Chicanonautica: An Immodest Proposal for a Xicanxfuturist Holiday

by Ernest Hogan

Just when it looked like they were going to forget about us Chicanos and go blowing up the world, we get a bombshell bullseye right in La Cultura.

 

I’m talking about the César Chávez revelations.

It’s amazing how fast the bureaucratic entities got to cancelling. Why couldn’t they do that to the perpetrator in the White House? But I’m not here to complain about double standards in law enforcement, I’m dedicating this post to the ruined holiday and what to do with the mangled remnants, and offer some Xicanxfuturist visions.

César Chávez Day was always awkward. Cinco de Mayo was hijacked by the alcoholics (there are a number of Aztec gods dedicated to alcohol consumption with appropriate rituals that could be revived, but that's a whole other pendejada). The truth is, nobody ever knew what to do or C. C. Day. Barbecue? Tacos? Too bad there’s no TV coverage of the ancient ball game that is undergoing a revival in the Yucatán . . .

The problem was César’s saintly image. It was always supposed to be serious business. There aren’t many pictures of him smiling. How are we supposed to have any kind of fun?

The media and academia packaged him as their token Chicano: “See kids, he believed in nonviolence, so resist any genetic predisposition you may have to stabbing anyone. Now, back to the wonderful story of Western Civilization . . .”

We could honor Dolores Huerta, Raquel Welch, Linda Ronstadt, Gloria Anzaldúa, and other Chicanas. And what about remembering Frida Kahlo, Claudia Sheinbaum, and even Spaniard Olga Casado and the New Wave of women who are rocking the world of bullfighting?

There have been a helluvalot of Chicanos—and Chicanas!—who have done a lot of amazing things. Heroic things. Things that are just plain interesting. 

As a writer I find it all great material. It’s what makes my work so original.

And not just heroes to worship—I personally believe that’s a bad idea. We don’t need no stinking cults of personality. Why not celebrate us?

Farmworkers Day? Sí Se Puede Day? Chicano Day?  Chicana Day? Xicanxfuturist Day? Hmm . . .

Then, as I was brainstorming this piece, Arizona Highways came out with its April 2026 issue "Celebrating Mexican Heritage in Arizona.” And right there on the cover ESCARAMUZA! Check out Anita Snow’s article, “Reins Supreme," about teams (with the Amazonas and Corazón as part of their names) based in Phoenix. It’s got gorgeous photos by Adriana Zehbrauskas.

For those of you who don't know about the sport, it’s the female

sector of charrería, Mexican rodeo. (Didn’t the cowboy thing start with Mexican vaqueros? What language is the word rodeo, anyway?) Eight charras (more than cowgirls) in colorful adelita dresses (¡Viva La Revoluçión!), riding sidesaddle, come at each other in a dangerous way that will get your adrenaline pumping faster than any feature-length Hollywood horse opera.

Gets me fantasizing about the Surrealistic Burrito Western of My Dreams . . . How about a climactic scene with a rapist trapped in the middle of all those charging hooves?

Maybe, if we don’t let the fascists have their way, there will be coverage of a Dolores Huerta Escaramuza Tournament on March 31 and maybe combined with an ancient ball game championship and some toreras practicing their art. The fiesta of the future!

Ernest Hogan is busy with the business of being a Xicanxfuturist and the Father of Chicano Science Fiction.

Holiday Memoria Snapshots

Holiday Memoria Snapshots

By Amelia M.L. Montes y "La Bloga" Familia----

Felíz Navidad! Happy Hanukkah! Happy Kwanzaa!

Today’s post showcases our “La Bloga” writers. I asked them to send in their holiday December memorias from the past. “Send me a snapshot of what you remember of this time of year,” was my request. And "La Bloga" writers obliged. Below we have poetry, story, memories.

I wish all of you, Queridas y Queridos “La Bloga” readers, a lovely holiday. Enjoy these:

Michael Sedano: Xmas 1969—

Christmas in Tokyo means little to the locals. The Ginza's façades are all lighted up in glowing neon, but that is normal every night here. What is not part of the normal landscape are the two US tourists jostling shoulder-to-shoulder among the thousands of souls summoned here by John and Yoko to demand peace and the US get out of Vietnam. Squadrons of youth chanting cadence snake through the crowds. Wearing shiny black piss-pot helmets they dance off the curb into the street then back to the sidewalk, weaving through the crowd. Their kendo sticks--thick menacing dowels of hard wood that crush faces and shatter limbs--like banners mark their progress through the night. My wife holds my arm tightly and I lead our way through the protestors. A passing snake dance leader spots us. He calls a command and in a moment we are forced to stop, surrounded by shiny helmets and glinting black eyes that regard us grimly. I look at the kendo sticks waving lazily yet on guard. Though I was pugil stick champion in basic training, I know I cannot defend her. “Get out of Vietnam!” the leader growls. He knows me--I have the look--obviously a G.I. That I’m out with my best gal on a festive evening means nothing. I am a United States soldier, tonight’s target. Barbara nudges in closer. The encircling shiny helmets sparkle as their dancing catches the reflections off the signs and overhead street lights. The crowds look away and move along. We are alone. I lift my free hand, two fingers spread in a “V” and declare, “Peace. Get out of Vietnam!” “Hah!” The leader shouts. He barks a command and the snake dancers unwind our encirclement to dance away into the shadows.

Lydia Gil: Here is a snapshot, from 1986, Mayagüez, Puerto Rico:

My holiday memories are full of music, food and drink... In one word: parrandas!

I remember a particular one, senior year of high school...

A friend escaping through a window in the middle of the night so he could join the parranda, then group effort to push the car down the driveway, engine off so as not wake up the family... only to realize the keys were locked inside. Wow! That was 1986. Maybe the coquito will take me back... ¡Felices fiestas!

Ernestoid Hoidaze snapshot:

Sometimes it snows in Phoenix this time of year.

Sometimes flakes boil into puffs of steam when you catch them in your hand. Sometimes snow caps cactus like a Christmas card from Aztlán.

Buñuelos by Melinda Palacio

When they are done

Christmas crunches in your mouth.

Think of a sweet tortilla, deep

fried with cinnamon and sugar

left over from last week’s ojarascas,

those lard cookies linger

in the belly during a week

of festive cooking, chocolates, and ham.

After the tamales, before midnight of the New Year,

it’s time to stretch buñuelos on your knee.

Everyone’s gone to champagne parties.

My grandmother hands me the masa disks.

I paper every surface of the house, run

back to the kitchen with urgency.

She rolls them out at a steady, swift pace.

Buñuelos need to dry before they are fried.

An eerie sight for the night.

Melted Dali clocks on chairs,

on the dining room table,

on dish towels over the sofa,

some buñuelos stretched too thin

like old torn sheets. December ends.

A New Year begins with last year’s green

Tupperware filled with crisp buñuelos.

René Colato Lainez’s first Christmas memory:

This was my first navidad memory in the United States. I was in school and the teacher, Mrs. Allen, told the class to do a Christmas card. I drew some poinsettias and a candle in my card. Now I was ready to write. I tried to write “felices fiestas” but my friends in the classroom said that “happy parties” did not sound right. Then I remember that in El Salvador, we said “felices pascuas” at Christmas night. So I wrote “happy poinsettias”. My friends laughed at me. The teacher looked at my card and I told her that in El Salvador, “felices pascuas” was our greeting to say “feliz navidad.”

When the school bell rang, Mrs. Allen told me, “Don’t go yet. Do you know who José Feliciano is?”

I nodded. “He is a singer, un cantante.”

“Yes, he is! Have you heard his Christmas song?”

I shook my head.

She smiled and opened a drawer. “Let’s listen to this song.”

Mrs. Allen played the song, and José Feliciano’s voice filled the classroom.

I started singing with Mrs. Allen:

“Feliz Navidad, Feliz Navidad,

Prospero Año y Felicidad.

I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas,

I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas

from the bottom of my heart."

“I got it! Merry Christmas,” I said to Mrs. Allen.

“Merry Christmas, René,” she said. “You can take the tape home and learn the song. Tomorrow you can teach it to all the students. We will sing it for the Christmas show.”

“Yes, Teacher,” I told her, and ran to catch the school bus. I had extra homework to do, to teach the song to Mamá and Papá and also to my brothers in El Salvador. I would call them and say, “I know a song in English. Listen.” They would be very proud of me!

Rudy Ch. Garcia

Here's my Xmas card for this year, dealing with requests [not for gifts} and deserving {not of gifts] and gifts possessed.

111 4 12 25 11

I've asked many things of Spanish-English-speaking children:

I asked them to grasp their pencils correctly, no matter their thin fingers shivered from aching empty stomachs.

I asked them to ponder their readings, no matter they only fell sleep at midnight, their eyes mesmerized by video game explosions.

I asked them to mentally compute their addition, no matter monsters filled their heads, crawling out of bleaker pits of poverty.

However, I've never asked

whether they mattered.

Because, out of their billions of wonderings,

they never asked me why they didn't deserve a full stomach, or their own room or bed, or

prosperity.

They just knew.

In two tongues,

and one distinct mind.

tatiana de la tierra: four snapshots—

--My father hides in back bedroom during the party and only comes out to grab food & run back in. He won't socialize. In the morning, we (us kids) bring him his presents to bed and make him open them. (He had Christmas childhood trauma so could never participate....)

--We were really poor growing up and Christmas was a time to make up for the lack of the whole year. A lot of the presents were necessities. Then, when there was money to be had, we had more presents than anyone I knew, and real ones this time. My mother was (is) very generous with many, not just the immediate family. Presents piled around the Christmas tree, tons of them.

--We had a policy, that you had to wait until midnight to open the presents. I guess cuz that's when baby Jesus was supposedly born? This was the rule for most of my life, until it was broken a few years ago, which really pissed me off. Anyway, at midnight, the passing out of the presents was orchestrated, and everyone had their own pile. The piles were big and there was huge frenzy of everyone ripping and yelling at once. Like a happy chaos. In the morning, the house was trashed with presents & food etc. Like the house had a Christmas hangover.

--My mom used to make these huge & intricate pesebres. She used textiles, rocks, glitter, lights, wadded up paper, miniature houses and people, trees, etc (made of clay, brought from Colombia) to create mountains , rivers, streets, neighborhoods, and the Jesus-in-a-manger scene. They were really elaborate, a work of folk art.

Manuel Ramos

Christmas always meant making the rounds to the two grandma houses on Christmas Eve. Antonia was the great cook and so we enjoyed homemade tamales, several pies and cakes, and sometimes a dinner of ham, fideo, and beans. Her celebration was subdued, calm, almost spiritual. Filomena was the authority over a massive brood of people - so many cousins, aunts, and others whose connections to the family I never learned. More food (homemade tamales again, green chile, menudo) and waiting until midnight to open the presents. By that time, the kids were wiped out or high on cookies, candy canes, and Christmas frenzy.

Filomena's house turned into a wild and noisy party. But the chaos was instantly silenced by Filomena when she placed the Christ child in the manger of her extensive nacimiento.

We all prayed for a minute or two (the kids eyeing the huge pile of presents under the big tree). The party started again with the rush to the presents. Paper, ribbons, and bows flew through the air; kids screamed; parents beamed. And then we all slept late the next day.

Amelia M.L. Montes: los tamales snapshot

The tamale factory line in the kitchen began in the early morning the day before Navidad. We were instructed by mi abuela, mama, and tias to sit and place the filling (whether it was pollo, cerdo, raisin sweet filling) in the middle, then fold the cornhusks just right and tie them on the ends.

It was never tiring because of all the chisme y cuentos that also went around the table. You wanted to stay and help make the tamales because then you’d find out all sorts of stuff you didn’t know—like the time tia Chala talked about the cemetery where tio Chucho was buried and how during a flood, all the coffins began floating down the street like a parade. She said they found tio Chucho’s coffin, but he wasn’t in it. All of us stopped folding the tamales when she said, “pero he wasn’t in it.” “Pues que paso,” we asked. Chala never missed a beat in folding her tamal: “They had put the body in another box,” she said. “He was in the box with la fulana Cristina!” We gasped. “Yes, Cristina,” Chala said, tying the tamal in her hands. “Finally united in death because they were married to other people in life.” Who knows if this was true or not, but it kept us making those tamales!

Check out Manuel Ramos’ post on December 30^th. Our “La Bloga” familia will reunite again for a “Best Books” listing! Saludos y Felices Pascuas, Hanukkah, y Kwanzaa!

Chicanonautica: Lost in Los Holidaze

I’ve long thought of this time of year as Los Holidaze. We all seem to end up staggering around in a daze, and there are a lot holidays happening. It’s more than just the consumer orgy in honor of Jesus Christ.

This is the first Christmas that I have not worked retail since the year 2000. It’s quiet, being away from the cash registers. And I haven’t had to listen to any of that annoying music.

Besides, this post is going up on December 22, the day of the Winter Solstice, and there are all kinds of pagan rituals that need to be taken care of as the planet goes over the hump and gets closer to the Sun.

I’ve recognized Día de la Virgen de Guadalupe. Hanukka is rocking right along. And good luck to Kwanzaa, being new, like Guadalupe, and still getting established. And be sure to remember Día de lot Reyes Magos, on January 6.

For the record, I’m all for celebrations, and getting together with friends and family. And the more the merrier.

December 11 through 30 are the 16th Aztec month; the festival is Atemoztli, the Coming Down of Waters, in honor of the Tláloques -- the small assistants of Tláloc, the Rain God (hm, a generous, fat, jolly guy with dwarf helpers -- could this be a tropical version of Santa Claus?) and the divine mountains: Popocatépetl, Ixtaccihuatl, Mount Tláloc, and Matalcueye. Most people would engage in bloodletting. All men were expected to abstain from sex -- they didn’t say anything about women. Images of Tláloc and the Tláloques were made from amaranth dough, and priests would come into people’s homes, ritually “killing” the images with weaving sticks. Sometimes it was acceptable for women to do the “killing.” Chosen nobles were adorned with feathers and either sacrificed in the mountains, or drowned in one of Tláloc’s sacred pools.

So there’s no reason go get hung up in traditions that are getting stale. Try something different. The gods will thank you.

Ernest Hogan has a story in the science fiction anthology Alien Contact, and has recently been reminded that his Sheriff Joe Arpaio-inspired story “Burrito Meltdown” is still available (while supplies last) in the Angel Body and Other Magic for the Soul.

Culinary Nurturing

Ahhh, November in Vermont, so much to enjoy. An early winter dusting coats the mountains like sugar. The whir of freshly balanced snow tires accompanies every drive. The crisp scent of wood smoke hangs in the air. And lest we forget, the impending bacchanalia of poultry-based family feasts: Thanksgiving. This year we are having our third Thanksgiving at home, just the three of us. It was originally our son Carlos’ idea, and though part of it is that we are a tight little trio of a family, it is also that we will be guaranteed the finest feast imaginable (not to mention leftovers to enjoy). You see, my husband is a wonderful cook. I am the envy of my friends as he does all the cooking, and takes great joy in nurturing us with his elaborate but classic meals. It is from the reaction of my friends that I know this is not a common trait amongst husbands, stereotypes aside. Though I am grateful for this as it speaks to the quality of our partnership—each labor divided by our gifts not our gender—the most wonderful part is the influence it is having on our son, Carlos. It all started three years ago…

That Saturday afternoon I came home from a trip to Burlington, put down my things and went to find the guys to kiss them hello. I walked in to the living room and found them sitting on the couch, side-by-side, eating chips and watching the food network. They were arguing about which show a certain recipe for braised pork tenderloin had been on.

“It was on the bobble-head show last week!” my son said (they have their own names for the individual shows—it seems they think a particular female chef’s head is too big for her body).

“No, it was the Southern woman who puts her fingers in the food!” was my husband’s retort.

Now, it was confusing enough that I felt I had stepped in to an alternate universe—there was usually cartoons or sports on at that time of day—but I also gleaned from the conversation that there was a history of cooking show watching between them.

The following week Carlos asked me to take him to the grocery store. “I want to make you guys lunch” he announced. After a long stint at the Price Chopper, we returned home and he promptly threw us out of the kitchen. When he called us in a half an hour later, he set before us a meal of tortellini en brodo, with baked croquettes made from fresh parmesan cheese and spices which you floated on top of the soup. My husband and I just stared at each other across the table. As I relished the delicious meal I asked Carlos, “Where did you learn this?” To which he replied, “On a cooking show I watched at Donna’s.” It seems he was also watching the shows at his caregivers in the afternoon.

Now those of you who know have read my earlier columns already know that Carlos is an athletic, linebacker-sized guy who—as most boys his age are—is very concerned about his reputation as a masculine manly man. Luckily, however, he has managed to escape the stereotypical perception of the kitchen being a woman’s domain and is heading towards a possible career as a chef (or at least a very happy future spouse). Yes, I am concerned about the amount of time they spend watching those damn shows—they really are addictive, my friend Lisa calls them “food porn”—but it seems I am to reap the benefits as well.

So as we approach this season of giving thanks, I find myself grateful that my son has inherited his father’s joy in the nurturing of family and friends. Perhaps some of you enjoy cooking and see it as a way to show your love and affection to those you care about too. But if you are gastronomically-challenged but fortunate enough, as I am, to have a culinary-nurturer hosting your Thanksgiving celebration, you can certainly return the favor by enjoying their gifts and praising them eloquently in between mouthfuls. That is, in fact, a form of nurturing, is it not? As for me, I’m sure as always, this third Thanksgiving at home will be one to remember as it will be lovingly prepared by my two chefs, and it will give me much to be thankful for.

I am also thankful for you, gentle La Bloga readers, and may you all be nurtured this holiday season.

Doce días de mis Krismas - Day 1

the Spanglich version
Posted each day beginning Dec. 15th

(Esa's voice in red; Ese's voice in black)

On the día de mis Krismas
My true love gave to me,
The homage of a bare tree.

"Esa, it's almost midnight. We're opening presents already. You gotta come out o' the kitchen."
"What'd your friends from work give you?"
"They pitched in and got me that ... quesadilla thing."
"What--they couldn't find a comál? Well, at least you got a white elephant for next year. Did they like the subscriptions to Chola Chichis?"
"Nah, they already subscribe. They said they'd pass it along. Speaking of white elephants, your mom wants to clean up Rinó--, I mean the Krismas tree--and needs that vacuum she gave you."
"She's just checkin' I didn't garage-sale it. Quick! Get it out of the attic and scratch off the fifty-cent tag. Come back when you're done."

* * *

"Ho, ho, ho, Esa!"
"Oh! I thought it was Santa come early. You sound just like him."
"Ho, ho, ... holy shit, what happened in here?"
"The pinche fridge went out, as if we didn't have enough bills. I'm trying to save the food, find a place outside for the frozen, clean the mess up."
"But it's Krismas! Forget it. I say we just eat--everything."
"Including my mom's chile?"
"I'll serve it to Pepe and Real Butch."
"I got a better idea. This Krismas, you work the kitchen, and I'll serve. I keep checking on you and let you know what's happening."
"But I wouldn't know what to do!"
"You watch the girls at that preppie tequila place and the chichi bar, right?"
"A little."
"As little as my nalgas. Do like them, just with more clothes on."
"Okay, I guess I could handle it."
"See you after midnight."

* * *

"Oh good, Esa--you're back. What was that crashing sound? Did Santa come?"
"No, your boracho Tío knocked over Rinócero."
"Already? Tell him to get the cuña'os' older kids to stand it up."
"Bueno ... Oh, it's okay. Real Butch put it up."
"I told you she was."
"Guess what? I got one thing I really wanted this year, besides mis uñas done. Pepito took a shower!"
"I knew there was something different 'bout that boy. I thought it was the cologne you loaned him."
"That wasn't cologne. I gave him the stuff you cover up dog pee with."
"But we don't have a dog."
"Not so loud! ... No amá, we don't have a cat, either. ... My mom says she thinks there's some animal hiding in Rinócero."
"Tell her it's probably just some rata chata."
"I gotta go; sounds like mom's vacuum's plugged up."
"So what, it doesn't suck?"

* * *

"Ese, you'll be glad to hear it wasn't un ratón, just una ardilla. And your kids finally showed up."
"My kids?"
"Yeah, you remember: the little pork butts?"
"Oh, them. How they look?"
"Daughter's fine, but your son brought one of those magazine cholas as his date. He claims she even cooks."
"How's she dressed?"
"Don't worry, she must have the day off. But we have another problem. Your daughter says somebody was naughty and already opened our presents."
"How could she tell?"
"From the lousy taping job and the beer stink. See? You shoulda let me do it."
Ring! Ring!
"I'll get it. ... Hello? … It's your mom. She wants to know if the photo's really of you. She says it makes you look real short."
"Tell her that's the way Chicanos mostly come. It's her fault for marrying my dad. If she wanted tall, she shoulda picked a gringo."
"… She says it was abuela's idea, 'cause your dad drove that chido Chevy."
"It was a Ford, and it always needed a valve job."
"I'll check on you later."
"But, Amor--"

* * *

"What was that music a while ago?"
"The doorbell."
"Nice. We should play it more often."
"Not likely; for that our gente would have to get out of their cars."
"Quién fue?"
"Old man Ramirez came to tell us the roof lights got loose and said to give you a big dedazo. So here."
"You don't have to be tan, tan ... demonstrative."
"You been reading different magazines?"
"Yeah, Playboy. And, who was honkin' so much?"
"The priest. I served him some fideo. He wants to know if he can give your seat away."
"Tell him Allah said I can go next Easter…. He say anything else?"
"Yeah, he lied and said the tree was painted real nice."
"Speaking of mentirosos, I haven't seen any of the cuña'os' older kids."
"They're out back in the work shed, smoking mota."
"Well, at least they'll have an appetite for all this food. Oh, and who's making those awful sounds?"
"Everybody! They're singing the 12 Days of Krismas."
"After this year, I think we should make up some new lyrics for it."
"There you go again, always thinkin'... Now, hurry up, or you'll miss everything."

* * *

"Híjole, that was some Krismas party, Ese!"
"So I heard. You'll be glad to hear your lottery numbers didn't come up."
"You got any other pieces of good news?"
"Uno más: here's your special present, de mí."
"Lousy tape job. Who opened it?"
"I did. Forgot who it was for."
"Oh, Cariño, just what I always wanted--for the past four years! I didn't know they still made 'em."
"I 'membered, Esa; I was thinkin'.
"You always are, Cariño. Maybe your unlucky dry spell is over."
"After everybody's asleep, wanna go lie under Rinócero and make some stars?"
"No, the pipes came loose, and we'd just get rust all over us. But we could thank our lucky stars: nobody got into chingasos today, there was plenty of comida, and we got to spend some quality time with our familia."
"Seguro que sí, Cariña. You know, I think it was even . . . a Merry Krismas!"

* * *

ALL TOGETHER NOW, from the top:

On the doce días de mis Krismas
My true love gave to me,
12 numbers numbing ...
11 peppers pepping ...
10 Fords a-beepin ...
9 chicas prancing ...
8 shades a-looming ...
7 bods a-lying ...
6 misas' crying ...
5 bronzen things ...
4 thawing stars ...
3 grinchy friends ...
2 mortal loves ...
And the homage of a bare tree.

[fin]

© Rudy Ch. Garcia

Since this is an ongoing work of love, more than a work of art, the author would appreciate overall comments about its progress. How close to, or far from, capturing the spirit of a Chicano Christmas do you think it is?

In any event, I'd like to add to my fellow Bloguistas' Christmas felicitaciones. May your holidays be as benignly eventful as Esa and Ese's.

Feliz Navidad!

Doce días de mis Krismas - Day 3

the Spanglich version
Posted each day beginning Dec. 15th

(Esa's voice in red; Ese's voice in black)

On the 3rd día 'til mis Krismas
My true love gave to me,
3 grinchy friends ...

"Where we gonna get gifts this late? You shoulda told me earlier you drew names at work. "
"I forgot. I need something for 3 of 'em. "
"Three white elephants. Why do they call 'em that, anyway?"
"Can't 'member. Elephant? 'Cause you don't really need one?"
"We could use an elephant--to eat up Rinócero's plastic needles that're droppin' like moscas."
"I wish you wouldn't call ..."
"What'd these so-called friends give you last year?"
"Let's see: a cheap Aztec church key, a plastic mono, a used utility knife."
"No tamale openers, huh?"
"Not unless you count the knife."
"What'd you give them?"
"Nothing; I forgot. Actually, I was sick the year before so we gotta make up for three."
"Chingaus! And what's this mierda about WE? ... Could one of them use a big Krismas tree?"
"Not time for joking. What about that cosa your mom gave you you said sucked?"
"It was a miniature vacuum; it was supposed to suck."
"Oh. ... Let's see--three presents, three ... wise men. Got any gold, frankin--?"
"No time for jokes.
"Three, three ... three dozen tamales!"
"They're your friends, not mine."
"Well then, three subscriptions to ..."
"Chichi magazines--great, the perfect Krismas gift! So they think they're the muy macho types?"
"One's more macho than the others. She's Real Butch."
"Una lesbiana?"
"No, that's just her nickname: Real Butch."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I forgot."
"Well, anyway, I guess that would take care of your elephants, qué no?"
"Actually, no. I forgot the ..."

(Continued on Day 2.)

© Rudy Ch. Garcia

One last Thanksgiving thought

Chicano families come in all colors, sizes, shapes and tendencies. My own is scattered across Texas and the West, with my one daughter finishing school in Syracuse, NY. My wife's siblings and their families are usually who I spend holidays with. In some ways they're typical of the heights and breadth of where some Chicanos have "arrived" in this society, with successful careers and the accompanying foibles of American families.

Coming from a poorer background, I'm still amazed each year by the seeming opulence in their Xmas gift giving. NFL, Nike, Nikon, Macey's, and Bratz owe much of their bottom line to what appears under this family tree; there's no evidence of economic crises or recession to be found.

I wonder how many of them have multiple credit cards and how many of those are maxed out, how many have ARMs about to reset to usury levels, how many are too few paychecks close to bankruptcy. Worse, I wonder how many would take failures of the U.S. economy personally, and blame themselves for a layoff, cutback or an employer going under. At least like in many Chicano families, they have a tradition of harboring potentially homeless family members.

And as in many families, each year a prayer is uttered at the Thanksgiving meal, inevitably thanking God, Jesus and religion for their bounty. It always bothers me--not just as an unbeliever--that they relinquish their accomplishments to an institution that's historically profited from Chicano-Mexican faith, while they likewise endure the burdensome repercussions of that faith in the form of denying girls, even women, the right of choice.

Anyway, this year I penned the piece below, to read at the family dinner. I wasn't able to include something about the Iraq War, the volunteer soldiers whose lives, minds and bodies are being ruined at the same time millions of Iraqis pay the price of the U.S. invasion. Nor did I say anything about the millions, if not billions, of people who justifiably hate us for what we've allowed loose on the world.

I don't say these words were overwhelmingly well received, although several thanked me for them. I share them here as an after-Thanksgiving thought, in the hopes it'll inspire others to come up with their own, more appropriate, messages for holiday "prayers" in these times.

What Is Thanksgiving about?

When you're surrounded by delicious foods made by family and friends, it's tempting to think Thanksgiving is about stuffing your belly till it's ready to burst.

When you've got a good-paying job, it's easy to think Thanksgiving is about getting ready to spend way too much money on material things to overflow the space under the Xmas tree.

When you're sitting in a house that's warm and inviting, it's comfortable to think Thanksgiving is about being grateful for a fancy TV or new video game.

When you've got the cash to eat in restaurants and drink in bars whenever you want, it's simple to think Thanksgiving is about how special you are to deserve all of this.

And when you have a good car that gets you to work every day, it's exciting to think Thanksgiving is about wondering how soon you can get an even fancier new one.

I don't know if Thanksgiving is about being grateful we're not one of the hungry, unemployed, homeless, unlucky children or adults who have to walk the icy streets to school or work. It's probably not just about remembering those poor souls for one minute and feeling a little sorry for them.

Maybe Thanksgiving is about thanking our parents, wives, husbands and kids for giving us the sense to take care of our bodies, to keep ourselves from getting into debt and going into bankruptcy, to keep us from loving special things more than special people, to keep us from becoming addicts or drunks, and to keep ourselves safe on the road and in our daily lives. That way, we're here next year--safe, healthy, comfortable, and at peace--to give even more thanks for whatever Thanksgiving is about.

Rudy Ch. Garcia