by Ernest Hogan
Once again, my wife Emily and I are getting ready for another road trip with her brother Michael Theile. I love these crazy excursions out of our usual stamping grounds, Arizona, Aztlán, searching for the latest version of the dream called the United States of America. This time, however, it’s different.
We did trips in the height of the pandemic. It was weird, but in a fun way. Like being in a science fiction story. Something else that is my idea of a good time.
We have traveled during the first Trump administration, which was both dystopian and enlightening.
Now we’re well into Trumptopia 2.0 . . .
I must admit, it’s kinda scary.
Emily and I got the latest flu and Covid shots and I got a passport. What the hell, I may need it for other reasons that keep coming up.
Then the events of the last few months came about.
The passport may be necessary on this side of the border.
Traveling while Chicano never has been an issue in the past, but now . . .
People have been doubting my American citizenship all my life.
I’ve resented it every time. Isn’t my SoCal accent enough? What makes you think you look more American than I do, paleface?
There could be another “national emergency” and the National Guard could be sent into a part of the Wild West that we’re passing through.
It might be like a scene from my new story “Once Upon a Time in a Mass Deportation”:
“We stopped this guy at the checkpoint, asked him for his ID, then things got . . .” Rodriguez paused and gulped.
“Weird,” said Garza.
Sarge looked the Tacoma man over and got a sharp-toothed grin for his trouble.
“Okay, okay,” the Sergeant said, “how weird?”
“Well, first,” Garza handed over a card. “Take a look at his ID.”
Sarge grabbed and squinted. “Pop-o-ca—”
“Popocatepetl.” The moustache stretched again. It started Po-po. The tl sounded like a t and the l was swallowed.
Sarge’s nostrils flexed like he smelled something awful.
“Muldoon?”
“Yeah, that’s my last name.”
“Isn’t that Irish?”
“Sure is.”
“But Popoca–uh . . .”
“Aw, just call me Popo, it’s easier.”
“Isn’t that Spanish?”
“No, it’s Nahuatl.”
Sarge took a deep breath. “Nah-what?”
“It’s the language the Aztecs spoke,” interjected Rodriguez.
“They still do.” Muldoon said it with a smirk.
“So, you’re an Irish Aztec?” asked Sarge.
“Sorta,” said Muldoon. “But I consider myself a Chicano.”
Sarge squinted again. “Yeah. You do look more like a Mexican than an Irishman.”
“I’ve been told that.”
“How did you get the last name Muldoon?”
“My great-great-great–I’m really not sure how many greats– grandfather was Irish.”
Sarge shook his head. “How did that happen?”
“He jumped ship in San Francisco, and ended up in New Mexico–one of the New Mexico Irish, you know, like Billy the Kid.”
Sarge’s brows made a V between them. “And this is your ID?”
“My Arizona driver’s license. Says right there.”
“That would make you seventy,” said Sarge.
“And you don’t look that old . . .” He turned to Rodriquez and Garza.
“Run a check on him. See if he’s registered for the draft.”
Rodriguez winced.
Muldoon shrugged. “Nobody knows what to do with an Aztec leprechaun.”
Not bad. Wonder if I can find someone crazy enough to publish the whole story? Or will it just get me deported?
Like a proper Xicanxfuturist and Father of Chicano Science fiction, I choose to boldly go into the strange new world. If I get in trouble, I’ll scream bloody murder across several social media platforms.
Buhahahahahaha!
Ernest Hogan wants you to buy his books while you still can. Buy Xicanxfuturism: Gritos for Tomorrow / Codex I, too (Codex II will be out in February with his new Paco Cohen, Mariachi of Mars story, “A Wild and Wooly Road Trip on Mars”).
1 comment:
Always a treat Ernie.
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