Hispanic Fanatic

When my wife and I relocated to the West Coast, the moving company that we hired sent a middle-aged white man to perform the estimate and sell us on his organization. He wore a tie and laughed a lot, even when nothing was particularly funny.

The actual movers were four Latinos. They did not wear ties.

The chief of the crew spoke perfect English, but his three assistants communicated with each other in a dialect so thick (deep Central America is my guess) that I barely recognized it as Spanish.

Although they had the far more important (and substantially more grueling, miserable, and labor-intensive) job, their take-home pay could not have approached that of the laughing man in the tie, despite our cash tip and the Coke Zeroes that we supplied to them.

At one point, they carried boxes piled high, Sherpa style, with the weight pressing on their spines. They seemed embarrassed to ask for water, and went about their jobs with a focus that I’ve rarely witnessed in the white-collar world.

Now, I certainly don’t want to get into the whole plight-of-the-proletariat aesthetic. Nor do I want to glamorize their hardscrabble existence in some kind of Steinbeckian ode to the nobility of the working class. For all I know, they’re assholes.

In truth, as movers, they kind of sucked. They were hours late both picking up our stuff and dropping it off at our new place. I can only presume that they are afflicted with Hispanic time (that’s the subject of a whole other post).

More disturbing, there was enough damage to our stuff that we had to file a claim for reimbursement. The scratches, dents, and outright destruction that they wrought upon our possessions were, I believe, direct consequences of the Latino work ethic (I’ll explain what I mean by that in yet another post later).

In any case, my original point is that in an ideal society, these exhausting and humbling jobs would be performed by teenagers of all social classes – kids who are at the height of their physical powers and can arguably be said to be “building character” (although I despise that term). Such jobs would not be done by tired guys just trying to eke by, with little hope of ever going further in life. These men are not going to take anything away from the experience except muscle aches.

Will their children follow in their footsteps and sign on for a lifetime of backbreaking manual labor? Or will they take advantage of their parents’ decision to come to America, and someday be the ones to sit back, negotiate with customers, and laugh and laugh?

The lawn mower went for twenty bucks…

Because of our recent cross-country excursion, my wife and I needed to get rid of every item that had no bearing on our new life (eg, we don’t need a snow shovel in a Los Angeles apartment) or that wasn’t absolutely vital or that didn’t bring us enormous quantities of joy. So a couple of weeks before we left, we held our first moving sale.

The end table went for ten dollars…

It was liberating to dispose of so much junk that had cluttered our lives. And the cash was nice, although when we figured out how many hours we poured into the effort, we figure that we made minimum wage. Perhaps it’s a question for the “Freakonomics” guys: Does anyone actually make decent money having a garage sale?

My neighbor carted off the entertainment center…

In any case, the biggest surprise of the weekend was the makeup of our customers. I had assumed that most of the people who frequented rummage sales were old women eager to interact with strangers or suburban guys looking for good deals on power tools or middle-class people who think it’s fun to haggle. Indeed, many of those types of people showed up.

The Asian tea set went to a pre-adolescent boy who was either shopping for his mother or is gay…

However, among the first people to saunter onto our lawn that warm Saturday morning was a quiet Latino who milled about for a moment before asking how much the microwave oven was. It was clear that his English was fledgling, so I had to call upon my piss-poor Spanish to make the sale. He seemed delighted at the everything-must-go price.

Minutes later, a car pulled up, and several men spilled out. They were clearly trabadorjes, and they spoke excitedly about the power vac and the ladder and the box of bungee cords. To pay for their acres of items, they presented me with a crisp hundred-dollar bill. Obviously, they had just been paid, in cash under the table, and our moving sale was their Home Depot and Target and Tiffany’s. They culminated the transaction by buying one of my guitars, which I assumed would offer them some entertainment in their shared tiny apartment.

My ex-boss took the fake Christmas tree…

Throughout the day, more of my Hispanic brethren showed up. Latinas looking for costume jewelry and little girls enamored with baubles for a quarter and burly men who bought three t-shirts for a dollar – they poured over our discards eagerly. All seemed thrilled with our approach to pricing.

And I don’t know whether I was happy that we could help people who were obviously short on cash, or saddened that whole families of Hispanics had to resort to yard sales to fulfill basic needs.

The pooper scooper went for a buck…

My wife and I didn’t have the sale as a backdoor to charity. But that’s what it felt like at times. And the recipients were people who looked like me, but who were still trying to figure out how to achieve the privileged position of getting rid of all this junk rather than buying it.

The last things to go were a pair of folding chairs that a middle-aged Latino lugged to his car. After that, the sun began to set, and my wife and I carted the rejects inside, where they would sit until we donated them to someone who really needed them.

So I’ve arrived at my new place in Los Angeles. As such, I hope to get back to regular blog updates soon, although for the time being, my top priority will be digging us out of the heap of boxes that overwhelm our home.

The whirlwind experience of finding an apartment featured myriad phone calls and frantic acceleration through the streets of LA, with the always pleasant task of flying across the country thrown in there for bonus stress points.

I had gone so long between airplane trips that I had forgotten how fun it is to be “randomly” selected for an extra pat-down by the TSA. Perhaps I should have explained that I’m Hispanic and not (as they clearly assumed) Middle Eastern. But this would have implied that I agree with right-wing zealots that there’s something inherently wrong about being Middle Eastern. And in any case, it wouldn’t have made a difference to those on perpetual watch for the next Mohamed Atta. I do think it was a bit excessive, however, to wand me while I was buckled in my seat on the airplane. But I was assured that this is standard procedure.

In any case, my wife and I are happy with our new home. Because we live in a neighborhood in which I spent little time during my first stint in LA, I did some research online to discover what I’m getting into. I found out that some famous past residents of my new hood include Anais Nin, Tom Waits, and Kiefer Sutherland – all of whom I’m sure had nicer digs than our humble abode.

But something disturbed me when I performed my due diligence. According to reputable online sources, the neighborhood in which I now live has a high percentage of Latinos. Even more alarming, it is also home to, as one source put it, “numerous creative types.”

I’m at a loss at how I got into this situation. I mean, surrounded by both Latinos and “creative types”… surely those two demographics will be the death of America.

How will I survive with my values intact?

If all goes according to plan, the Space Shuttle Discovery will lift off this Friday morning. Two Hispanic astronauts – Jose Hernandez and Danny Olivas – will be aboard, marking the first time that multiple Latinos will be on the same shuttle.

I imagine it drives racists insane. Not only are Hispanics spreading out beyond their home countries and inner-city barrios, now they’re taking off into outer space.

Watch it, there’s no place where Latinos aren’t poised to take over!

In any case, much of the media attention has been fixed on Hernandez rather than Olivas. There’s a good reason for this. Hernandez has an amazing life story: As a child, he worked in the fields with his immigrant parents and didn’t even learn English until he was twelve. When he was a teenager, Hernandez read about NASA’s first Hispanic astronaut (a man with the truly cool name of Franklin Chang-Diaz). Thus inspired, Hernandez applied himself and moved beyond a lifetime of manual labor.

And now, he and Olivas will become two of the few Latinos to ever work in zero gravity. It’s a compelling saga, and I now look forward to hearing about the first Latino on Mars.

By the way, “First Latino on Mars” would be a great name for my autobiography. I’ll just have to make clear that I’m speaking metaphorically.

A few months ago, I was caught up in the Facebook craze of “25 Random Things About Me.” Before you judge, let me point out that at least I’m holding out on joining “Mafia Wars.”

In any case, one of my random facts was the revelation that getting milk on my skin creeps me out. This is what I wrote:

“The sensation and smell of milk on my skin is one of the most repulsive things in the world to me. Whenever I handle the liquid, which isn’t often, I treat it like explosive nitroglycerin.”

My squeamishness toward milk is not, I believe, related to the fact that I’m lactose intolerant. If it were, most of the people in my family – and indeed, most Hispanics – would share my revulsion at the liquid. I’ve heard Asians have similar problems. And it’s not uncommon among African Americans.

In fact, pretty much the only individuals who are really designed for the substance are of European (specifically Scandinavian) descent. This seems to surprise many people.

The myth that milk is good for everybody was propagated by those ubiquitous “Got Milk?” ads, which I don’t believe featured a single Hispanic. This was not due to the nefarious racism of the dairy industry. Rather, it was the simple acknowledgement that, once past childhood, most Latinos have to watch their intake of ice cream, mac-n-cheese, and the like. Failure to do so can lead to, shall we say, explosive results.

It was comical growing up lactose intolerant in America’s Dairyland. It’s like living in Vegas and hating gambling, or moving to Cooperstown and despising baseball. Perhaps the realization that my physical condition was an instant metaphor helped me to develop my love of bitter irony.

Speaking of ironic (or just as random as the original twenty-five Facebook facts), I have to point out that I love cheese. It may be my favorite food.

What’s that all about?

We often measure a group’s cultural power by that most base of indicators, the theoretical root of all evil itself: Money.

By that gauge, Hispanics lag far behind the majority culture. However, as befits the largest ethnic-minority group (and the fastest-growing demographic) in America, Latinos are a growing economic powerhouse. In terms of consumer spending, we actually have more clout than African Americans do.

Still, as I’ve written before, black Americans are more likely than Hispanics are to have their shit together (politically speaking). That’s why movements such as the Empowerment Experiment get going.

This project is the brainchild of African Americans who aim to help black-owned businesses thrive. People who join the Empowerment Experiment agree that for a year, and to the best of their ability, they will patronize only African American merchants.

As you can imagine, it’s not easy to bypass white-owned businesses. There are also legitimate questions about the ultimate motivation behind this idea.

Is it a display of cultural pride, and a helping hand to struggling entrepreneurs who are often overlooked, especially in these economically dismal times? Or is this, as some critics put it, “ethnic cheerleading” and possibly even reverse racism?

A slew of angry conservatives say, “There would be outrage if a movement developed to make sure that people shopped only at white-owned businesses.”

No, that would just be the verbalization of a normal business day. Sticking to white-owned businesses would be the easiest principled stance of all time, like declaring that from now on, I will breath only air that has oxygen in it.

So let’s say that the Empowerment Experiment is a well-meaning project that leaves an icky aftertaste, dependent as it is upon picking companies based on the owners’ ethnicity.

From a Latino perspective, the issue becomes “Should we copy this strategy?” Is it a good idea for Latinos to patronize only Hispanic-owned businesses?

Well, adopting this plan creates a few logistical problems. For starters, although it may be easy to find a great place to eat (Mexican restaurants, El Salvadoran pupuserias, etc), buying goods and services beyond that would quickly become a challenge for even the most dedicated Latino.

This fact relates to deeper issues. I’ve written before about the insecurity complex, or outright jealousy, that Hispanics often feel with regards to our African American brethren. The Empowerment Experiment is another reminder of how we’re not quite up to their level of influence. In most of the country, we don’t have as many entrepreneurs, doctors, lawyers, and so on to propel such a movement – hence the envy.

But the flip side is that Latinos are less likely to push for such a development in the first place. Despite the prevalence of ethnic barrios (which I’ve written about before), many Hispanics want nothing more than to fit into the majority culture and to be accepted. This can sometimes take the form of self-loathing or ingratiating behavior.

But for the most part, we simply want others to know that we are part of U.S. culture. Any Latino who has ever been told, “You look American” knows what I’m talking about. Even illegal immigrants want their contributions to the American story to be told.

We do not have the security of pointing out that many of us are new to the country. We don’t want to offer an opening to those who claim we don’t belong here, and saying that we’re only going to shop at certain establishments does exactly that.

African Americans have four hundred years of residency in the United States – most of it, of course, spent as second-class citizens or much worse. But after generations of setting down roots, building families, and influencing the culture, even the most virulent racist would have a hard time saying that blacks are not authentic Americans.

Latinos do not have that sense of hard-won security, not yet at least.

In his bestselling book, Thomas Frank asked the immortal question, “What’s the matter with Kansas?”

As someone who has spent time there I can answer, “A lot.” (Just kidding, all my Kansas friends; go Jayhawks!).

In any case, this story about one Kansas county, and the Hispanics who live there, recently caught my attention. There are so many elements at play in this one tale that I’m devoting a whole post to hyperanalyzing it.

First, the story points out that Finney County (population: 40,998) has just turned majority-minority. This means that over half the residents of this fine heartland community are not white (there is also a large Asian population present). Finney County thus joins the ten percent of U.S. counties to have this distinction – and yes, the number is growing. The gist of the story is that this change is happening in (gasps all around) the middle of the country, and is not just contained to wacky California and big old rambling Texas.

I’ve written before about the changing demographics of America, and what this means for the future. Whole books have been, and no doubt will be, written about what the United States will look like in the future, when the name Rodriguez is considered just as all-American as O’Malley. But it’s worth noting this fresh proof out of Kansas that the process is underway and irreversible.

Also, the article casually mentions that Hispanics have lived in Finney County for “more than 100 years.” This gives some context to the vitriol that Latinos are suddenly swarming into America and undermining traditional values. Sorry, but it’s clear that Hispanics have, for decades now, helped build the country, and this process is only accelerating.

Speaking of that, the fabled Latino work ethic makes an appearance in the story. As I’ve stated before, it’s not always an intrinsically good thing that Hispanics often labor like demons.

In fact, we don’t have to read far into the article before encountering the words “massive meatpacking plants,” which is a phrase inherent in any story about growing Latino populations in small towns. Is it really such a great thing that the shit jobs go to Hispanics, who are only too willing to take them because of their strong drive to work, work, work?

This relates to another topic I’ve touched upon in these posts: the antipathy that too many Hispanics feel toward education. One reason for this is the intense focus placed upon work, especially of the manual type. In fact, one Hispanic resident says that many of his fellow Latinos “tell their kids they don’t need to go to college because this is a good life.” Let’s be blunt: Asian and Indian immigrants don’t say things like that to their kids, and it shows.

Finally, the article touches upon the changes that occur and the tensions that arise when the culture shifts. Or as the article breathlessly states, “This Midwest enclave, home to hamburgers and hot dogs, is giving way to… Mexican tacos.”

Let’s set aside the fact that plenty of Hispanics like hamburgers and hot dogs (I myself am partial to bratwurst, but that’s another story). How are some of the white inhabitants of Finney County adjusting? Well, one resident says, “There were always whispers. Out at Wal-Mart, you hear, ‘Oh, look at how they’re dressed… wonder where they’re from, what they’re doing here?’ Especially if they weren’t speaking English.”

What’s funny is that, apparently, some of the longtime residents of the county don’t appreciate the cliché of an exotically dressed person jabbering away in a crazy language. So their solution is to become an even bigger cliché by whispering, “What are they doing here?” in the Wal-Mart aisle. I can only hope that they spit out a wad of tobacco before adding, “Damn foreigners are taking over!”

But it’s not all angry glares in town, veiled animosity on the street, and awkward moments at the superstore. Another resident says that it’s “nice to have those different cultures.” Another advises to offer “open arms to people that come in your community because they might be the person that’s going to help you when you have times of struggle.”

That same resident says that everyone should “just try to be a good person” to others, regardless of their differences.

His comments amaze me. Who let that radical in?

Let me give a quick thanks to Macon D and Xey for their comments on my last post (“A Latino Rodney King”). They agreed with my conclusion, which is great. But let me also thank Turtle, who disagreed with me. It’s good to get a free flow of ideas going.

But because the last couple of posts have been so serious, I’d like to lighten up with his one.

Like millions of other American males, I love baseball. It is the only sport I follow religiously, and it is one of the few topics that I feel comfortable talking about at length without fear of coming across as ignorant (deluded and opinionated perhaps, but not wholly unknowledgeable).

So I’m thrilled that the season has started again. My team is above .500, and their efforts should be a cause for alternating bouts of joy, frustration, disbelief, and relief for the next five months or so.

Perhaps my fondness for this most pastoral of games has a cultural basis. As you may know, baseball is incredibly popular in Latin America, trailing only soccer. But I’m convinced that a lot of the enthusiasm for that foot-based sport is glee over the announcers yelling, “Gooooal!,” which is more entertaining than the games.

More likely, my appreciation for baseball is because of its inherent, tension-ratcheting drama (the very aspect that critics mislabel as “boring.”) And I’ve always been fascinated with its history, which has often served as a metaphor for America itself. For an obvious example, look no farther than the great Jackie Robinson for an instant analysis of racial relations.

As such, it’s disappointing that Hispanics are shut out when it comes to one aspect of the game. That’s right, the whole controversy over team nicknames has excluded us.

Native Americans can get up in arms over the Atlanta Braves or Cleveland Indians. But Latinos are unlikely to protest the San Diego Padres. It’s just not the same.

In fact, the whole issue of offensive names has a distinctly Native American flair to it. There have been arguments about various collegiate Fighting Sioux teams, and overt hostility toward the NFL’s Washington Redskins (a moniker so pejorative that I can’t see how it’s even open to debate).

But what do we Hispanics have? The UC-Santa Barbara Gauchos are unlikely to incur our wrath. Similarly, we just aren’t going to lose our minds if anybody decides to call themselves “The Amigos,” which would be the least terrifying team name ever.

On second thought, that honor probably rests with the UC-Santa Cruz Fighting Banana Slugs:

Yes, it can be difficult to be left out of a racial/ethnic controversy, but I guess we’re just going to have to let this one pass. So I say, good luck to those Native Americans who are fighting the good cultural fight. Latinos can offer you no more than moral support.

Let me add, however, that I’m part Irish. As such, I’m offended that Notre Dame has chosen some brawling, drunken leprechaun as its mascot…

No, I’m just trying too hard now. Forget it.

Thanks to Betty for her generous comments on my last post (“The Horror, The Horror”). She’s correct that the “The Fog” is worth watching again and again.

Thanks also, of sorts, to Eva. I believe that she meant to comment my recent post “Mi Casa Es Su Casa…” but she posted to the wrong topic. However, I’ve decided to leave her remarks under the “About the Author” section for the time being, if for no other reason than people can see that I’m not being paranoid when I assert that Latinos are being blamed for the housing crises. Most interesting was Eva’s assertion that as soon as the Hispanics in her area were foreclosed upon, “the sun began to shine again.” This verifies what I’ve thought all along: Latinos can control the weather.

Speaking of Latino-centric disasters, by now you’ve no doubt heard about the killer flu that originated in Mexico. Dozens of people are dead in that country, and cases have sprung up in the United States. In all likelihood, this virus – an offshoot of swine flu – will run its course long before the country turns into something out of Stephen King’s “The Stand.” Just in case, however, I suggest you check out that sore throat that’s been bothering you.

The flu outbreak has forced me to tack on an unpleasant addendum to my recent post about hugging. As I stated in that piece, Latinos love to hug, and warm embraces of even casual acquaintances are frequent in Hispanic culture. As such, it must have come as a shock to the Mexican populace that, in addition to fearing for their lives, they are being told to avoid hugging and that there should be “no kissing to say hello” and “no close contact” with others.

That’s right – the Latino impulse to embrace people may help to spread the virus. As such, good Hispanics everywhere must abruptly turn into Swedes and Norwegians, out of the fear that a quick squeeze of a friend could lead to an unpleasant death for everyone involved.

Of course, being forced to limit physical interaction is psychologically upsetting to people of any culture, but even more so for Latinos. As one Mexican woman said, “Mexico is a social place. People like to go out and be together. The sickness has taken that away.”

And it’s also taken away, at least temporarily, the Latino drive to be affectionate and demonstrative. That means no hugging, my amigos.

The most disturbing thing about this epidemic – aside from the inconvenient potential it has to cause whole civilizations to collapse – is that it has turned what we always viewed as a virtue into a detriment.

Latinos now have to wonder if maybe those Scandinavians, with their virus-killing cold weather and contagion-limiting handshakes, are on to something after all.

First off, thanks to Quickbeam and Allegra for their thoughtful comments on my last post (“Believe”). I appreciate their faith, in every sense of the word.

Now, my previous post may have given people the impression that I base everything upon logic, and disdain the supernatural or unexplainable. That’s not true, of course, because I love a good ghost story.

I just don’t love them as much as my mom does.

For proof, let me regale you with the time that my mother and I got into an argument at the video store. It was the mid- 1980s, and the selection was sparse in those pioneering days of the VCR. Still, it was probably a little odd to see me, a sullen teenager, arguing to rent “Raging Bull” while my mother insisted on getting “The Omen 3.”

You see, my mother, about whom I’ve written before, has very definite ideas about what constitutes fine cinema. By her criteria, a great film must include at least one of the following elements:

• A car chase with the monstrous villain in hot pursuit
• An unstoppable killer robot/android/cyborg
• A hidden door leading to a hellish parallel dimension
• A good-looking vampire
• A winged demon ripping people’s souls out through their chests

These are pretty great standards, of course, and I have no issue with them. But at one point, I thought they were a little too restrictive. Could a great movie also feature subtle character development, dramatic perspectives on another era, or startling insight into the human condition?

Well, my mother would point out that such factors only slow down the movie and delay getting to the really good part where that slimy alien creature devours the lead astronaut’s head.

In a way, she’s correct.

Horror movies have been unfairly maligned as empty, moronic time-wasters – the creepy third cousin at the cinematic family reunion. Even mainstream comedies get more respect.

But films of this genre are often the cultural barometer of where we stand. In addition, they can serve as a cathartic release for our fears and pain. This may especially be true for those of us who have witnessed violence or suffered through the abrupt departure of loved ones, like my mother has.

The history of Latin America, in truth, has been one long horror movie for some time. I don’t know if Hispanics are more likely to embrace scary movies, but I wouldn’t be surprised if this were true.

For example, one of my friends, a man who is originally from my family’s home country of El Salvador, has a vast treasure trove of horror movies. His wife, born and raised in America, tolerates his fascination and puts up with the overflowing boxes of tapes and discs, all of which offer some kind of gruesome imagery.

With so much real-life horror in our backgrounds, we seem well-suited to fictional depictions of terror. Perhaps this is why my mother constantly overrode my fledgling attempts at film snobbery when I was younger.

More than once, she would arrive home from a hard day of work to announce that she had stopped at the video store on the commute. Then she would enthusiastically proclaim, “I picked up the ‘Seven Doors of Death’!”

But let me be clear. She actually has good taste, singling out classics like “Rosemary’s Baby” and contemporary masterpieces like “The Descent” for high praise. She dismisses substandard fare with a direct “That is not scary” – the ultimate insult for a horror film.

Maybe because I grew up on them, or because I’m Latino, or because movies like “The Others” are so damn cool, I still love these kinds of films. Our joint appreciation for terrifying spectacles is one of the things my mother and I have in common.

For this reason, I have never understood my friends who say they don’t know what to do for entertainment when their parents visit. When my mom drops by to see my wife and me, we can always just pop in a DVD of “The Thing.”