Friday, July 25, 2008
The Fight...
Call it the Yankees vs. Red Sox, call it Manchester United vs. Arsenal, call it Lakers vs. Celtics, call it Cowboys vs. Redskins but please don’t call any of these rivalries better than that which involves a Mexican brawler strapping on red Reyes gloves to face his Puerto Rican counterpart in a boxing ring.
I don’t even remember when I watched my first boxing match but I do remember when I fell in love with the sport. It was on August 1st, 1992 when Julio Cesar fought, er beat, no wait, destroyed Frankie Mitchell. Little did I know that a little over a month later I was to be treated to my first Mexico vs. Puerto Rico fight. Chavez vs. Hector “Macho” Camacho. I recall Camacho running his mouth about how he was going to beat and embarrass Chavez while Chavez said nothing and let his fists do the talking come fight night. I vividly remember Chavez beating Camacho to the point of a near knockout only to stop and wait for Camacho to recover in order to beat him some more and teach him a lesson. I had never seen such a display of heart, arrogance and resolve.
I was fourteen years old at the time and coming to terms with the fact that the lighter shade of brown of my skin was not the norm in this country, it was the norm in my neighborhood, but nevertheless I was realizing more and more that the color of my skin was a cross to bear, but what a beautiful cross it was and continues to be.
I’m about 85% sure I didn’t come up with the idea that it’s silly to be proud of something you have no control over but I can’t think of the person that did so I’ll let it be. I try not to think in terms of race but I’ve been put in a position to view and talk about race in an intelligent manner, at least that’s what I tell myself. What I’m trying to say is I’m not proud of being Mexican as much as I’m not proud of the of the roundness of my kneecaps or the texture of my fingernails. But I am infinitely proud of my experience as an American born kid of Mestizo blood. I’m infinitely proud of the struggle of my ancestors, Spanish and Aztec alike. I’m proud of the sacrifices and triumphs of the people that look like me, that speak like me, that are me. I am even proud of some of my cultural norms. I said some, not all.
Tomorrow night, in a packed arena on the Las Vegas strip, our modern day Coliseum will host a good old boxing match between Mexico’s Antonio Margarito and Puerto Rico’s Miguel Cotto. The ghosts of Salvador Sanchez and Wilfredo Gomez will be there. Oscar De La Hoya and Felix Trinidad will be there. A huge lump in my throat and glossy eyes will be there as Mexican and Puerto Rican pride hang in the balance. What I’m alluding to is a storied boxing rivalry of epic proportions all involving victory and tragedy in the highest degree. William Detloff summarized it best so I’ll let him explain it if you need some insight. Breaking Down the Rivalry
What non-boxing and even non-soccer fans fail to realize is how a sporting event can hold the collective hearts of a people, the collective hearts of a beautiful struggle. We live vicariously through these fighters as we are boxers in this world. Ebbing and flowing through life, trying to hit and not get hit, trying to leave our mark, our legacy but more importantly we try to make it to the end unscathed.
I can’t wait for tomorrow. I can’t wait for the bliss of it all as Margarito creates a fist shaped like the Yucatan and moves forward like the real raging bull only to be met by a matador that’s up for the challenge of taming the untamable.
From East Los to the Bronx, from D.F. to San Juan, from Chi-town to Chi-town, Mexican and Puerto Rican blood will be pumping and hopefully not spilled too freely. A kid from El Monte will harken back to the days when he couldn’t sleep on a Friday night because a man from Culiacan, Mexico slept an ear shot away from a boxing ring.
I don’t even remember when I watched my first boxing match but I do remember when I fell in love with the sport. It was on August 1st, 1992 when Julio Cesar fought, er beat, no wait, destroyed Frankie Mitchell. Little did I know that a little over a month later I was to be treated to my first Mexico vs. Puerto Rico fight. Chavez vs. Hector “Macho” Camacho. I recall Camacho running his mouth about how he was going to beat and embarrass Chavez while Chavez said nothing and let his fists do the talking come fight night. I vividly remember Chavez beating Camacho to the point of a near knockout only to stop and wait for Camacho to recover in order to beat him some more and teach him a lesson. I had never seen such a display of heart, arrogance and resolve.
I was fourteen years old at the time and coming to terms with the fact that the lighter shade of brown of my skin was not the norm in this country, it was the norm in my neighborhood, but nevertheless I was realizing more and more that the color of my skin was a cross to bear, but what a beautiful cross it was and continues to be.
I’m about 85% sure I didn’t come up with the idea that it’s silly to be proud of something you have no control over but I can’t think of the person that did so I’ll let it be. I try not to think in terms of race but I’ve been put in a position to view and talk about race in an intelligent manner, at least that’s what I tell myself. What I’m trying to say is I’m not proud of being Mexican as much as I’m not proud of the of the roundness of my kneecaps or the texture of my fingernails. But I am infinitely proud of my experience as an American born kid of Mestizo blood. I’m infinitely proud of the struggle of my ancestors, Spanish and Aztec alike. I’m proud of the sacrifices and triumphs of the people that look like me, that speak like me, that are me. I am even proud of some of my cultural norms. I said some, not all.
Tomorrow night, in a packed arena on the Las Vegas strip, our modern day Coliseum will host a good old boxing match between Mexico’s Antonio Margarito and Puerto Rico’s Miguel Cotto. The ghosts of Salvador Sanchez and Wilfredo Gomez will be there. Oscar De La Hoya and Felix Trinidad will be there. A huge lump in my throat and glossy eyes will be there as Mexican and Puerto Rican pride hang in the balance. What I’m alluding to is a storied boxing rivalry of epic proportions all involving victory and tragedy in the highest degree. William Detloff summarized it best so I’ll let him explain it if you need some insight. Breaking Down the Rivalry
What non-boxing and even non-soccer fans fail to realize is how a sporting event can hold the collective hearts of a people, the collective hearts of a beautiful struggle. We live vicariously through these fighters as we are boxers in this world. Ebbing and flowing through life, trying to hit and not get hit, trying to leave our mark, our legacy but more importantly we try to make it to the end unscathed.
I can’t wait for tomorrow. I can’t wait for the bliss of it all as Margarito creates a fist shaped like the Yucatan and moves forward like the real raging bull only to be met by a matador that’s up for the challenge of taming the untamable.
From East Los to the Bronx, from D.F. to San Juan, from Chi-town to Chi-town, Mexican and Puerto Rican blood will be pumping and hopefully not spilled too freely. A kid from El Monte will harken back to the days when he couldn’t sleep on a Friday night because a man from Culiacan, Mexico slept an ear shot away from a boxing ring.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Only in Dreams
I dream of the apocalypse. No joke.
(I say ‘no joke’ a lot, but that’s because the outrageous shit I experience is for the most part true. At least true in the sense that I explain things the way I see them. As my friend Mireya said to me the other day while explaining an interaction between a potential suitor, “I say what I mean and I mean what I say.” Preach on sister.)
Last night I dreamt that Los Angeles was getting bombed by North Korea. My dream consisted of hazy images of television reports with sounds bites that warned of potential warfare. In my dream I recall being extremely calm throughout the whole ordeal. At some point I was back in the house where I spent the first twelve years of my life, in Baldwin Park, in the house my sisters and I lovingly call The Blue House (by the way, the Blue House nostalgia is so thick, the first time I saw Marc Chagall’s Blue House I felt like weeping like a child). I looked out the large front window and saw a huge boat-shaped plane with a North Korean flag painted underneath it. I ran outside only to see it make a nose dive into downtown L.A. making 9/11 look like a fender bender on Wilshire Blvd. (west of Vermont Blvd of course). A huge explosion shook the ground beneath me and a cloud of smoke headed my way. I turned around to find my pregnant sister staring at the imminent doom. I ran over to her, told her to get on the ground and used my body as a blanket.
I dream of shit like this all the time. I have two recurring dreams; one or the other happen once every other month or so. And they go a little something like thiiiiis:
- I’m at the beach or near the ocean surrounded by a bunch of strangers and a mob of planes hovering above bomb the shit out of us. I never die but I always find myself in a cloud of smoke and/or at The Blue House.
- Los puerqitos. I am getting chased by the police. Thing is, I’m actually always with my friends in these dreams. We’ve either robbed someone, killed someone or are guilty of D.W.M.: Driving While Mexican. For some reason the last time I dreamt this I woke up singing, “Some some some I some I murder… some I some I let go.”
In a semi-related observation…
This morning I saw a SUV with a BUSH/CHENEY ’04 sticker and realized that every single time I’ve seen a car with said sticker, the driver looks like they’re on their way to a house occupied by an 18 year-old boy that looks like he’s 12 years old, a Dell laptop, Chris Hansen and the crew from “To Catch a Predator.” I’m just saying.
As frightening as the possibility of these dreams coming true is, they don’t frighten as they’re happening. I don’t know if it’s because I know I’m dreaming or I’m a brave mother fucker like that. I’d like to think I’m the Chuck Norris of dreams but that’s likely not the case.
It’s funny how one’s inner most fears; the police (I’m from Monte, that’s all I can say about my fear of jocks with guns) and death play out as brain waves during REM sleep. Add to that the infamous Blue House, the one and only place I can truly think of as home. That house on Larry Street is my version of Miguel Pinero’s lower east side, it’s my exterior’s L.A., it’s my heart’s grandmother, it’s like a lover’s arms, it’s Bukowski’s beer, it’s the Pacific’s sun, it’s Jeff Buckley’s voice. It’s a long lost love I drive by a couple times a year with a lump in my throat and a head full of memories that resurface when the darkest of dreams take hold of my nights.
Truly, I don’t know what to make of all this. In one way or another these dreams are a reflection of where I, in my heart of hearts think this country is headed. I dream of Orwell’s 1984 as my 2008. I feel that in a post 9/11 U.S.A. by way of Iraq we’ve become a target. I feel like those chosen to protect and serve choose to intimidate. And when we live in a world where those in power are not held accountable and use executive privilege to excuse the real terrorists, my nightmares can only get worse.
I just HOPE for CHANGE.
Labels: dreams, nostalgia, Obama
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