars and attractions, the geography. The Sunset is not Twin Peaks. Pac Heights is not the Presidio. You try to stay away from Hunters Point. And still no one exactly knows where Excelsior is. When it comes to the Mission you will know you’re there by a few distinct traits beyond the cheap beer: due the geography of the city it is probably the warmest and sunniest part of the city; there are two BART (subway) stops; and it is the largest Latino community in the city.

The area has had a Spanish influence since 1776 when Spanish priest Francisco Palou founded the Mission for which the city is named- after St. Francisco de Assisi. Prior to that the area had been inhabited by the Yeluma Indians for over 2000 years but as everyone knows, whenever you mix Europeans and natives… one of them is going to disappear and it will probably the ones who haven’t been making use of gun powder for 1000 years. The Mission that currently stands was built in 1783, probably with forced Indian slave labor. The surrounding area with owned by various Spanish rancheros with names that are still important to the city of San Francisco like Valencia, Bernal, Noe, Guerrero- these are currently names of streets and neighborhoods throughout the city. Eventually the land was ceded in the deal that ended the Mexican-American War. The Gold Rush came and went and along with the rest of the city, the Mission District grew economically by leaps and bounds; it was home to California’s very first professional baseball stadium and had a couple of others over the following century which were home to teams like the San Francisco Seals and the Mission Reds.

Throughout most of the 19th and well into the 20th century, the Mission was mainly a German and Irish community. After the earthquake of 1906 so much of the city’s economic and commercial center in the downtown and financial districts had been destroyed or disrupted that the Mission became the main commercial thoroughfare for a short time. The area saw an influx of Polish immigrants as well but like so many other places, once World War II arrived everything changed.

When so many men left to join the war effort, their families returned to their families or simply moved on. As such this left a void in the housing market and prices and populations dropped. Enter a new group of immigrants, the Mexicans. The Germans, Irish, and Poles had left and the Mexicans seized the opportunity for inexpensive housing. This started happening in the 40s and went well into the 60s and the neighborhood has been a Hispanic community ever since. In the 1980s, civil unrest and instability in the Central America brought many more immigrants to these here United States and many of them reside in the Mission District which is why their Mexican food is substantially subpar when compared to Southern California efforts, but it is probably the best place to get a plate of pupusas.

Over the past decade or so, since it has become the trend for young urban white people to gentrify neighborhoods because it’s “more real” (see Brooklyn; see Oakland; see Echo Park), the Mission has seen a dramatic increase in the white population along with increased housing prices- even Dave Eggers’ charitable foundation, 826 Valencia, is based there. Despite this, the district remains a destination for Hispanic immigrants.

A few things to see and do whilst in the Mission include a visit to actual mission which still stands on Dolores Street, not far from Dolores Park. My favorite rock climbing gym, Mission Cliffs is there. And the Mission is home to many Latino art galleries and cultural centers like Galeria de la Raza, and so many murals all over the neighborhood that were commissioned by the Chicano Art Mural Movement of the 1970s. The Mission has become synonymous with great burritos, too. In fact, there is a restaurant not far from my place in Upper West Side Manhattan that boasts “San Francisco Mission Style Burritos”. Mission and Valencia streets are home to dozens upon dozens of bars, bookstores and restaurants that are host to the annually literary event LitQuake in October. It was home to a punk scene for a while and was even characterized as a Bohemian community akin to Greenwich Village though it’s difficult for any neighborhood close to Haight and Ashbury to co-opt that moniker.

So the Mission isn’t exactly a Mexican neighborhood anymore but it does have strong Mexican ties and a rich heritage. One of the drawbacks to San Francisco’s fantastic BART system is that it ceases to run by 1:00am on the weekends. With the bars going until 2:00am this can cause a crisis of priority. Countless times I’ve found myself enjoying a cold beverage with friends as single tolling of a bell drew near. One more, my friends would say- and I would relent. Then, with just moments to make the last train, I’d run out of Zeitgeist or the Latin-American Club or the Elbo Room, as fast as I could. Half the time I made it, saving myself a $25 cab ride home. The other half of the time my comrades would smile as I walked back into the bar with a bacon wrapped hot dog in my hands as I’d sit down to another beer.

The Crying Woman

As you stroll along the lakeside you listen to the gentle lapping of the water on the shore. The moon glows in a blood-orange hue just above the horizon as dusk falls over you. In the distance fireflies bounce and bob over the tall grasses that peek out along the waterfront. The ground is moist beneath your feet and the soil softens beneath your every step as you walk along, admiring the moon’s reflection over the lake, the chirping of the crickets, and the occasional call of an owl. But then something seems off. You suddenly feel warm over one side of your neck and you look over your shoulder; it’s the unmistakable sensation of the invisible pressure of someone else’s gaze falling upon you. You know you’re being watched. The speed of your steps increases. More than just speeding up, a draft washes over you, blowing against you, trying to push you back but you press on. You’re almost running now and it’s at this point that you realize you only hear the crunch of the grass and soil beneath your feet. No more chirping crickets. No more hooting owls. The water is completely still as you come to a standstill. Where did the fireflies go? All you hear is your own breathing coming in shaking, stammering, gulps. Then you hear something else. It could be your mind playing tricks on you but you hold your breath to make sure. It starts off like a moaning but that’s only because it sounds muffled, off in the distance. You want to run but you don’t know where the sound is coming from and it’s impossible to tell if you’d be running towards it or away from it. The moaning gets louder but it isn’t just moaning. The pain is the same but it is something more. Wailing. Weeping. As though the world around you is crying for something that’s happened. Or. Something that’s about to happen. Something that cannot be stopped or prevented. It’s the crying of a woman who has lost everything. Soon the crying is everywhere- it’s upon you. And it’s the last thing you hear…

La Llorona is a cautionary tale told throughout Latin America. Think of it as the Sleepy Hollow story of the Spanish speaking world.

There are many different versions of the story but the bare bones of it is this: There was a woman who killed her own children to be with the man she desired. She was subsequently spurned by her lover and as a result she killed herself. However, because of her atrocities she is forced to wander (usually near a body of water), weeping for what she had done, weeping for her lost children and looking to replace them. She is looking for her children and will often take children who misbehave or wander off.

Needless to say it has scared the hell out of many, many children.

It is difficult to say exactly where this story originated as there are examples of similar tales all over the world. Among the ancient Greek gods, the big guy, Zeus, had an affair with Lamia. When Hera, Zeus’ wife, learned of the affair she forced him to give up his relationship to Lamia who was then forced to eat her own children. Out of jealousy, Lamia preys on human children and eats any that she catches. The Greeks have some pretty messed up stories. Other variations of La Llorona’s story say that those who hear her weeping are marked for death, not unlike those who hear the wailing of the Gaelic Banshee. Other possible origins of the story point to the Spanish invasion of the Aztec empire. Some say the goddess Cihuacoatl is weeping for the fall of her people. Others point to La Malinche, a native woman who served as an interpreter for Cortes and turned her back on Mexico. Though there is no hard evidence to support it, some say she bore the conquistador a child and was later abandonded.

An interesting website that provides more detailed aspects of the current legend of La Llorona can be found at www.lallorona.com/la_index.html. It tells different stories of La Llorona as a witch, a harlot, a siren, and a virgin. They get a little creepy so don’t read them late at night by yourself.

As for why the story exists, like most stories it is probably a cautionary tale. On one level it is meant to keep children from wandering off. Like the boogey man or Michael Jackson, these characters are meant to frighten children and keep them away from strangers. It is also a warning for young women to either avoid being enticed by the wrong man, or to remember the sacred duties of a mother. Pre-Columbian women had a lot more power and influence than their conquered descendants. The European conquerors did not have the same idea of the sacred feminine that the indigenous peoples of the Americas had and as such did many things to destroy their ideas of the role women should have in society. That’s just the way it went and the story of La Llorona, a woman who is forced to an eternity of misery because of her failure as a wife and mother, may have been a part of that.

Whatever the origin of the story, it is a scary one. It’s certainly enough incentive to keep it in your pants a little while longer. Because if you’re getting down to it and the woman starts weeping… well, I can’t imagine any good will come of that.

So What's Up With This Arizona Law?

One of the big issues concerning Mexican Americans lately is the passage of the immigration reform law in Arizona. Needless to say plenty of people having been asking EricV123 just what he thinks of the law and what it means to Mexicans on this side of the border both here legally and illegally. Now, I do not want to make this a political blog, nor do I wish to advocate one side over the other but to ignore the subject all together would be an egregious oversight on my part.
So let’s examine what the argument it. The text of the law, in its entirety, can be found here: http://www.azleg.gov/legtext/49leg/2r/bills/sb1070s.pdf. It’s only about 17 pages and half of that is filled with superfluous language. The gist of it is this: if police are stopping someone for a crime or violation of the law, this could be an infraction, misdemeanor, or worse, if after detaining someone for committing an offense then if the officer suspects the person of being in the country illegally the officer may and shall demand proof of legal residence which should be carried on the person. The law clearly states that race must not be the sole consideration.



Sounds fine, right? I mean, after all, the innocent have nothing to fear, am I right?



Except that they do. Now I’ve got pretty fair skin and speak English with no discernable Mexican accent. But I’ve got some friends and family who have darker skin than I do and speak with a different cadence, say words with a different inflection that makes their English sound a little more Mexican. Say one of these people was to suddenly have a craving for a delicious, cool, refreshing bottle of Gatorade on a hot Arizona day. It’s 105 degrees out and they’ve been sitting around in their shorts all day. The 7-11 is just two blocks away so our friend grabs a five dollar bill off the counter and shoves it in his pocket and jumps on his bicycle to pedal just a few hundred yards away. On the way he slows at the intersection and when he doesn’t see any cars in either direction he scoots across, just like he’s done a million times before, just like you me, or anyone has ever done. Whether the light is red or green, especially here in New York or in every suburb across America, when there aren’t any cars around you just go. But this time there is a cop sitting behind the billboard so he jumps out to write up a ticket. No ID, no wallet, just a $5 bill in your pocket… you’ve got dark skin and use a different syntax in your English that he does… now the cop wants to see your green card. But you’re a citizen, you tell him. You live right down the street. Oh yeah? Prove it. Maybe the cop happens to be having a good day and is nice enough to drive you over to your house and knock on the door- but you already told him no one is home. And he is not about to enter a house without cause on the word of a suspected illegal alien. So guess what, we’ll just take you to jail until we can sort this thing out. Maybe a few hours, maybe a couple of days later you get to go home. Sorry for the inconvenience, sir. Have a nice day.

This sort of anecdotal story has already happened to friends of friends and is likely to happen more often in the weeks to come… But racial profiling is against the rules according to the law. And the policeman wasn’t racially profiling but had a suspicion after he saw the young man riding his bike across an intersection on a red light.

Here’s the problem- the letter of the law seemingly has no racial prejudice. The letter of the law says nothing about skin color or national origin. Theoretically if a British tourist crosses the street having left his passport in the hotel he could very well be deported. But let’s all be honest with ourselves, the spirit of the law is targeting Mexican immigrants. The law is intended to root out Mexicans who may be here illegally- and even that I don’t have to big a problem with. I would prefer that people who were here illegally were given greater opportunity to integrate fully and become either legal residents or American citizens because for the most of these people, their crime is not being able to wait long enough or have enough money to bribe a corrupt government (Mexico’s) and so they came looking for a better life and greater opportunity. But I’m realistic. The means and the structure to welcome people in droves- the way we did at Ellis Island so many years ago, just doesn’t exist.

No, for me the problem is that this law forces law abiding, tax-paying, hard working citizens, to be treated as second class citizens because of how they look or speak. Sure the law says race alone cannot be the only consideration but it stipulates the use of “reasonable suspicion” which is entirely up to the officer. The law does not specify what “reasonable suspicion” entails. So if someone who looks or sounds different happens to forget her purse at work, leaves his wallet at the gym, and crosses the street at the wrong place… he or she is shit out of luck until they can prove they have the right to be here. Any officer will tell you (especially Highway Patrol), if watch someone long enough, probably just a few minutes, there will probably have a reason to pull them over. Police officers have a very unique power. They have the power to remove someone’s freedom. We grant them this power to do their job effectively along with several other powers. When someone if breaking the law we expect our police force to act accordingly. Is detaining for several days a guy going to the corner store without his wallet an appropriate use of that power? Especially if he actually is a US citizen?

This is different from wire-taps on people who are communicating with known terror connections. This is different from racial profiling at the airport because face it, we get more people trying to blow stuff up from certain countries in the middle east than we do from Switzerland. In those cases there is an immediate danger of the wanton killing of innocent people. Arizonans have every right to secure their international border when the Federal government fails to do so. And they should. And when someone commits a crime, not spitting your gum out into the gutter or jay-walking, but a real crime, and it turns out the person is here illegally, then, by all means deport his ass.

But forcing our American Citizens to “carry papers” at all times is just as morally reprehensible to the internment of our Japanese citizens during World War 2.

Many Jim Crow laws said nothing about race. Saying you have to pass a reading test to vote, that doesn’t say anything about race. Saying you are exempt from those types of tests if your grandfather could vote… nothing about race there either.
EricV123 says, let’s stop playing verbal gymnastics and getting into semantic arguments when we all know that this law violates the liberties of American citizens on the perceived basis of national origin and that is simply, plainly, totally, wrong.

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.

It Isn't Independence Day?

With Cinco de Mayo fast approaching I am reminded of the many times my grandparents would regale me with stories of how when the holiday would roll around, back in the old country, they would round up the kids, my parents and aunts and uncles and cousins, and head over to El Torito or Chevy’s or TGIFridays to drink margaritas and take shots of Cuervo Gold, or maybe head over to Chili’s to celebrate around an order of skillet queso. Yes, these are the time honored traditions used to celebrate Mexican independence day.

OK, here’s the thing about that: May 5th is not Mexican Independence Day. Beyond that, I’ve already been over what a cheap and disgusting swill that is the product of Jose Cuervo. Those chain “neighborhood grills” and cantinas… their celebrations for “Drinko de Mayo” are somewhat less than authentic. And lastly, Cinco de Mayo is not really a widely celebrated holiday in Mexico and here’s why-

Imagine you are in Canada in the winter, say mid-January, and while strolling through the exciting and inviting streets of Toronto you notice lots of red white and blue adorning the windows and doors of many of the shops and restaurants with exciting fliers promoting festivities on January 26th with promises of Jack Daniels and apple pie and cheeseburgers, you’d probably want to know what it was all about so you ask one of the natives. Eh, he’d reply, what’s all this shite aboot, you say? Why it’s the 26th of January, of course! Isn’t that American Independence Day, eh? What a hoser- you don’t even know your own holidays! January 26th, for all of you non-history majors, is the end of the Battle of New Orleans which was the last major battle in the War of 1812. It’s significant because it was an American victory in a war where the British pretty much bitch slapped us, and also because the battle took place after the war was over (no email in those days). But despite the significance of that particular battle, not really significant in the long run to American history. There was no territory that was won or lost. There were no advantages or advancements made. It really has no real bearing on modern America whatsoever except that it ushered in an era of national pride for several years until the eruption of the civil war. Cinco de Mayo is sort of the same thing.

Mexico’s Independence Day is September 16th. It’s a national holiday and celebrated nationwide. Cinco de Mayo is celebrated somewhat in the state of Puebla because it commemorates the Battle of Puebla in 1862 where the Mexican Army, which was more like a militia made of farmers and laborers, held off the invading French Army. The Mexicans were greatly outnumbered by a better equipped opponent who had not been defeated in 50 years. Since then, no country in the Americas has been invaded by a country from another continent.

Despite the great victory on this day there are a few reasons why the holiday is virtually ignored south of the border. First, is defeating the French really that big of an accomplishment? Not so much. But beyond that, the Battle of Puebla merely delayed the inevitable. Soon after that battle the French sacked Mexico City. Within a year the French occupied Mexico and installed their own guy, Maximilian I, as Emperor of Mexico. And the reason the Mexicans were at war with the French in the first place is not exactly the most honorable reason to go to war: the Mexicans stopped paying money they owed to France. Mexico owed money to several countries and stopped paying all of them because there simply wasn’t any to pay. France originally attacked to force payment of the debt but decided to take over instead- think of the current state of the auto industry, banks, and health care system. So, no, it was not a battle with great and long lasting results for the Mexican people. Eventually France was pressured by the United States to get off our continent and by 1867 they made their way out. Maximilian was deposed and executed as well. Moral of the story: be careful when you borrow money; don’t be French.

So clearly there is plenty of reason as to why this is not a point of pride in Mexico outside of Puebla. But why the prevalent celebration in America? That answer isn’t so clear. Some say Americans have been commemorating the date since 1863, just one year after the battle, to acknowledge the Mexican resistance against France. Beyond that it seems to have become one of those days that, while seemingly arbitrary in America, is used as an excuse to celebrate one particular culture and a reason to drink very very much. Like St. Patrick’s Day, Chinese New Year, or Oktoberfest, on Cinco de Mayo everyone can be a little bit Mexican (except in Arizona where the new Juan Crow law states you had better have your papers on you if you intend to go around supposing to be Mexican).

EricV123 is not a big believer in partying on May 5th because it doesn’t really mean that much to me. Again, were any of you out celebrating on January 26th? But if you must exude your mexicanity I do have a couple of recommendations. If you are in Los Angeles head on over to Olvera Street, the oldest street in California, for some genuine Mexican-American culture and some of the best taquitos and handmade tortillas ever. In San Francisco go see what the Mission has to offer. If you are in Phoenix, stay inside lest you get rounded up and deported for not having your identification on you. Also, on the west side of LA, head on over to Pink Taco, a Mexican-American themed cantina at the Westfield Shopping center on the border of Century City and Beverly Hills. Tell Amy the bartender that EricV123 sent you. You’ll recognize her by her big… uh… eyes.

Just don't be these guys.

Beware The Red Grasshopper!

If you were born after 1985 and did not have an aunt or grandmother who watched Spanish language television, you probably have no idea who El Chapulin Colorado is. For a more contemporary example in the English speaking, American world he has been caricatured on The Simpson’s by the loveable Bumblebee Man. As for yours truly, I remember spending hours in front of the television, many of them over the years, literally rolling on the floor laughing (this was many years before “rofl” was used as an expression [or the existence of IM or text message for that matter]) at the heroic antics of El Chapulin.

So who is El Chapulin Colorado? His name translated means “The Red (colored) grasshopper”. An interesting side note is that the word for grasshopper in this case, chapulin, as actually exclusive to Mexican use. Its etymology comes from an Aztec or Nahuatl word according to the infallible resource, Wikipedia. The Spain-Spanish word for grasshopper is saltamontes. But El Chapulin is more than just his name- he’s a superhero. Sort of. He is recognized by his red and yellow costume (no cape), marvelous antennae, and his heroic chest adorned by a yellow heart bearing the letters “CH”, but believe you me, he is much better than sugar. He also wields a hammer, not unlike the Mighty Thor, called his chipote chillon (squeaky mallet). No matter where his adventures took him he was instantly recognized. Seriously. It could be the past or the present. It could be London or China. It could be the planet Venus. He could be fighting martians… They all know and respect El Chapulin. His powers seem to include, but are not limited to: flight, teleportation, and his vinyl antennae would blink whenever trouble was near- a grasshopper sense, if you will.

Despite all of his noble attributes, most of his success in battling evil doers came by chance, mistake, or simple coincidence. Think Real American Hero, but more brilliant. He even had his own introduction and set of catchphrases to assist in his heroic witty banter. He was introduced, Más ágil que una tortuga, más fuerte que un ratón, más noble que una lechuga, su escudo es un corazón... ¡Es el Chapulín Colorado!
(More agile than a turtle, stronger than a mouse, nobler than lettuce, his shield is a heart... It's the Red Grasshopper!)

Some of his choice lines include:
• "¡Síganme los buenos!" ("Good guys, follow my lead!") — as he would sometimes later on walk into a wall or fell from where he was standing. It would occasionally prompt the villains to say later on "¡Síganme los malos!" ("Bad guys, follow my lead!")
• "Lo sospeché desde un principio" ("I suspected it all along") — which he would say after someone pointed out something obvious that he had missed
• "Lo hice intencionalmente, para..." ("I did it intentionally, to...")- to justify a dumb action, for example: "I did it intentionally to calculate the resistance of the wall", after walking straight into it.
• "Todos mis movimientos están fríamente calculados" ("All my movements are coldly calculated") – his explanation for falling on his face, breaking something valuable, etc. May be spoken stand-alone, but always follows the previous quote.
• "Se aprovechan de mi nobleza" ("They take advantage of my nobility") — which he would usually say after an insult, like "We should've called Superman or Batman...", or when he is forced to do something against his will)
• "Yo opino..." ("In my opinion...") — a phrase always left unfinished because someone always interrupts him. Sometimes with "¡No opines, Chapulín!" ("Don't give your opinion, Grasshopper!"), but mostly with others insisting on their point, not letting him bring it up again.
• Also, in trying to provide advice, he would take two traditional two-part Spanish sayings and mix them up, always beginning with "Como dice el viejo y conocido refrán..." ("As the old and well-known saying goes..."). For example, "Cría cuervos y te sacarán los ojos" ("Raise crows and they'll pluck your eyes out"; i.e., what goes around comes around) and "Crea fama y échate a dormir" ("Make a name for yourself and then go to sleep"; i.e., once you have made a reputation for yourself, things will take care of themselves) become "Cría cuervos y echate a dormir... No, no, no... Crea buena fama y te sacaran los ojos... No... (in this part, he begins to mix both wrongly said quotes creating an elongated phrase confusing both himself and his listeners) "Bueno, la idea es esa." ("Raise ravens and then go to sleep... No, no, no... Make a good name for yourself and they'll peck out your eyes... No... (in this part, he begins to mix both wrongly said quotes creating an elongated phrase confusing both himself and his listeners) Well, that's the idea.")
• "Que no cunda el pánico" ("Nobody panic") would become "Que no panda el cúnico" ("Pabody nonic").

His show originally started running in 1970 in Mexico. It was aired for many years to follow in countries all over the world. It was actually a pioneer in using Chroma-Key (blue screen) visual effects that might look cheesy now but at the time were about as cutting edge as it got. After the initial run of half-hour shows, El Chapulin eventually found his way into doing miniature adventures and skits on the show, El Chavo del Ocho, which is a whole other animal.
I encourage you to learn more about Mexico’s greatest superhero at http://www.chespirito.org/.

Here's a classic clip concerning the mystery of the missing eggs. Trust me... this was groundbreaking stuff.

Snack Time

I’ve never eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

There. I said it.

Every time I tell someone that little tidbit about myself it is met with stares of disbelief: widening eyes, mouth slightly agape, if they are holding a mug sometimes it will fall from their loosened grip and crash to the floor, coffee with the pungent scent of bourbon splashing about (my friends are drinkers)… People look at me as though I were raised on another planet. “How can you have never eaten a PB&J?” they ask. “You’re lying, you liar! Why would you lie like that?”

But it’s true. I’ve never had that staple of American snacks. I don’t think I had a grilled cheese sandwich until I was in my early teens, either. I’m not one for apple pie or bagels and other people find that distressing as well. For that matter, I’ve never watched an entire episode of the Brady Bunch either. This fact is often met with accusations of being a communist sympathizer.

So the question is, what did I eat?

My folks will be the first to tell you that I was an extremely finicky eater. Everything had to be as plain and boring as a meal at Applebee’s. Hamburgers, just the meat and the bun. Pizza, everything peeled off they slice from the cheese and toppings to the sauce- it may as well have been a tortilla with a hint of tomato. No seafood. I hated trying new things. Luckily much has changed in that respect since my childhood and I am a big fan of food. If it walks on God’s green earth, I’ll probably eat it someday.

The snacks I ate as a child were, despite my Orange County upbringing, rooted in my ancestry. With mom and dad at work all day, my brother and I would spend our days away from school with our grandmother. Our snacks were flour tortillas with butter, bean burritos, or maybe a quesadilla from time to time. Nothing takes me back like a flour tortilla heated over the range until it gets a slightly crispy and flakey texture, then smothered with butter and rolled tightly with a napkin at the bottom to keep the butter from dripping out. Sopa de fideo was another one. It’s just a simple noodle soup but the preparation is distinctly Mexican. You take some vermicelli noodles and brown them up in a sauce pan, from there you add some water and tomato sauce or paste or puree or however you want to make it. It can have onions, ground beef, chili, garlic… it can be made any number of ways but I just remember the way my grandma makes it.

My grandmother on my father’s side, whom I see less frequently, is one of the most amazing cooks who has ever existed. Her tortillas are the stuff dreams and clogged arteries are made of. When you throw them on the skillet, usually a blackened cast-iron pan that has a permanent home over one of the burners on any Mexican family stove, you can actually hear the tortilla sizzle from the amount of shortening she uses. Her tamales, gorditas (smaller, fat tortillas that are either topped or filled with meat, cheese, beans, or whatever you like), her refried beans, they’re to die for. And these were just the simple snacks she made. When it came time for the big events, holidays and birthdays, she really went all out.

Of course there are also the little store bought snacks, some of which I really enjoyed, others I did not. While the ice-cream man did drive through the neighborhood we just as often sought the paleta cart at the park after a soccer game or on a sunny afternoon at Leg Lake park. A cool and refreshing Orange Bang (or Lemon Olé or Piña) was the drink of choice at the Green Burrito before it was purchased by Carl’s Jr. At Super A Foods, particularly the one in Pico Rivera, across from Smith Park, one could get some pan dulce, some saladitas, maybe some Nila wafers or choco-milk to accompany your Pan Bimbo… My mom says she used to like the pickled pig’s feet as a child but I just think that is pretty wretched.

So I may not know PB&J and I may have been a late comer to grilled cheese sandwiches, but I knew all about tortillas with butter, bean burritos and the Chapulin Colorado.