The Different Guns in My Life

I am nine or ten years old. I am playing the back of my dad’s flatbed work truck parked outside of our house. It is full of tools, scrap wood and other construction materials. I see what I think is a toy handgun. I pick it up and am surprised with how heavy it is. I want to know if it is real so I decide to fire it into the ground, despite remembering all the warnings adults have given about how dangerous guns are. I aim at the grass beside the truck, point and pull the trigger. Nothing happens. I decide it is fake and put it back down and continue playing. Later on that day, I mention it to my dad and a concerned look spreads across his face. He walks out to his truck and I see him walking over to the trashcan. I can only assume it was a real firearm that was dumped there while he was at a work site.

I am around the same age and my family and I have returned from a trip to Mexico. We are poor and sharing a two-story house with another family, we have the upstairs and they live downstairs. The house is large and has a wrap around balcony on the outside of both floors. Our balcony is where my dad kept his pit-bull named Quico. My parents go outside after we return from our trip to find Quico dead, shot through the head.

I am eight years old and my parents tell me that my oldest sister is leaving for a time. I am extremely close to my sister and don’t understand why she has to leave. She is sixteen and attending the local high school. We are still poor and the high school has developed a dangerous reputation. Many of her friends and classmates and have been shot and or killed in a slew of drive by shootings. After the home of one of her best friends is targeted, my parents make the decision to send her to live with my grandparents in their small Texas town. Later, when I am old enough to understand, my mom explains they it was a really difficult decision, but they feel they made the best decision at the time. I fall into a deep depression after she leaves.

I am in the fourth grade and join the junior Brownie program that is for girls who want to become Girl Scouts. I love the program and look forward to it every week. A teacher named Ms. Garcia runs it. One weekend my mom calls me into the living room and shows me a newspaper clipping. A mentally unstable brother gunned down Ms. Garcia at home, along with her parents. The school does not replace Ms. Garcia and program is cancelled.

I am in high school and in the pick up truck of some friends. We are driving out to the shooting range to shoot guns. The two guys we are with have their sites set on becoming Marines after graduation. My best friend and I at the time take turns firing rifles and pistols. Later that year, both of the guys would end up enlisting and serving in both Afghanistan and Iraq. One loses a leg and eye, and returns home in a wheelchair, but continues to serve in the Marines. The other had several close encounters with death but survives multiple tours. He is currently stationed in Virginia and maintains a wide, personal arsenal. I went to visit him some months ago where I observed the collection first hand. We go to the movies and he takes a handgun out of the console, tucks it into the back of his pants and takes it into the theatre. He mentions the movie theatre shooting in Aurora Colorado as justification for this.

I am 21 years old and spending a week in San Diego California. A month earlier, I was vacationing with a good friend and I met Dave. Dave and I clicked immediately and I return to spend some more time with him. Despite constant phone and email conversations, I still know very little about Dave. He leaves for work one morning and I stay behind and decide to pick up around the house. As I am making the bed, I lift up the mattress to tuck in the sheets. I see a handgun underneath his side of the bed. I pick it up for a moment then quickly place it back. Later on that day, he tells me to not worry about making the bed and I tell him I’ve already seen it. He apologizes for being so careless and the next day the gun is gone.

Many years before I was born, my mom was a single mother of two, struggling to make ends meat. She is working at a meat packing plant, which is majority male. One evening a friend of the family asks her for a ride home. Once he is in the car, he makes advances to her, which she rejects, after which he threatens violence. She reaches down into her boot and pulls out a small pistol, which she holds to the temple of his head. Several co-workers pass by and pull the man out of the car. He never approaches her again.

I am in elementary school and we are living in a rough neighborhood.  I awake to commotion and disoriented from sleep, and am confused about what is going on. I gather that someone is trying to break into the house and my dad emerges from the bedroom with a sawed off shotgun I have never seen before. He holds up to the door and yells a warning. No one breaks in and I never see that gun again, despite looking for it afterwards. I wonder if the warning would have been as effective if he didn’t have the gun?

I am twenty-three years old and have just moved into an apartment downtown by myself. I mention the idea of getting a handgun to my folks and they do not object. A couple of days later, my dad gives me a brown paper bag with a silver pistol. I refuse to accept it because I do not have a license and don’t want to get into trouble if it is stolen or if I end up using it and cannot trace where I got it. I scold my dad and he takes the gun back.

I am in college and watching the news at home. A story comes on about a twenty something kid who was shot at a party. One attendee pulled out a handgun and held it up to his head; the guy who was shot said, “do it” as sort of a dare and the killer did. I recognize the victim as someone I went to high school with who was a year after me. His name was Thomas and he was extremely popular and well liked. His father was a cop.

It is December 14^th, 2012. I am on Twitter and notice news about another school shooting, this time at an elementary school. What would later be known as the Sandy Hook shooting results in the death of twenty young students and six adults.

I am living in Washington DC and am walking to the metro after attending church on Sunday evening. I find a man slumped over, with his face covered in blood. He has been mugged and his jaw has been broken. He cannot remember what happened and the people who robbed him have run away. I wait with him until the police arrive. That evening I post a status about witnessing a random act of violence and the comment section quickly devolves into a pro-gun feed. Friends and siblings are quick to comment on whether it would have happened if the victim had a gun, or why its important to be armed. I am frustrated by what I perceive has general ignorance and delete the post. 

Home is Love

You are laying around your parents house, flipping channels and checking your phone. You are at the tail end of your holiday visit home and time has stopped. No more emails, no more happy hours, life as you knew it up to this point has basically stopped. You spent all day at home, slightly hungover, mostly bored, mulling over whether or not to go out with child hood friends again and eventually deciding against it.

Then your younger brother comes downstairs. He is noisy and begins picking through the pantry. You start to do the same. He asks you to make some ramen noodle and you say no. Ignoring the ice cream float you asked him to make earlier, which he begrudgingly obliged. He says is going to get a coke and you insist on splitting it. He is annoyed with this. He has been in a state of general annoyance since your return. The requests that are so easily fulfilled by your mother are met with resistance from you. You force him to brush his teeth in the morning, you make him drink water, you suggest going for a walk.

Not to say that your mother doesn't do these things. She actually does everything that another human being could possibly do for another, even though your brother is a couple of weeks shy from his 15th birthday. Interactions between your mother and brother mimic almost every stereotype about Latino women and their sons. There is not a suspicion that he is her favorite, it is a well known fact.

Looking back at his childhood, there is a lot you wish you could change. Maybe play more video games, read more books, yell less. You are ashamed of resenting the responsibility, especially now when the "little brother" you have loved and cared for is now a guy. After a year of absence, you have returned to a much taller, wider, slightly stinkier, deep voiced teenager. The young man you once changed diapers for now shaves weekly.

As you both chat and compromise, your brother decides to make his own snack. Chips are pulled out, sodas are poured and he steals your warm spot on the couch. You flip to the History channel and begin watching a documentary about cave paintings. He is one of the few people you know back home who would find this interesting.

Of all the regrets you have, the one thing you are immensely relieved and proud of is his intelligence. There are few subjects that you cannot discuss with him, ranging from history to politics, video games to Internet memes. You are not worried about his future. You felt a strange sense of pride and comfort when meeting his equally nerdy and awkward friends. Comforted by the familiar yet over your head banter about levels and controllers, you note how not one them can look you in the eye when speaking. It is true awkwardness.

.... As you return to the couch you are hit with a feeling. An overwhelming rush of emotion, as silent tears begin to roll down your cheeks. This is love. This is family. No matter how long you are gone, or how old  anyone gets. This place will never change.

An Open Letter to Marc and His Search for a Latina Lover.

Dear Marc,

I came across your ad via Gawker, which told the story of a certain lonesome man's hunt for a Latina girlfriend. My initial jaw-dropping, head slapping reaction aside, your story bothered me on a very real level. I hope you'll take the time to read my thoughts and realize that stunts like this are not only wrong, but do a great dis-service the women you are attempting to woo. 

Firstly, I understand the humor in the kind of ha-ha poor-guy-really-wants-a-girlfriend-kind of way. We are all guilty of a little desperate attempt in the name of love now and then. Luckily, most end before any real damage is done due in part to the lack of discretionary funds you so willingly splurged on this ad.

With that said, a question to begin with: what exactly do you mean when you say Latina? You see, intuition and a lifetime of encountering stereotypes lead me to believe that your tastes most likely lean toward the perverted, over-sexualized, heavily-accented, subservient, Ay Papi version that is so prevalent in today's mainstream media. I would love a deeper explanation of the expectations that come with this label and would be genuinely shocked if they were to overlap with any of the characteristics of the many Latina's I have come to know and love.

Because if you were seriously searching for some sort of romantic partnership, I think we both know there are less tacky, offensive and more eloquent ways to execute that search. But judging by your billboard booty call, my guess is that romance is not high up on your agenda.

You must understand, as a person of color in this country- we are familiar with calling bullshit on the double speak of America's so-called "post-racial" society. A society where off hand comments, snarky jokes and even bluntly offensive ads like yours reveal so much about one's narrow world view. So when I read that all you want for Christmas is a Latina girlfriend, I understand that you are an old sleazeball looking for a brown lay. So flattering.

And because we are most definitely not living in a post-racial society, it remains socially acceptable for you- as a lucky member of the upper echelon of this establishment to publicly display your sexual appetite for Latin American women. With this, you continue in the tradition of objectification, likening an entire group of women to something that can be crossed off Santa's wishlist, to be plucked and offered up to which ever millionaire with a hard on. Forgive me for not jumping at the opportunity to shake, dance, or sexy talk for the big man with a billboard. The fact that you view Latina women as purchasable, racial novelties to be enticed by the prospect of your millions ( as so shamelessly mentioned by Gawker) proves that your respect for us is non-existent.

The sadder fact is that your behavior is a sickening symptom of gross privilege today. All around the world, in "developed" countries from Europe, Australia, Canada, and the US, men, such as your self, with means are keeping the sex tourism industry alive and well. In fact, the sex slave trade is booming within the US and responsible for the despicable, inhuman treatment of thousands upon thousands of my sisters both white and of color who are brought to this country to be sold to similar men with similar "tastes."

It is for these reasons that your specific request is not appreciated. Our communities receive enough outside damage not including the damage we inflict on each other, without the help of your misplaced lust and narrow minded thinking. I suggest moving compassion, self-awareness and respect higher up on your Christmas list, if not for your sake, then for the sake of the women you hoped to love.

Getting to China

I traveled to China last month and am barely getting around to writing about it. Read further if you're interested. This is about the beginning. I'll probably write a little more about the middle and the end  awhile later. 

I decided I was going to China probably the second my brain understood the email-forwarded by my boss- describing the opportunity. The deal was to escort a group of high school students to Beijing in exchange for a "free" flight. I would travel on my own dime for two weeks, meeting up with students in Hong Kong and concluding the trip by arriving safely back in the states.  After a week and half of frantic preparations I departed on Sunday for my "free" trip- stated ironically now with the knowledge of the many hurdles that we were expecting us. The plan included leaving DC on a Sunday afternoon, meeting up with the students in San Francisco, leaving that night and arriving in Beijing Monday morning after a short layover in Hong Kong.

I did not land until Wednesday. My very tentative plans out the window and the students behind on a very busy agenda. I had accomplished the important part of my job which was to arrive safely with 11 living high school students who I had just dragged, pushed, comforted, ordered, cursed, cussed-at, apologized to, and instilled a very real fear of being left behind in foreign country.  The 15 pieces of assorted luggage unfortunately did not get the Beijing memo and remained abandoned in Hong Kong.

Luckily, a few natural leaders arose from the chaos that had become our trip and I deputized these kids to quickly gather all the documents, passports and information that was being requested of me for the lost luggage report. Our gracious hosts had sent a Chinese guide to pick up the kids, who was relieving me of my duties so that I could go off and explore alone. He arrived, gave an exasperated look when he learned about the luggage situation, nudged me firmly into the crowded office- but was unable to help further since I spoke zero Chinese and he no English, and then disappeared.

As I sat in front of who I now consider Saint Airport Lady, I tried to piece together the shit-show that presented it self front of her. She looked at our scrambled itinerary that was caused by an unexpected typhoon in Hong Kong, shaking her head in confusion. Saint Airport Lady proceeded to patiently began to fill out the required paperwork and document everything by hand, making copies and then sending if not to who knows-where-opposite-of-computer land. I thanked her and prepared to never see my belongings again.

After about two hours, the group followed me out past security and we officially entered China. I received some peppered questions "where are going now?", "what about our stuff?", "I don't know, and I don't know." I answered. I deposited the kids off at the first Starbucks we found and went off to track down our driver. I found him after about 10 minutes of walking around aimlessly in the Beijing airport which still amazes me. The coffee and sugar was a much needed mood alter er that gave everyone a happy buzz that helped to numb the general crappiness we exuded. I took a few minutes to make some calls, answer emails from worried parents-including my own mother who cried hysterically after not hearing from me for 48 hours who I quickly hung up on to take another call from another parent.

In less than 72 hours, we had had inadvertently experienced every nightmare travel scenario China Air could throw. Dealing with the unexpected turns acted as a sort of team building exercise, formed by the lack of sleep, home-sickness, familiarity with each other and the fear that uncertainty brings.  If the journey had ended then, it would have consisted of 3 airports, two countries, a day trip through South Korea and a mad dash through a Hong Kong terminal. "I'm not just here to babysit, this is about developing good travel habits, its about limiting the amount of bullshit that comes with traveling by being prepared and attentive." Every piece of advice went out the window when we landed in Hong Kong with less than an hour to board a plane to Beijing.

When I eventually made it to crowded airline desk, people were screaming at one another like the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. I frantically exchanged 12 passports for 12 boarding passes with 3 flustered ladies who urgently repeated "teacher, you must take students and run! run fast, do not stop, you have 20 minutes to catch plane. Hands shaking, I tried to pass out the papers and passports, until two students grabbed the entire stack and began to distribute them quickly. "I need everyone to do something for me now. I need you to forget everything I've said until now about sticking together, I need everyone to run."

I pointed to the punk kid who had given me headaches by sprinting ahead and had throwing general sass in my direction, ordaining him leader. "You are fast and you are smart, I need you to get us to the gate. I will run last to stay with whoever falls behind, but getting there will be up to you." He glowed with responsibility and immediately gathered up the group.

Bursting through tram doors, impatiently darted up and down escalators, and confused spectators as a group of frantic Americans which included a crazy-looking- shouting- brown girl. We arrived at the gate as the last few passengers were boarded, out of breath and full of adrenaline. It would all be over soon. The students would be caught up in their busy agenda and I would be on my own. As we boarded the plane, a few students  compared that leg of our trip to TV show The Amazing Race. I was happy to see what had emerged from our group in the face of the unfamiliar.

The unfamiliar which forces to you engage with that side of yourself that you rarely get to meet. The person who arises under stress, in fear of uncertainty, in frustration - in the awesome presence of the new. That person was my travel companion in China. I was happy to see her, to hear her words come out of my mouth, and to have an experience that was in itself unique to my life.

Obama Gives Hope to Undocumented Youth

Early this morning, the White House announced that President Obama has passed provisions similar to those of the contentious Dream Act by executive order. By doing so, the President bypassed the congressional bickering and partisan politics to provide much needed relief by hundreds of thousands (many estimate more, the undocumented status makes an accurate count difficult to obtain) of "Dreamers" or those who qualify for much needed protections offered in the Dream Act. Dreamers are immigrants who were brought to this country as children illegally. These children grew up to be young people with no choice in the resulting undocumented status. This status caused many Dreamers to lead lives of fear due, leaving many in a standstill, unable to work, travel difficult and college a distant dream. If granted, deferred action status has life changing potential for these young people. To be clear, deferred action is not amnesty, conditional and temporary.  If and when the provisional status is granted, it allows the grantee to obtain the identification necessary to become employed, attend school, pay taxes, drive, and life a life out of the shadows that so many of us take for granted today.

Slow clap for the Administration.

Why I Love this Kid and America Will Too

I've often wondered what would happen if a contestant on one of the many musical talent search shows did something other than sing in English. An amazing performance last night by 10 year old Sebastian De La Cruz on the wildly  popular "America's Got Talent" proved something that I've long suspected: We are ready for it. 

Not only did De La Cruz's performance make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, but I consider it a testament to fact that audiences are hungry for diverse broadcasting.  Recognizing other cultures is something major television shows like this need to do more often for many reasons. Simply having contestants of color is not enough, the audience needs to identify with them. 

Even though I was very impressed by and happy for 16 year old American Idol contestant Jessica Sanchez, I did not identify with her. Was it because she didn't perform in Spanish? Maybe. Was it because, even had she won the title of America's Idol, she might have come to represent everything the music industry attempts to shove down our throats when turn on the radio? Perhaps. Or is it because, unlike the the artists I love the who reflect something of myself back when I see them on stage, 16 year old Sanchez is a sponge who basically karaoke-d (albeit really fucking well) her way through the hits of divas past? Bingo. Although De La Cruz is obviously talented like Sanchez, he succeeded where she failed. He was himself, which no one else can be. His unique and charming personality stirred a reaction in me that was different from what a J-Lo junior in the making did. 

De La Cruz offered the missing piece to the diversity puzzle. He exposed his audience to something different. I doubt everyone in the audience was familiar with Mariachi music. And I KNOW Chente is not something Sharon Osbourne and Howard Stern have on any Itunes playlist. But they and the audience loved it. No one's television exploded because a kid sang  in Spanish, even though some hearts probably did. America can handle a little exposure to something different now and then, and like the judges, maybe even enjoy it. 

Last night's program accomplished something rare in national broadcasting. It successfully and accurately reflected what America actually is: diverse. If a television show profits by claiming to produce "American" anything, I deserve to see what I see everyday as an American walking down the street and sitting at home with my family, especially if that show is nationally broadcast over public airwaves and into my television. 

The sooner big media embraces the reality that many of us live in daily, of being American while retaining pride and interest in the cultures we originate from, the better it will be for everyone. If FOX or any other network care about ratings, they will do less segmenting, such as rolling out absurdities like Fox Latino, and instead just plain add more diversity to regular programming. As a Latino in this country, I don't go to Latino websites for my news, I go to news websites. Viewing a show marketed as a American talent search, and seeing De La Cruz on stage validates my identity as Mexican and an American. It makes me proud to be both.

The bottom line is it's good to see people who look like you on TV, and if your of Latino descent in this country, that just isn't happening enough. And although actual Americans get to eventually vote on whether they like contestants, that's only after they've been screened and filtered by network selected judges and staff. I suspect they are screening for more than just vocal ability. I recommend networks take a cue from whoever is behind "America's Got Talent" and focus on the finding good talent part, leaving America to decide what's American enough. 

Where's The Kleenex?

It was Kristen Wiig's last time on SNL and it was such a sweet goodbye. Not only was she one of my favorite cast mates, but she was also joined on the stage by some of my favorite people. The Arcade Fire sang "She's a Rainbow" while the Foo Fighters, John Hamm, Steve Martin and fellow cast mates danced around her. Much like when giggling cast mates cause one another to break character, Wiig's attempt at keeping it together during the emotional moment tugged on my heartstrings even more. Cue tears.